“I shall be glad to hear of any service you have rendered me,” said I, determined to be calm, for I knew by the tone of her voice she wanted to provoke me.
“Well,” resumed she, “have you not observed the salutary change in Mr. Huntingdon? Don’t you see what a sober, temperate man he is become? You saw with regret the sad habits he was contracting, I know: and I know you did your utmost to deliver him from them, but without success, until I came to your assistance. I told him in few words that I could not bear to see him degrade himself so, and that I should cease to—no matter what I told him, but you see the reformation I have wrought; and you ought to thank me for it.”
I rose and rang for the nurse.
“But I desire no thanks,” she continued; “all the return I ask is, that you will take care of him when I am gone, and not, by harshness and neglect, drive him back to his old courses.”
I was almost sick with passion, but Rachel was now at the door. I pointed to the children, for I could not trust myself to speak: she took them away, and I followed.
“Will you, Helen?” continued the speaker.
I gave her a look that blighted the malicious smile on her face, or checked it, at least for a moment, and departed. In the ante-room I met Mr. Hargrave. He saw I was in no humour to be spoken to, and suffered me to pass without a word; but when, after a few minutes’ seclusion in the library, I had regained my composure, and was returning to join Mrs. Hargrave and Milicent, whom I had just heard come downstairs and go into the drawing-room, I found him there still lingering in the dimly-lighted apartment, and evidently waiting for me.
“Mrs. Huntingdon,” said he as I passed, “will you allow me one word?”
“What is it then? be quick, if you please.”
“I offended you this morning; and I cannot live under your displeasure.”