`I don't care what he sees,' said I, `or what he imagines; but you, Mr. Hattersley, when you hear my name belied and slandered, will you defend it?'
`I will. Blast me if I don't!'
I instantly departed, and shut myself into the library. What could possess me to make such a request of such a man? I 346 cannot tell, but drowning men catch at straws: they had driven me desperate between them;
I hardly knew what I said. There was no other to preserve my name from being blackened and aspersed among this nest of boon companions, and through them, perhaps into the world; and beside my abandoned wretch of a husband, the base, malignant Grimsby, and the false villain Hargrave, this boarish ruffian, coarse and brutal as he was, shone like a glow-worm in the dark, among its fellow worms.
What a scene was this! Could I ever have imagined that I should be doomed to bear such insults under my own roof--to hear such things spoken in my presence--nay spoken to me and of me--and by those who arrogated to themselves the name of gentlemen? And could I have imagined that I should have been able to endure it as calmly, and to repel their insults as firmly and as boldly as I had done? A hardness such as this, is taught by rough experience and despair alone.
Such thoughts as these, chased one another through my mind, as I paced to and fro the room, and longed--oh, how I longed to take my child and leave them now, without an hour's delay! But it could not be: there was work before me--hard work, that must be done.
`Then let me do it,' said I, `and lose not a moment in vain repinings, and idle chafings against my fate, and those who influence it.'
And conquering my agitation with a powerful effort, I immediately resumed my task, and laboured hard all day.
Mr. Hargrave did depart on the morrow; and I have never seen him since. The others stayed on for two or three weeks longer; but I kept aloof from them as much as possible, and still continued my labour, and have continued it, with almost unabated ardour, to the present day. I soon acquainted Rachel with my design, confiding all my motives and intentions to her ear, and much to my agreeable surprise, found little difficulty in persuading her to enter into my views. She is a sober, cautious woman, but she so hates her master, and so loves her mistress and her nursling, that after several ejaculations, a few faint objections, and many tears and lamentations that I should be brought to such a pass, she applauded my resolution and consented to aid me with all her might--on one condition, 347 only--that she might share my exile: otherwise, she was utterly inexorable, regarding it as perfect madness for me and Arthur to go alone.
With touching generosity, she modestly offered to aid me with her little hoard of savings, hoping I would `excuse her for the liberty, but really if I would do her the favour to accept it as a loan, she should be very happy.' Of course I could not think of such a thing;--but now, thank Heaven, I have gathered a little hoard of my own, and my preparations are so far advanced, that I am looking forward to a speedy emancipation. Only let the stormy severity of this winter weather be somewhat abated, and then, some morning Mr. Huntingdon will come down to a solitary breakfast-table, and perhaps be clamouring through the house for his invisible wife and child, when they are some fifty miles on their way to the western world--or it may be more, for we shall leave him hours before the dawn, and it is not probable he will discover the loss of both, until the day is far advanced.
I am fully alive to the evils that may, and must result upon the step I am about to take; but I never waver in my resolution, because I never forget my son. It was only this morning--while I pursued my usual employment, he was sitting at my feet, quietly playing with the shreds of canvass I had thrown upon the carpet--but his mind was otherwise occupied, for, in a while, he looked up wistfully in my face, and gravely asked--`Mamma, why are you wicked?'
`Who told you I was wicked, love?'
`Rachel.'
`No Arthur, Rachel never said so, I am certain.'
`Well then, it was papa,' replied he thoughtfully. Then, after a reflective pause, he added, `At least, I'll tell you how it was I got to know: when I'm with papa, if I say mamma wants me, or mamma says I'm not to do something that he tells me to do--he always says, "Mamma be damned,'--and Rachel says it's only wicked people that are damned. So mamma, that's why I think you must be wicked--and I wish you wouldn't.'
`My dear child, I am not. Those are bad words, and wicked people often say them of others better than themselves. Those words cannot make people be damned, nor show that they deserve it. God will judge us by our own thoughts and deeds, 348 not by what others say about us. And when you hear such words spoken, Arthur, remember never to repeat them: it is wicked to say such things of others, not to have them said against you.
`Then it's papa that's wicked,' said he, ruefully.
`Papa is wrong to say such things, and you will be very wrong to imitate him, now that you know better.'
`What is imitate?'
`To do as he does.'
`Does he know better?'
`Perhaps he does; but that is nothing to you.'
`If he doesn't, you ought to tell him, mamma.'
`I have told him.'
The litHe moralist paused and pondered. I tried in vain to divert his mind from the subject.
`I'm sorry papa's wicked,' said he mournfully, at length, `for I don't want him to go to hell.' And so saying he burst into tears.
I consoled him with the hope that perhaps his papa would alter and become good before he died--but is it not time to deliver him from such a parent?