The Tenant of Wildfell Hall
to think well of him; and though I have spoken against him myself, it
is for the last time: hereafter, I shall never permit myself to utter a
word in his dispraise, however he may seem to deserve it; and whoever
ventures to speak slightingly of the man I have promised to love, to
honour, and obey, must expect my serious displeasure. After all, I
think he is quite as good as Mr. Huntingdon, if not better; and yet you
love _him_, and seem to be happy and contented; and perhaps I may
manage as well. You must tell me, if you can, that Mr. Hattersley is
better than he seems—that he is upright, honourable, and
open-hearted—in fact, a perfect diamond in the rough. He may be all
this, but I don’t know him. I know only the exterior, and what, I
trust, is the worst part of him.”
She concludes with “Good-by, dear Helen. I am waiting anxiously for
your advice—but mind you let it be all on the right side.”
Alas! poor Milicent, what encouragement can I give you? or what
advice—except that it is better to make a bold stand now, though at the
expense of disappointing and angering both mother and brother and
lover, than to devote your whole life, hereafter, to misery and vain
regret?
Saturday, 13th.—The week is over, and he is not come. All the sweet
summer is passing away without one breath of pleasure to me or benefit
to him. And I had all along been looking forward to this season with
the fond, delusive hope that we should enjoy it so sweetly together;
and that, with God’s help and my exertions, it would be the means of
elevating his mind, and refining his taste to a due appreciation of the
salutary and pure delights of nature, and peace, and holy love. But
now—at evening, when I see the round red sun sink quietly down behind
those woody hills, leaving them sleeping in a warm, red, golden haze, I
only think another lovely day is lost to him and me; and at morning,
when roused by the flutter and chirp of the sparrows, and the gleeful
twitter of the swallows—all intent upon feeding their young, and full
of life and joy in their own little frames—I open the window to inhale
the balmy, soul-reviving air, and look out upon the lovely landscape,
laughing in dew and sunshine—I too often shame that glorious scene with
tears of thankless misery, because _he_ cannot feel its freshening
influence; and when I wander in the ancient woods, and meet the little
wild flowers smiling in my path, or sit in the shadow of our noble
ash-trees by the water-side, with their branches gently swaying in the
light summer breeze that murmurs through their feathery foliage—my ears
full of that low music mingled with the dreamy hum of insects, my eyes
abstractedly gazing on the glassy surface of the little lake before me,
with the trees that crowd about its bank, some gracefully bending to
kiss its waters, some rearing their stately heads high above, but
stretching their wide arms over its margin, all faithfully mirrored
far, far down in its glassy depth—though sometimes the images are
partially broken by the sport of aquatic insects, and sometimes, for a
moment, the whole is shivered into trembling fragments by a transient
breeze that sweeps the surface too roughly—still I have no pleasure;
for the greater the happiness that nature sets before me, the more I
lament that _he_ is not here to taste it: the greater the bliss we
might enjoy together, the more I feel our present wretchedness apart
(yes, ours; he must be wretched, though he may not know it); and the
more my senses are pleased, the more my heart is oppressed; for he
keeps it with him confined amid the dust and smoke of London—perhaps
shut up within the walls of his own abominable club.
But most of all, at night, when I enter my lonely chamber, and look out
upon the summer moon, “sweet regent of the sky,” floating above me in
the “black blue vault of heaven,” shedding a flood of silver radiance
over park, and wood, and water, so pure, so peaceful, so divine—and
think, Where is he now?—what is he doing at this moment? wholly
unconscious of this heavenly scene—perhaps revelling with his boon
companions, perhaps—God help me, it is too—_too_ much!
23rd.—Thank heaven, he is come at last! But how altered! flushed and
feverish, listless and languid, his beauty strangely diminished, his
vigour and vivacity quite departed. I have not upbraided him by word or
look; I have not even asked him what he has been doing. I have not the
heart to do it, for I think he is ashamed of himself—he must be so
indeed, and such inquiries could not fail to be painful to both. My
forbearance pleases him—touches him even, I am inclined to think. He
says he is glad to be home again, and God knows how glad I am to get
him back, even as he is. He lies on the sofa, nearly all day long; and
I play and sing to him for hours together. I write his letters for him,
and get him everything he wants; and sometimes I read to him, and
sometimes I talk, and sometimes only sit by him and soothe him with
silent caresses. I know he does not deserve it; and I fear I am
spoiling him; but this once, I will forgive him, freely and entirely. I
will shame him into virtue if I can, and I will never let him leave me
again.
He is pleased with my attentions—it may be, grateful for them. He likes
to have me near him: and though he is peevish and testy with his
servants and his dogs, he is gentle and kind to me. What he would be,
if I did not so watchfully anticipate his wants, and so carefully
avoid, or immediately desist from doing anything that has a tendency to
irritate or disturb him, with however little reason, I cannot tell. How
intensely I wish he were worthy of all this care! Last night, as I sat
beside him, with his head in my lap, passing my fingers through his
beautiful curls, this thought made my eyes overflow with sorrowful
tears—as it often does; but this time, a tear fell on his face and made
him look up. He smiled, but not insultingly.
“Dear Helen!” he said—“why do you cry? you know that I love you” (and
he pressed my hand to his feverish lips), “and what more could you
desire?”
“Only, Arthur, that you would love _yourself_ as truly and as
faithfully as you are loved by me.”
“That would be hard, indeed!” he replied, tenderly squeezing my hand.
August 24th.—Arthur is himself again, as lusty and reckless, as light
of heart and head as ever, and as restless and hard to amuse as a
spoilt child, and almost as full of mischief too, especially when wet
weather keeps him within doors. I wish he had something to do, some
useful trade, or profession, or employment—anything to occupy his head
or his hands for a few hours a day, and give him something besides his
own pleasure to think about. If he would play the country gentleman and
attend to the farm—but that he knows nothing about, and won’t give his
mind to consider,—or if he would take up with some literary study, or
learn to draw or to play—as he is so fond of music, I often try to
persuade him to learn the piano, but he is far too idle for such an
undertaking: he has no more idea of exerting himself to overcome
obstacles than he has of restraining his natural appetites; and these
two things are the ruin of him. I lay them both to the charge of his
harsh yet careless father, and his madly indulgent mother.—If ever I am
a mother I will zealously strive against this _crime_ of
over-indulgence. I can hardly give it a milder name when I think of the
evils it brings.
Happily, it will soon be the shooting season, and then, if the weather
permit, he will find occupation enough in the pursuit and destruction
of the partridges and pheasants: we have no grouse, or he might have
been similarly occupied at this moment, instead of lying under the
acacia-tree pulling poor Dash’s ears. But he says it is dull work
shooting alone; he must have a friend or two to help him.
“Let them be tolerably decent then, Arthur,” said I. The word “friend”
in his mouth makes me shudder: I know it was some of his “friends” that
induced him to stay behind me in London, and kept him away so long:
indeed, from what he has unguardedly told me, or hinted from time to
time, I cannot doubt that he frequently showed them my letters, to let
them see how fondly his wife watched over his interests, and how keenly
she regretted his absence; and that they induced him to remain week
after week, and to plunge into all manner of excesses, to avoid being
laughed at for a wife-ridden fool, and, perhaps, to show how far he
could venture to go without danger of shaking the fond creature’s
devoted attachment. It is a hateful idea, but I cannot believe it is a
false one.
“Well,” replied he, “I thought of Lord Lowborough for one; but there is
no possibility of getting him without his better half, our mutual
friend, Annabella; so we must ask them both. You’re not afraid of her,
are you, Helen?” he asked, with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.
“Of course not,” I answered: “why should I? And who besides?”
“Hargrave for one. He will be glad to come, though his own place is so
near, for he has little enough land of his own to shoot over, and we
can extend our depredations into it, if we like; and he is thoroughly
respectable, you know, Helen—quite a lady’s man: and I think, Grimsby
for another: he’s a decent, quiet fellow enough. You’ll not object to
Grimsby?”
“I hate him: but, however, if you wish it, I’ll try to endure his
presence for a while.”
“All a prejudice, Helen, a mere woman’s antipathy.”
“No; I have solid grounds for my dislike. And is that all?”
“Why, yes, I think so. Hattersley will be too busy billing and cooing,
with his bride to have much time to spare for guns and dogs at
present,” he replied. And that reminds me, that I have had several
letters from Milicent since her marriage, and that she either is, or
pretends to be, quite reconciled to her lot. She professes to have
discovered numberless virtues and perfections in her husband, some of
which, I fear, less partial eyes would fail to distinguish, though they
sought them carefully with tears; and now that she is accustomed to his
loud voice, and abrupt, uncourteous manners, she affirms she finds no
difficulty in loving him as a wife should do, and begs I will burn that
letter wherein she spoke so unadvisedly against him. So that I trust
she may yet be happy; but, if she is, it will be entirely the reward of
her own goodness of heart; for had she chosen to consider herself the
victim of fate, or of her mother’s worldly wisdom, she might have been
thoroughly miserable; and if, for duty’s sake, she had not made every
effort to love her husband, she would, doubtless, have hated him to the
end of her days.
CHAPTER XXVI
Sept. 23rd.—Our guests arrived about three weeks ago. Lord and Lady
Lowborough have now been married above eight months; and I will do the
lady the credit to say that her husband is quite an altered man; his
looks, his spirits, and his temper, are all perceptibly changed for the
better since I last saw him. But there is room for improvement still.
He is not always cheerful, nor always contented, and she often
complains of his ill-humour, which, however, of all persons, _she_
ought to be the last to accuse him of, as he never displays it against
her, except for such conduct as would provoke a saint. He adores her
still, and would go to the world’s end to please her. She knows her
power, and she uses it too; but well knowing that to wheedle and coax
is safer than to command, she judiciously tempers her despotism with
flattery and blandishments enough to make him deem himself a favoured
and a happy man.
But she has a way of tormenting him, in which I am a fellow-sufferer,
or might be, if I chose to regard myself as such. This is by openly,
but not too glaringly, coquetting with Mr. Huntingdon, who is quite