The Tenant of Wildfell Hall
“Isn’t he _handsome_ now, Helen!” whispered Milicent, her sisterly
pride overcoming, for the moment, all other considerations.
“He would be,” I returned, “if that brilliance of eye, and lip, and
cheek were natural to him; but look again, a few hours hence.”
Here the gentleman took a seat near me at the table, and petitioned for
a cup of coffee.
“I consider this an apt illustration of heaven taken by storm,” said
he, as I handed one to him. “I am in paradise, now; but I have fought
my way through flood and fire to win it. Ralph Hattersley’s last
resource was to set his back against the door, and swear I should find
no passage but through his body (a pretty substantial one too).
Happily, however, that was not the only door, and I effected my escape
by the side entrance through the butler’s pantry, to the infinite
amazement of Benson, who was cleaning the plate.”
Mr. Hargrave laughed, and so did his cousin; but his sister and I
remained silent and grave.
“Pardon my levity, Mrs. Huntingdon,” murmured he, more seriously, as he
raised his eyes to my face. “You are not used to these things: you
suffer them to affect your delicate mind too sensibly. But I thought of
you in the midst of those lawless roysterers; and I endeavoured to
persuade Mr. Huntingdon to think of you too; but to no purpose: I fear
he is fully determined to enjoy himself this night; and it will be no
use keeping the coffee waiting for him or his companions; it will be
much if they join us at tea. Meantime, I earnestly wish I could banish
the thoughts of them from your mind—and my own too, for I hate to think
of them—yes—even of my dear friend Huntingdon, when I consider the
power he possesses over the happiness of one so immeasurably superior
to himself, and the use he makes of it—I positively _detest_ the man!”
“You had better not say so to me, then,” said I; “for, bad as he is, he
is part of myself, and you cannot abuse him without offending me.”
“Pardon me, then, for I would sooner die than offend you. But let us
say no more of him for the present, if you please.”
At last they came; but not till after ten, when tea, which had been
delayed for more than half an hour, was nearly over. Much as I had
longed for their coming, my heart failed me at the riotous uproar of
their approach; and Milicent turned pale, and almost started from her
seat, as Mr. Hattersley burst into the room with a clamorous volley of
oaths in his mouth, which Hargrave endeavoured to check by entreating
him to remember the ladies.
“Ah! you do well to remind me of the ladies, you dastardly deserter,”
cried he, shaking his formidable fist at his brother-in-law. “If it
were not for them, you well know, I’d demolish you in the twinkling of
an eye, and give your body to the fowls of heaven and the lilies of the
fields!” Then, planting a chair by Lady Lowborough’s side, he stationed
himself in it, and began to talk to her with a mixture of absurdity and
impudence that seemed rather to amuse than to offend her; though she
affected to resent his insolence, and to keep him at bay with sallies
of smart and spirited repartee.
Meantime Mr. Grimsby seated himself by me, in the chair vacated by
Hargrave as they entered, and gravely stated that he would thank me for
a cup of tea: and Arthur placed himself beside poor Milicent,
confidentially pushing his head into her face, and drawing in closer to
her as she shrank away from him. He was not so noisy as Hattersley, but
his face was exceedingly flushed: he laughed incessantly, and while I
blushed for all I saw and heard of him, I was glad that he chose to
talk to his companion in so low a tone that no one could hear what he
said but herself.
“What fools they are!” drawled Mr. Grimsby, who had been talking away,
at my elbow, with sententious gravity all the time; but I had been too
much absorbed in contemplating the deplorable state of the other
two—especially Arthur—to attend to him.
“Did you ever hear such nonsense as they talk, Mrs. Huntingdon?” he
continued. “I’m quite ashamed of them for my part: they can’t take so
much as a bottle between them without its getting into their heads—”
“You are pouring the cream into your saucer, Mr. Grimsby.”
“Ah! yes, I see, but we’re almost in darkness here. Hargrave, snuff
those candles, will you?”
“They’re wax; they don’t require snuffing,” said I.
“‘The light of the body is the eye,’” observed Hargrave, with a
sarcastic smile. “‘If thine eye be _single_, thy whole body shall be
full of light.’”
Grimsby repulsed him with a solemn wave of the hand, and then turning
to me, continued, with the same drawling tones and strange uncertainty
of utterance and heavy gravity of aspect as before: “But as I was
saying, Mrs. Huntingdon, they have no head at all: they can’t take half
a bottle without being affected some way; whereas I—well, I’ve taken
three times as much as they have to-night, and you see I’m perfectly
steady. Now that may strike you as very singular, but I think I can
explain it: you see _their_ brains—I mention no names, but you’ll
understand to whom I allude—_their_ brains are light to begin with, and
the fumes of the fermented liquor render them lighter still, and
produce an entire light-headedness, or giddiness, resulting in
intoxication; whereas my brains, being composed of more solid
materials, will absorb a considerable quantity of this alcoholic vapour
without the production of any sensible result—”
“I think you will find a sensible result produced on that tea,”
interrupted Mr. Hargrave, “by the quantity of sugar you have put into
it. Instead of your usual complement of one lump, you have put in six.”
“Have I so?” replied the philosopher, diving with his spoon into the
cup, and bringing up several half-dissolved pieces in confirmation of
the assertion. “Hum! I perceive. Thus, Madam, you see the evil of
absence of mind—of thinking too much while engaged in the common
concerns of life. Now, if I had had my wits about me, like ordinary
men, instead of within me like a philosopher, I should not have spoiled
this cup of tea, and been constrained to trouble you for another.”
“That is the sugar-basin, Mr. Grimsby. Now you have spoiled the sugar
too; and I’ll thank you to ring for some more, for here is Lord
Lowborough at last; and I hope his lordship will condescend to sit down
with us, such as we are, and allow me to give him some tea.”
His lordship gravely bowed in answer to my appeal, but said nothing.
Meantime, Hargrave volunteered to ring for the sugar, while Grimsby
lamented his mistake, and attempted to prove that it was owing to the
shadow of the urn and the badness of the lights.
Lord Lowborough had entered a minute or two before, unobserved by
anyone but me, and had been standing before the door, grimly surveying
the company. He now stepped up to Annabella, who sat with her back
towards him, with Hattersley still beside her, though not now attending
to her, being occupied in vociferously abusing and bullying his host.
“Well, Annabella,” said her husband, as he leant over the back of her
chair, “which of these three ‘bold, manly spirits’ would you have me to
resemble?”
“By heaven and earth, you shall resemble us all!” cried Hattersley,
starting up and rudely seizing him by the arm. “Hallo, Huntingdon!” he
shouted—“_I’ve_ got him! Come, man, and help me! And d—n me, if I don’t
make him drunk before I let him go! He shall make up for all past
delinquencies as sure as I’m a living soul!”
There followed a disgraceful contest: Lord Lowborough, in desperate
earnest, and pale with anger, silently struggling to release himself
from the powerful madman that was striving to drag him from the room. I
attempted to urge Arthur to interfere in behalf of his outraged guest,
but he could do nothing but laugh.
“Huntingdon, you fool, come and help me, can’t you!” cried Hattersley,
himself somewhat weakened by his excesses.
“I’m wishing you God-speed, Hattersley,” cried Arthur, “and aiding you
with my prayers: I can’t do anything else if my life depended on it!
I’m quite used up. Oh—oh!” and leaning back in his seat, he clapped his
hands on his sides and groaned aloud.
“Annabella, give me a candle!” said Lowborough, whose antagonist had
now got him round the waist and was endeavouring to root him from the
door-post, to which he madly clung with all the energy of desperation.
“_I_ shall take no part in your rude sports!” replied the lady coldly
drawing back. “I wonder you can expect it.”
But I snatched up a candle and brought it to him. He took it and held
the flame to Hattersley’s hands, till, roaring like a wild beast, the
latter unclasped them and let him go. He vanished, I suppose to his own
apartment, for nothing more was seen of him till the morning. Swearing
and cursing like a maniac, Hattersley threw himself on to the ottoman
beside the window. The door being now free, Milicent attempted to make
her escape from the scene of her husband’s disgrace; but he called her
back, and insisted upon her coming to him.
“What do you want, Ralph?” murmured she, reluctantly approaching him.
“I want to know what’s the matter with you,” said he, pulling her on to
his knee like a child. “What are you crying for, Milicent?—Tell me!”
“I’m not crying.”
“You are,” persisted he, rudely pulling her hands from her face. “How
dare you tell such a lie!”
“I’m not crying now,” pleaded she.
“But you have been, and just this minute too; and I _will_ know what
for. Come, now, you _shall_ tell me!”
“Do let me alone, Ralph! Remember, we are not at home.”
“No matter: you _shall_ answer my question!” exclaimed her tormentor;
and he attempted to extort the confession by shaking her, and
remorselessly crushing her slight arms in the gripe of his powerful
fingers.
“Don’t let him treat your sister in that way,” said I to Mr. Hargrave.
“Come now, Hattersley, I can’t allow that,” said that gentleman,
stepping up to the ill-assorted couple. “Let my sister alone, if you
please.”
And he made an effort to unclasp the ruffian’s fingers from her arm,
but was suddenly driven backward, and nearly laid upon the floor by a
violent blow on the chest, accompanied with the admonition, “Take that
for your insolence! and learn to interfere between me and mine again.”
“If you were not drunk, I’d have satisfaction for that!” gasped
Hargrave, white and breathless as much from passion as from the
immediate effects of the blow.
“Go to the devil!” responded his brother-in-law. “Now, Milicent, tell
me what you were crying for.”
“I’ll tell you some other time,” murmured she, “when we are alone.”
“Tell me now!” said he, with another shake and a squeeze that made her
draw in her breath and bite her lip to suppress a cry of pain.
“_I’ll_ tell you, Mr. Hattersley,” said I. “She was crying from pure
shame and humiliation for you; because she could not bear to see you
conduct yourself so disgracefully.”
“Confound you, Madam!” muttered he, with a stare of stupid amazement at
my “impudence.” “It was _not_ that—was it, Milicent?”
She was silent.
“Come, speak up, child!”
“I can’t tell now,” sobbed she.
“But you can say ‘yes’ or ‘no’ as well as ‘I can’t tell.’—Come!”
“Yes,” she whispered, hanging her head, and blushing at the awful
acknowledgment.
“Curse you for an impertinent hussy, then!” cried he, throwing her from
him with such violence that she fell on her side; but she was up again
before either I or her brother could come to her assistance, and made
the best of her way out of the room, and, I suppose, up-stairs, without
loss of time.
The next object of assault was Arthur, who sat opposite, and had, no
doubt, richly enjoyed the whole scene.
“Now, Huntingdon,” exclaimed his irascible friend, “I WILL NOT have you