The Tenant of Wildfell Hall
to break them, and to tempt another to do the same? Can I love a man
that does such things, and coolly maintains it is nothing?”
“You are breaking your marriage vows yourself,” said he, indignantly
rising and pacing to and fro. “You promised to honour and obey me, and
now you attempt to hector over me, and threaten and accuse me, and call
me worse than a highwayman. If it were not for your situation, Helen, I
would not submit to it so tamely. I won’t be dictated to by a woman,
though she be my wife.”
“What will you do then? Will you go on till I hate you, and then accuse
me of breaking my vows?”
He was silent a moment, and then replied: “You never will hate me.”
Returning and resuming his former position at my feet, he repeated more
vehemently—“You cannot hate me as long as I love you.”
“But how can I believe that you love me, if you continue to act in this
way? Just imagine yourself in my place: would _you_ think I loved
_you_, if _I_ did so? Would you believe my protestations, and honour
and trust me under such circumstances?”
“The cases are different,” he replied. “It is a woman’s nature to be
constant—to love one and one only, blindly, tenderly, and for
ever—bless them, dear creatures! and you above them all; but you must
have some commiseration for us, Helen; you must give us a little more
licence, for, as Shakespeare has it—
However we do praise ourselves,
Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm,
More longing, wavering, sooner lost and won
Than women’s are.”
“Do you mean by that, that your fancies are lost to me, and won by Lady
Lowborough?”
“No! heaven is my witness that I think her mere dust and ashes in
comparison with you, and shall continue to think so, unless you drive
me from you by too much severity. She is a daughter of earth; you are
an angel of heaven; only be not too austere in your divinity, and
remember that I am a poor, fallible mortal. Come now, Helen; won’t you
forgive me?” he said, gently taking my hand, and looking up with an
innocent smile.
“If I do, you will repeat the offence.”
“I swear by—”
“Don’t swear; I’ll believe your word as well as your oath. I wish I
could have confidence in either.”
“Try me, then, Helen: only trust and pardon me this once, and you shall
see! Come, I am in hell’s torments till you speak the word.”
I did not speak it, but I put my hand on his shoulder and kissed his
forehead, and then burst into tears. He embraced me tenderly; and we
have been good friends ever since. He has been decently temperate at
table, and well-conducted towards Lady Lowborough. The first day he
held himself aloof from her, as far as he could without any flagrant
breach of hospitality: since that he has been friendly and civil, but
nothing more—in my presence, at least, nor, I think, at any other time;
for she seems haughty and displeased, and Lord Lowborough is manifestly
more cheerful, and more cordial towards his host than before. But I
shall be glad when they are gone, for I have so little love for
Annabella that it is quite a task to be civil to her, and as she is the
only woman here besides myself, we are necessarily thrown so much
together. Next time Mrs. Hargrave calls I shall hail her advent as
quite a relief. I have a good mind to ask Arthur’s leave to invite the
old lady to stay with us till our guests depart. I think I will. She
will take it as a kind attention, and, though I have little relish for
her society, she will be truly welcome as a third to stand between Lady
Lowborough and me.
The first time the latter and I were alone together, after that unhappy
evening, was an hour or two after breakfast on the following day, when
the gentlemen were gone out, after the usual time spent in the writing
of letters, the reading of newspapers, and desultory conversation. We
sat silent for two or three minutes. She was busy with her work, and I
was running over the columns of a paper from which I had extracted all
the pith some twenty minutes before. It was a moment of painful
embarrassment to me, and I thought it must be infinitely more so to
her; but it seems I was mistaken. She was the first to speak; and,
smiling with the coolest assurance, she began,—
“Your husband was merry last night, Helen: is he often so?”
My blood boiled in my face; but it was better she should seem to
attribute his conduct to this than to anything else.
“No,” replied I, “and never will be so again, I trust.”
“You gave him a curtain lecture, did you?”
“No! but I told him I disliked such conduct, and he promised me not to
repeat it.”
“I _thought_ he looked rather subdued this morning,” she continued;
“and you, Helen? you’ve been weeping, I see—that’s our grand resource,
you know. But doesn’t it make your eyes smart? and do you always find
it to answer?”
“I never cry for effect; nor can I conceive how any one can.”
“Well, I don’t know: I never had occasion to try it; but I think if
Lowborough were to commit such improprieties, I’d make _him_ cry. I
don’t wonder at your being angry, for I’m sure I’d give my husband a
lesson he would not soon forget for a lighter offence than that. But
then he never _will_ do anything of the kind; for I keep him in too
good order for that.”
“Are you sure you don’t arrogate too much of the credit to yourself.
Lord Lowborough was quite as remarkable for his abstemiousness for some
time before you married him, as he is now, I have heard.”
“Oh, about the _wine_ you mean—yes, he’s safe enough for that. And as
to looking askance to another woman, he’s safe enough for that too,
while I live, for he worships the very ground I tread on.”
“Indeed! and are you sure you deserve it?”
“Why, as to that, I can’t say: you know we’re all fallible creatures,
Helen; we none of us deserve to be worshipped. But are _you_ sure your
darling Huntingdon deserves all the love you give to _him?_”
I knew not what to answer to this. I was burning with anger; but I
suppressed all outward manifestations of it, and only bit my lip and
pretended to arrange my work.
“At any rate,” resumed she, pursuing her advantage, “you can console
yourself with the assurance that _you_ are worthy of all the love he
gives to you.”
“You flatter me,” said I; “but, at least, I can try to be worthy of
it.” And then I turned the conversation.
CHAPTER XXVIII
December 25th.—Last Christmas I was a bride, with a heart overflowing
with present bliss, and full of ardent hopes for the future, though not
unmingled with foreboding fears. Now I am a wife: my bliss is sobered,
but not destroyed; my hopes diminished, but not departed; my fears
increased, but not yet thoroughly confirmed; and, thank heaven, I am a
mother too. God has sent me a soul to educate for heaven, and give me a
new and calmer bliss, and stronger hopes to comfort me.
Dec. 25th, 1823.—Another year is gone. My little Arthur lives and
thrives. He is healthy, but not robust, full of gentle playfulness and
vivacity, already affectionate, and susceptible of passions and
emotions it will be long ere he can find words to express. He has won
his father’s heart at last; and now my constant terror is, lest he
should be ruined by that father’s thoughtless indulgence. But I must
beware of my own weakness too, for I never knew till now how strong are
a parent’s temptations to spoil an only child.
I have need of consolation in my son, for (to this silent paper I may
confess it) I have but little in my husband. I love him still; and he
loves me, in his own way—but oh, how different from the love I could
have given, and once had hoped to receive! How little real sympathy
there exists between us; how many of my thoughts and feelings are
gloomily cloistered within my own mind; how much of my higher and
better self is indeed unmarried—doomed either to harden and sour in the
sunless shade of solitude, or to quite degenerate and fall away for
lack of nutriment in this unwholesome soil! But, I repeat, I have no
right to complain; only let me state the truth—some of the truth, at
least,—and see hereafter if any darker truths will blot these pages. We
have now been full two years united; the “romance” of our attachment
must be worn away. Surely I have now got down to the lowest gradation
in Arthur’s affection, and discovered all the evils of his nature: if
there be any further change, it must be for the better, as we become
still more accustomed to each other; surely we shall find no lower
depth than this. And, if so, I can bear it well—as well, at least, as I
have borne it hitherto.
Arthur is not what is commonly called a _bad_ man: he has many good
qualities; but he is a man without self-restraint or lofty aspirations,
a lover of pleasure, given up to animal enjoyments: he is not a bad
husband, but his notions of matrimonial duties and comforts are not my
notions. Judging from appearances, his idea of a wife is a thing to
love one devotedly, and to stay at home to wait upon her husband, and
amuse him and minister to his comfort in every possible way, while he
chooses to stay with her; and, when he is absent, to attend to his
interests, domestic or otherwise, and patiently wait his return, no
matter how he may be occupied in the meantime.
Early in spring he announced his intention of going to London: his
affairs there demanded his attendance, he said, and he could refuse it
no longer. He expressed his regret at having to leave me, but hoped I
would amuse myself with the baby till he returned.
“But why leave me?” I said. “I can go with you: I can be ready at any
time.”
“You would not take that child to town?”
“Yes; why not?”
The thing was absurd: the air of the town would be certain to disagree
with him, and with me as a nurse; the late hours and London habits
would not suit me under such circumstances; and altogether he assured
me that it would be excessively troublesome, injurious, and unsafe. I
over-ruled his objections as well as I could, for I trembled at the
thoughts of his going alone, and would sacrifice almost anything for
myself, much even for my child, to prevent it; but at length he told
me, plainly, and somewhat testily, that he could not do with me: he was
worn out with the baby’s restless nights, and must have some repose. I
proposed separate apartments; but it would not do.
“The truth is, Arthur,” I said at last, “you are weary of my company,
and determined not to have me with you. You might as well have said so
at once.”
He denied it; but I immediately left the room, and flew to the nursery,
to hide my feelings, if I could not soothe them, there.
I was too much hurt to express any further dissatisfaction with his
plans, or at all to refer to the subject again, except for the
necessary arrangements concerning his departure and the conduct of
affairs during his absence, till the day before he went, when I
earnestly exhorted him to take care of himself and keep out of the way
of temptation. He laughed at my anxiety, but assured me there was no
cause for it, and promised to attend to my advice.
“I suppose it is no use asking you to fix a day for your return?” said
I.
“Why, no; I hardly can, under the circumstances; but be assured, love,
I shall not be long away.”
“I don’t wish to keep you a prisoner at home,” I replied; “I should not
grumble at your staying whole months away—if you can be happy so long
without me—provided I knew you were safe; but I don’t like the idea of
your being there among your friends, as you call them.”
“Pooh, pooh, you silly girl! Do you think I can’t take care of myself?”
“You didn’t last time. But THIS time, Arthur,” I added, earnestly,
“show me that you can, and teach me that I need not fear to trust you!”
He promised fair, but in such a manner as we seek to soothe a child.