The Tenant of Wildfell Hall
sitting there and laughing like an idiot!”
“Oh, Hattersley,” cried he, wiping his swimming eyes—“you’ll be the
death of me.”
“Yes, I will, but not as you suppose: I’ll have the heart out of your
body, man, if you irritate me with any more of that imbecile
laughter!—What! are you at it yet?—There! see if that’ll settle you!”
cried Hattersley, snatching up a footstool and hurting it at the head
of his host; but he as well as missed his aim, and the latter still sat
collapsed and quaking with feeble laughter, with tears running down his
face: a deplorable spectacle indeed.
Hattersley tried cursing and swearing, but it would not do: he then
took a number of books from the table beside him, and threw them, one
by one, at the object of his wrath; but Arthur only laughed the more;
and, finally, Hattersley rushed upon him in a frenzy and seizing him by
the shoulders, gave him a violent shaking, under which he laughed and
shrieked alarmingly. But I saw no more: I thought I had witnessed
enough of my husband’s degradation; and leaving Annabella and the rest
to follow when they pleased, I withdrew, but not to bed. Dismissing
Rachel to her rest, I walked up and down my room, in an agony of misery
for what had been done, and suspense, not knowing what might further
happen, or how or when that unhappy creature would come up to bed.
At last he came, slowly and stumblingly ascending the stairs, supported
by Grimsby and Hattersley, who neither of them walked quite steadily
themselves, but were both laughing and joking at him, and making noise
enough for all the servants to hear. He himself was no longer laughing
now, but sick and stupid. I will write no more about _that_.
Such disgraceful scenes (or nearly such) have been repeated more than
once. I don’t say much to Arthur about it, for, if I did, it would do
more harm than good; but I let him know that I intensely dislike such
exhibitions; and each time he has promised they should never again be
repeated. But I fear he is losing the little self-command and
self-respect he once possessed: formerly, he would have been ashamed to
act thus—at least, before any other witnesses than his boon companions,
or such as they. His friend Hargrave, with a prudence and
self-government that I envy for _him_, never disgraces himself by
taking more than sufficient to render him a little “elevated,” and is
always the first to leave the table after Lord Lowborough, who, wiser
still, perseveres in vacating the dining-room immediately after us: but
never once, since Annabella offended him so deeply, has he entered the
drawing-room before the rest; always spending the interim in the
library, which I take care to have lighted for his accommodation; or,
on fine moonlight nights, in roaming about the grounds. But I think she
regrets her misconduct, for she has never repeated it since, and of
late she has comported herself with wonderful propriety towards him,
treating him with more uniform kindness and consideration than ever I
have observed her to do before. I date the time of this improvement
from the period when she ceased to hope and strive for Arthur’s
admiration.
CHAPTER XXXII
October 5th.—Esther Hargrave is getting a fine girl. She is not out of
the school-room yet, but her mother frequently brings her over to call
in the mornings when the gentlemen are out, and sometimes she spends an
hour or two in company with her sister and me, and the children; and
when we go to the Grove, I always contrive to see her, and talk more to
her than to any one else, for I am very much attached to my little
friend, and so is she to me. I wonder what she can see to like in me
though, for I am no longer the happy, lively girl I used to be; but she
has no other society, save that of her uncongenial mother, and her
governess (as artificial and conventional a person as that prudent
mother could procure to rectify the pupil’s natural qualities), and,
now and then, her subdued, quiet sister. I often wonder what will be
_her_ lot in life, and so does she; but _her_ speculations on the
future are full of buoyant hope; so were mine once. I shudder to think
of her being awakened, like me, to a sense of their delusive vanity. It
seems as if I should feel her disappointment, even more deeply than my
own. I feel almost as if I were born for such a fate, but _she_ is so
joyous and fresh, so light of heart and free of spirit, and so
guileless and unsuspecting too. Oh, it would be cruel to make her feel
as I feel now, and know what I have known!
Her sister trembles for her too. Yesterday morning, one of October’s
brightest, loveliest days, Milicent and I were in the garden enjoying a
brief half-hour together with our children, while Annabella was lying
on the drawing-room sofa, deep in the last new novel. We had been
romping with the little creatures, almost as merry and wild as
themselves, and now paused in the shade of the tall copper beech, to
recover breath and rectify our hair, disordered by the rough play and
the frolicsome breeze, while they toddled together along the broad,
sunny walk; my Arthur supporting the feebler steps of her little Helen,
and sagaciously pointing out to her the brightest beauties of the
border as they passed, with semi-articulate prattle, that did as well
for her as any other mode of discourse. From laughing at the pretty
sight, we began to talk of the children’s future life; and that made us
thoughtful. We both relapsed into silent musing as we slowly proceeded
up the walk; and I suppose Milicent, by a train of associations, was
led to think of her sister.
“Helen,” said she, “you often see Esther, don’t you?”
“Not very often.”
“But you have more frequent opportunities of meeting her than I have;
and she loves you, I know, and reverences you too: there is nobody’s
opinion she thinks so much of; and she says you have more sense than
mamma.”
“That is because she is self-willed, and my opinions more generally
coincide with her own than your mamma’s. But what then, Milicent?”
“Well, since you have so much influence with her, I wish you would
seriously impress it upon her, never, on any account, or for anybody’s
persuasion, to marry for the sake of money, or rank, or establishment,
or any earthly thing, but true affection and well-grounded esteem.”
“There is no necessity for that,” said I, “for we have had some
discourse on that subject already, and I assure you her ideas of love
and matrimony are as romantic as any one could desire.”
“But romantic notions will not do: I want her to have true notions.”
“Very right: but in my judgment, what the world stigmatises as
romantic, is often more nearly allied to the truth than is commonly
supposed; for, if the generous ideas of youth are too often
over-clouded by the sordid views of after-life, that scarcely proves
them to be false.”
“Well, but if you think her ideas are what they ought to be, strengthen
them, will you? and confirm them, as far as you can; for _I_ had
romantic notions once, and—I don’t mean to say that I regret my lot,
for I am quite sure I don’t, but—”
“I understand you,” said I; “you are contented for yourself, but you
would not have your sister to suffer the same as you.”
“No—or worse. She might have far worse to suffer than I, for _I am_
really contented, Helen, though you mayn’t think it: I speak the solemn
truth in saying that I would not exchange my husband for any man on
earth, if I might do it by the plucking of this leaf.”
“Well, I believe you: now that you have him, you would not exchange him
for another; but then you would gladly exchange some of his qualities
for those of better men.”
“Yes: just as I would gladly exchange some of my own qualities for
those of better women; for neither he nor I are perfect, and I desire
his improvement as earnestly as my own. And he will improve, don’t you
think so, Helen? he’s only six-and-twenty yet.”
“He may,” I answered,
“He will, he WILL!” repeated she.
“Excuse the faintness of my acquiescence, Milicent, I would not
discourage your hopes for the world, but mine have been so often
disappointed, that I am become as cold and doubtful in my expectations
as the flattest of octogenarians.”
“And yet you do hope, still, even for Mr. Huntingdon?”
“I do, I confess, ‘even’ for _him;_ for it seems as if life and hope
must cease together. And is he so _much_ worse, Milicent, than Mr.
Hattersley?”
“Well, to give you my candid opinion, I think there is no comparison
between them. But you mustn’t be offended, Helen, for you know I always
speak my mind, and you may speak yours too. I sha’n’t care.”
“I am not offended, love; and my opinion is, that if there _be_ a
comparison made between the two, the difference, for the most part, is
certainly in Hattersley’s favour.”
Milicent’s own heart told her how much it cost me to make this
acknowledgment; and, with a childlike impulse, she expressed her
sympathy by suddenly kissing my cheek, without a word of reply, and
then turning quickly away, caught up her baby, and hid her face in its
frock. How odd it is that we so often weep for each other’s distresses,
when we shed not a tear for our own! Her heart had been full enough of
her own sorrows, but it overflowed at the idea of mine; and I, too,
shed tears at the sight of her sympathetic emotion, though I had not
wept for myself for many a week.
It was one rainy day last week; most of the company were killing time
in the billiard-room, but Milicent and I were with little Arthur and
Helen in the library, and between our books, our children, and each
other, we expected to make out a very agreeable morning. We had not
been thus secluded above two hours, however, when Mr. Hattersley came
in, attracted, I suppose, by the voice of his child, as he was crossing
the hall, for he is prodigiously fond of her, and she of him.
He was redolent of the stables, where he had been regaling himself with
the company of his fellow-creatures the horses ever since breakfast.
But that was no matter to my little namesake; as soon as the colossal
person of her father darkened the door, she uttered a shrill scream of
delight, and, quitting her mother’s side, ran crowing towards him,
balancing her course with outstretched arms, and embracing his knee,
threw back her head and laughed in his face. He might well look
smilingly down upon those small, fair features, radiant with innocent
mirth, those clear blue shining eyes, and that soft flaxen hair cast
back upon the little ivory neck and shoulders. Did he not think how
unworthy he was of such a possession? I fear no such idea crossed his
mind. He caught her up, and there followed some minutes of very rough
play, during which it is difficult to say whether the father or the
daughter laughed and shouted the loudest. At length, however, the
boisterous pastime terminated, suddenly, as might be expected: the
little one was hurt, and began to cry; and the ungentle play-fellow
tossed it into its mother’s lap, bidding her “make all straight.” As
happy to return to that gentle comforter as it had been to leave her,
the child nestled in her arms, and hushed its cries in a moment; and
sinking its little weary head on her bosom, soon dropped asleep.
Meantime Mr. Hattersley strode up to the fire, and interposing his
height and breadth between us and it, stood with arms akimbo, expanding
his chest, and gazing round him as if the house and all its
appurtenances and contents were his own undisputed possessions.
“Deuced bad weather this!” he began. “There’ll be no shooting to-day, I
guess.” Then, suddenly lifting up his voice, he regaled us with a few
bars of a rollicking song, which abruptly ceasing, he finished the tune
with a whistle, and then continued:—“I say, Mrs. Huntingdon, what a