I had not courage to contradict them then, and how can I do it now? I cannot: they would think me mad, Besides, mamma is so delighted with the idea of the match; she thinks she has managed so well for me; and I cannot bear to disappoint her. I do object sometimes, and tell her what I feel, but you don't know how she talks. Mr Hattersley, you know, is the son of a rich banker, and as Esther and I have no fortunes and Walter very little, our dear mamma is very anxious to see us all well married, that is, united to rich partners--it is not my idea of being well married, but she means it all for the best. She says when I am safe off her hands it will be such a relief to her mind; and she assures me it will be a good thing for the family as well as for me. Even Walter is pleased 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 able to love and admire him, but I can't.
There is nothing about him to hang one's ester and affection upon: he is do diametrically opposite 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 are already going on around me; and don't say a word against Mr Hattersley, for I want to think well of him; and though I have spoken against him my self, it is for the last time: hereafter, I shall never permit myself to utter a word in his dispraise, however he may seem to deserve it; and whoever ventures to speak slightingly of the man I have promised to love, to honour, and obey must expect my serious displeasure. After all, I think he is quite as good as Mr Huntingdon, if not better: and yet, you love him, and seem to be happy and contented; and perhaps I may manage as well. You must tell me, if you can, that Mr Hattersley is better than he seems--that he is upright, honourable, and open-hearted--in fact, a perfect diamond in the rough. He may be all this, but I don't know him--I know only the exterior and what I trust is the worst part of him.'
She concludes with `Goodbye, dear Helen, I am waiting anxiously for your advice-but mind you let it be all on the right side.'
Alas! poor Milicent, what encouragement can I give you?--or what advice--except that it is better to make a bold stand now, though at the expense of disappointing and angering both mother and brother, and lover, than to devote your whole life, hereafter, to misery and vain regret?
Saturday, 13th. The week is over, and he is not come. All the sweet summer is passing away without one breath of pleasure to me or benefit to him. And I had all along been looking forward to this season with the fond, delusive hope that we should enjoy it so sweetly together; and that, with God's help and my exertions, it would be the means of elevating his mind, and refining his taste to a due appreciation of the salutary and pure delights of nature. and peace, and holy love. But now,-- at evening, when I see the round, red sun sink quietly down behind those woody hills, leaving them sleeping in a warm, red, golden haze, I only think another lovely day is lost to him and me;--and at morning, when rouse' by the flutter and chirp of the sparrows, and the gleeful twitter of the swallows--all intent upon feeding their young, and full of life and joy in their own little frames--I open the window to inhale the balmy, soul-reviving air and look out upon the lovely landscape, laughing in dew and sunshine--I too often shame that glorious scene with tears of thankless misery, because he cannot feel its freshening influence;--and when I wander in the ancient woods, and meet the little wild flowers smiling in my path, or sit in the shadow of our noble ash-trees by the waterside with their branches gently swaying in the light summer breeze that murmurs through their feathery foliage--my ears full of that low music mingled with the dreamy hum of insects, my eyes abstractedly gazing on the glassy surface of the little lake before me, with the trees that crowd about its bank, some gracefully bending to kiss its waters, some rearing their stately heads high above, but stretching their wide arms over its margin, all faithfully mirrored far, far down in its glassy depth--though sometimes the images are partially broken by the sport of aquatic insects, and sometimes, for a moment, the whole is shivered into trembling fragments by a transient breeze that swept the surface too roughly,--still I have no pleasure; for the greater the happiness that nature sets before me, the more I lament that he is not here to taste it: the greater the bliss we might enjoy together, the more I feel our present `wretchedness apart (yes, ours; he must be wretched, though he may not know it); and the more my senses are pleased, the more my heart is oppressed; for he keeps it with him confined amid the dust and smoke of London,--perhaps shut up within the walls of his own abominable club.
But most of all, at night, when I enter my lonely chamber. and look out upon the summer moon, `sweet regent of the sky,' floating above me in the `black blue vault of heaven,' shedding a flood of silver radiance over park, and wood, and water, so pure, so peaceful, so divine,--and think, `Where is he now?--what is he doing at this moment?--wholly unconscious of this heavenly scene,--perhaps revelling with his boon companions, perhaps--'
God help me, it is too--too much!
23rd. Thank Heaven, he is come at last! But how altered!--flushed and feverish, listless and languid, his beauty strangely diminished, his vigour and vivacity quite departed. I have not upbraided him by word or look; I have not even asked him what he has been doing. I have not the heart to do it, for I think he is ashamed of himself--he must be so indeed,--and such enquiries could not fail to be painful to both. My forbearance pleases him--touches him even, I am inclined to think. He says he is glad to be home again, and God knows how glad I am to get him back, even as he is.
