March 20th. - Having now got rid of Mr. Huntingdon for a season, myspirits begin to revive. He left me early in February; and themoment he was gone, I breathed again, and felt my vital energyreturn; not with the hope of escape - he has taken care to leave meno visible chance of that - but with a determination to make thebest of existing circumstances. Here was Arthur left to me atlast; and rousing from my despondent apathy, I exerted all mypowers to eradicate the weeds that had been fostered in his infantmind, and sow again the good seed they had rendered unproductive.Thank heaven, it is not a barren or a stony soil; if weeds springfast there, so do better plants. His apprehensions are more quick,his heart more overflowing with affection than ever his father'scould have been, and it is no hopeless task to bend him toobedience and win him to love and know his own true friend, as longas there is no one to counteract my efforts.

I had much trouble at first in breaking him of those evil habitshis father had taught him to acquire, but already that difficultyis nearly vanquished now: bad language seldom defiles his mouth,and I have succeeded in giving him an absolute disgust for allintoxicating liquors, which I hope not even his father or hisfather's friends will be able to overcome. He was inordinatelyfond of them for so young a creature, and, remembering myunfortunate father as well as his, I dreaded the consequences ofsuch a taste. But if I had stinted him, in his usual quantity ofwine, or forbidden him to taste it altogether, that would only haveincreased his partiality for it, and made him regard it as agreater treat than ever. I therefore gave him quite as much as hisfather was accustomed to allow him; as much, indeed, as he desiredto have - but into every glass I surreptitiously introduced a smallquantity of tartar-emetic, just enough to produce inevitable nauseaand depression without positive sickness. Finding suchdisagreeable consequences invariably to result from thisindulgence, he soon grew weary of it, but the more he shrank fromthe daily treat the more I pressed it upon him, till his reluctancewas strengthened to perfect abhorrence. When he was thoroughlydisgusted with every kind of wine, I allowed him, at his ownrequest, to try brandy-and-water, and then gin-and-water, for thelittle toper was familiar with them all, and I was determined thatall should be equally hateful to him. This I have now effected;and since he declares that the taste, the smell, the sight of anyone of them is sufficient to make him sick, I have given up teasinghim about them, except now and then as objects of terror in casesof misbehaviour. 'Arthur, if you're not a good boy I shall giveyou a glass of wine,' or 'Now, Arthur, if you say that again youshall have some brandy-and-water,' is as good as any other threat;and once or twice, when he was sick, I have obliged the poor childto swallow a little wine-and-water without the tartar-emetic, byway of medicine; and this practice I intend to continue for sometime to come; not that I think it of any real service in a physicalsense, but because I am determined to enlist all the powers ofassociation in my service; I wish this aversion to be so deeplygrounded in his nature that nothing in after-life may be able toovercome it.

Thus, I flatter myself, I shall secure him from this one vice; andfor the rest, if on his father's return I find reason to apprehendthat my good lessons will be all destroyed - if Mr. Huntingdoncommence again the game of teaching the child to hate and despisehis mother, and emulate his father's wickedness - I will yetdeliver my son from his hands. I have devised another scheme thatmight be resorted to in such a case; and if I could but obtain mybrother's consent and assistance, I should not doubt of itssuccess. The old hall where he and I were born, and where ourmother died, is not now inhabited, nor yet quite sunk into decay,as I believe. Now, if I could persuade him to have one or tworooms made habitable, and to let them to me as a stranger, I mightlive there, with my child, under an assumed name, and still supportmyself by my favourite art. He should lend me the money to beginwith, and I would pay him back, and live in lowly independence andstrict seclusion, for the house stands in a lonely place, and theneighbourhood is thinly inhabited, and he himself should negotiatethe sale of my pictures for me. I have arranged the whole plan inmy head: and all I want is to persuade Frederick to be of the samemind as myself. He is coming to see me soon, and then I will makethe proposal to him, having first enlightened him upon mycircumstances sufficiently to excuse the project.

Already, I believe, he knows much more of my situation than I havetold him. I can tell this by the air of tender sadness pervadinghis letters; and by the fact of his so seldom mentioning myhusband, and generally evincing a kind of covert bitterness when hedoes refer to him; as well as by the circumstance of his nevercoming to see me when Mr. Huntingdon is at home. But he has neveropenly expressed any disapprobation of him or sympathy for me; hehas never asked any questions, or said anything to invite myconfidence. Had he done so, I should probably have had but fewconcealments from him. Perhaps he feels hurt at my reserve. He isa strange being; I wish we knew each other better. He used tospend a month at Staningley every year, before I was married; but,since our father's death, I have only seen him once, when he camefor a few days while Mr. Huntingdon was away. He shall stay manydays this time, and there shall be more candour and cordialitybetween us than ever there was before, since our early childhood.My heart clings to him more than ever; and my soul is sick ofsolitude.

April 16th. - He is come and gone. He would not stay above afortnight. The time passed quickly, but very, very happily, and ithas done me good. I must have a bad disposition, for mymisfortunes have soured and embittered me exceedingly: I wasbeginning insensibly to cherish very unamiable feelings against myfellow-mortals, the male part of them especially; but it is acomfort to see there is at least one among them worthy to betrusted and esteemed; and doubtless there are more, though I havenever known them, unless I except poor Lord Lowborough, and he wasbad enough in his day. But what would Frederick have been, if hehad lived in the world, and mingled from his childhood with suchmen as these of my acquaintance? and what will Arthur be, with allhis natural sweetness of disposition, if I do not save him fromthat world and those companions? I mentioned my fears toFrederick, and introduced the subject of my plan of rescue on theevening after his arrival, when I presented my little son to hisuncle.

'He is like you, Frederick,' said I, 'in some of his moods: Isometimes think he resembles you more than his father; and I amglad of it.'

'You flatter me, Helen,' replied he, stroking the child's soft,wavy locks.

'No, you will think it no compliment when I tell you I would ratherhave him to resemble Benson than his father.'

He slightly elevated his eyebrows, but said nothing.

'Do you know what sort of man Mr. Huntingdon is?' said I.

'I think I have an idea.'

'Have you so clear an idea that you can hear, without surprise ordisapproval, that I meditate escaping with that child to somesecret asylum, where we can live in peace, and never see himagain?'

'Is it really so?'

'If you have not,' continued I, 'I'll tell you something more abouthim'; and I gave a sketch of his general conduct, and a moreparticular account of his behaviour with regard to his child, andexplained my apprehensions on the latter's account, and mydetermination to deliver him from his father's influence.

Frederick was exceedingly indignant against Mr. Huntingdon, andvery much grieved for me; but still he looked upon my project aswild and impracticable. He deemed my fears for Arthurdisproportioned to the circumstances, and opposed so manyobjections to my plan, and devised so many milder methods forameliorating my condition, that I was obliged to enter into furtherdetails to convince him that my husband was utterly incorrigible,and that nothing could persuade him to give up his son, whateverbecame of me, he being as fully determined the child should notleave him, as I was not to leave the child; and that, in fact,nothing would answer but this, unless I fled the country, as I hadintended before. To obviate that, he at length consented to haveone wing of the old hall put into a habitable condition, as a placeof refuge against a time of need; but hoped I would not takeadvantage of it unless circumstances should render it reallynecessary, which I was ready enough to promise: for though, for myown sake, such a hermitage appears like paradise itself, comparedwith my present situation, yet for my friends' sakes, for Milicentand Esther, my sisters in heart and affection, for the poor tenantsof Grassdale, and, above all, for my aunt, I will stay if Ipossibly can.

July 29th. - Mrs. Hargrave and her daughter are come back fromLondon. Esther is full of her first season in town; but she isstill heart-whole and unengaged. Her mother sought out anexcellent match for her, and even brought the gentleman to lay hisheart and fortune at her feet; but Esther had the audacity torefuse the noble gifts. He was a man of good family and largepossessions, but the naughty girl maintained he was old as Adam,ugly as sin, and hateful as - one who shall be nameless.

'But, indeed, I had a hard time of it,' said she: 'mamma was verygreatly disappointed at the failure of her darling project, andvery, very angry at my obstinate resistance to her will, and is sostill; but I can't help it. And Walter, too, is so seriouslydispleased at my perversity and absurd caprice, as he calls it,that I fear he will never forgive me - I did not think he could beso unkind as he has lately shown himself. But Milicent begged menot to yield, and I'm sure, Mrs. Huntingdon, if you had seen theman they wanted to palm upon me, you would have advised me not totake him too.'

'I should have done so whether I had seen him or not,' said I; 'itis enough that you dislike him.'

'I knew you would say so; though mamma affirmed you would be quiteshocked at my undutiful conduct. You can't imagine how shelectures me: I am disobedient and ungrateful; I am thwarting herwishes, wronging my brother, and making myself a burden on herhands. I sometimes fear she'll overcome me after all. I have astrong will, but so has she, and when she says such bitter things,it provokes me to such a pass that I feel inclined to do as shebids me, and then break my heart and say, "There, mamma, it's allyour fault!"'

'Pray don't!' said I. 'Obedience from such a motive would bepositive wickedness, and certain to bring the punishment itdeserves. Stand firm, and your mamma will soon relinquish herpersecution; and the gentleman himself will cease to pester youwith his addresses if he finds them steadily rejected.'

'Oh, no! mamma will weary all about her before she tires herselfwith her exertions; and as for Mr. Oldfield, she has given him tounderstand that I have refused his offer, not from any dislike ofhis person, but merely because I am giddy and young, and cannot atpresent reconcile myself to the thoughts of marriage under anycircumstances: but by next season, she has no doubt, I shall havemore sense, and hopes my girlish fancies will be worn away. So shehas brought me home, to school me into a proper sense of my duty,against the time comes round again. Indeed, I believe she will notput herself to the expense of taking me up to London again, unlessI surrender: she cannot afford to take me to town for pleasure andnonsense, she says, and it is not every rich gentleman that willconsent to take me without a fortune, whatever exalted ideas I mayhave of my own attractions.'

'Well, Esther, I pity you; but still, I repeat, stand firm. Youmight as well sell yourself to slavery at once, as marry a man youdislike. If your mother and brother are unkind to you, you mayleave them, but remember you are bound to your husband for life.'

'But I cannot leave them unless I get married, and I cannot getmarried if nobody sees me. I saw one or two gentlemen in Londonthat I might have liked, but they were younger sons, and mammawould not let me get to know them - one especially, who I believerather liked me - but she threw every possible obstacle in the wayof our better acquaintance. Wasn't it provoking?'

'I have no doubt you would feel it so, but it is possible that ifyou married him, you might have more reason to regret it hereafterthan if you married Mr. Oldfield. When I tell you not to marrywithout love, I do not advise you to marry for love alone: thereare many, many other things to be considered. Keep both heart andhand in your own possession, till you see good reason to part withthem; and if such an occasion should never present itself, comfortyour mind with this reflection, that though in single life yourjoys may not be very many, your sorrows, at least, will not be morethan you can bear. Marriage may change your circumstances for thebetter, but, in my private opinion, it is far more likely toproduce a contrary result.'

'So thinks Milicent; but allow me to say I think otherwise. If Ithought myself doomed to old-maidenhood, I should cease to value mylife. The thoughts of living on, year after year, at the Grove - ahanger-on upon mamma and Walter, a mere cumberer of the ground (nowthat I know in what light they would regard it), is perfectlyintolerable; I would rather run away with the butler.'

'Your circumstances are peculiar, I allow; but have patience, love;do nothing rashly. Remember you are not yet nineteen, and manyyears are yet to pass before any one can set you down as an oldmaid: you cannot tell what Providence may have in store for you.And meantime, remember you have a right to the protection andsupport of your mother and brother, however they may seem to grudgeit.'

'You are so grave, Mrs. Huntingdon,' said Esther, after a pause.'When Milicent uttered the same discouraging sentiments concerningmarriage, I asked if she was happy: she said she was; but I onlyhalf believed her; and now I must put the same question to you.'

'It is a very impertinent question,' laughed I, 'from a young girlto a married woman so many years her senior, and I shall not answerit.'

'Pardon me, dear madam,' said she, laughingly throwing herself intomy arms, and kissing me with playful affection; but I felt a tearon my neck, as she dropped her head on my bosom and continued, withan odd mixture of sadness and levity, timidity and audacity, - 'Iknow you are not so happy as I mean to be, for you spend half yourlife alone at Grassdale, while Mr. Huntingdon goes about enjoyinghimself where and how he pleases. I shall expect my husband tohave no pleasures but what he shares with me; and if his greatestpleasure of all is not the enjoyment of my company, why, it will bethe worse for him, that's all.'

'If such are your expectations of matrimony, Esther, you must,indeed, be careful whom you marry - or rather, you must avoid italtogether.'