`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 damned!'
`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--specially 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 super-human 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 some thing 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?