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 a few minutes of your attention in private at any time and place you like to appoint. It is from no selfish motive that I ask it, and not for any cause that could alarm your superhuman purity: therefore you need not kill me with that look of cold and pitiless disdain. I know too well the feelings with which the bearers of bad tidings are commonly regarded not to—’
‘What is this wonderful piece of intelligence?’ said I, impatiently interrupting him. ‘If it is anything of real importance, speak it in three words before I go.’
‘In three words I cannot. Send those children away and stay with me.’
‘No; keep your bad tidings to yourself. I know it is something I don’t want to hear, and something you would displease me by telling.’
‘You have divined too truly, I fear; but still, since I know it, I feel it my duty to disclose it to you.’
‘Oh, spare us both the infliction, and I will exonerate you from the duty. You have offered to tell; I have refused to hear: my ignorance will not be charged on you.’
‘Be it so: you shall not hear it from me. But if the blow fall too suddenly upon you when it comes, remember I wished to soften it!’
I left him. I was determined his words should not alarm me. What could he, of all men, have to reveal that was of importance for me to hear? It was no doubt some exaggerated tale about my unfortunate husband that he wished to make the most of to serve his own bad purposes.
6th.—He has not alluded to this momentous mystery since, and I have seen no reason to repent of my unwillingness to hear it. The threatened blow has not been struck yet, and I do not greatly fear it. At present I am pleased with Arthur: he has not positively disgraced himself for upwards of a fortnight, and all this last week has been so very moderate in his indulgence at table that I can perceive a marked difference in his general temper and appearance. Dare I hope this will continue?
CHAPTER XXXIII
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SEVENTH.—YES, I WILL hope! To-night I heard Grimsby and Hattersley grumbling together about the inhospitality of their host. They did not know I was near, for I happened to be standing behind the curtain in the bow of the window, watching the moon rising over the clump of tall dark elm-trees below the lawn, and wondering why Arthur was so sentimental as to stand without, leaning against the outer pillar of the portico, apparently watching it too.
‘So, I suppose we’ve seen the last of our merry carousals in this house,’ said Mr. Hattersley; ‘I thought his good-fellowship wouldn’t last long. But,’ added he, laughing, ‘I didn’t expect it would meet its end this way. I rather thought our pretty hostess would be setting up her porcupine quills, and threatening to turn us out of the house if we didn’t mind our manners.’
‘You didn’t foresee this, then?’ answered Grimsby, with a guttural chuckle. ‘But he’ll change again when he’s sick of her. If we come here a year or two hence, we shall have all our own way, you’ll see.’
‘I don’t know,’ replied the other: ‘she’s not the style of woman you soon tire of. But be that as it may, it’s devilish provoking now that we can’t be jolly, because he chooses to be on his good behaviour.’
‘It’s all these cursed women!’ muttered Grimsby: ‘they’re the very bane of the world! They bring trouble and discomfort wherever they come, with their false, fair faces and their deceitful tongues.’
At this juncture I issued from my retreat, and smiling on Mr. Grimsby as I passed, left the room and went out in search of Arthur. Having seen him bend his course towards the shrubbery, I followed him thither, and found him just entering the shadowy walk. I was so light of heart, so overflowing with affection, that I sprang upon him and clasped him in my arms. This startling conduct had a singular effect upon him: first, he murmured, ‘Bless you, darling!’ and returned my close embrace with a fervour like old times, and then he started, and, in a tone of absolute terror, exclaimed, ‘Helen! what the devil is this?’ and I saw, by the faint light gleaming through the overshadowing tree, that he was positively pale with the shock.
How strange that the instinctive impulse of affection should come first, and then the shock of the surprise! It shows, at least, that the affection is genuine: he is not sick of me yet.
‘I startled you, Arthur,’ said I, laughing in my glee. ‘How nervous you are!’
‘What the deuce did you do it for?’ cried he, quite testily, extricating
