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Updated: June 1, 2025
‘Yes, I will, but not as you suppose: I’ll have the heart out of your body, man, if you irritate me with any more of that imbecile laughter!—What! are you at it yet?—There! see if that’ll settle you!’ cried Hattersley, snatching up a footstool and hurting it at the head of his host; but he as well as missed his aim, and the latter still sat collapsed and quaking with feeble laughter, with tears running down his face: a deplorable spectacle indeed.
‘“Thank you,” said he; “I’ve had enough of her for the present: I’ll not trouble to see her, unless she comes to me.” ‘“Then what do you mean to do, Huntingdon, when we’re gone?” said Ralph Hattersley. “Do you mean to turn from the error of your ways, and be a good husband, a good father, and so forth; as I do, when I get shut of you and all these rollicking devils you call your friends?
Yes; and I will drink it to the very dregs: and none but myself shall know how bitter I find it! August 20th.—We are shaken down again to about our usual position. But we shall not be long alone together. I shall shortly be called upon to entertain the same select body of friends as we had the autumn before last, with the addition of Mr. Hattersley and, at my special request, his wife and child.
Hattersley had driven them over to Grassdale in the phaeton, with little Helen and Ralph, and we were all enjoying ourselves in the garden—I had a few minutes’ conversation with that gentleman, while the ladies were amusing themselves with the children. ‘Do you want to hear anything of your husband, Mrs. Huntingdon?’ said he. ‘No, unless you can tell me when to expect him home.’
‘Well, sir?’ said Hargrave, interrogatively, and with the air of one prepared to stand on the defensive. ‘Well, sir,’ returned his host. ‘We want to know if you are at liberty to join us in a go at the pheasants, Walter,’ interposed Hattersley from without. ‘Come! there shall be nothing shot besides, except a puss or two; I’ll vouch for that.’
I was foolishly disconcerted by the event. Hattersley laughed; Milicent was troubled to see me so disturbed. Hargrave placed his hand on mine that rested on the table, and squeezing it with a firm but gentle pressure, murmured, ‘Beaten, beaten!’ and gazed into my face with a look where exultation was blended with an expression of ardour and tenderness yet more insulting. ‘No, never, Mr.
Hattersley, Arthur’s only other friend whom he judged fit to introduce to me.—Oh, Arthur, why won’t you come? why won’t you write to me at least? You talked about my health: how can you expect me to gather bloom and vigour here, pining in solitude and restless anxiety from day to day?—It would serve you right to come back and find my good looks entirely wasted away.
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