The Tenant of Wildfell Hall
“I had a letter from him this morning. I wish it were such a one as I
could show to his lady.” He half drew from his waistcoat-pocket a
letter with Arthur’s still beloved hand on the address, scowled at it,
and put it back again, adding—“But he tells me he is about to return
next week.”
“He tells _me_ so every time he writes.”
“Indeed! well, it is like him. But to me he always avowed it his
intention to stay till the present month.”
It struck me like a blow, this proof of premeditated transgression and
systematic disregard of truth.
“It is only of a piece with the rest of his conduct,” observed Mr.
Hargrave, thoughtfully regarding me, and reading, I suppose, my
feelings in my face.
“Then he is really coming next week?” said I, after a pause.
“You may rely upon it, if the assurance can give you any pleasure. And
is it _possible_, Mrs. Huntingdon, that you can rejoice at his return?”
he exclaimed, attentively perusing my features again.
“Of course, Mr. Hargrave; is he not my husband?”
“Oh, Huntingdon; you know not _what_ you slight!” he passionately
murmured.
I took up my baby, and, wishing him good-morning, departed, to indulge
my thoughts unscrutinized, within the sanctum of my home.
And _was_ I glad? Yes, delighted; though I was angered by Arthur’s
conduct, and though I felt that he had wronged me, and was determined
he should feel it too.
CHAPTER XXX
On the following morning I received a few lines from him myself,
confirming Hargrave’s intimations respecting his approaching return.
And he did come next week, but in a condition of body and mind even
worse than before. I did not, however, intend to pass over his
derelictions this time without a remark; I found it would not do. But
the first day he was weary with his journey, and I was glad to get him
back: I would not upbraid him then; I would wait till to-morrow. Next
morning he was weary still: I would wait a little longer. But at
dinner, when, after breakfasting at twelve o’clock on a bottle of
soda-water and a cup of strong coffee, and lunching at two on another
bottle of soda-water mingled with brandy, he was finding fault with
everything on the table, and declaring we must change our cook, I
thought the time was come.
“It is the same cook as we had before you went, Arthur,” said I. “You
were generally pretty well satisfied with her then.”
“You must have been letting her get into slovenly habits, then, while I
was away. It is enough to poison one, eating such a disgusting mess!”
And he pettishly pushed away his plate, and leant back despairingly in
his chair.
“I think it is you that are changed, not she,” said I, but with the
utmost gentleness, for I did not wish to irritate him.
“It may be so,” he replied carelessly, as he seized a tumbler of wine
and water, adding, when he had tossed it off, “for I have an infernal
fire in my veins, that all the waters of the ocean cannot quench!”
“What kindled it?” I was about to ask, but at that moment the butler
entered and began to take away the things.
“Be quick, Benson; do have done with that infernal clatter!” cried his
master. “And _don’t_ bring the cheese, unless you want to make me sick
outright!”
Benson, in some surprise, removed the cheese, and did his best to
effect a quiet and speedy clearance of the rest; but, unfortunately,
there was a rumple in the carpet, caused by the hasty pushing back of
his master’s chair, at which he tripped and stumbled, causing a rather
alarming concussion with the trayful of crockery in his hands, but no
positive damage, save the fall and breaking of a sauce tureen; but, to
my unspeakable shame and dismay, Arthur turned furiously around upon
him, and swore at him with savage coarseness. The poor man turned pale,
and visibly trembled as he stooped to pick up the fragments.
“He couldn’t help it, Arthur,” said I; “the carpet caught his foot, and
there’s no great harm done. Never mind the pieces now, Benson; you can
clear them away afterwards.”
Glad to be released, Benson expeditiously set out the dessert and
withdrew.
“What _could_ you mean, Helen, by taking the servant’s part against
me,” said Arthur, as soon as the door was closed, “when you knew I was
distracted?”
“I did not know you were distracted, Arthur: and the poor man was quite
frightened and hurt at your sudden explosion.”
“Poor man, indeed! and do you think I could stop to consider the
feelings of an insensate brute like that, when my own nerves were
racked and torn to pieces by his confounded blunders?”
“I never heard you complain of your nerves before.”
“And why shouldn’t I have nerves as well as you?”
“Oh, I don’t dispute your claim to their possession, but _I_ never
complain of mine.”
“No, how should you, when you never do anything to try them?”
“Then why do you try yours, Arthur?”
“Do you think I have nothing to do but to stay at home and take care of
myself like a woman?”
“Is it impossible, then, to take care of yourself like a man when you
go abroad? You told me that you could, and would too; and you
promised—”
“Come, come, Helen, don’t begin with that nonsense now; I can’t bear
it.”
“Can’t bear what?—to be reminded of the promises you have broken?”
“Helen, you are cruel. If you knew how my heart throbbed, and how every
nerve thrilled through me while you spoke, you would spare me. You can
pity a dolt of a servant for breaking a dish; but you have no
compassion for _me_ when my head is split in two and all on fire with
this consuming fever.”
He leant his head on his hand, and sighed. I went to him and put my
hand on his forehead. It was burning indeed.
“Then come with me into the drawing-room, Arthur; and don’t take any
more wine: you have taken several glasses since dinner, and eaten next
to nothing all the day. How can _that_ make you better?”
With some coaxing and persuasion, I got him to leave the table. When
the baby was brought I tried to amuse him with that; but poor little
Arthur was cutting his teeth, and his father could not bear his
complaints: sentence of immediate banishment was passed upon him on the
first indication of fretfulness; and because, in the course of the
evening, I went to share his exile for a little while, I was
reproached, on my return, for preferring my child to my husband. I
found the latter reclining on the sofa just as I had left him.
“Well!” exclaimed the injured man, in a tone of pseudo-resignation. “I
thought I wouldn’t send for you; I thought I’d just see how long it
would please you to leave me alone.”
“I have not been very long, have I, Arthur? I have not been an hour,
I’m sure.”
“Oh, of course, an hour is nothing to you, so pleasantly employed; but
to _me_—”
“It has not been pleasantly employed,” interrupted I. “I have been
nursing our poor little baby, who is very far from well, and I could
not leave him till I got him to sleep.”
“Oh, to be sure, you’re overflowing with kindness and pity for
everything but me.”
“And why should I pity _you?_ What is the matter with you?”
“Well! that passes everything! After all the wear and tear that I’ve
had, when I come home sick and weary, longing for comfort, and
expecting to find attention and kindness, at least from my wife, she
calmly asks what is the matter with me!”
“There is _nothing_ the matter with you,” returned I, “except what you
have wilfully brought upon yourself, against my earnest exhortation and
entreaty.”
“Now, Helen,” said he emphatically, half rising from his recumbent
posture, “if you bother me with another word, I’ll ring the bell and
order six bottles of wine, and, by heaven, I’ll drink them dry before I
stir from this place!”
I said no more, but sat down before the table and drew a book towards
me.
“Do let me have quietness at least!” continued he, “if you deny me
every other comfort;” and sinking back into his former position, with
an impatient expiration between a sigh and a groan, he languidly closed
his eyes, as if to sleep.
What the book was that lay open on the table before me, I cannot tell,
for I never looked at it. With an elbow on each side of it, and my
hands clasped before my eyes, I delivered myself up to silent weeping.
But Arthur was not asleep: at the first slight sob, he raised his head
and looked round, impatiently exclaiming, “What are you crying for,
Helen? What the deuce is the matter _now?_”
“I’m crying for you, Arthur,” I replied, speedily drying my tears; and
starting up, I threw myself on my knees before him, and clasping his
nerveless hand between my own, continued: “Don’t you know that you are
a part of myself? And do you think you can injure and degrade yourself,
and I not feel it?”
“_Degrade_ myself, Helen?”
“Yes, degrade! What have you been doing all this time?”
“You’d better not ask,” said he, with a faint smile.
“And you had better not tell; but you cannot deny that you _have_
degraded yourself miserably. You have shamefully wronged yourself, body
and soul, and me too; and I can’t endure it quietly, and I won’t!”
“Well, don’t squeeze my hand so frantically, and don’t agitate me so,
for heaven’s sake! Oh, Hattersley! you were right: this woman will be
the death of me, with her keen feelings and her interesting force of
character. There, there, do spare me a little.”
“Arthur, you _must_ repent!” cried I, in a frenzy of desperation,
throwing my arms around him and burying my face in his bosom. “You
_shall_ say you are sorry for what you have done!”
“Well, well, I am.”
“You are not! you’ll do it again.”
“I shall never live to do it again if you treat me so savagely,”
replied he, pushing me from him. “You’ve nearly squeezed the breath out
of my body.” He pressed his hand to his heart, and looked really
agitated and ill.
“Now get me a glass of wine,” said he, “to remedy what you’ve done, you
she tiger! I’m almost ready to faint.”
I flew to get the required remedy. It seemed to revive him
considerably.
“What a shame it is,” said I, as I took the empty glass from his hand,
“for a strong young man like you to reduce yourself to such a state!”
“If you knew all, my girl, you’d say rather, ‘What a wonder it is you
can bear it so well as you do!’ I’ve lived more in these four months,
Helen, than you have in the whole course of your existence, or will to
the end of your days, if they numbered a hundred years; so I must
expect to pay for it in some shape.”
“You will have to pay a higher price than you anticipate, if you don’t
take care: there will be the total loss of your own health, and of my
affection too, if _that_ is of any value to you.”
“What! you’re at that game of threatening me with the loss of your
affection again, are you? I think it couldn’t have been very genuine
stuff to begin with, if it’s so easily demolished. If you don’t mind,
my pretty tyrant, you’ll make me regret my choice in good earnest, and
envy my friend Hattersley his meek little wife: she’s quite a pattern
to her sex, Helen. He had her with him in London all the season, and
she was no trouble at all. He might amuse himself just as he pleased,
in regular bachelor style, and she never complained of neglect; he
might come home at any hour of the night or morning, or not come home
at all; be sullen, sober, or glorious drunk; and play the fool or the
madman to his own heart’s desire, without any fear or botheration. She
never gives him a word of reproach or complaint, do what he will. He
says there’s not such a jewel in all England, and swears he wouldn’t
take a kingdom for her.”
“But he makes her life a curse to her.”
“Not he! She has no will but his, and is always contented and happy as
long as he is enjoying himself.”
“In that case she is as great a fool as he is; but it is not so. I have