The Tenant of Wildfell Hall Anne BrontĂ« (librera reader .txt) đ
- Author: Anne Brontë
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âI know what you mean, Ralph,â said she, nervously playing with her watchguard and tracing the figure on the rug with the point of her tiny footâ ââI know what you mean: but I thought you always liked to be yielded to, and I canât alter now.â
âI do like it,â replied he, bringing her to him by another tug at her hair. âYou mustnât mind my talk, Milly. A man must have something to grumble about; and if he canât 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.â
âBut why complain at all, unless because you are tired and dissatisfied?â
âTo excuse my own failings, to be sure. Do you think Iâll bear all the burden of my sins on my own shoulders, as long as thereâs another ready to help me, with none of her own to carry?â
âThere is no such one on earth,â 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.
âWhat now?â said he. âWhere are you going?â
âTo tidy my hair,â she answered, smiling through her disordered locks; âyouâve made it all come down.â
âOff with you then!â âAn excellent little woman,â he remarked when she was gone, âbut a thought too softâ âshe almost melts in oneâs hands. I positively think I ill-use her sometimes, when Iâve taken too muchâ âbut I canât help it, for she never complains, either at the time or after. I suppose she doesnât mind it.â
âI can enlighten you on that subject, Mr. Hattersley,â said I: âshe does mind it; and some other things she minds still more, which yet you may never hear her complain of.â
âHow do you know?â âdoes she complain to you?â demanded he, with a sudden spark of fury ready to burst into a flame if I should answer âyes.â
âNo,â I replied; âbut I have known her longer and studied her more closely than you have done.â âAnd 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.â
âWellâ âitâs not my fault,â said he, gazing carelessly up at the ceiling and plunging his hands into his pockets: âif my on-goings donât suit her, she should tell me so.â
âIs 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?â
âTrue, but we shouldnât always have what we want: it spoils the best of us, doesnât it? How can I help playing the deuce when I see itâs 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 sheâs so invitingly meek and mim, when she lies down like a spaniel at my feet and never so much as squeaks to tell me thatâs enough?â
âIf 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.â
âI donât oppress her; but itâs so confounded flat to be always cherishing and protecting; and then, how can I tell that I am oppressing her when she âmelts away and makes no signâ? I sometimes think she has no feeling at all; and then I go on till she cries, and that satisfies me.â
âThen you do delight to oppress her?â
âI donât, I tell you! only when Iâm 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 wonât tell me what itâs for; and then, I allow, it enrages me past bearing, especially when Iâm not my own man.â
âAs is no doubt generally the case on such occasions,â said I. âBut in future, Mr. Hattersley, when you see her looking flat, or crying for ânothingâ (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.â
âI donât believe it. If it were, she should tell me so: I donât like that way of moping and fretting in silence, and saying nothing: itâs not honest. How can she expect me to mend my ways at that rate?â
âPerhaps 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.â
âNone of your sneers, Mrs. Huntingdon. I have the sense to see that Iâm not always quite correct, but sometimes I think thatâs no great matter, as long as I injure nobody but myselfâ ââ
âIt is a great matter,â interrupted I, âboth 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.â
âAnd as I was saying,â continued he, âor would have said if you hadnât taken me up so short, I sometimes think I should do better if I were joined to one that would always remind
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