October 5th. - Esther Hargrave is getting a fine girl. She is not
out of the school-room yet, but her mother frequently brings her
over to call in the mornings when the gentlemen are out, and
sometimes she spends an hour or two in company with her sister and
me, and the children; and when we go to the Grove, I always
contrive to see her, and talk more to her than to any one else, for
I 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 longer
the happy, lively girl I used to be; but she has no other society,
save that of her uncongenial mother, and her governess (as
artificial and conventional a person as that prudent mother could
procure to rectify the pupil's natural qualities), and, now and
then, her subdued, quiet sister. I often wonder what will be her
lot in life, and so does she; but her speculations on the future
are full of buoyant hope; so were mine once. I shudder to think of
her being awakened, like me, to a sense of their delusive vanity.
It seems as if I should feel her disappointment, even more deeply
than my own. I feel almost as if I were born for such a fate, but
she is so joyous and fresh, so light of heart and free of spirit,
and so guileless and unsuspecting too. Oh, it would be cruel to
make her feel as I feel now, and know what I have known!
Her sister trembles for her too. Yesterday morning, one of
October's brightest, loveliest days, Milicent and I were in the
garden enjoying a brief half-hour together with our children, while
Annabella was lying on the drawing-room sofa, deep in the last new
novel. We had been romping with the little creatures, almost as
merry and wild as themselves, and now paused in the shade of the
tall copper beech, to recover breath and rectify our hair,
disordered by the rough play and the frolicsome breeze, while they
toddled together along the broad, sunny walk; my Arthur supporting
the feebler steps of her little Helen, and sagaciously pointing out
to her the brightest beauties of the border as they passed, with
semi-articulate prattle, that did as well for her as any other mode
of discourse. From laughing at the pretty sight, we began to talk
of the children's future life; and that made us thoughtful. We
both relapsed into silent musing as we slowly proceeded up the
walk; and I suppose Milicent, by a train of associations, was led
to 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 I
have; and she loves you, I know, and reverences you too: there is
nobody's opinion she thinks so much of; and she says you have more
sense than mamma.'
'That is because she is self-willed, and my opinions more generally
coincide with her own than your mamma's. But what then, Milicent?'
'Well, since you have so much influence with her, I wish you would
seriously impress it upon her, never, on any account, or for
anybody's persuasion, to marry for the sake of money, or rank, or
establishment, or any earthly thing, but true affection and well-
grounded esteem.'
'There is no necessity for that,' said I, 'for we have had some
discourse on that subject already, and I assure you her ideas of
love and matrimony are as romantic as any one could desire.'
'But romantic notions will not do: I want her to have true
notions.'
'Very right: but in my judgment, what the world stigmatises as
romantic, is often more nearly allied to the truth than is commonly
supposed; for, if the generous ideas of youth are too often over-
clouded by the sordid views of after-life, that scarcely proves
them 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; for
I had romantic notions once, and - I don't mean to say that I
regret my lot, for I am quite sure I don't, but - '
'I understand you,' said I; 'you are contented for yourself, but
you would not have your sister to suffer the same as you.'
'No - or worse. She might have far worse to suffer than I, for I
am really contented, Helen, though you mayn't think it: I speak
the solemn truth in saying that I would not exchange my husband for
any 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 not
exchange him for another; but then you would gladly exchange some
of his qualities for those of better men.'
'Yes: just as I would gladly exchange some of my own qualities for
those of better women; for neither he nor I are perfect, and I
desire his improvement as earnestly as my own. And he will
improve, 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 not
discourage your hopes for the world, but mine have been so often
disappointed, that I am become as cold and doubtful in my
expectations 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 hope
must cease together. And is he so much worse, Milicent, than Mr.
Hattersley?'
'Well, to give you my candid opinion, I think there is no
comparison between them. But you mustn't be offended, Helen, for
you know I always speak my mind, and you may speak yours too. I
sha'n't care.'
'I am not offended, love; and my opinion is, that if there be a
comparison 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 this
acknowledgment; and, with a childlike impulse, she expressed her
sympathy by suddenly kissing my cheek, without a word of reply, and
then turning quickly away, caught up her baby, and hid her face in
its frock. How odd it is that we so often weep for each other's
distresses, when we shed not a tear for our own! Her heart had
been full enough of her own sorrows, but it overflowed at the idea
of mine; and I, too, shed tears at the sight of her sympathetic
emotion, though I had not wept for myself for many a week.
It was one rainy day last week; most of the company were killing
time in the billiard-room, but Milicent and I were with little
Arthur and Helen in the library, and between our books, our
children, and each other, we expected to make out a very agreeable
morning. We had not been thus secluded above two hours, however,
when Mr. Hattersley came in, attracted, I suppose, by the voice of
his child, as he was crossing the hall, for he is prodigiously fond
of her, and she of him.
He was redolent of the stables, where he had been regaling himself
with the company of his fellow-creatures the horses ever since
breakfast. But that was no matter to my little namesake; as soon
as the colossal person of her father darkened the door, she uttered
a shrill scream of delight, and, quitting her mother's side, ran
crowing towards him, balancing her course with outstretched arms,
and embracing his knee, threw back her head and laughed in his
face. He might well look smilingly down upon those small, fair
features, radiant with innocent mirth, those clear blue shining
eyes, and that soft flaxen hair cast back upon the little ivory
neck and shoulders. Did he not think how unworthy he was of such a
possession? I fear no such idea crossed his mind. He caught her
up, and there followed some minutes of very rough play, during
which it is difficult to say whether the father or the daughter
laughed and shouted the loudest. At length, however, the
boisterous pastime terminated, suddenly, as might be expected: the
little one was hurt, and began to cry; and the ungentle play-fellow
tossed it into its mother's lap, bidding her 'make all straight.'
As happy to return to that gentle comforter as it had been to leave
her, the child nestled in her arms, and hushed its cries in a
moment; and sinking its little weary head on her bosom, soon
dropped asleep.
Meantime Mr. Hattersley strode up to the fire, and interposing his
height and breadth between us and it, stood with arms akimbo,
expanding his chest, and gazing round him as if the house and all
its 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 us
with a few bars of a rollicking song, which abruptly ceasing, he
finished 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 finest
animals I've seen for many a day!' Then followed a particular
discussion of their various merits, succeeded by a sketch of the
great things he intended to do in the horse-jockey line, when his
old governor thought proper to quit the stage. 'Not that I wish
him to close his accounts,' added he: 'the old Trojan is welcome
to 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 some
time, and so I look to the bright side of it: that's the right
plan - 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 on
his wife, who changed colour, and looked more and more disconcerted
as he proceeded. 'What a noble figure she has; and what
magnificent black eyes; and what a fine spirit of her own; and what
a tongue of her own, too, when she likes to use it. I perfectly
adore her! But never mind, Milicent: I wouldn't have her for my
wife, not if she'd a kingdom for her dowry! I'm better satisfied
with 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, half
sullen resignation, as she turned away to stroke the hair of her
sleeping infant, that she had laid on the sofa beside her.
'Well, then, what makes you so cross? Come here, Milly, and tell
me why you can't be satisfied with my assurance.'
She went, and putting her little hand within his arm, looked up in
his face, and said softly, -
'What does it amount to, Ralph? Only to this, that though you
admire Annabella so much, and for qualities that I don't possess,
you would still rather have me than her for your wife, which merely
proves that you don't think it necessary to love your wife; you are
satisfied 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 bending
her looks on the rug, 'if you don't love me, you don't, and it
can't be helped.'
'Very true; but who told you I didn't? Did I say I loved
Annabella?'
'You said you adored her.'
'True, but adoration isn't love. I adore Annabella, but I don't
love her; and I love thee, Milicent, but I don't adore thee.' In
proof of his affection, he clutched a handful of her light brown
ringlets, and appeared to twist them unmercifully.
'Do you really, Ralph?' murmured she, with a faint smile beaming
through her tears, just putting up her hand to his, in token that
he 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 has
been eating raisins and sugar-plums all day, he longs for a squeeze
of 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 plod
along, for half an hour, over this soft, easy carpet - giving way
at every step, yielding the more the harder you press, - you'll
find it rather wearisome work, and be glad enough to come to a bit
of good, firm rock, that won't budge an inch whether you stand,
walk, or stamp upon it; and, though it be hard as the nether
millstone, you'll find it the easier footing after all.'
'I know what you mean, Ralph,' said she, nervously playing with her
watchguard and tracing the figure on the rug with the point of her
tiny foot - 'I know what you mean: but I thought you always liked
to be yielded to, and I can't alter now.'
'I do like it,' replied he, bringing her to him by another tug at
her hair. 'You mustn't mind my talk, Milly. A man must have
something to grumble about; and if he can't complain that his wife
harries him to death with her perversity and ill-humour, he must
complain that she wears him out with her kindness and gentleness.'
'But why complain at all, unless because you are tired and
dissatisfied?'
'To excuse my own failings, to be sure. Do you think I'll bear all
the burden of my sins on my own shoulders, as long as there's
another 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 genuine
devotion, and tripped away to the door.
'What now?' said he. 'Where are you going?'
'To tidy my hair,' she answered, smiling through her disordered
locks; 'you've made it all come down.'
'Off with you then! - An excellent little woman,' he remarked when
she was gone, 'but a thought too soft - she almost melts in one's
hands. I positively think I ill-use her sometimes, when I've taken
too much - but I can't help it, for she never complains, either at
the 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 a
sudden 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 more
closely than you have done. - And I can tell you, Mr. Hattersley,
that Milicent loves you more than you deserve, and that you have it
in your power to make her very happy, instead of which you are her
evil genius, and, I will venture to say, there is not a single day
passes in which you do not inflict upon her some pang that you
might spare her if you would.'
'Well - it's not my fault,' said he, gazing carelessly up at the
ceiling and plunging his hands into his pockets: 'if my ongoings
don'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 without
a murmur, and never blame you, whatever you did?'
'True, but we shouldn't always have what we want: it spoils the
best of us, doesn't it? How can I help playing the deuce when I
see it's all one to her whether I behave like a Christian or like a
scoundrel, such as nature made me? and how can I help teasing her
when she's so invitingly meek and mim, when she lies down like a
spaniel at my feet and never so much as squeaks to tell me that's
enough?'
'If you are a tyrant by nature, the temptation is strong, I allow;
but no generous mind delights to oppress the weak, but rather to
cherish and protect.'
'I don't oppress her; but it's so confounded flat to be always
cherishing and protecting; and then, how can I tell that I am
oppressing her when she "melts away and makes no sign"? I
sometimes think she has no feeling at all; and then I go on till
she 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 a
particularly good one, and want to afflict for the pleasure of
comforting; or when she looks flat and wants shaking up a bit. And
sometimes she provokes me by crying for nothing, and won't tell me
what 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, or
crying for "nothing" (as you call it), ascribe it all to yourself:
be assured it is something you have done amiss, or your general
misconduct, that distresses her.'
'I don't believe it. If it were, she should tell me so: I don't
like that way of moping and fretting in silence, and saying
nothing: it's not honest. How can she expect me to mend my ways
at that rate?'
'Perhaps she gives you credit for having more sense than you
possess, and deludes herself with the hope that you will one day
see your own errors and repair them, if left to your own
reflection.'
'None of your sneers, Mrs. Huntingdon. I have the sense to see
that I'm not always quite correct, but sometimes I think that's no
great matter, as long as I injure nobody but myself - '
'It is a great matter,' interrupted I, 'both to yourself (as you
will hereafter find to your cost) and to all connected with you,
most especially your wife. But, indeed, it is nonsense to talk
about injuring no one but yourself: it is impossible to injure
yourself, especially by such acts as we allude to, without injuring
hundreds, 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 you
hadn't taken me up so short, I sometimes think I should do better
if I were joined to one that would always remind me when I was
wrong, and give me a motive for doing good and eschewing evil, by
decidedly showing her approval of the one and disapproval of the
other.'
'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, and
always equally kind, but that would have the spirit to stand at bay
now and then, and honestly tell me her mind at all times, such a
one as yourself for instance. Now, if I went on with you as I do
with her when I'm in London, you'd make the house too hot to hold
me 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, in
a general way, and I'm as fond of my own will as another; only I
think too much of it doesn't answer for any man.'
'Well, I would never contradict you without a cause, but certainly
I would always let you know what I thought of your conduct; and if
you oppressed me, in body, mind, or estate, you should at least
have no reason to suppose "I didn't mind it."'
'I know that, my lady; and I think if my little wife were to follow
the 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 more
like her, scoundrelly dog that he is, and you see, after all, you
can't reform him: he's ten times worse than I. He's afraid of
you, to be sure; that is, he's always on his best behaviour in your
presence - but - '
'I wonder what his worst behaviour is like, then?' I could not
forbear observing.
'Why, to tell you the truth, it's very bad indeed - isn't it,
Hargrave?' said he, addressing that gentleman, who had entered the
room unperceived by me, for I was now standing near the fire, with
my back to the door. 'Isn't Huntingdon,' he continued, 'as great a
reprobate 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 not
such another.'
'Perhaps it would become you better,' said I, 'to look at what you
are, and say, "God be merciful to me a sinner."'
'You are severe,' returned he, bowing slightly and drawing himself
up with a proud yet injured air. Hattersley laughed, and clapped
him on the shoulder. Moving from under his hand with a gesture of
insulted dignity, Mr. Hargrave took himself away to the other end
of the rug.
'Isn't it a shame, Mrs. Huntingdon?' cried his brother-in-law; 'I
struck Walter Hargrave when I was drunk, the second night after we
came, and he's turned a cold shoulder on me ever since; though I
asked his pardon the very morning after it was done!'
'Your manner of asking it,' returned the other, 'and the clearness
with which you remembered the whole transaction, showed you were
not too drunk to be fully conscious of what you were about, and
quite responsible for the deed.'
'You wanted to interfere between me and my wife,' grumbled
Hattersley, 'and that is enough to provoke any man.'
'You justify it, then?' said his opponent, darting upon him a most
vindictive glance.
'No, I tell you I wouldn't have done it if I hadn't been under
excitement; and if you choose to bear malice for it after all the
handsome things I've said, do so and be d-d!'
'I would refrain from such language in a lady's presence, at
least,' said Mr. Hargrave, hiding his anger under a mask of
disgust.
'What have I said?' returned Hattersley: 'nothing but heaven's
truth. He will be damned, won't he, Mrs. Huntingdon, if he doesn't
forgive his brother's trespasses?'
'You ought to forgive him, Mr. Hargrave, since he asks you,' said
I.
'Do you say so? Then I will!' And, smiling almost frankly, he
stepped forward and offered his hand. It was immediately clasped
in that of his relative, and the reconciliation was apparently
cordial on both sides.
'The affront,' continued Hargrave, turning to me, 'owed half its
bitterness to the fact of its being offered in your presence; and
since 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, and
he left the room. This put me on my guard. Mr. Hargrave turned
seriously to me, and earnestly began, -
'Dear Mrs. Huntingdon, how I have longed for, yet dreaded, this
hour! Do not be alarmed,' he added, for my face was crimson with
anger: 'I am not about to offend you with any useless entreaties
or complaints. I am not going to presume to trouble you with the
mention of my own feelings or your perfections, but I have
something 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 the
children 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 and
leading Arthur by the hand.
He turned away, muttering some sentence of impatient censure or
complaint, in which 'heartless' was the only distinguishable word.
'What nonsense is this, Mr. Hargrave?' said I, pausing in the
doorway. 'What do you mean?'
'Oh, nothing; I did not intend you should hear my soliloquy. But
the fact is, Mrs. Huntingdon, I have a disclosure to make, painful
for me to offer as for you to hear; and I want you to give me a few
minutes of your attention in private at any time and place you like
to appoint. It is from no selfish motive that I ask it, and not
for any cause that could alarm your superhuman purity: therefore
you need not kill me with that look of cold and pitiless disdain.
I know too well the feelings with which the bearers of bad tidings
are commonly regarded not to - '
'What is this wonderful piece of intelligence?' said I, impatiently
interrupting him. 'If it is anything of real importance, speak it
in three words before I go.'
'In three words I cannot. Send those children away and stay with
me.'
'No; keep your bad tidings to yourself. I know it is something I
don't want to hear, and something you would displease me by
telling.'
'You have divined too truly, I fear; but still, since I know it, I
feel it my duty to disclose it to you.'
'Oh, spare us both the infliction, and I will exonerate you from
the duty. You have offered to tell; I have refused to hear: my
ignorance will not be charged on you.'
'Be it so: you shall not hear it from me. But if the blow fall
too suddenly upon you when it comes, remember I wished to soften
it!'
I left him. I was determined his words should not alarm me. What
could he, of all men, have to reveal that was of importance for me
to hear? It was no doubt some exaggerated tale about my
unfortunate husband that he wished to make the most of to serve his
own bad purposes.
6th. - He has not alluded to this momentous mystery since, and I
have seen no reason to repent of my unwillingness to hear it. The
threatened blow has not been struck yet, and I do not greatly fear
it. At present I am pleased with Arthur: he has not positively
disgraced himself for upwards of a fortnight, and all this last
week has been so very moderate in his indulgence at table that I
can perceive a marked difference in his general temper and
appearance. Dare I hope this will continue?
Read next: CHAPTER XXXIII
Read previous: CHAPTER XXXI
Table of content of Tenant of Wildfell Hall
GO TO TOP OF SCREEN
Post your reviewYour review will be placed after the table of content of this book
