The Tenant of Wildfell Hall
willing to be her partner in the game; but I don’t care for it,
because, with him, I know there is nothing but personal vanity, and a
mischievous desire to excite my jealousy, and, perhaps, to torment his
friend; and she, no doubt, is actuated by much the same motives; only,
there is more of malice and less of playfulness in _her_ manœuvres. It
is obviously, therefore, my interest to disappoint them both, as far as
I am concerned, by preserving a cheerful, undisturbed serenity
throughout; and, accordingly, I endeavour to show the fullest
confidence in my husband, and the greatest indifference to the arts of
my attractive guest. I have never reproached the former but once, and
that was for laughing at Lord Lowborough’s depressed and anxious
countenance one evening, when they had both been particularly
provoking; and then, indeed, I said a good deal on the subject, and
rebuked him sternly enough; but he only laughed, and said,—“You can
feel for him, Helen, can’t you?”
“I can feel for anyone that is unjustly treated,” I replied, “and I can
feel for those that injure them too.”
“Why, Helen, you are as jealous as he is!” cried he, laughing still
more; and I found it impossible to convince him of his mistake. So,
from that time, I have carefully refrained from any notice of the
subject whatever, and left Lord Lowborough to take care of himself. He
either has not the sense or the power to follow my example, though he
does try to conceal his uneasiness as well as he can; but still, it
will appear in his face, and his ill-humour will peep out at intervals,
though not in the expression of open resentment—they never go far
enough for that. But I confess I do feel jealous at times, most
painfully, bitterly so; when she sings and plays to him, and he hangs
over the instrument, and dwells upon her voice with no affected
interest; for then I know he is really delighted, and I have no power
to awaken similar fervour. I can amuse and please him with my simple
songs, but not delight him thus.
28th.—Yesterday, we all went to the Grove, Mr. Hargrave’s
much-neglected home. His mother frequently asks us over, that she may
have the pleasure of her dear Walter’s company; and this time she had
invited us to a dinner-party, and got together as many of the country
gentry as were within reach to meet us. The entertainment was very well
got up; but I could not help thinking about the cost of it all the
time. I don’t like Mrs. Hargrave; she is a hard, pretentious,
worldly-minded woman. She has money enough to live very comfortably, if
she only knew how to use it judiciously, and had taught her son to do
the same; but she is ever straining to keep up appearances, with that
despicable pride that shuns the semblance of poverty as of a shameful
crime. She grinds her dependents, pinches her servants, and deprives
even her daughters and herself of the real comforts of life, because
she will not consent to yield the palm in outward show to those who
have three times her wealth; and, above all, because she is determined
her cherished son shall be enabled to “hold up his head with the
highest gentlemen in the land.” This same son, I imagine, is a man of
expensive habits, no reckless spendthrift and no abandoned sensualist,
but one who likes to have “everything handsome about him,” and to go to
a certain length in youthful indulgences, not so much to gratify his
own tastes as to maintain his reputation as a man of fashion in the
world, and a respectable fellow among his own lawless companions; while
he is too selfish to consider how many comforts might be obtained for
his fond mother and sisters with the money he thus wastes upon himself:
as long as they can contrive to make a respectable appearance once a
year, when they come to town, he gives himself little concern about
their private stintings and struggles at home. This is a harsh judgment
to form of “dear, noble-minded, generous-hearted Walter,” but I fear it
is too just.
Mrs. Hargrave’s anxiety to make good matches for her daughters is
partly the cause, and partly the result, of these errors: by making a
figure in the world, and showing them off to advantage, she hopes to
obtain better chances for them; and by thus living beyond her
legitimate means, and lavishing so much on their brother, she renders
them portionless, and makes them burdens on her hands. Poor Milicent, I
fear, has already fallen a sacrifice to the manœuvrings of this
mistaken mother, who congratulates herself on having so satisfactorily
discharged her maternal duty, and hopes to do as well for Esther. But
Esther is a child as yet, a little merry romp of fourteen: as
honest-hearted, and as guileless and simple as her sister, but with a
fearless spirit of her own, that I fancy her mother will find some
difficulty in bending to her purposes.
CHAPTER XXVII
October 9th.—It was on the night of the 4th, a little after tea, that
Annabella had been singing and playing, with Arthur as usual at her
side: she had ended her song, but still she sat at the instrument; and
he stood leaning on the back of her chair, conversing in scarcely
audible tones, with his face in very close proximity with hers. I
looked at Lord Lowborough. He was at the other end of the room, talking
with Messrs. Hargrave and Grimsby; but I saw him dart towards his lady
and his host a quick, impatient glance, expressive of intense
disquietude, at which Grimsby smiled. Determined to interrupt the
_tête-à-tête_, I rose, and, selecting a piece of music from the music
stand, stepped up to the piano, intending to ask the lady to play it;
but I stood transfixed and speechless on seeing her seated there,
listening, with what seemed an exultant smile on her flushed face to
his soft murmurings, with her hand quietly surrendered to his clasp.
The blood rushed first to my heart, and then to my head; for there was
more than this: almost at the moment of my approach, he cast a hurried
glance over his shoulder towards the other occupants of the room, and
then ardently pressed the unresisting hand to his lips. On raising his
eyes, he beheld me, and dropped them again, confounded and dismayed.
She saw me too, and confronted me with a look of hard defiance. I laid
the music on the piano, and retired. I felt ill; but I did not leave
the room: happily, it was getting late, and could not be long before
the company dispersed.
I went to the fire, and leant my head against the chimney-piece. In a
minute or two, some one asked me if I felt unwell. I did not answer;
indeed, at the time, I knew not what was said; but I mechanically
looked up, and saw Mr. Hargrave standing beside me on the rug.
“Shall I get you a glass of wine?” said he.
“No, thank you,” I replied; and, turning from him, I looked round. Lady
Lowborough was beside her husband, bending over him as he sat, with her
hand on his shoulder, softly talking and smiling in his face; and
Arthur was at the table, turning over a book of engravings. I seated
myself in the nearest chair; and Mr. Hargrave, finding his services
were not desired, judiciously withdrew. Shortly after, the company
broke up, and, as the guests were retiring to their rooms, Arthur
approached me, smiling with the utmost assurance.
“Are you _very_ angry, Helen?” murmured he.
“This is no jest, Arthur,” said I, seriously, but as calmly as I
could—“unless you think it a jest to lose my affection for ever.”
“What! so bitter?” he exclaimed, laughingly, clasping my hand between
both his; but I snatched it away, in indignation—almost in disgust, for
he was obviously affected with wine.
“Then I must go down on my knees,” said he; and kneeling before me,
with clasped hands, uplifted in mock humiliation, he continued
imploringly—“Forgive me, Helen—dear Helen, forgive me, and I’ll _never_
do it again!” and, burying his face in his handkerchief, he affected to
sob aloud.
Leaving him thus employed, I took my candle, and, slipping quietly from
the room, hastened up-stairs as fast as I could. But he soon discovered
that I had left him, and, rushing up after me, caught me in his arms,
just as I had entered the chamber, and was about to shut the door in
his face.
“No, no, by heaven, you sha’n’t escape me so!” he cried. Then, alarmed
at my agitation, he begged me not to put myself in such a passion,
telling me I was white in the face, and should kill myself if I did so.
“Let me go, then,” I murmured; and immediately he released me—and it
was well he did, for I was really in a passion. I sank into the
easy-chair and endeavoured to compose myself, for I wanted to speak to
him calmly. He stood beside me, but did not venture to touch me or to
speak for a few seconds; then, approaching a little nearer, he dropped
on one knee—not in mock humility, but to bring himself nearer my level,
and leaning his hand on the arm of the chair, he began in a low voice:
“It is all nonsense, Helen—a jest, a mere nothing—not worth a thought.
Will you _never_ learn,” he continued more boldly, “that you have
nothing to fear from me? that I love you wholly and entirely?—or if,”
he added with a lurking smile, “I ever give a thought to another, you
may well spare it, for those fancies are here and gone like a flash of
lightning, while my love for you burns on steadily, and for ever, like
the sun. You little exorbitant tyrant, will not _that_—”
“Be quiet a moment, will you, Arthur?” said I, “and listen to me—and
don’t think I’m in a jealous fury: I am perfectly calm. Feel my hand.”
And I gravely extended it towards him—but closed it upon his with an
energy that seemed to disprove the assertion, and made him smile. “You
needn’t smile, sir,” said I, still tightening my grasp, and looking
steadfastly on him till he almost quailed before me. “You may think it
all very fine, Mr. Huntingdon, to amuse yourself with rousing my
jealousy; but take care you don’t rouse my hate instead. And when you
have once extinguished my love, you will find it no easy matter to
kindle it again.”
“Well, Helen, I won’t repeat the offence. But I meant nothing by it, I
assure you. I had taken too much wine, and I was scarcely myself at the
time.”
“You often take too much; and that is another practice I detest.” He
looked up astonished at my warmth. “Yes,” I continued; “I never
mentioned it before, because I was ashamed to do so; but now I’ll tell
you that it distresses me, and may disgust me, if you go on and suffer
the habit to grow upon you, as it will if you don’t check it in time.
But the whole system of your conduct to Lady Lowborough is not
referable to wine; and this night you knew perfectly well what you were
doing.”
“Well, I’m sorry for it,” replied he, with more of sulkiness than
contrition: “what more would you have?”
“You are sorry that I saw you, no doubt,” I answered coldly.
“If you had not seen me,” he muttered, fixing his eyes on the carpet,
“it would have done no harm.”
My heart felt ready to burst; but I resolutely swallowed back my
emotion, and answered calmly,
“You think not?”
“No,” replied he, boldly. “After all, what have I done? It’s
nothing—except as you choose to make it a subject of accusation and
distress.”
“What would Lord Lowborough, your _friend_, think, if he knew all? or
what would you yourself think, if he or any other had acted the same
part to me, throughout, as you have to Annabella?”
“I would blow his brains out.”
“Well, then, Arthur, how can you call it nothing—an offence for which
you would think yourself justified in blowing another man’s brains out?
Is it nothing to trifle with your friend’s feelings and mine—to
endeavour to steal a woman’s affections from her husband—what he values
more than his gold, and therefore what it is more dishonest to take?
Are the marriage vows a jest; and is it nothing to make it your sport