`Well--it's not my fault,' said he, gazing carelessly up at the ceiling and plunging his hands into his pockets: `if my ongoings don't suit her, she should tell me so.'
`Is 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?'
`True, but we shouldn't always have what we want: it spoils the best of us, doesn't it? How can I help playing the deuce when I see it's all one to her whether I behave like a Christian or like a scoundrel such as nature made me?--and how can I help teazing her when she's so invitingly meek and mim--when she lies down like a spaniel at my feet and never so much as squeaks to tell me that's enough?'
`If 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.'
`I don't oppress her; but it's so confounded flat to be always cherishing and protecting;--and then how can I tell that I am oppressing her when she "melts away and makes no sign?"' I sometimes think she has no feeling at all; and then I go on till she cries--and that satisfies me.
`Then you do delight to oppress her.'
`I don't, I tell you!--only when I'm 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 won't tell me what it's for; and then, I allow, it enrages me past bearing--especially, when I'm not my own man.'
`As is no doubt generally the case on such occasions,' said I.
`But in future, Mr. Hattersley, when you see her looking flat or crying for "nothing" (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.'
`I don't believe it. If it were, she should tell me so: I don't like that way of moping and fretting in silence, and saying nothing--it's not honest. How can she expect me to mend my ways at that rate?'
`Perhaps 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.'
`None of your sneers, Mrs. Huntingdon! I have the sense to see that I'm not always quite correct--but sometimes I think that's no great matter, as long as I injure nobody but myself--'
`It is a great matter,' interrupted I, `both 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.'
`And as I was saying,' continued he-- `or would have said if you hadn't taken me up so short--I sometimes think I should do better if I were joined to one that would always remind 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."'