‘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[219]. 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[220], 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.
October 10th. – Mr. Huntingdon returned about three weeks ago. His appearance, his demeanour and conversation, and my feelings with regard to him, I shall not trouble myself to describe. The day after his arrival, however, he surprised me by the announcement of an intention to procure a governess for little Arthur: I told him it was quite unnecessary, not to say ridiculous, at the present season: I thought I was fully competent to the task of teaching him myself – for some years to come, at least: the child’s education was the only pleasure and business of my life; and since he had deprived me of every other occupation, he might surely leave me that.
He said I was not fit to teach children, or to be with them: I had already reduced the boy to little better than an automaton; I had broken his fine spirit with my rigid severity; and I should freeze all the sunshine out of his heart, and make him as gloomy an ascetic as myself, if I had the handling of him much longer. And poor Rachel, too, came in for her share of abuse, as usual; he cannot endure Rachel, because he knows she has a proper appreciation of him.
I calmly defended our several qualifications as nurse and governess, and still resisted the proposed addition to our family; but he cut me short by saying it was no use bothering about the matter, for he had engaged a governess already, and she was coming next week; so that all I had to do was to get things ready for her reception. This was a rather startling piece of intelligence. I ventured to inquire her name and address, by whom she had been recommended, or how he had been led to make choice of her.
‘She is a very estimable, pious young person,’ said he; ‘you needn’t be afraid. Her name is Myers, I believe; and she was recommended to me by a respectable old dowager: a lady of high repute in the religious world. I have not seen her myself, and therefore cannot give you a particular account of her person and conversation, and so forth; but, if the old lady’s eulogies are correct, you will find her to possess all desirable qualifications for her position: an inordinate love of children among the rest.’
All this was gravely and quietly spoken, but there was a laughing demon in his half-averted eye that boded no good, I imagined. However, I thought of my asylum in —shire, and made no further objections.
When Miss Myers arrived, I was not prepared to give her a very cordial reception. Her appearance was not particularly calculated to produce a favourable impression at first sight, nor did her manners and subsequent conduct, in any degree, remove the prejudice I had already conceived against her. Her attainments were limited, her intellect noways above mediocrity. She had a fine voice, and could sing like a nightingale, and accompany herself sufficiently well on the piano; but these were her only accomplishments. There was a look of guile and subtlety in her face, a sound of it in her voice. She seemed afraid of me, and would start if I suddenly approached her. In her behaviour she was respectful and complaisant, even to servility: she attempted to flatter and fawn upon me at first, but I soon checked that. Her fondness for her little pupil was overstrained, and I was obliged to remonstrate with her on the subject of over-indulgence and injudicious praise; but she could not gain his heart. Her piety consisted in an occasional heaving of sighs, and uplifting of eyes to the ceiling, and the utterance of a few cant[221] phrases. She told me she was a clergyman’s daughter, and had been left an orphan from her childhood, but had had the good fortune to obtain a situation[222] in a very pious family; and then she spoke so gratefully of the kindness she had experienced from its different members, that I reproached myself for my uncharitable thoughts and unfriendly conduct, and relented for a time, but not for long: my causes of dislike were too rational, my suspicions too well founded for that; and I knew it was my duty to watch and scrutinize till those suspicions were either satisfactorily removed or confirmed.
I asked the name and residence of the kind and pious family. She mentioned a common name, and an unknown and distant place of abode, but told me they were now on the Continent, and their present address was unknown to her. I never saw her speak much to Mr. Huntingdon; but he would frequently look into the school-room to see how little Arthur got on with his new companion, when I was not there. In the evening, she sat with us in the drawing-room, and would sing and play to amuse him or us, as she pretended, and was very attentive to his wants, and watchful to anticipate them, though she only talked to me; indeed, he was seldom in a condition to be talked to. Had she been other than she was, I should have felt her presence a great relief to come between us thus, except, indeed, that I should have been thoroughly ashamed for any decent person to see him as he often was.
I did not mention my suspicions to Rachel; but she, having sojourned for half a century in this land of sin and sorrow, has learned to be suspicious herself. She told me from the first she was ‘down of that new governess,’ and I soon found she watched her quite as narrowly as I did; and I was glad of it, for I longed to know the truth: the atmosphere of Grassdale seemed to stifle me, and I could only live by thinking of Wildfell Hall.
At last, one morning, she entered my chamber with such intelligence that my resolution was taken before she had ceased to speak. While she dressed me I explained to her my intentions and what assistance I should require from her, and told her which of my things she was to pack up, and what she was to leave behind for herself, as I had no other means of recompensing her for this sudden dismissal after her long and faithful service: a circumstance I most deeply regretted, but could not avoid.
‘And what will you do, Rachel?’ said I; ‘will you go home, or seek another place?’
‘I have no home, ma’am, but with you,’ she replied; ‘and if I leave you I’ll never go into place again as long as I live.’
‘But I can’t afford to live like a lady now,’ returned I: ‘I must be my own maid and my child’s nurse.’
‘What signifies!’ replied she, in some excitement. ‘You’ll want somebody to clean and wash, and cook, won’t you? I can do all that; and never mind the wages: I’ve my bits o’ savings yet, and if you wouldn’t take me I should have to find my own board and lodging out of ’em somewhere, or else work among strangers: and it’s what I’m not used to: so you can please yourself, ma’am.’ Her voice quavered as she spoke, and the tears stood in her eyes.
