It was supposed by Julia and certain of her friends that an event
so solemn, so impressive, and so unexpected, as the death of Mr.
Clifford, would reasonably affect the mind of his widow; and the
concessions which I had meditated to address to herself and her
late husband were now so varied as to apply solely to herself. I
took considerable pains in preparing my letter, with the view to
soften her prejudices and asperities, as well as to convince her
reason. There was one suggestion which Julia was disposed to insist
on, to which, however, I was singularly averse. In the destitution
of Mrs. Clifford, her diminished and still diminishing resources,
not to speak of her loneliness, she thought that I ought to tender
her a home with us. Had she been any other than the captious,
cross-grained creature that she was--bad her misfortunes produced
only in part their legitimate and desirable effects of subduing
her perversity--I should have had no sort of objection. But I knew
her imperious and unreasonable nature; and I may here add, that,
by this time, I knew something of my own: I was a man of despotic
character.
The constant conflicts which I had had from boyhood,
resulting as they had done in my frequent successes and final
triumph, had, naturally enough, made me dictatorial. Sanguine in
temperament, earnest in character, resolute in impulse, I was
necessarily arbitrary in mood. It was not likely that Mrs. Clifford
would forget her waywardnesses, and it was just as unreasonable
that I should submit to her insolences. Besides, one's home ought
to be a very sacred place. It is necessary that the peace there
should compensate and console for the strifes without. To hope for
this in any household where there is more than one master, would
bo worse than idle. Nay, even if there were peace, the chances are
still great that there would be some lack of propriety. Domestic
regulations would become inutile. Children and servants would
equally fail of duty and improvement under conflicting authorities;
and all the sweet social harmonies of family would be jarred
away by misunderstandings if not bickerings, leading to coldness,
suspicion, and irremediable jealousies. These things seemed to
threaten me from the first moment when Julia submitted to me her
desire that her mother should be invited to take up her abode with
us. I reasoned with her against it; suggested all the grounds of
objection which I really felt; and reviewed at length the long
history of our connection from my childhood up, which had been
distinguished by her constant hostility and hate. "How," I asked,
"can it be hoped that there will be any change for the better now?
She is the same woman, I the same man! It is not reasonable to think
that the result of our reunion will be other than it has been."
But Julia implored.