The Tenant of Wildfell Hall
several letters from her, expressing the greatest anxiety about his
proceedings, and complaining that you incite him to commit those
extravagances—one especially, in which she implores me to use my
influence with you to get you away from London, and affirms that her
husband never did such things before you came, and would certainly
discontinue them as soon as you departed and left him to the guidance
of his own good sense.”
“The detestable little traitor! Give me the letter, and he shall see it
as sure as I’m a living man.”
“No, he shall not see it without her consent; but if he did, there is
nothing there to anger him, nor in any of the others. She never speaks
a word against him: it is only anxiety _for_ him that she expresses.
She only alludes to his conduct in the most delicate terms, and makes
every excuse for him that she can possibly think of; and as for her own
misery, I rather _feel_ it than _see_ it expressed in her letters.”
“But she abuses _me;_ and no doubt you helped her.”
“No; I told her she over-rated my influence with you, that I would
gladly draw you away from the temptations of the town if I could, but
had little hope of success, and that I thought she was wrong in
supposing that you enticed Mr. Hattersley or any one else into error. I
had myself held the _contrary_ opinion at one time, but I now believed
that you mutually corrupted each other; and, perhaps, if she used a
little gentle but serious remonstrance with her husband, it might be of
some service; as, though he was more rough-hewn than mine, I believed
he was of a less impenetrable material.”
“And so _that_ is the way you go on—heartening each other up to mutiny,
and abusing each other’s partners, and throwing out implications
against your own, to the mutual gratification of both!”
“According to your own account,” said I, “my evil counsel has had but
little effect upon _her_. And as to abuse and aspersions, we are both
of us far too deeply ashamed of the errors and vices of our other
halves, to make them the common subject of our correspondence. Friends
as we are, we would willingly keep your failings to ourselves—even
_from_ ourselves if we could, unless by knowing them we could deliver
you from them.”
“Well, well! don’t worry me about them: you’ll never effect any good by
that. Have patience with me, and bear with my languor and crossness a
little while, till I get this cursed low fever out of my veins, and
then you’ll find me cheerful and kind as ever. Why can’t you be gentle
and good, as you were last time?—I’m sure I was very grateful for it.”
“And what good did your gratitude do? I deluded myself with the idea
that you were ashamed of your transgressions, and hoped you would never
repeat them again; but now you have left me nothing to hope!”
“My case is quite desperate, is it? A very blessed consideration, if it
will only secure me from the pain and worry of my dear anxious wife’s
efforts to convert me, and her from the toil and trouble of such
exertions, and her sweet face and silver accents from the ruinous
effects of the same. A burst of passion is a fine rousing thing upon
occasion, Helen, and a flood of tears is marvellously affecting, but,
when indulged too often, they are both deuced plaguy things for
spoiling one’s beauty and tiring out one’s friends.”
Thenceforth I restrained my tears and passions as much as I could. I
spared him my exhortations and fruitless efforts at conversion too, for
I saw it was all in vain: God might awaken that heart, supine and
stupefied with self-indulgence, and remove the film of sensual darkness
from his eyes, but I could not. His injustice and ill-humour towards
his inferiors, who could not defend themselves, I still resented and
withstood; but when I alone was their object, as was frequently the
case, I endured it with calm forbearance, except at times, when my
temper, worn out by repeated annoyances, or stung to distraction by
some new instance of irrationality, gave way in spite of myself, and
exposed me to the imputations of fierceness, cruelty, and impatience. I
attended carefully to his wants and amusements, but not, I own, with
the same devoted fondness as before, because I could not feel it;
besides, I had now another claimant on my time and care—my ailing
infant, for whose sake I frequently braved and suffered the reproaches
and complaints of his unreasonably exacting father.
But Arthur is not naturally a peevish or irritable man; so far from it,
that there was something almost ludicrous in the incongruity of this
adventitious fretfulness and nervous irritability, rather calculated to
excite laughter than anger, if it were not for the intensely painful
considerations attendant upon those symptoms of a disordered frame, and
his temper gradually improved as his bodily health was restored, which
was much sooner than would have been the case but for my strenuous
exertions; for there was still one thing about him that I did not give
up in despair, and one effort for his preservation that I would not
remit. His appetite for the stimulus of wine had increased upon him, as
I had too well foreseen. It was now something more to him than an
accessory to social enjoyment: it was an important source of enjoyment
in itself. In this time of weakness and depression he would have made
it his medicine and support, his comforter, his recreation, and his
friend, and thereby sunk deeper and deeper, and bound himself down for
ever in the bathos whereinto he had fallen. But I determined this
should never be, as long as I had any influence left; and though I
could not prevent him from taking more than was good for him, still, by
incessant perseverance, by kindness, and firmness, and vigilance, by
coaxing, and daring, and determination, I succeeded in preserving him
from absolute bondage to that detestable propensity, so insidious in
its advances, so inexorable in its tyranny, so disastrous in its
effects.
And here I must not forget that I am not a little indebted to his
friend Mr. Hargrave. About that time he frequently called at Grassdale,
and often dined with us, on which occasions I fear Arthur would
willingly have cast prudence and decorum to the winds, and made “a
night of it,” as often as his friend would have consented to join him
in that exalted pastime; and if the latter had chosen to comply, he
might, in a night or two, have ruined the labour of weeks, and
overthrown with a touch the frail bulwark it had cost me such trouble
and toil to construct. I was so fearful of this at first, that I
humbled myself to intimate to him, in private, my apprehensions of
Arthur’s proneness to these excesses, and to express a hope that he
would not encourage it. He was pleased with this mark of confidence,
and certainly did not betray it. On that and every subsequent occasion
his presence served rather as a check upon his host, than an incitement
to further acts of intemperance; and he always succeeded in bringing
him from the dining-room in good time, and in tolerably good condition;
for if Arthur disregarded such intimations as “Well, I must not detain
you from your lady,” or “We must not forget that Mrs. Huntingdon is
alone,” he would insist upon leaving the table himself, to join me, and
his host, however unwillingly, was obliged to follow.
Hence I learned to welcome Mr. Hargrave as a real friend to the family,
a harmless companion for Arthur, to cheer his spirits and preserve him
from the tedium of absolute idleness and a total isolation from all
society but mine, and a useful ally to me. I could not but feel
grateful to him under such circumstances; and I did not scruple to
acknowledge my obligation on the first convenient opportunity; yet, as
I did so, my heart whispered all was not right, and brought a glow to
my face, which he heightened by his steady, serious gaze, while, by his
manner of receiving those acknowledgments, he more than doubled my
misgivings. His high delight at being able to serve me was chastened by
sympathy for me and commiseration for himself—about, I know not what,
for I would not stay to inquire, or suffer him to unburden his sorrows
to me. His sighs and intimations of suppressed affliction seemed to
come from a full heart; but either he must contrive to retain them
within it, or breathe them forth in other ears than mine: there was
enough of confidence between us already. It seemed wrong that there
should exist a secret understanding between my husband’s friend and me,
unknown to him, of which he was the object. But my after-thought was,
“If it is wrong, surely Arthur’s is the fault, not mine.”
And indeed I know not whether, at the time, it was not for _him_ rather
than myself that I blushed; for, since he and I are one, I so identify
myself with him, that I feel his degradation, his failings, and
transgressions as my own: I blush for him, I fear for him; I repent for
him, weep, pray, and feel for him as for myself; but I cannot act for
him; and hence I must be, and I am, debased, contaminated by the union,
both in my own eyes and in the actual truth. I am so determined to love
him, so intensely anxious to excuse his errors, that I am continually
dwelling upon them, and labouring to extenuate the loosest of his
principles and the worst of his practices, till I am familiarised with
vice, and almost a partaker in his sins. Things that formerly shocked
and disgusted me, now seem only natural. I know them to be wrong,
because reason and God’s word declare them to be so; but I am gradually
losing that instinctive horror and repulsion which were given me by
nature, or instilled into me by the precepts and example of my aunt.
Perhaps then I was too severe in my judgments, for I abhorred the
sinner as well as the sin; now I flatter myself I am more charitable
and considerate; but am I not becoming more indifferent and insensate
too? Fool that I was, to dream that I had strength and purity enough to
save myself and him! Such vain presumption would be rightly served, if
I should perish with him in the gulf from which I sought to save him!
Yet, God preserve me from it, and him too! Yes, poor Arthur, I will
still hope and pray for you; and though I write as if you were some
abandoned wretch, past hope and past reprieve, it is only my anxious
fears, my strong desires that make me do so; one who loved you less
would be less bitter, less dissatisfied.
His conduct has, of late, been what the world calls irreproachable; but
then I know his heart is still unchanged; and I know that spring is
approaching, and deeply dread the consequences.
As he began to recover the tone and vigour of his exhausted frame, and
with it something of his former impatience of retirement and repose, I
suggested a short residence by the sea-side, for his recreation and
further restoration, and for the benefit of our little one as well. But
no: watering-places were so intolerably dull; besides, he had been
invited by one of his friends to spend a month or two in Scotland for
the better recreation of grouse-shooting and deer-stalking, and had
promised to go.
“Then you will leave me again, Arthur?” said I.
“Yes, dearest, but only to love you the better when I come back, and
make up for all past offences and short-comings; and you needn’t fear
me this time: there are no temptations on the mountains. And during my
absence you may pay a visit to Staningley, if you like: your uncle and
aunt have long been wanting us to go there, you know; but somehow
there’s such a repulsion between the good lady and me, that I never
could bring myself up to the scratch.”
About the third week in August, Arthur set out for Scotland, and Mr.
Hargrave accompanied him thither, to my private satisfaction. Shortly
after, I, with little Arthur and Rachel, went to Staningley, my dear