addition to this, I had a gloomy conviction that the awful
realities she had seen and felt, her reconciliation with the man she had
once loved, his dreadful sufferings and death, must eventually efface
from her mind all traces of her passing love for me. She might recover
from these horrors so far as to be restored to her former health, her
tranquillity, her cheerfulness even--but never to those feelings which
would appear to her, henceforth, as a fleeting fancy, a vain, illusive
dream; especially as there was no one to remind her of my existence--no
means of assuring her of my fervent constancy, now that we were so far
apart, and delicacy forbade me to see her or to write to her, for months
to come at least. And how could I engage her brother in my behalf? how
could I break that icy crust of shy reserve? Perhaps he would disapprove
of my attachment now as highly as before; perhaps he would think me too
poor--too lowly born, to match with his sister. Yes, there was another
barrier: doubtless there was a wide distinction between the rank and
circumstances of Mrs. Huntingdon, the lady of Grassdale Manor, and those
of Mrs. Graham, the artist, the tenant of Wildfell Hall. And it might be
deemed presumption in me to offer my hand to the former, by the world, by
her friends, if not by herself; a penalty I might brave, if I were
certain she loved me; but otherwise, how could I? And, finally, her
deceased husband, with his usual selfishness, might have so constructed
his will as to place restrictions upon her marrying again. So that you
see I had reasons enough for despair if I chose to indulge it.

Nevertheless, it was with no small degree of impatience that I looked
forward to Mr. Lawrence's return from Grassdale: impatience that
increased in proportion as his absence was prolonged. He stayed away
some ten or twelve days. All very right that he should remain to comfort
and help his sister, but he might have written to tell me how she was, or
at least to tell me when to expect his return; for he might have known I
was suffering tortures of anxiety for her, and uncertainty for my own
future prospects. And when he did return, all he told me about her was,
that she had been greatly exhausted and worn by her unremitting exertions
in behalf of that man who had been the scourge of her life, and had
dragged her with him nearly to the portals of the grave, and was still
much shaken and depressed by his melancholy end and the