The Tenant of Wildfell Hall
“Thanks to you, aunt, I have been well brought up, and had good
examples always before me, which he, most likely, has not; and,
besides, he is of a sanguine temperament, and a gay, thoughtless
temper, and I am naturally inclined to reflection.”
“Well, now you have made him out to be deficient in both sense and
principle, by your own confession—”
“Then, my sense and my principle are at his service.”
“That sounds presumptuous, Helen. Do you think you have enough for
both; and do you imagine your merry, thoughtless profligate would allow
himself to be guided by a young girl like you?”
“No; I should not wish to guide him; but I think I might have influence
sufficient to save him from some errors, and I should think my life
well spent in the effort to preserve so noble a nature from
destruction. He always listens attentively now when I speak seriously
to him (and I often venture to reprove his random way of talking), and
sometimes he says that if he had me always by his side he should never
do or say a wicked thing, and that a little daily talk with me would
make him quite a saint. It may he partly jest and partly flattery, but
still—”
“But still you think it may be truth?”
“If I do think there is any mixture of truth in it, it is not from
confidence in my own powers, but in _his_ natural goodness. And you
have no right to call him a profligate, aunt; he is nothing of the
kind.”
“Who told you so, my dear? What was that story about his intrigue with
a married lady—Lady who was it?—Miss Wilmot herself was telling you the
other day?”
“It was false—false!” I cried. “I don’t believe a word of it.”
“You think, then, that he is a virtuous, well-conducted young man?”
“I know nothing positive respecting his character. I only know that I
have heard nothing definite against it—nothing that could be proved, at
least; and till people can prove their slanderous accusations, I will
not believe them. And I know this, that if he has committed errors,
they are only such as are common to youth, and such as nobody thinks
anything about; for I see that everybody likes him, and all the mammas
smile upon him, and their daughters—and Miss Wilmot herself—are only
too glad to attract his attention.”
“Helen, the world _may_ look upon such offences as venial; a few
unprincipled mothers may be anxious to catch a young man of fortune
without reference _may_ his character; and thoughtless girls _may_ be
glad to win the smiles of so handsome a gentleman, without seeking to
penetrate beyond the surface; but _you_, I trusted, were better
informed than to see with their eyes, and judge with their perverted
judgment. I did not think _you_ would call these venial errors!”
“Nor do I, aunt; but if I hate the sins, I love the sinner, and would
do much for his salvation, even supposing your suspicions to be mainly
true, which I do not and will not believe.”
“Well, my dear, ask your uncle what sort of company he keeps, and if he
is not banded with a set of loose, profligate young men, whom he calls
his friends, his jolly companions, and whose chief delight is to wallow
in vice, and vie with each other who can run fastest and furthest down
the headlong road to the place prepared for the devil and his angels.”
“Then I will save him from them.”
“Oh, Helen, Helen! you little know the misery of uniting your fortunes
to such a man!”
“I have such confidence in him, aunt, notwithstanding all you say, that
I would willingly risk my happiness for the chance of securing his. I
will leave better men to those who only consider their own advantage.
If he has done amiss, I shall consider my life well spent in saving him
from the consequences of his early errors, and striving to recall him
to the path of virtue. God grant me success!”
Here the conversation ended, for at this juncture my uncle’s voice was
heard from his chamber, loudly calling upon my aunt to come to bed. He
was in a bad humour that night; for his gout was worse. It had been
gradually increasing upon him ever since we came to town; and my aunt
took advantage of the circumstance next morning to persuade him to
return to the country immediately, without waiting for the close of the
season. His physician supported and enforced her arguments; and
contrary to her usual habits, she so hurried the preparations for
removal (as much for my sake as my uncle’s, I think), that in a very
few days we departed; and I saw no more of Mr. Huntingdon. My aunt
flatters herself I shall soon forget him—perhaps she thinks I have
forgotten him already, for I never mention his name; and she may
continue to think so, till we meet again—if ever that should be. I
wonder if it will?
CHAPTER XVIII
August 25th.—I am now quite settled down to my usual routine of steady
occupations and quiet amusements—tolerably contented and cheerful, but
still looking forward to spring with the hope of returning to town, not
for its gaieties and dissipations, but for the chance of meeting Mr.
Huntingdon once again; for still he is always in my thoughts and in my
dreams. In all my employments, whatever I do, or see, or hear, has an
ultimate reference to him; whatever skill or knowledge I acquire is
some day to be turned to his advantage or amusement; whatever new
beauties in nature or art I discover are to be depicted to meet his
eye, or stored in my memory to be told him at some future period. This,
at least, is the hope that I cherish, the fancy that lights me on my
lonely way. It may be only an ignis fatuus, after all, but it can do no
harm to follow it with my eyes and rejoice in its lustre, as long as it
does not lure me from the path I ought to keep; and I think it will
not, for I have thought deeply on my aunt’s advice, and I see clearly,
now, the folly of throwing myself away on one that is unworthy of all
the love I have to give, and incapable of responding to the best and
deepest feelings of my inmost heart—_so_ clearly, that even if I should
see him again, and if he should remember me and love me still (which,
alas! is too little probable, considering how he is situated, and by
whom surrounded), and if he should ask me to marry him—I am determined
not to consent until I know for certain whether my aunt’s opinion of
him or mine is nearest the truth; for if mine is altogether wrong, it
is not he that I love; it is a creature of my own imagination. But I
think it is not wrong—no, no—there is a secret something—an inward
instinct that assures me I am right. There is essential goodness in
him;—and what delight to unfold it! If he has wandered, what bliss to
recall him! If he is now exposed to the baneful influence of corrupting
and wicked companions, what glory to deliver him from them! Oh! if I
could but believe that Heaven has designed me for this!
* * * * *
To-day is the first of September; but my uncle has ordered the
gamekeeper to spare the partridges till the gentlemen come. “What
gentlemen?” I asked when I heard it. A small party he had invited to
shoot. His friend Mr. Wilmot was one, and my aunt’s friend, Mr.
Boarham, another. This struck me as terrible news at the moment; but
all regret and apprehension vanished like a dream when I heard that Mr.
Huntingdon was actually to be a third! My aunt is greatly against his
coming, of course: she earnestly endeavoured to dissuade my uncle from
asking him; but he, laughing at her objections, told her it was no use
talking, for the mischief was already done: he had invited Huntingdon
and his friend Lord Lowborough before we left London, and nothing now
remained but to fix the day for their coming. So he is safe, and I am
sure of seeing him. I cannot express my joy. I find it very difficult
to conceal it from my aunt; but I don’t wish to trouble her with my
feelings till I know whether I ought to indulge them or not. If I find
it my absolute duty to suppress them, they shall trouble no one but
myself; and if I can really feel myself justified in indulging this
attachment, I can dare anything, even the anger and grief of my best
friend, for its object—surely, I shall soon know. But they are not
coming till about the middle of the month.
We are to have two lady visitors also: Mr. Wilmot is to bring his niece
and her cousin Milicent. I suppose my aunt thinks the latter will
benefit me by her society, and the salutary example of her gentle
deportment and lowly and tractable spirit; and the former I suspect she
intends as a species of counter-attraction to win Mr. Huntingdon’s
attention from me. I don’t thank her for this; but I shall be glad of
Milicent’s company: she is a sweet, good girl, and I wish I were like
her—_more_ like her, at least, than I am.
* * * * *
19th.—They are come. They came the day before yesterday. The gentlemen
are all gone out to shoot, and the ladies are with my aunt, at work in
the drawing-room. I have retired to the library, for I am very unhappy,
and I want to be alone. Books cannot divert me; so having opened my
desk, I will try what may be done by detailing the cause of my
uneasiness. This paper will serve instead of a confidential friend into
whose ear I might pour forth the overflowings of my heart. It will not
sympathise with my distresses, but then it will not laugh at them, and,
if I keep it close, it cannot tell again; so it is, perhaps, the best
friend I could have for the purpose.
First, let me speak of his arrival—how I sat at my window, and watched
for nearly two hours, before his carriage entered the park-gates—for
they all came before him,—and how deeply I was disappointed at every
arrival, because it was not his. First came Mr. Wilmot and the ladies.
When Milicent had got into her room, I quitted my post a few minutes to
look in upon her and have a little private conversation, for she was
now my intimate friend, several long epistles having passed between us
since our parting. On returning to my window, I beheld another carriage
at the door. Was it his? No; it was Mr. Boarham’s plain dark chariot;
and there stood he upon the steps, carefully superintending the
dislodging of his various boxes and packages. What a collection! One
would have thought he projected a visit of six months at least. A
considerable time after, came Lord Lowborough in his barouche. Is he
one of the profligate friends, I wonder? I should think not; for no one
could call _him_ a jolly companion, I’m sure,—and, besides, he appears
too sober and gentlemanly in his demeanour to merit such suspicions. He
is a tall, thin, gloomy-looking man, apparently between thirty and
forty, and of a somewhat sickly, careworn aspect.
At last, Mr. Huntingdon’s light phaeton came bowling merrily up the
lawn. I had but a transient glimpse of him: for the moment it stopped,
he sprang out over the side on to the portico steps, and disappeared
into the house.
I now submitted to be dressed for dinner—a duty which Rachel had been
urging upon me for the last twenty minutes; and when that important
business was completed, I repaired to the drawing-room, where I found
Mr. and Miss Wilmot and Milicent Hargrave already assembled. Shortly
after, Lord Lowborough entered, and then Mr. Boarham, who seemed quite
willing to forget and forgive my former conduct, and to hope that a
little conciliation and steady perseverance on his part might yet
succeed in bringing me to reason. While I stood at the window,
conversing with Milicent, he came up to me, and was beginning to talk
in nearly his usual strain, when Mr. Huntingdon entered the room.
“How will he greet me, I wonder?” said my bounding heart; and, instead
of advancing to meet him, I turned to the window to hide or subdue my
emotion. But having saluted his host and hostess, and the rest of the
company, he came to me, ardently squeezed my hand, and murmured he was