الفصل الفصل 32 · Chapter XXXII Comparisons: Information Rejected

. Chapter XXXII Comparisons: Information Rejected

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.

[Illustration]

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?