Kabanata Kabanata 42 · Chapter XLII A Reformation

. Chapter XLII A Reformation

September 1st.—No Mr. Huntingdon yet. Perhaps he will stay among his

friends till Christmas; and then, next spring, he will be off again. If

he continue this plan, I shall be able to stay at Grassdale well

enough—that is, I _shall_ be able to stay, and that is enough; even an

occasional bevy of friends at the shooting season may be borne, if

Arthur get so firmly attached to me, so well established in good sense

and principles before they come that I shall be able, by reason and

affection, to keep him pure from their contaminations. Vain hope, I

fear! but still, till such a time of trial comes I will forbear to

think of my quiet asylum in the beloved old hall.

Mr. and Mrs. Hattersley have been staying at the Grove a fortnight: and

as Mr. Hargrave is still absent, and the weather was remarkably fine, I

never passed a day without seeing my two friends, Milicent and Esther,

either there or here. On one occasion, when Mr. Hattersley had driven

them over to Grassdale in the phaeton, with little Helen and Ralph, and

we were all enjoying ourselves in the garden—I had a few minutes’

conversation with that gentleman, while the ladies were amusing

themselves with the children.

“Do you want to hear anything of your husband, Mrs. Huntingdon?” said

he.

“No, unless you can tell me when to expect him home.”

“I can’t.—You don’t want him, do you?” said he, with a broad grin.

“No.”

“Well, I think you’re better without him, sure enough—for my part, I’m

downright weary of him. I told him I’d leave him if he didn’t mend his

manners, and he wouldn’t; so I left him. You see, I’m a better man than

you think me; and, what’s more, I have serious thoughts of washing my

hands of him entirely, and the whole set of ’em, and comporting myself

from this day forward with all decency and sobriety, as a Christian and

the father of a family should do. What do you think of that?”

“It is a resolution you ought to have formed long ago.”

“Well, I’m not thirty yet; it isn’t too late, is it?”

“No; it is never too late to reform, as long as you have the sense to

desire it, and the strength to execute your purpose.”

“Well, to tell you the truth, I’ve thought of it often and often

before; but he’s such devilish good company, is Huntingdon, after all.

You can’t imagine what a jovial good fellow he is when he’s not fairly

drunk, only just primed or half-seas-over. We all have a bit of a

liking for him at the bottom of our hearts, though we can’t respect

him.”

“But should you wish yourself to be like him?”

“No, I’d rather be like myself, bad as I am.”

“You can’t continue as bad as you are without getting worse and more

brutalised every day, and therefore more like him.”

I could not help smiling at the comical, half-angry, half-confounded

look he put on at this rather unusual mode of address.

“Never mind my plain speaking,” said I; “it is from the best of

motives. But tell me, should you wish your sons to be like Mr.

Huntingdon—or even like yourself?”

“Hang it! no.”

“Should you wish your daughter to despise you—or, at least, to feel no

vestige of respect for you, and no affection but what is mingled with

the bitterest regret?”

“Oh, no! I couldn’t stand that.”

“And, finally, should you wish your wife to be ready to sink into the

earth when she hears you mentioned; and to loathe the very sound of

your voice, and shudder at your approach?”

“She never will; she likes me all the same, whatever I do.”

“Impossible, Mr. Hattersley! you mistake her quiet submission for

affection.”

“Fire and fury—”

“Now don’t burst into a tempest at that. I don’t mean to say she does

not love you—she does, I know, a great deal better than you deserve;

but I am quite sure, that if you behave better, she will love you more,

and if you behave worse, she will love you less and less, till all is

lost in fear, aversion, and bitterness of soul, if not in secret hatred

and contempt. But, dropping the subject of affection, should you wish

to be the tyrant of her life—to take away all the sunshine from her

existence, and make her thoroughly miserable?”

“Of course not; and I don’t, and I’m not going to.”

“You have done more towards it than you suppose.”

“Pooh, pooh! she’s not the susceptible, anxious, worriting creature you

imagine: she’s a little meek, peaceable, affectionate body; apt to be

rather sulky at times, but quiet and cool in the main, and ready to

take things as they come.”

“Think of what she was five years ago, when you married her, and what

she is now.”

“I know she was a little plump lassie then, with a pretty pink and

white face: now she’s a poor little bit of a creature, fading and

melting away like a snow-wreath. But hang it!—that’s not my fault.”

“What is the cause of it then? Not years, for she’s only

five-and-twenty.”

“It’s her own delicate health, and confound it, madam! what would you

make of me?—and the children, to be sure, that worry her to death

between them.”

“No, Mr. Hattersley, the children give her more pleasure than pain:

they are fine, well-dispositioned children—”

“I know they are—bless them!”

“Then why lay the blame on them?—I’ll tell you what it is: it’s silent

fretting and constant anxiety on your account, mingled, I suspect, with

something of bodily fear on her own. When you behave well, she can only

rejoice with trembling; she has no security, no confidence in your

judgment or principles; but is continually dreading the close of such

short-lived felicity; when you behave ill, her causes of terror and

misery are more than any one can tell but herself. In patient endurance

of evil, she forgets it is our duty to admonish our neighbours of their

transgressions. Since you _will_ mistake her silence for indifference,

come with me, and I’ll show you one or two of her letters—no breach of

confidence, I hope, since you are her other half.”

He followed me into the library. I sought out and put into his hands

two of Milicent’s letters: one dated from London, and written during

one of his wildest seasons of reckless dissipation; the other in the

country, during a lucid interval. The former was full of trouble and

anguish; not accusing _him_, but deeply regretting his connection with

his profligate companions, abusing Mr. Grimsby and others, insinuating

bitter things against Mr. Huntingdon, and most ingeniously throwing the

blame of her husband’s misconduct on to other men’s shoulders. The

latter was full of hope and joy, yet with a trembling consciousness

that this happiness would not last; praising his goodness to the skies,

but with an evident, though but half-expressed wish, that it were based

on a surer foundation than the natural impulses of the heart, and a

half-prophetic dread of the fall of that house so founded on the

sand,—which fall had shortly after taken place, as Hattersley must have

been conscious while he read.

Almost at the commencement of the first letter I had the unexpected

pleasure of seeing him blush; but he immediately turned his back to me,

and finished the perusal at the window. At the second, I saw him, once

or twice, raise his hand, and hurriedly pass it across his face. Could

it be to dash away a tear? When he had done, there was an interval

spent in clearing his throat and staring out of the window, and then,

after whistling a few bars of a favourite air, he turned round, gave me

back the letters, and silently shook me by the hand.

“I’ve been a cursed rascal, God knows,” said he, as he gave it a hearty

squeeze, “but you see if I don’t make amends for it—d—n me if I don’t!”

“Don’t curse yourself, Mr. Hattersley; if God had heard half your

invocations of that kind, you would have been in hell long before

now—and you _cannot_ make amends for the past by doing your duty for

the future, inasmuch as your duty is only what you _owe_ to your Maker,

and you cannot do _more_ than fulfil it: another must make amends for

your past delinquencies. If you intend to reform, invoke God’s

blessing, His mercy, and His aid; not His curse.”

“God help me, then—for I’m sure I need it. Where’s Milicent?”

“She’s there, just coming in with her sister.”

He stepped out at the glass door, and went to meet them. I followed at

a little distance. Somewhat to his wife’s astonishment, he lifted her

off from the ground, and saluted her with a hearty kiss and a strong

embrace; then placing his two hands on her shoulders, he gave her, I

suppose, a sketch of the great things he meant to do, for she suddenly

threw her arms round him, and burst into tears, exclaiming,—“Do, do,

Ralph—we shall be so happy! How very, very good you are!”

“Nay, not I,” said he, turning her round, and pushing her towards me.

“Thank _her;_ it’s her doing.”

Milicent flew to thank me, overflowing with gratitude. I disclaimed all

title to it, telling her her husband was predisposed to amendment

before I added my mite of exhortation and encouragement, and that I had

only done what she might, and ought to have done herself.

“Oh, no!” cried she; “I couldn’t have influenced him, I’m sure, by

anything that I could have said. I should only have bothered him by my

clumsy efforts at persuasion, if I had made the attempt.”

“You never tried me, Milly,” said he.

Shortly after they took their leave. They are now gone on a visit to

Hattersley’s father. After that they will repair to their country home.

I hope his good resolutions will not fall through, and poor Milicent

will not be again disappointed. Her last letter was full of present

bliss, and pleasing anticipations for the future; but no particular

temptation has yet occurred to put his virtue to the test. Henceforth,

however, she will doubtless be somewhat less timid and reserved, and he

more kind and thoughtful.—Surely, then, her hopes are not unfounded;

and I have one bright spot, at least, whereon to rest my thoughts.