The Tenant of Wildfell Hall
old home, which, as well as my dear old friends its inhabitants, I saw
again with mingled feelings of pleasure and pain so intimately blended
that I could scarcely distinguish the one from the other, or tell to
which to attribute the various tears, and smiles, and sighs awakened by
those old familiar scenes, and tones, and faces.
Arthur did not come home till several weeks after my return to
Grassdale; but I did not feel so anxious about him now; to think of him
engaged in active sports among the wild hills of Scotland, was very
different from knowing him to be immersed amid the corruptions and
temptations of London. His letters now; though neither long nor
loverlike, were more regular than ever they had been before; and when
he did return, to my great joy, instead of being worse than when he
went, he was more cheerful and vigorous, and better in every respect.
Since that time I have had little cause to complain. He still has an
unfortunate predilection for the pleasures of the table, against which
I have to struggle and watch; but he has begun to notice his boy, and
that is an increasing source of amusement to him within-doors, while
his fox-hunting and coursing are a sufficient occupation for him
without, when the ground is not hardened by frost; so that he is not
wholly dependent on me for entertainment. But it is now January; spring
is approaching; and, I repeat, I dread the consequences of its arrival.
That sweet season, I once so joyously welcomed as the time of hope and
gladness, awakens now far other anticipations by its return.
CHAPTER XXXI
March 20th, 1824. The dreaded time is come, and Arthur is gone, as I
expected. This time he announced it his intention to make but a short
stay in London, and pass over to the Continent, where he should
probably stay a few weeks; but I shall not expect him till after the
lapse of many weeks: I now know that, with him, days signify weeks, and
weeks months.
July 30th.—He returned about three weeks ago, rather better in health,
certainly, than before, but still worse in temper. And yet, perhaps, I
am wrong: it is _I_ that am less patient and forbearing. I am tired out
with his injustice, his selfishness and hopeless _depravity_. I wish a
milder word would do; I am no angel, and my corruption rises against
it. My poor father died last week: Arthur was vexed to hear of it,
because he saw that I was shocked and grieved, and he feared the
circumstance would mar his comfort. When I spoke of ordering my
mourning, he exclaimed,—
“Oh, I hate black! But, however, I suppose you must wear it awhile, for
form’s sake; but I hope, Helen, you won’t think it your bounden duty to
compose your face and manners into conformity with your funereal garb.
Why should you sigh and groan, and I be made uncomfortable, because an
old gentleman in ——shire, a perfect stranger to us both, has thought
proper to drink himself to death? There, now, I declare you’re crying!
Well, it must be affectation.”
He would not hear of my attending the funeral, or going for a day or
two, to cheer poor Frederick’s solitude. It was quite unnecessary, he
said, and I was unreasonable to wish it. What was my father to me? I
had never seen him but once since I was a baby, and I well knew he had
never cared a stiver about me; and my brother, too, was little better
than a stranger. “Besides, dear Helen,” said he, embracing me with
flattering fondness, “I cannot spare you for a single day.”
“Then how have you managed without me these _many_ days?” said I.
“Ah! then I was knocking about the world, now I am at home, and home
without you, my household deity, would be intolerable.”
“Yes, as long as I am necessary to your comfort; but you did not say so
before, when you urged me to leave you, in order that you might get
away from your home without me,” retorted I; but before the words were
well out of my mouth, I regretted having uttered them. It seemed so
heavy a charge: if false, too gross an insult; if true, too humiliating
a fact to be thus openly cast in his teeth. But I might have spared
myself that momentary pang of self-reproach. The accusation awoke
neither shame nor indignation in him: he attempted neither denial nor
excuse, but only answered with a long, low, chuckling laugh, as if he
viewed the whole transaction as a clever, merry jest from beginning to
end. Surely that man will make me dislike him at last!
Sine as ye brew, my maiden fair,
Keep mind that ye maun drink the yill.
Yes; and I _will_ drink it to the very dregs: and none but myself shall
know how bitter I find it!
August 20th.—We are shaken down again to about our usual position.
Arthur has returned to nearly his former condition and habits; and I
have found it my wisest plan to shut my eyes against the past and
future, as far as _he_ at least is concerned, and live only for the
present: to love him when I can; to smile (if possible) when he smiles,
be cheerful when he is cheerful, and pleased when he is agreeable; and
when he is not, to try to make him so; and if that won’t answer, to
bear with him, to excuse him, and forgive him as well as I can, and
restrain my own evil passions from aggravating his; and yet, while I
thus yield and minister to his more harmless propensities to
self-indulgence, to do all in my power to save him from the worse.
But we shall not be long alone together. I shall shortly be called upon
to entertain the same select body of friends as we had the autumn
before last, with the addition of Mr. Hattersley and, at my special
request, his wife and child. I long to see Milicent, and her little
girl too. The latter is now above a year old; she will be a charming
playmate for my little Arthur.
September 30th.—Our guests have been here a week or two; but I have had
no leisure to pass any comments upon them till now. I cannot get over
my dislike to Lady Lowborough. It is not founded on mere personal
pique; it is the woman herself that I dislike, because I so thoroughly
disapprove of her. I always avoid her company as much as I can without
violating the laws of hospitality; but when we do speak or converse
together, it is with the utmost civility, even apparent cordiality on
her part; but preserve me from such cordiality! It is like handling
brier-roses and may-blossoms, bright enough to the eye, and outwardly
soft to the touch, but you know there are thorns beneath, and every now
and then you feel them too; and perhaps resent the injury by crushing
them in till you have destroyed their power, though somewhat to the
detriment of your own fingers.
Of late, however, I have seen nothing in her conduct towards Arthur to
anger or alarm me. During the first few days I thought she seemed very
solicitous to win his admiration. Her efforts were not unnoticed by
him: I frequently saw him smiling to himself at her artful manœuvres:
but, to his praise be it spoken, her shafts fell powerless by his side.
Her most bewitching smiles, her haughtiest frowns were ever received
with the same immutable, careless good-humour; till, finding he was
indeed impenetrable, she suddenly remitted her efforts, and became, to
all appearance, as perfectly indifferent as himself. Nor have I since
witnessed any symptom of pique on his part, or renewed attempts at
conquest upon hers.
This is as it should be; but Arthur never will let me be satisfied with
him. I have never, for a single hour since I married him, known what it
is to realise that sweet idea, “In quietness and confidence shall be
your rest.” Those two detestable men, Grimsby and Hattersley, have
destroyed all my labour against his love of wine. They encourage him
daily to overstep the bounds of moderation, and not unfrequently to
disgrace himself by positive excess. I shall not soon forget the second
night after their arrival. Just as I had retired from the dining-room
with the ladies, before the door was closed upon us, Arthur
exclaimed,—“Now then, my lads, what say you to a regular
jollification?”
Milicent glanced at me with a half-reproachful look, as if _I_ could
hinder it; but her countenance changed when she heard Hattersley’s
voice, shouting through door and wall,—
“_I’m_ your man! Send for more wine: here isn’t _half_ enough!”
We had scarcely entered the drawing-room before we were joined by Lord
Lowborough.
“What _can_ induce you to come so soon?” exclaimed his lady, with a
most ungracious air of dissatisfaction.
“You know I never drink, Annabella,” replied he seriously.
“Well, but you might stay with them a little: it looks so silly to be
always dangling after the women; I wonder you can!”
He reproached her with a look of mingled bitterness and surprise, and,
sinking into a chair, suppressed a heavy sigh, bit his pale lips, and
fixed his eyes upon the floor.
“You did right to leave them, Lord Lowborough,” said I. “I trust you
will always continue to honour us so early with your company. And if
Annabella knew the value of true wisdom, and the misery of folly
and—and intemperance, she would not talk such nonsense—even in jest.”
He raised his eyes while I spoke, and gravely turned them upon me, with
a half-surprised, half-abstracted look, and then bent them on his wife.
“At least,” said she, “I know the value of a warm heart and a bold,
manly spirit.”
“Well, Annabella,” said he, in a deep and hollow tone, “since my
presence is disagreeable to you, I will relieve you of it.”
“Are you going back to them, then?” said she, carelessly.
“No,” exclaimed he, with harsh and startling emphasis. “I will not go
back to them! And I will never stay with them one moment longer than I
think right, for you or any other tempter! But you needn’t mind that; I
shall never trouble you again by intruding my company upon you so
unseasonably.”
He left the room: I heard the hall-door open and shut, and immediately
after, on putting aside the curtain, I saw him pacing down the park, in
the comfortless gloom of the damp, cloudy twilight.
“It would serve you right, Annabella,” said I, at length, “if Lord
Lowborough were to return to his old habits, which had so nearly
effected his ruin, and which it cost him such an effort to break: you
would then see cause to repent such conduct as this.”
“Not at all, my dear! I should not mind if his lordship were to see fit
to intoxicate himself every day: I should only the sooner be rid of
him.”
“Oh, Annabella!” cried Milicent. “How can you say such wicked things!
It would, indeed, be a just punishment, as far as you are concerned, if
Providence should take you at your word, and make you feel what others
feel, that—” She paused as a sudden burst of loud talking and laughter
reached us from the dining-room, in which the voice of Hattersley was
pre-eminently conspicuous, even to my unpractised ear.
“What _you_ feel at this moment, I suppose?” said Lady Lowborough, with
a malicious smile, fixing her eyes upon her cousin’s distressed
countenance.
The latter offered no reply, but averted her face and brushed away a
tear. At that moment the door opened and admitted Mr. Hargrave, just a
little flushed, his dark eyes sparkling with unwonted vivacity.
“Oh, I’m so glad you’re come, Walter?” cried his sister. “But I wish
you could have got Ralph to come too.”
“Utterly impossible, dear Milicent,” replied he, gaily. “I had much ado
to get away myself. Ralph attempted to keep me by violence; Huntingdon
threatened me with the eternal loss of his friendship; and Grimsby,
worse than all, endeavoured to make me ashamed of my virtue, by such
galling sarcasms and innuendoes as he knew would wound me the most. So
you see, ladies, you ought to make me welcome when I have braved and
suffered so much for the favour of your sweet society.” He smilingly
turned to me and bowed as he finished the sentence.