The Tenant of Wildfell Hall
“Your manner of asking it,” returned the other, “and the clearness with
which you remembered the whole transaction, showed you were not too
drunk to be fully conscious of what you were about, and quite
responsible for the deed.”
“You wanted to interfere between me and my wife,” grumbled Hattersley,
“and that is enough to provoke any man.”
“You justify it, then?” said his opponent, darting upon him a most
vindictive glance.
“No, I tell you I wouldn’t have done it if I hadn’t been under
excitement; and if you choose to bear malice for it after all the
handsome things I’ve said, do so and be d—d!”
“I _would_ refrain from such language in a _lady’s_ presence, at
least,” said Mr. Hargrave, hiding his anger under a mask of disgust.
“What have I said?” returned Hattersley: “nothing but heaven’s truth.
He will be damned, won’t he, Mrs. Huntingdon, if he doesn’t forgive his
brother’s trespasses?”
“You ought to forgive him, Mr. Hargrave, since he asks you,” said I.
“Do you say so? Then I will!” And, smiling almost frankly, he stepped
forward and offered his hand. It was immediately clasped in that of his
relative, and the reconciliation was apparently cordial on both sides.
“The affront,” continued Hargrave, turning to me, “owed half its
bitterness to the fact of its being offered in your presence; and since
you bid me forgive it, I will, and forget it too.”
“I guess the best return I can make will be to take myself off,”
muttered Hattersley, with a broad grin. His companion smiled, and he
left the room. This put me on my guard. Mr. Hargrave turned seriously
to me, and earnestly began,—
“Dear Mrs. Huntingdon, how I have longed for, yet dreaded, this hour!
Do not be alarmed,” he added, for my face was crimson with anger: “I am
not about to offend you with any useless entreaties or complaints. I am
not going to presume to trouble you with the mention of my own feelings
or your perfections, but I have something to reveal to you which you
ought to know, and which, yet, it pains me inexpressibly—”
“Then don’t trouble yourself to reveal it!”
“But it is of importance—”
“If so I shall hear it soon enough, especially if it is bad news, as
you seem to consider it. At present I am going to take the children to
the nursery.”
“But can’t you ring and send them?”
“No; I want the exercise of a run to the top of the house. Come,
Arthur.”
“But you will return?”
“Not yet; don’t wait.”
“Then when may I see you again?”
“At lunch,” said I, departing with little Helen in one arm and leading
Arthur by the hand.
He turned away, muttering some sentence of impatient censure or
complaint, in which “heartless” was the only distinguishable word.
“What nonsense is this, Mr. Hargrave?” said I, pausing in the doorway.
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, nothing; I did not intend you should hear my soliloquy. But the
fact is, Mrs. Huntingdon, I have a disclosure to make, painful for me
to offer as for you to hear; and I want you to give me a few minutes of
your attention in private at any time and place you like to appoint. It
is from no selfish motive that I ask it, and not for any cause that
could alarm your superhuman purity: therefore you need not kill me with
that look of cold and pitiless disdain. I know too well the feelings
with which the bearers of bad tidings are commonly regarded not to—”
“What _is_ this wonderful piece of intelligence?” said I, impatiently
interrupting him. “If it is anything of real importance, speak it in
three words before I go.”
“In three words I cannot. Send those children away and stay with me.”
“No; keep your bad tidings to yourself. I know it is something I don’t
want to hear, and something you would displease me by telling.”
“You have divined too truly, I fear; but still, since I know it, I feel
it my duty to disclose it to you.”
“Oh, spare us both the infliction, and I will exonerate you from the
duty. You have offered to tell; I have refused to hear: my ignorance
will not be charged on you.”
“Be it so: you shall not hear it from me. But if the blow fall too
suddenly upon you when it comes, remember I wished to soften it!”
I left him. I was determined his words should not alarm me. What could
_he_, of all men, have to reveal that was of importance for _me_ to
hear? It was no doubt some exaggerated tale about my unfortunate
husband that he wished to make the most of to serve his own bad
purposes.
6th.—He has not alluded to this momentous mystery since, and I have
seen no reason to repent of my unwillingness to hear it. The threatened
blow has not been struck yet, and I do not greatly fear it. At present
I am pleased with Arthur: he has not positively disgraced himself for
upwards of a fortnight, and all this last week has been so very
moderate in his indulgence at table that I can perceive a marked
difference in his general temper and appearance. Dare I hope this will
continue?
CHAPTER XXXIII
Seventh.—Yes, I _will_ hope! To-night I heard Grimsby and Hattersley
grumbling together about the inhospitality of their host. They did not
know I was near, for I happened to be standing behind the curtain in
the bow of the window, watching the moon rising over the clump of tall
dark elm-trees below the lawn, and wondering why Arthur was so
sentimental as to stand without, leaning against the outer pillar of
the portico, apparently watching it too.
“So, I suppose we’ve seen the last of our merry carousals in this
house,” said Mr. Hattersley; “I _thought_ his good-fellowship wouldn’t
last long. But,” added he, laughing, “I didn’t expect it would meet its
end this way. I rather thought our pretty hostess would be setting up
her porcupine quills, and threatening to turn us out of the house if we
didn’t mind our manners.”
“You didn’t foresee _this_, then?” answered Grimsby, with a guttural
chuckle. “But he’ll change again when he’s sick of her. If we come here
a year or two hence, we shall have all our own way, you’ll see.”
“I don’t know,” replied the other: “she’s not the style of woman you
soon tire of. But be that as it may, it’s devilish provoking now that
we can’t be jolly, because he chooses to be on his good behaviour.”
“It’s all these cursed women!” muttered Grimsby: “they’re the very bane
of the world! They bring trouble and discomfort wherever they come,
with their false, fair faces and their deceitful tongues.”
At this juncture I issued from my retreat, and smiling on Mr. Grimsby
as I passed, left the room and went out in search of Arthur. Having
seen him bend his course towards the shrubbery, I followed him thither,
and found him just entering the shadowy walk. I was so light of heart,
so overflowing with affection, that I sprang upon him and clasped him
in my arms. This startling conduct had a singular effect upon him:
first, he murmured, “Bless you, darling!” and returned my close embrace
with a fervour like old times, and _then_ he started, and, in a tone of
absolute terror, exclaimed,
“Helen! what the devil is this?” and I saw, by the faint light gleaming
through the overshadowing tree, that he was positively pale with the
shock.
How strange that the instinctive impulse of affection should come
first, and then the shock of the surprise! It shows, at least, that the
affection is genuine: he is not sick of me yet.
“I startled you, Arthur,” said I, laughing in my glee. “How nervous you
are!”
“What the deuce did you do it for?” cried he, quite testily,
extricating himself from my arms, and wiping his forehead with his
handkerchief. “Go back, Helen—go back directly! You’ll get your death
of cold!”
“I won’t, till I’ve told you what I came for. They are blaming you,
Arthur, for your temperance and sobriety, and I’m come to thank you for
it. They say it is all ‘these cursed women,’ and that we are the bane
of the world; but don’t let them laugh or grumble you out of your good
resolutions, or your affection for me.”
He laughed. I squeezed him in my arms again, and cried in tearful
earnest, “Do, do persevere! and I’ll love you better than ever I did
before!”
“Well, well, I will!” said he, hastily kissing me. “There, now, go. You
mad creature, how _could_ you come out in your light evening dress this
chill autumn night?”
“It is a glorious night,” said I.
“It is a night that will give you your death, in another minute. Run
away, do!”
“Do you see my death among those trees, Arthur?” said I, for he was
gazing intently at the shrubs, as if he saw it coming, and I was
reluctant to leave him, in my new-found happiness and revival of hope
and love. But he grew angry at my delay, so I kissed him and ran back
to the house.
I was in such a good humour that night: Milicent told me I was the life
of the party, and whispered she had never seen me so brilliant.
Certainly, I talked enough for twenty, and smiled upon them all.
Grimsby, Hattersley, Hargrave, Lady Lowborough, all shared my sisterly
kindness. Grimsby stared and wondered; Hattersley laughed and jested
(in spite of the little wine he had been suffered to imbibe), but still
behaved as well as he knew how. Hargrave and Annabella, from different
motives and in different ways, emulated me, and doubtless both
surpassed me, the former in his discursive versatility and eloquence,
the latter in boldness and animation at least. Milicent, delighted to
see her husband, her brother, and her over-estimated friend acquitting
themselves so well, was lively and gay too, in her quiet way. Even Lord
Lowborough caught the general contagion: his dark greenish eyes were
lighted up beneath their moody brows; his sombre countenance was
beautified by smiles; all traces of gloom and proud or cold reserve had
vanished for the time; and he astonished us all, not only by his
general cheerfulness and animation, but by the positive flashes of true
force and brilliance he emitted from time to time. Arthur did not talk
much, but he laughed, and listened to the rest, and was in perfect
good-humour, though not excited by wine. So that, altogether, we made a
very merry, innocent, and entertaining party.
9th.—Yesterday, when Rachel came to dress me for dinner, I saw that she
had been crying. I wanted to know the cause of it, but she seemed
reluctant to tell. Was she unwell? No. Had she heard bad news from her
friends? No. Had any of the servants vexed her?
“Oh, no, ma’am!” she answered; “it’s not for myself.”
“What then, Rachel? Have you been reading novels?”
“Bless you, no!” said she, with a sorrowful shake of the head; and then
she sighed and continued: “But to tell you the truth, ma’am, I don’t
like master’s ways of going on.”
“What do you mean, Rachel? He’s going on very properly at present.”
“Well, ma’am, if you think so, it’s right.”
And she went on dressing my hair, in a hurried way, quite unlike her
usual calm, collected manner, murmuring, half to herself, she was sure
it was beautiful hair: she “could like to see ’em match it.” When it
was done, she fondly stroked it, and gently patted my head.
“Is that affectionate ebullition intended for my hair, or myself,
nurse?” said I, laughingly turning round upon her; but a tear was even
now in her eye.
“What _do_ you mean, Rachel?” I exclaimed.
“Well, ma’am, I don’t know; but if—”
“If what?”
“Well, if I was you, I wouldn’t have that Lady Lowborough in the house
another minute—not another _minute_ I wouldn’t!
I was thunderstruck; but before I could recover from the shock
sufficiently to demand an explanation, Milicent entered my room, as she
frequently does when she is dressed before me; and she stayed with me
till it was time to go down. She must have found me a very unsociable
companion this time, for Rachel’s last words rang in my ears. But still