第 三十 章 · Chapter XXX Domestic Scenes

. Chapter XXX Domestic Scenes

On the following morning I received a few lines from him myself,

confirming Hargrave’s intimations respecting his approaching return.

And he did come next week, but in a condition of body and mind even

worse than before. I did not, however, intend to pass over his

derelictions this time without a remark; I found it would not do. But

the first day he was weary with his journey, and I was glad to get him

back: I would not upbraid him then; I would wait till to-morrow. Next

morning he was weary still: I would wait a little longer. But at

dinner, when, after breakfasting at twelve o’clock on a bottle of

soda-water and a cup of strong coffee, and lunching at two on another

bottle of soda-water mingled with brandy, he was finding fault with

everything on the table, and declaring we must change our cook, I

thought the time was come.

“It is the same cook as we had before you went, Arthur,” said I. “You

were generally pretty well satisfied with her then.”

“You must have been letting her get into slovenly habits, then, while I

was away. It is enough to poison one, eating such a disgusting mess!”

And he pettishly pushed away his plate, and leant back despairingly in

his chair.

“I think it is you that are changed, not she,” said I, but with the

utmost gentleness, for I did not wish to irritate him.

“It may be so,” he replied carelessly, as he seized a tumbler of wine

and water, adding, when he had tossed it off, “for I have an infernal

fire in my veins, that all the waters of the ocean cannot quench!”

“What kindled it?” I was about to ask, but at that moment the butler

entered and began to take away the things.

“Be quick, Benson; do have done with that infernal clatter!” cried his

master. “And _don’t_ bring the cheese, unless you want to make me sick

outright!”

Benson, in some surprise, removed the cheese, and did his best to

effect a quiet and speedy clearance of the rest; but, unfortunately,

there was a rumple in the carpet, caused by the hasty pushing back of

his master’s chair, at which he tripped and stumbled, causing a rather

alarming concussion with the trayful of crockery in his hands, but no

positive damage, save the fall and breaking of a sauce tureen; but, to

my unspeakable shame and dismay, Arthur turned furiously around upon

him, and swore at him with savage coarseness. The poor man turned pale,

and visibly trembled as he stooped to pick up the fragments.

“He couldn’t help it, Arthur,” said I; “the carpet caught his foot, and

there’s no great harm done. Never mind the pieces now, Benson; you can

clear them away afterwards.”

Glad to be released, Benson expeditiously set out the dessert and

withdrew.

“What _could_ you mean, Helen, by taking the servant’s part against

me,” said Arthur, as soon as the door was closed, “when you knew I was

distracted?”

“I did not know you were distracted, Arthur: and the poor man was quite

frightened and hurt at your sudden explosion.”

“Poor man, indeed! and do you think I could stop to consider the

feelings of an insensate brute like that, when my own nerves were

racked and torn to pieces by his confounded blunders?”

“I never heard you complain of your nerves before.”

“And why shouldn’t I have nerves as well as you?”

“Oh, I don’t dispute your claim to their possession, but _I_ never

complain of mine.”

“No, how should you, when you never do anything to try them?”

“Then why do you try yours, Arthur?”

“Do you think I have nothing to do but to stay at home and take care of

myself like a woman?”

“Is it impossible, then, to take care of yourself like a man when you

go abroad? You told me that you could, and would too; and you

promised—”

“Come, come, Helen, don’t begin with that nonsense now; I can’t bear

it.”

“Can’t bear what?—to be reminded of the promises you have broken?”

“Helen, you are cruel. If you knew how my heart throbbed, and how every

nerve thrilled through me while you spoke, you would spare me. You can

pity a dolt of a servant for breaking a dish; but you have no

compassion for _me_ when my head is split in two and all on fire with

this consuming fever.”

He leant his head on his hand, and sighed. I went to him and put my

hand on his forehead. It was burning indeed.

“Then come with me into the drawing-room, Arthur; and don’t take any

more wine: you have taken several glasses since dinner, and eaten next

to nothing all the day. How can _that_ make you better?”

With some coaxing and persuasion, I got him to leave the table. When

the baby was brought I tried to amuse him with that; but poor little

Arthur was cutting his teeth, and his father could not bear his

complaints: sentence of immediate banishment was passed upon him on the

first indication of fretfulness; and because, in the course of the

evening, I went to share his exile for a little while, I was

reproached, on my return, for preferring my child to my husband. I

found the latter reclining on the sofa just as I had left him.

“Well!” exclaimed the injured man, in a tone of pseudo-resignation. “I

thought I wouldn’t send for you; I thought I’d just see how long it

would please you to leave me alone.”

“I have not been very long, have I, Arthur? I have not been an hour,

I’m sure.”

“Oh, of course, an hour is nothing to you, so pleasantly employed; but

to _me_—”

“It has not been pleasantly employed,” interrupted I. “I have been

nursing our poor little baby, who is very far from well, and I could

not leave him till I got him to sleep.”

“Oh, to be sure, you’re overflowing with kindness and pity for

everything but me.”

“And why should I pity _you?_ What is the matter with you?”

“Well! that passes everything! After all the wear and tear that I’ve

had, when I come home sick and weary, longing for comfort, and

expecting to find attention and kindness, at least from my wife, she

calmly asks what is the matter with me!”

“There is _nothing_ the matter with you,” returned I, “except what you

have wilfully brought upon yourself, against my earnest exhortation and

entreaty.”

“Now, Helen,” said he emphatically, half rising from his recumbent

posture, “if you bother me with another word, I’ll ring the bell and

order six bottles of wine, and, by heaven, I’ll drink them dry before I

stir from this place!”

I said no more, but sat down before the table and drew a book towards

me.

“Do let me have quietness at least!” continued he, “if you deny me

every other comfort;” and sinking back into his former position, with

an impatient expiration between a sigh and a groan, he languidly closed

his eyes, as if to sleep.

What the book was that lay open on the table before me, I cannot tell,

for I never looked at it. With an elbow on each side of it, and my

hands clasped before my eyes, I delivered myself up to silent weeping.

But Arthur was not asleep: at the first slight sob, he raised his head

and looked round, impatiently exclaiming, “What are you crying for,

Helen? What the deuce is the matter _now?_”

“I’m crying for you, Arthur,” I replied, speedily drying my tears; and

starting up, I threw myself on my knees before him, and clasping his

nerveless hand between my own, continued: “Don’t you know that you are

a part of myself? And do you think you can injure and degrade yourself,

and I not feel it?”

“_Degrade_ myself, Helen?”

“Yes, degrade! What have you been doing all this time?”

“You’d better not ask,” said he, with a faint smile.

“And you had better not tell; but you cannot deny that you _have_

degraded yourself miserably. You have shamefully wronged yourself, body

and soul, and me too; and I can’t endure it quietly, and I won’t!”

“Well, don’t squeeze my hand so frantically, and don’t agitate me so,

for heaven’s sake! Oh, Hattersley! you were right: this woman will be

the death of me, with her keen feelings and her interesting force of

character. There, there, do spare me a little.”

“Arthur, you _must_ repent!” cried I, in a frenzy of desperation,

throwing my arms around him and burying my face in his bosom. “You

_shall_ say you are sorry for what you have done!”

“Well, well, I am.”

“You are not! you’ll do it again.”

“I shall never live to do it again if you treat me so savagely,”

replied he, pushing me from him. “You’ve nearly squeezed the breath out

of my body.” He pressed his hand to his heart, and looked really

agitated and ill.

“Now get me a glass of wine,” said he, “to remedy what you’ve done, you

she tiger! I’m almost ready to faint.”

I flew to get the required remedy. It seemed to revive him

considerably.

“What a shame it is,” said I, as I took the empty glass from his hand,

“for a strong young man like you to reduce yourself to such a state!”

“If you knew all, my girl, you’d say rather, ‘What a wonder it is you

can bear it so well as you do!’ I’ve lived more in these four months,

Helen, than you have in the whole course of your existence, or will to

the end of your days, if they numbered a hundred years; so I must

expect to pay for it in some shape.”

“You will have to pay a higher price than you anticipate, if you don’t

take care: there will be the total loss of your own health, and of my

affection too, if _that_ is of any value to you.”

“What! you’re at that game of threatening me with the loss of your

affection again, are you? I think it couldn’t have been very genuine

stuff to begin with, if it’s so easily demolished. If you don’t mind,

my pretty tyrant, you’ll make me regret my choice in good earnest, and

envy my friend Hattersley his meek little wife: she’s quite a pattern

to her sex, Helen. He had her with him in London all the season, and

she was no trouble at all. He might amuse himself just as he pleased,

in regular bachelor style, and she never complained of neglect; he

might come home at any hour of the night or morning, or not come home

at all; be sullen, sober, or glorious drunk; and play the fool or the

madman to his own heart’s desire, without any fear or botheration. She

never gives him a word of reproach or complaint, do what he will. He

says there’s not such a jewel in all England, and swears he wouldn’t

take a kingdom for her.”

“But he makes her life a curse to her.”

“Not he! She has no will but his, and is always contented and happy as

long as he is enjoying himself.”

“In that case she is as great a fool as he is; but it is not so. I have

several letters from her, expressing the greatest anxiety about his

proceedings, and complaining that you incite him to commit those

extravagances—one especially, in which she implores me to use my

influence with you to get you away from London, and affirms that her

husband never did such things before you came, and would certainly

discontinue them as soon as you departed and left him to the guidance

of his own good sense.”

“The detestable little traitor! Give me the letter, and he shall see it

as sure as I’m a living man.”

“No, he shall not see it without her consent; but if he did, there is

nothing there to anger him, nor in any of the others. She never speaks

a word against him: it is only anxiety _for_ him that she expresses.

She only alludes to his conduct in the most delicate terms, and makes

every excuse for him that she can possibly think of; and as for her own

misery, I rather _feel_ it than _see_ it expressed in her letters.”

“But she abuses _me;_ and no doubt you helped her.”

“No; I told her she over-rated my influence with you, that I would

gladly draw you away from the temptations of the town if I could, but

had little hope of success, and that I thought she was wrong in

supposing that you enticed Mr. Hattersley or any one else into error. I

had myself held the _contrary_ opinion at one time, but I now believed

that you mutually corrupted each other; and, perhaps, if she used a

little gentle but serious remonstrance with her husband, it might be of

some service; as, though he was more rough-hewn than mine, I believed

he was of a less impenetrable material.”

“And so _that_ is the way you go on—heartening each other up to mutiny,

and abusing each other’s partners, and throwing out implications

against your own, to the mutual gratification of both!”

“According to your own account,” said I, “my evil counsel has had but

little effect upon _her_. And as to abuse and aspersions, we are both

of us far too deeply ashamed of the errors and vices of our other

halves, to make them the common subject of our correspondence. Friends

as we are, we would willingly keep your failings to ourselves—even

_from_ ourselves if we could, unless by knowing them we could deliver

you from them.”

“Well, well! don’t worry me about them: you’ll never effect any good by

that. Have patience with me, and bear with my languor and crossness a

little while, till I get this cursed low fever out of my veins, and

then you’ll find me cheerful and kind as ever. Why can’t you be gentle

and good, as you were last time?—I’m sure I was very grateful for it.”

“And what good did your gratitude do? I deluded myself with the idea

that you were ashamed of your transgressions, and hoped you would never

repeat them again; but now you have left me nothing to hope!”

“My case is quite desperate, is it? A very blessed consideration, if it

will only secure me from the pain and worry of my dear anxious wife’s

efforts to convert me, and her from the toil and trouble of such

exertions, and her sweet face and silver accents from the ruinous

effects of the same. A burst of passion is a fine rousing thing upon

occasion, Helen, and a flood of tears is marvellously affecting, but,

when indulged too often, they are both deuced plaguy things for

spoiling one’s beauty and tiring out one’s friends.”

Thenceforth I restrained my tears and passions as much as I could. I

spared him my exhortations and fruitless efforts at conversion too, for

I saw it was all in vain: God might awaken that heart, supine and

stupefied with self-indulgence, and remove the film of sensual darkness

from his eyes, but I could not. His injustice and ill-humour towards

his inferiors, who could not defend themselves, I still resented and

withstood; but when I alone was their object, as was frequently the

case, I endured it with calm forbearance, except at times, when my

temper, worn out by repeated annoyances, or stung to distraction by

some new instance of irrationality, gave way in spite of myself, and

exposed me to the imputations of fierceness, cruelty, and impatience. I

attended carefully to his wants and amusements, but not, I own, with

the same devoted fondness as before, because I could not feel it;

besides, I had now another claimant on my time and care—my ailing

infant, for whose sake I frequently braved and suffered the reproaches

and complaints of his unreasonably exacting father.

But Arthur is not naturally a peevish or irritable man; so far from it,

that there was something almost ludicrous in the incongruity of this

adventitious fretfulness and nervous irritability, rather calculated to

excite laughter than anger, if it were not for the intensely painful

considerations attendant upon those symptoms of a disordered frame, and

his temper gradually improved as his bodily health was restored, which

was much sooner than would have been the case but for my strenuous

exertions; for there was still one thing about him that I did not give

up in despair, and one effort for his preservation that I would not

remit. His appetite for the stimulus of wine had increased upon him, as

I had too well foreseen. It was now something more to him than an

accessory to social enjoyment: it was an important source of enjoyment

in itself. In this time of weakness and depression he would have made

it his medicine and support, his comforter, his recreation, and his

friend, and thereby sunk deeper and deeper, and bound himself down for

ever in the bathos whereinto he had fallen. But I determined this

should never be, as long as I had any influence left; and though I

could not prevent him from taking more than was good for him, still, by

incessant perseverance, by kindness, and firmness, and vigilance, by

coaxing, and daring, and determination, I succeeded in preserving him

from absolute bondage to that detestable propensity, so insidious in

its advances, so inexorable in its tyranny, so disastrous in its

effects.

And here I must not forget that I am not a little indebted to his

friend Mr. Hargrave. About that time he frequently called at Grassdale,

and often dined with us, on which occasions I fear Arthur would

willingly have cast prudence and decorum to the winds, and made “a

night of it,” as often as his friend would have consented to join him

in that exalted pastime; and if the latter had chosen to comply, he

might, in a night or two, have ruined the labour of weeks, and

overthrown with a touch the frail bulwark it had cost me such trouble

and toil to construct. I was so fearful of this at first, that I

humbled myself to intimate to him, in private, my apprehensions of

Arthur’s proneness to these excesses, and to express a hope that he

would not encourage it. He was pleased with this mark of confidence,

and certainly did not betray it. On that and every subsequent occasion

his presence served rather as a check upon his host, than an incitement

to further acts of intemperance; and he always succeeded in bringing

him from the dining-room in good time, and in tolerably good condition;

for if Arthur disregarded such intimations as “Well, I must not detain

you from your lady,” or “We must not forget that Mrs. Huntingdon is

alone,” he would insist upon leaving the table himself, to join me, and

his host, however unwillingly, was obliged to follow.

Hence I learned to welcome Mr. Hargrave as a real friend to the family,

a harmless companion for Arthur, to cheer his spirits and preserve him

from the tedium of absolute idleness and a total isolation from all

society but mine, and a useful ally to me. I could not but feel

grateful to him under such circumstances; and I did not scruple to

acknowledge my obligation on the first convenient opportunity; yet, as

I did so, my heart whispered all was not right, and brought a glow to

my face, which he heightened by his steady, serious gaze, while, by his

manner of receiving those acknowledgments, he more than doubled my

misgivings. His high delight at being able to serve me was chastened by

sympathy for me and commiseration for himself—about, I know not what,

for I would not stay to inquire, or suffer him to unburden his sorrows

to me. His sighs and intimations of suppressed affliction seemed to

come from a full heart; but either he must contrive to retain them

within it, or breathe them forth in other ears than mine: there was

enough of confidence between us already. It seemed wrong that there

should exist a secret understanding between my husband’s friend and me,

unknown to him, of which he was the object. But my after-thought was,

“If it is wrong, surely Arthur’s is the fault, not mine.”

And indeed I know not whether, at the time, it was not for _him_ rather

than myself that I blushed; for, since he and I are one, I so identify

myself with him, that I feel his degradation, his failings, and

transgressions as my own: I blush for him, I fear for him; I repent for

him, weep, pray, and feel for him as for myself; but I cannot act for

him; and hence I must be, and I am, debased, contaminated by the union,

both in my own eyes and in the actual truth. I am so determined to love

him, so intensely anxious to excuse his errors, that I am continually

dwelling upon them, and labouring to extenuate the loosest of his

principles and the worst of his practices, till I am familiarised with

vice, and almost a partaker in his sins. Things that formerly shocked

and disgusted me, now seem only natural. I know them to be wrong,

because reason and God’s word declare them to be so; but I am gradually

losing that instinctive horror and repulsion which were given me by

nature, or instilled into me by the precepts and example of my aunt.

Perhaps then I was too severe in my judgments, for I abhorred the

sinner as well as the sin; now I flatter myself I am more charitable

and considerate; but am I not becoming more indifferent and insensate

too? Fool that I was, to dream that I had strength and purity enough to

save myself and him! Such vain presumption would be rightly served, if

I should perish with him in the gulf from which I sought to save him!

Yet, God preserve me from it, and him too! Yes, poor Arthur, I will

still hope and pray for you; and though I write as if you were some

abandoned wretch, past hope and past reprieve, it is only my anxious

fears, my strong desires that make me do so; one who loved you less

would be less bitter, less dissatisfied.

His conduct has, of late, been what the world calls irreproachable; but

then I know his heart is still unchanged; and I know that spring is

approaching, and deeply dread the consequences.

As he began to recover the tone and vigour of his exhausted frame, and

with it something of his former impatience of retirement and repose, I

suggested a short residence by the sea-side, for his recreation and

further restoration, and for the benefit of our little one as well. But

no: watering-places were so intolerably dull; besides, he had been

invited by one of his friends to spend a month or two in Scotland for

the better recreation of grouse-shooting and deer-stalking, and had

promised to go.

“Then you will leave me again, Arthur?” said I.

“Yes, dearest, but only to love you the better when I come back, and

make up for all past offences and short-comings; and you needn’t fear

me this time: there are no temptations on the mountains. And during my

absence you may pay a visit to Staningley, if you like: your uncle and

aunt have long been wanting us to go there, you know; but somehow

there’s such a repulsion between the good lady and me, that I never

could bring myself up to the scratch.”

About the third week in August, Arthur set out for Scotland, and Mr.

Hargrave accompanied him thither, to my private satisfaction. Shortly

after, I, with little Arthur and Rachel, went to Staningley, my dear

old home, which, as well as my dear old friends its inhabitants, I saw

again with mingled feelings of pleasure and pain so intimately blended

that I could scarcely distinguish the one from the other, or tell to

which to attribute the various tears, and smiles, and sighs awakened by

those old familiar scenes, and tones, and faces.

Arthur did not come home till several weeks after my return to

Grassdale; but I did not feel so anxious about him now; to think of him

engaged in active sports among the wild hills of Scotland, was very

different from knowing him to be immersed amid the corruptions and

temptations of London. His letters now; though neither long nor

loverlike, were more regular than ever they had been before; and when

he did return, to my great joy, instead of being worse than when he

went, he was more cheerful and vigorous, and better in every respect.

Since that time I have had little cause to complain. He still has an

unfortunate predilection for the pleasures of the table, against which

I have to struggle and watch; but he has begun to notice his boy, and

that is an increasing source of amusement to him within-doors, while

his fox-hunting and coursing are a sufficient occupation for him

without, when the ground is not hardened by frost; so that he is not

wholly dependent on me for entertainment. But it is now January; spring

is approaching; and, I repeat, I dread the consequences of its arrival.

That sweet season, I once so joyously welcomed as the time of hope and

gladness, awakens now far other anticipations by its return.