The Tenant of Wildfell Hall Anne Brontë (librera reader .txt) 📖

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