The Tenant of Wildfell Hall
glad to see me once again. At that moment dinner was announced: my aunt
desired him to take Miss Hargrave into the dining-room, and odious Mr.
Wilmot, with unspeakable grimaces, offered his arm to me; and I was
condemned to sit between himself and Mr. Boarham. But afterwards, when
we were all again assembled in the drawing-room, I was indemnified for
so much suffering by a few delightful minutes of conversation with Mr.
Huntingdon.
In the course of the evening, Miss Wilmot was called upon to sing and
play for the amusement of the company, and I to exhibit my drawings,
and, though he likes music, and she is an accomplished musician, I
think I am right in affirming, that he paid more attention to my
drawings than to her music.
So far so good;—but hearing him pronounce, sotto voce, but with
peculiar emphasis, concerning one of the pieces, “THIS is better than
all!”—I looked up, curious to see which it was, and, to my horror,
beheld him complacently gazing at the _back_ of the picture:—it was his
own face that I had sketched there and forgotten to rub out! To make
matters worse, in the agony of the moment, I attempted to snatch it
from his hand; but he prevented me, and exclaiming, “No—by George, I’ll
keep it!” placed it against his waistcoat and buttoned his coat upon it
with a delighted chuckle.
Then, drawing a candle close to his elbow, he gathered all the drawings
to himself, as well what he had seen as the others, and muttering, “I
must look at _both_ sides now,” he eagerly commenced an examination,
which I watched, at first, with tolerable composure, in the confidence
that his vanity would not be gratified by any further discoveries; for,
though I must plead guilty to having disfigured the backs of several
with abortive attempts to delineate that too fascinating physiognomy, I
was sure that, with that one unfortunate exception, I had carefully
obliterated all such witnesses of my infatuation. But the pencil
frequently leaves an impression upon cardboard that no amount of
rubbing can efface. Such, it seems, was the case with most of these;
and, I confess, I trembled when I saw him holding them so close to the
candle, and poring so intently over the seeming blanks; but still, I
trusted, he would not be able to make out these dim traces to his own
satisfaction. I was mistaken, however. Having ended his scrutiny, he
quietly remarked,—“I perceive the backs of young ladies’ drawings, like
the postscripts of their letters, are the most important and
interesting part of the concern.”
Then, leaning back in his chair, he reflected a few minutes in silence,
complacently smiling to himself, and while I was concocting some
cutting speech wherewith to check his gratification, he rose, and
passing over to where Annabella Wilmot sat vehemently coquetting with
Lord Lowborough, seated himself on the sofa beside her, and attached
himself to her for the rest of the evening.
“So then,” thought I, “he despises me, because he knows I love him.”
And the reflection made me so miserable I knew not what to do. Milicent
came and began to admire my drawings, and make remarks upon them; but I
could not talk to her—I could talk to no one, and, upon the
introduction of tea, I took advantage of the open door and the slight
diversion caused by its entrance to slip out—for I was sure I could not
take any—and take refuge in the library. My aunt sent Thomas in quest
of me, to ask if I were not coming to tea; but I bade him say I should
not take any to-night, and, happily, she was too much occupied with her
guests to make any further inquiries at the time.
As most of the company had travelled far that day, they retired early
to rest; and having heard them all, as I thought, go up-stairs, I
ventured out, to get my candlestick from the drawing-room sideboard.
But Mr. Huntingdon had lingered behind the rest. He was just at the
foot of the stairs when I opened the door, and hearing my step in the
hall—though I could hardly hear it myself—he instantly turned back.
“Helen, is that you?” said he. “Why did you run away from us?”
“Good-night, Mr. Huntingdon,” said I, coldly, not choosing to answer
the question. And I turned away to enter the drawing-room.
“But you’ll shake hands, won’t you?” said he, placing himself in the
doorway before me. And he seized my hand and held it, much against my
will.
“Let me go, Mr. Huntingdon,” said I. “I want to get a candle.”
“The candle will keep,” returned he.
I made a desperate effort to free my hand from his grasp.
“Why are you in such a hurry to leave me, Helen?” he said, with a smile
of the most provoking self-sufficiency. “You don’t hate me, you
_know_.”
“Yes, I do—at this moment.”
“Not you. It is Annabella Wilmot you hate, not me.”
“I have nothing to do with Annabella Wilmot,” said I, burning with
indignation.
“But _I_ have, you know,” returned he, with peculiar emphasis.
“That is nothing to me, sir,” I retorted.
“_Is_ it nothing to you, Helen? Will you swear it? Will you?”
“No I won’t, Mr. Huntingdon! and I _will_ go,” cried I, not knowing
whether to laugh, or to cry, or to break out into a tempest of fury.
“Go, then, you vixen!” he said; but the instant he released my hand he
had the audacity to put his arm round my neck, and kiss me.
Trembling with anger and agitation, and I don’t know what besides, I
broke away, and got my candle, and rushed up-stairs to my room. He
would not have done so but for that hateful picture. And there he had
it still in his possession, an eternal monument to his pride and my
humiliation.
It was but little sleep I got that night, and in the morning I rose
perplexed and troubled with the thoughts of meeting him at breakfast. I
knew not how it was to be done. An assumption of dignified, cold
indifference would hardly do, after what he knew of my devotion—to his
face, at least. Yet something must be done to check his presumption—I
would not submit to be tyrannised over by those bright, laughing eyes.
And, accordingly, I received his cheerful morning salutation as calmly
and coldly as my aunt could have wished, and defeated with brief
answers his one or two attempts to draw me into conversation, while I
comported myself with unusual cheerfulness and complaisance towards
every other member of the party, especially Annabella Wilmot, and even
her uncle and Mr. Boarham were treated with an extra amount of civility
on the occasion, not from any motives of coquetry, but just to show him
that my particular coolness and reserve arose from no general
ill-humour or depression of spirits.
He was not, however, to be repelled by such acting as this. He did not
talk much to me, but when he did speak it was with a degree of freedom
and openness, and _kindliness_ too, that plainly seemed to intimate he
knew his words were music to my ears; and when his looks met mine it
was with a smile—presumptuous, it might be—but oh! so sweet, so bright,
so genial, that I could not possibly retain my anger; every vestige of
displeasure soon melted away beneath it like morning clouds before the
summer sun.
Soon after breakfast all the gentlemen save one, with boyish eagerness,
set out on their expedition against the hapless partridges; my uncle
and Mr. Wilmot on their shooting ponies, Mr. Huntingdon and Lord
Lowborough on their legs: the one exception being Mr. Boarham, who, in
consideration of the rain that had fallen during the night, thought it
prudent to remain behind a little and join them in a while when the sun
had dried the grass. And he favoured us all with a long and minute
disquisition upon the evils and dangers attendant upon damp feet,
delivered with the most imperturbable gravity, amid the jeers and
laughter of Mr. Huntingdon and my uncle, who, leaving the prudent
sportsman to entertain the ladies with his medical discussions, sallied
forth with their guns, bending their steps to the stables first, to
have a look at the horses and let out the dogs.
Not desirous of sharing Mr. Boarham’s company for the whole of the
morning, I betook myself to the library, and there brought forth my
easel and began to paint. The easel and the painting apparatus would
serve as an excuse for abandoning the drawing-room if my aunt should
come to complain of the desertion, and besides I wanted to finish the
picture. It was one I had taken great pains with, and I intended it to
be my masterpiece, though it was somewhat presumptuous in the design.
By the bright azure of the sky, and by the warm and brilliant lights
and deep long shadows, I had endeavoured to convey the idea of a sunny
morning. I had ventured to give more of the bright verdure of spring or
early summer to the grass and foliage than is commonly attempted in
painting. The scene represented was an open glade in a wood. A group of
dark Scotch firs was introduced in the middle distance to relieve the
prevailing freshness of the rest; but in the foreground was part of the
gnarled trunk and of the spreading boughs of a large forest-tree, whose
foliage was of a brilliant golden green—not golden from autumnal
mellowness, but from the sunshine and the very immaturity of the scarce
expanded leaves. Upon this bough, that stood out in bold relief against
the sombre firs, were seated an amorous pair of turtle doves, whose
soft sad-coloured plumage afforded a contrast of another nature; and
beneath it a young girl was kneeling on the daisy-spangled turf, with
head thrown back and masses of fair hair falling on her shoulders, her
hands clasped, lips parted, and eyes intently gazing upward in pleased
yet earnest contemplation of those feathered lovers—too deeply absorbed
in each other to notice her.
I had scarcely settled to my work, which, however, wanted but a few
touches to the finishing, when the sportsmen passed the window on their
return from the stables. It was partly open, and Mr. Huntingdon must
have seen me as he went by, for in half a minute he came back, and
setting his gun against the wall, threw up the sash and sprang in, and
set himself before my picture.
“Very pretty, i’faith,” said he, after attentively regarding it for a
few seconds; “and a very fitting study for a young lady. Spring just
opening into summer—morning just approaching noon—girlhood just
ripening into womanhood, and hope just verging on fruition. She’s a
sweet creature! but why didn’t you make her black hair?”
“I thought light hair would suit her better. You see I have made her
blue-eyed and plump, and fair and rosy.”
“Upon my word—a very Hebe! I should fall in love with her if I hadn’t
the artist before me. Sweet innocent! she’s thinking there will come a
time when she will be wooed and won like that pretty hen-dove by as
fond and fervent a lover; and she’s thinking how pleasant it will be,
and how tender and faithful he will find her.”
“And perhaps,” suggested I, “how tender and faithful she shall find
him.”
“Perhaps, for there is no limit to the wild extravagance of Hope’s
imaginings at such an age.”
“Do you call _that_, then, one of her wild, extravagant delusions?”
“No; my heart tells me it is not. I might have thought so once, but
now, I say, give me the girl I love, and I will swear eternal constancy
to her and her alone, through summer and winter, through youth and age,
and life and death! if age and death _must_ come.”
He spoke this in such serious earnest that my heart bounded with
delight; but the minute after he changed his tone, and asked, with a
significant smile, if I had “any more portraits.”
“No,” replied I, reddening with confusion and wrath.
But my portfolio was on the table: he took it up, and coolly sat down
to examine its contents.
“Mr. Huntingdon, those are my unfinished sketches,” cried I, “and I
never let any one see them.”