The Neighbour DEC. 25th, 1823. Another year is gone. My little Arthur lives and thrives.
He is healthy but not robust, full of gentle playfulness and vivacity, already affectionate, and susceptible of passions and emotions it will be long ere he can find words to express. He has won his father's heart at last; and now my constant terror is, lest he should be ruined by that father's thoughtless indulgence. But I must beware of my own weakness too, for I never knew till now how strong are a parent's temptations to spoil an only child.
I have need of consolation in my son, for (to this silent paper I may confess it) I have but little in my husband. I love him still; and he loves me, in his own way--but oh, how different from the love I could have given, and once had hoped to receive! how little real sympathy there exists between us; how many of my thoughts and feelings are gloomily cloistered within my own mind; how much of my higher and better self is indeed unmarried--doomed either to harden and sour in the sunless shade of solitude, or to quite degenerate and fall away for lack of nutriment in this unwholesome soil!--But, I repeat, I have no right to com plain: only let me state the truth--some of the truth at least,--and see, hereafter, if any darker truths will blot these pages. We have now been full two years united--the `romance' of our attachment must be worn away. Surely I have now got down to the lowest gradation in Arthur's affection, and discovered all the evils of his nature: if there be any further change, it must be for the better, as we become still more accustomed to each other: surely we shall find no lower depth than this. And, If so' I can bear it well--as well, at least, as I have borne it hitherto.
Arthur is not what is commonly called a bad man: he has many good qualities; but he is a man without self-restraint or lofty aspirations--a lover of pleasure, given up to animal enjoyments: he is not a bad husband, but his notions of matrimonial duties and comforts are not my notions.
Judging from appearances, his idea of a wife is a thing to love one devotedly and to stay at home--to wait upon her husband, and amuse him and minister to his comfort in every possible way, while he chooses to stay with her; and, when he is absent, to attend to his interests, domestic or otherwise, and patiently wait his return; no matter how be may be occupied in the meantime.
Early in spring, be announced his intention of going to London: his affairs there demanded his attendance, he said, and he could refuse it no longer. He expressed his regret at having to leave me, but hoped I would amuse myself with the baby till he returned.
`But why leave me?' I said. `I can go with you: I can be beady at any time.'
`You would not take that child to town?'
`Yes--why not?'
The thing was absurd: the air of the town would be certain to disagree with him, and with me as a nurse: the late hours and London habits would not suit me under such circumstances; and altogether he assured me that it would be excessively trouble some, injurious, and unsafe. I overruled his objections as well as I could, for I trembled at the thought of his going alone, and would sacrifice almost anything for myself, much even for my child, to prevent it; but at length he told me, plainly, and some what testily, that he could not do with me: he was worn out with the baby's restless nights, and must have some repose. I proposed separate apartments; but it would not do.
`The truth is, Arthur,' I said, at last, `you are weary of my company, and determined not to have me with you. You might as well have said so at once.'
He denied it; but I immediately left the room, and flew to the nursery to hide my feelings, if I could not sooth them, there.
I was too much hurt to express any further dissatisfaction with his plans, or at all to refer to the subject again, except for the necessary arrangements concerning his departure and the conduct of affairs during his absence,--till the day before he went, when I earnestly exhorted him to take care of himself and keep out of the way of temptation. He laughed at my anxiety, but assured me there was no cause for it, and promised to attend to my advice, `I suppose it is no use asking you to fix a day for your return?' said I.
`Why, no: I hardly can, under the circumstances; but be assured, love, I shall not be long away.'
`I don't wish to keep you a prisoner at home,' I replied: `I should not grumble at your staying whole months away--if you can be happy so long without me--provided I knew you were safe; but I don't like the idea of your being there, among your friends, as you call them.'
`Pooh, pooh, you silly girl! Do you think I can't take care of myself?'
`You didn't last time.--But THIS time, Arthur,' I added, earnestly, `show me that you can, and teach me that I need not fear to trust you!'
He promised fair, but in such a manner as we seek to soothe a child. And did he keep his promise? No;--and, henceforth, I can never trust his word . Bitter, bitter confession! Tears blind me while I write. It was early in March that he went, and he did not return till July. This time, he did not trouble himself to make excuses as before, and his letters were less frequent, and shorter and less affectionate, especially after the first few weeks: they came slower and slower, and more terse and careless every time. But still, when I omitted writing he complained of my neglect. When I wrote sternly and coldly, as I confess I frequently did at the last, he blamed my harshness, and said it was enough to scare hung from his home: when I tried mild persuasion, he was a little more gentle in his replies, and promised to return; but I had learned, at last, to disregard his promises.
