`I didn't say I'd broken it, did I?' returned he. He then threw my keys into my lap, saying,-- `There! you'll find nothing gone but your money, and the jewels--and a few little trifles I thought it advisable to take into my own possession, lest your mercantile spirit should be tempted to turn them into gold. I've left you a few sovereigns in your purse, which I expect to last you through the month--at all events, when you want more you will be so good as to give me an account of how that's spent. I shall put you upon a small monthly allowance, in future, for your own private expenses; and you needn't trouble yourself any more about my concerns;
I shall look out for a steward, my dear; I won't expose you to the temptation.
And as for the household matters, Mrs. Greaves must be very particular in keeping her accounts: we must go upon an entirely new plan--`What great discovery have you made now, Mr. Huntingdon?
Have I attempted to defraud you?'
`Not in money matters, exactly, it seems, but it's best to keep out of the way of temptation.'
Here Benson entered with the candles, and there followed a brief interval of silence--I sitting still in my chair, and he standing with his back to the fire, silently triumphing in my despair.
`And so,' said he at length, `you thought to disgrace me, did you, by running away and turning artist, and supporting yourself by the labour of your hands, forsooth? And you thought to rob me of my son too, and bring him up to be a dirty Yankee tradesman, or a low, beggarly painter?'
`Yes, to obviate his becoming such a gentleman as his father.'
`It's well you couldn't keep your own secret--ha, ha! It's well these women must be blabbing--if they haven't a friend to talk to, they must whisper their secrets to the fishes, or write them on the sand or something; and it's well too I wasn't over full to-night, now I think of it, or I might have snoosed away and never dreamt of looking what my sweet lady was about--or I might have lacked the sense or the power to carry my point like a man, as I have done.'
Leaving him to his self-congratulations, I rose to secure my manuscript, for I now remembered it had been left upon the drawing-room table, and I determined, if possible, to save myself the humiliation of seeing it in his hands again. I could not bear the idea of his amusing himself over my secret thoughts and recollections; though, to be sure, he would find little good of himself therein indited, except in the former part--and oh, I would sooner burn it all than he should read what I had written when I was such a fool as to love him!
`And by the by,' cried he as I was leaving the room, `you'd better tell that d--d old sneak of a nurse to keep out of my way for a day or two--I'd pay her her wages and send her packing to-morrow, but I know she'd do more mischief out of the house than in it.'
And as I departed, he went on cursing and abusing my faithful friend and servant with epithets I will not defile this paper with repeating.
I went to her as soon as I had put away my book, and told her how our project was defeated. She was as much distressed and horrified as I was--and more so than I was that night, for I was partly stunned by the blow, and partly excited and supported against it by the bitterness of my wrath. But in the morning, when I woke without that cheering hope that had been my secret comfort and support so long, and all this day, when I have wandered about restless and objectless, shunning my husband, shrinking even from my child--knowing that I am unfit to be his teacher or companion, hoping nothing for his future life, and fervently wishing he had never been born--I felt the full extent of my calamity--and I feel it now. I know that day after day such feelings will return upon me: I am a slave, a prisoner--but that is nothing; if it were myself alone, I would not complain, but I am forbidden to rescue my son from ruin, and what was once my only consolation, is become the crowning source of my despair.
Have I no faith in God? I try to look to Him and raise my heart to Heaven, but it will cleave to the dust:' I can only say--`He hath hedged me about, that I cannot get out: He hath made my chain heavy. He hath filled me with bitterness, He hath made me drunken with wormwood:'--I forget to add--`But though He cause grief, yet will He have compassion according to the multitude of His mercies. For He doth not afflict willingly nor grieve the children of men." I ought to think of this; and if there be nothing but sorrow for me in this world, what is the longest life of misery to a whole eternity of peace? And for my little Arthur--has he no friend but me? Who was it said, `It is not the will of your Father which is in Heaven that one of these little ones should perish?"