The Tenant of Wildfell Hall
him till we came to the end of our ride, when I meant to jump off my
horse and vanish into the house, before he could offer his assistance;
but while I was disengaging my habit from the crutch, he lifted me off,
and held me by both hands, asserting that he would not let me go till I
had forgiven him.
“I have nothing to forgive,” said I. “You have not injured _me_.”
“No, darling—God forbid that I should! but you are angry because it was
to me that Annabella confessed her lack of esteem for her lover.”
“No, Arthur, it is not _that_ that displeases me: it is the whole
system of your conduct towards your friend, and if you wish me to
forget it, go now, and tell him what sort of a woman it is that he
adores so madly, and on whom he has hung his hopes of future
happiness.”
“I tell you, Helen, it would break his heart—it would be the death of
him—besides being a scandalous trick to poor Annabella. There is no
help for him now; he is past praying for. Besides, she may keep up the
deception to the end of the chapter; and then he will be just as happy
in the illusion as if it were reality; or perhaps he will only discover
his mistake when he has ceased to love her; and if not, it is much
better that the truth should dawn gradually upon him. So now, my angel,
I hope I have made out a clear case, and fully convinced you that I
cannot make the atonement you require. What other requisition have you
to make? Speak, and I will gladly obey.”
“I have none but this,” said I, as gravely as before: “that, in future,
you will never make a jest of the sufferings of others, and always use
your influence with your friends for their own advantage against their
evil propensities, instead of seconding their evil propensities against
themselves.”
“I will do my utmost,” said he, “to remember and perform the
injunctions of my angel monitress;” and after kissing both my gloved
hands, he let me go.
When I entered my room, I was surprised to see Annabella Wilmot
standing before my toilet-table, composedly surveying her features in
the glass, with one hand flirting her gold-mounted whip, and the other
holding up her long habit.
“She certainly _is_ a magnificent creature!” thought I, as I beheld
that tall, finely developed figure, and the reflection of the handsome
face in the mirror before me, with the glossy dark hair, slightly and
not ungracefully disordered by the breezy ride, the rich brown
complexion glowing with exercise, and the black eyes sparkling with
unwonted brilliance. On perceiving me, she turned round, exclaiming,
with a laugh that savoured more of malice than of mirth,—
“Why, Helen! what _have_ you been doing so long? I came to tell you my
good fortune,” she continued, regardless of Rachel’s presence. “Lord
Lowborough has proposed, and I have been graciously pleased to accept
him. Don’t you envy me, dear?”
“No, love,” said I—“or him either,” I mentally added. “And do you like
him, Annabella?”
“Like him! yes, to be sure—over head and ears in love!”
“Well, I hope you’ll make him a good wife.”
“Thank you, my dear! And what besides do you hope?”
“I hope you will both love each other, and both be happy.”
“Thanks; and I hope you will make a _very_ good wife to Mr.
Huntingdon!” said she, with a queenly bow, and retired.
“Oh, Miss! how could you say so to her!” cried Rachel.
“Say what?” replied I.
“Why, that you hoped she would make him a good wife. I never heard such
a thing!”
“Because I do hope it, or rather, I wish it; she’s almost past hope.”
“Well,” said she, “I’m sure I hope he’ll make _her_ a good husband.
They tell queer things about him downstairs. They were saying—”
“I know, Rachel. I’ve heard all about him; but he’s reformed now. And
they have no business to tell tales about their masters.”
“No, mum—or else, they _have_ said some things about Mr. Huntingdon
too.”
“I won’t hear them, Rachel; they tell lies.”
“Yes, mum,” said she, quietly, as she went on arranging my hair.
“Do _you_ believe them, Rachel?” I asked, after a short pause.
“No, Miss, not all. You know when a lot of servants gets together they
like to talk about their betters; and some, for a bit of swagger, likes
to make it appear as though they knew more than they do, and to throw
out hints and things just to astonish the others. But I think, if I was
you, Miss Helen, I’d look _very_ well before I leaped. I do believe a
young lady can’t be too careful who she marries.”
“Of course not,” said I; “but be quick, will you, Rachel? I want to be
dressed.”
And, indeed, I was anxious to be rid of the good woman, for I was in
such a melancholy frame I could hardly keep the tears out of my eyes
while she dressed me. It was not for Lord Lowborough—it was not for
Annabella—it was not for myself—it was for Arthur Huntingdon that they
rose.
* * * * *
13th.—They are gone, and he is gone. We are to be parted for more than
two months, above ten weeks! a long, long time to live and not to see
him. But he has promised to write often, and made me promise to write
still oftener, because he will be busy settling his affairs, and I
shall have nothing better to do. Well, I think I shall always have
plenty to say. But oh! for the time when we shall be always together,
and can exchange our thoughts without the intervention of these cold
go-betweens, pen, ink, and paper!
* * * * *
22nd.—I have had several letters from Arthur already. They are not
long, but passing sweet, and just like himself, full of ardent
affection, and playful lively humour; but there is always a _but_ in
this imperfect world, and I do wish he would _sometimes_ be serious. I
cannot get him to write or speak in real, solid earnest. I don’t much
mind it now, but if it be always so, what shall I do with the serious
part of myself?
CHAPTER XXIII
Feb. 18, 1822.—Early this morning Arthur mounted his hunter and set off
in high glee to meet the —— hounds. He will be away all day, and so I
will amuse myself with my neglected diary, if I can give that name to
such an irregular composition. It is exactly four months since I opened
it last.
I am married now, and settled down as Mrs. Huntingdon of Grassdale
Manor. I have had eight weeks’ experience of matrimony. And do I regret
the step I have taken? No, though I must confess, in my secret heart,
that Arthur is not what I thought him at first, and if I had known him
in the beginning as thoroughly as I do now, I probably never should
have loved him, and if I loved him first, and then made the discovery,
I fear I should have thought it my duty not to have married him. To be
sure I might have known him, for every one was willing enough to tell
me about him, and he himself was no accomplished hypocrite, but I was
wilfully blind; and now, instead of regretting that I did not discern
his full character before I was indissolubly bound to him, I am _glad_,
for it has saved me a great deal of battling with my conscience, and a
great deal of consequent trouble and pain; and, whatever I _ought_ to
have done, my duty now is plainly to love him and to cleave to him, and
this just tallies with my inclination.
He is very fond of me, almost _too_ fond. I could do with less
caressing and more rationality. I should like to be less of a pet and
more of a friend, if I might choose; but I won’t complain of that: I am
only afraid his affection loses in depth where it gains in ardour. I
sometimes liken it to a fire of dry twigs and branches compared with
one of solid coal, very bright and hot; but if it should burn itself
out and leave nothing but ashes behind, what shall I do? But it won’t,
it _shan_’t, I am determined; and surely I have power to keep it alive.
So let me dismiss _that_ thought at once. But Arthur is selfish; I am
constrained to acknowledge that; and, indeed, the admission gives me
less pain than might be expected, for, since _I_ love him so much, I
can easily forgive him for loving himself: he likes to be pleased, and
it is my delight to please him; and when I regret this tendency of his,
it is for his own sake, not for mine.
The first instance he gave was on the occasion of our bridal tour. He
wanted to hurry it over, for all the continental scenes were already
familiar to him: many had lost their interest in his eyes, and others
had never had anything to lose. The consequence was, that after a
flying transit through part of France and part of Italy, I came back
nearly as ignorant as I went, having made no acquaintance with persons
and manners, and very little with things, my head swarming with a
motley confusion of objects and scenes; some, it is true, leaving a
deeper and more pleasing impression than others, but these embittered
by the recollection that my emotions had not been shared by my
companion, but that, on the contrary, when I had expressed a particular
interest in anything that I saw or desired to see, it had been
displeasing to him, inasmuch as it proved that I could take delight in
anything disconnected with himself.
As for Paris, we only just touched at that, and he would not give me
time to see one-tenth of the beauties and interesting objects of Rome.
He wanted to get me home, he said, to have me all to himself, and to
see me safely installed as the mistress of Grassdale Manor, just as
single-minded, as naïve, and piquante as I was; and as if I had been
some frail butterfly, he expressed himself fearful of rubbing the
silver off my wings by bringing me into contact with society,
especially that of Paris and Rome; and, more-over, he did not scruple
to tell me that there were ladies in both places that would tear his
eyes out if they happened to meet him with me.
Of course I was vexed at all this; but still it was less the
disappointment to myself that annoyed me, than the disappointment _in
him_, and the trouble I was at to frame excuses to my friends for
having seen and observed so little, without imputing one particle of
blame to my companion. But when we got home—to my new, delightful
home—I was so happy and he was so kind that I freely forgave him all;
and I was beginning to think my lot _too_ happy, and my husband
actually too good for me, if not too good for this world, when, on the
second Sunday after our arrival, he shocked and horrified me by another
instance of his unreasonable exaction. We were walking home from the
morning service, for it was a fine frosty day, and as we are so near
the church, I had requested the carriage should not be used.
“Helen,” said he, with unusual gravity, “I am not quite satisfied with
you.”
I desired to know what was wrong.
“But will you promise to reform if I tell you?”
“Yes, if I can, and without offending a higher authority.”
“Ah! there it is, you see: you don’t love me with all your heart.”
“I don’t understand you, Arthur (at least I hope I don’t): pray tell me
what I have done or said amiss.”
“It is nothing you have done or said; it is something that you _are:_
you are too religious. Now I like a woman to be religious, and I think
your piety one of your greatest charms; but then, like all other good
things, it may be carried too far. To my thinking, a woman’s religion
ought not to lessen her devotion to her earthly lord. She should have
enough to purify and etherealise her soul, but not enough to refine
away her heart, and raise her above all human sympathies.”
“And am _I_ above all human sympathies?” said I.
“No, darling; but you are making more progress towards that saintly
condition than I like; for all these two hours I have been thinking of
you and wanting to catch your eye, and you were so absorbed in your
devotions that you had not even a glance to spare for me—I declare it
is enough to make one jealous of one’s Maker—which is very wrong, you