The Tenant of Wildfell Hall
himself, as usual, a little back from the table, in the chair we always
placed for ‘the spectre,’ whether it chose to fill it or not. I saw by
his face that he was suffering from the effects of an overdose of his
insidious comforter; but nobody spoke to him, and he spoke to nobody. A
few sidelong glances, and a whispered observation, that ‘the ghost was
come,’ was all the notice he drew by his appearance, and we went on
with our merry carousals as before, till he startled us all by suddenly
drawing in his chair, and leaning forward with his elbows on the table,
and exclaiming with portentous solemnity,—
‘Well! it puzzles me what you can find to be so merry about. What _you_
see in life I don’t know—_I_ see only the blackness of darkness, and a
fearful looking for of judgment and fiery indignation!’
“All the company simultaneously pushed up their glasses to him, and I
set them before him in a semicircle, and, tenderly patting him on the
back, bid him drink, and he would soon see as bright a prospect as any
of us; but he pushed them back, muttering,—
“‘Take them away! I won’t taste it, I tell you. I won’t—I won’t!’ So I
handed them down again to the owners; but I saw that he followed them
with a glare of hungry regret as they departed. Then he clasped his
hands before his eyes to shut out the sight, and two minutes after
lifted his head again, and said, in a hoarse but vehement whisper,—
“‘And yet I must! Huntingdon, get me a glass!’
“‘Take the bottle, man!’ said I, thrusting the brandy-bottle into his
hand—but stop, I’m telling too much,” muttered the narrator, startled
at the look I turned upon him. “But no matter,” he recklessly added,
and thus continued his relation: “In his desperate eagerness, he seized
the bottle and sucked away, till he suddenly dropped from his chair,
disappearing under the table amid a tempest of applause. The
consequence of this imprudence was something like an apoplectic fit,
followed by a rather severe brain fever—”
“And what did you think of _yourself_, sir?” said I, quickly.
“Of course, I was very penitent,” he replied. “I went to see him once
or twice—nay, twice or thrice—or by’r lady, some four times—and when he
got better, I tenderly brought him back to the fold.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I restored him to the bosom of the club, and compassionating
the feebleness of his health and extreme lowness of his spirits, I
recommended him to ‘take a little wine for his stomach’s sake,’ and,
when he was sufficiently re-established, to embrace the media-via,
ni-jamais-ni-toujours plan—not to kill himself like a fool, and not to
abstain like a ninny—in a word, to enjoy himself like a rational
creature, and do as I did; for, don’t think, Helen, that I’m a tippler;
I’m nothing at all of the kind, and never was, and never shall be. I
value my comfort far too much. I see that a man cannot give himself up
to drinking without being miserable one-half his days and mad the
other; besides, I like to enjoy my life at all sides and ends, which
cannot be done by one that suffers himself to be the slave of a single
propensity—and, moreover, drinking spoils one’s good looks,” he
concluded, with a most conceited smile that ought to have provoked me
more than it did.
“And did Lord Lowborough profit by your advice?” I asked.
“Why, yes, in a manner. For a while he managed very well; indeed, he
was a model of moderation and prudence—something too much so for the
tastes of our wild community; but, somehow, Lowborough had not the gift
of moderation: if he stumbled a little to one side, he must go down
before he could right himself: if he overshot the mark one night, the
effects of it rendered him so miserable the next day that he must
repeat the offence to mend it; and so on from day to day, till his
clamorous conscience brought him to a stand. And then, in his sober
moments, he so bothered his friends with his remorse, and his terrors
and woes, that they were obliged, in self-defence, to get him to drown
his sorrows in wine, or any more potent beverage that came to hand; and
when his first scruples of conscience were overcome, he would need no
more persuading, he would often grow desperate, and be as great a
blackguard as any of them could desire—but only to lament his own
unutterable wickedness and degradation the more when the fit was over.
“At last, one day when he and I were alone together, after pondering
awhile in one of his gloomy, abstracted moods, with his arms folded and
his head sunk on his breast, he suddenly woke up, and vehemently
grasping my arm, said,—
“‘Huntingdon, this won’t do! I’m resolved to have done with it.’
“‘What, are you going to shoot yourself?’ said I.
“‘No; I’m going to reform.’
“‘Oh, _that’s_ nothing new! You’ve been going to reform these twelve
months and more.’
“‘Yes, but you wouldn’t let me; and I was such a fool I couldn’t live
without you. But now I see what it is that keeps me back, and what’s
wanted to save me; and I’d compass sea and land to get it—only I’m
afraid there’s no chance.’ And he sighed as if his heart would break.
“‘What is it, Lowborough?’ said I, thinking he was fairly cracked at
last.
“‘A wife,’ he answered; ‘for I can’t live alone, because my own mind
distracts me, and I can’t live with you, because you take the devil’s
part against me.’
“‘Who—I?’
“‘Yes—all of you do—and you more than any of them, you know. But if I
could get a wife, with fortune enough to pay off my debts and set me
straight in the world—’
“‘To be sure,’ said I.
“‘And sweetness and goodness enough,’ he continued, ‘to make home
tolerable, and to reconcile me to myself, I think I should do yet. I
shall never be in love again, that’s certain; but perhaps that would be
no great matter, it would enable me to choose with my eyes open—and I
should make a good husband in spite of it; but could any one be in love
with _me?_—that’s the question. With _your_ good looks and powers of
fascination’ (he was pleased to say), ‘I might hope; but as it is,
Huntingdon, do you think _any_body would take me—ruined and wretched as
I am?’
“‘Yes, certainly.’
“‘Who?’
“‘Why, any neglected old maid, fast sinking in despair, would be
delighted to—’
“‘No, no,’ said he—‘it must be somebody that I can love.’
“‘Why, you just said you never could be in love again!’
“‘Well, love is not the word—but somebody that I can like. I’ll search
all England through, at all events!’ he cried, with a sudden burst of
hope, or desperation. ‘Succeed or fail, it will be better than rushing
headlong to destruction at that d—d club: so farewell to it and you.
Whenever I meet you on honest ground or under a Christian roof, I shall
be glad to see you; but never more shall you entice me to that _devil’s
den!_’
“This was shameful language, but I shook hands with him, and we parted.
He kept his word; and from that time forward he has been a pattern of
propriety, as far as I can tell; but till lately I have not had very
much to do with him. He occasionally sought my company, but as
frequently shrunk from it, fearing lest I should wile him back to
destruction, and I found his not very entertaining, especially as he
sometimes attempted to awaken my conscience and draw me from the
perdition he considered himself to have escaped; but when I did happen
to meet him, I seldom failed to ask after the progress of his
matrimonial efforts and researches, and, in general, he could give me
but a poor account. The mothers were repelled by his empty coffers and
his reputation for gambling, and the daughters by his cloudy brow and
melancholy temper—besides, he didn’t understand them; he wanted the
spirit and assurance to carry his point.
“I left him at it when I went to the continent; and on my return, at
the year’s end, I found him still a disconsolate bachelor—though,
certainly, looking somewhat less like an unblest exile from the tomb
than before. The young ladies had ceased to be afraid of him, and were
beginning to think him quite interesting; but the mammas were still
unrelenting. It was about this time, Helen, that my good angel brought
me into conjunction with you; and then I had eyes and ears for nobody
else. But, meantime, Lowborough became acquainted with our charming
friend, Miss Wilmot—through the intervention of _his_ good angel, no
doubt he would tell you, though he did not dare to fix his hopes on one
so courted and admired, till after they were brought into closer
contact here at Staningley, and she, in the absence of her other
admirers, indubitably courted his notice and held out every
encouragement to his timid advances. Then, indeed, he began to hope for
a dawn of brighter days; and if, for a while, I darkened his prospects
by standing between him and his sun—and so nearly plunged him again
into the abyss of despair—it only intensified his ardour and
strengthened his hopes when I chose to abandon the field in the pursuit
of a brighter treasure. In a word, as I told you, he is fairly
besotted. At first, he could dimly perceive her faults, and they gave
him considerable uneasiness; but now his passion and her art together
have blinded him to everything but her perfections and his amazing good
fortune. Last night he came to me brimful of his new-found felicity:
“‘Huntingdon, I am not a castaway!’ said he, seizing my hand and
squeezing it like a vice. ‘There is happiness in store for me yet—even
in this life—she loves me!’
“‘Indeed!’ said I. ‘Has she told you so?’
“‘No, but I can no longer doubt it. Do you not see how pointedly kind
and affectionate she is? And she knows the utmost extent of my poverty,
and cares nothing about it! She knows all the folly and all the
wickedness of my former life, and is not afraid to trust me—and my rank
and title are no allurements to her; for them she utterly disregards.
She is the most generous, high-minded being that can be conceived of.
She will save me, body and soul, from destruction. Already, she has
ennobled me in my own estimation, and made me three times better,
wiser, greater than I was. Oh! if I had but known her before, how much
degradation and misery I should have been spared! But what have I done
to deserve so magnificent a creature?’
“And the cream of the jest,” continued Mr. Huntingdon, laughing, “is,
that the artful minx loves nothing about him but his title and
pedigree, and ‘that delightful old family seat.’”
“How do you know?” said I.
“She told me so herself; she said, ‘As for the man himself, I
thoroughly despise him; but then, I suppose, it is time to be making my
choice, and if I waited for some one capable of eliciting my esteem and
affection, I should have to pass my life in single blessedness, for I
detest you all!’ Ha, ha! I suspect she was wrong there; but, however,
it is evident she has no love for _him_, poor fellow.”
“Then you ought to tell him so.”
“What! and spoil all her plans and prospects, poor girl? No, no: that
would be a breach of confidence, wouldn’t it, Helen? Ha, ha! Besides,
it would break his heart.” And he laughed again.
“Well, Mr. Huntingdon, I don’t know what you see so amazingly diverting
in the matter; I see nothing to laugh at.”
“I’m laughing at _you_, just now, love,” said he, redoubling his
machinations.
And leaving him to enjoy his merriment alone, I touched Ruby with the
whip, and cantered on to rejoin our companions; for we had been walking
our horses all this time, and were consequently a long way behind.
Arthur was soon at my side again; but not disposed to talk to him, I
broke into a gallop. He did the same; and we did not slacken our pace
till we came up with Miss Wilmot and Lord Lowborough, which was within
half a mile of the park-gates. I avoided all further conversation with