The Tenant of Wildfell Hall
had set the table in a roar he would look round delightedly upon them
all, and add his shrill laugh to theirs. But if that beaming blue eye
rested on me, its light would vanish for a moment, and he would say, in
some concern, “Mamma, why don’t _you_ laugh? Make her laugh, papa—she
never will.”
Hence was I obliged to stay among these human brutes, watching an
opportunity to get my child away from them instead of leaving them
immediately after the removal of the cloth, as I should always
otherwise have done. He was never willing to go, and I frequently had
to carry him away by force, for which he thought me very cruel and
unjust; and sometimes his father would insist upon my letting him
remain; and then I would leave him to his kind friends, and retire to
indulge my bitterness and despair alone, or to rack my brains for a
remedy to this great evil.
But here again I must do Mr. Hargrave the justice to acknowledge that I
never saw _him_ laugh at the child’s misdemeanours, nor heard him utter
a word of encouragement to his aspirations after manly accomplishments.
But when anything very extraordinary was said or done by the infant
profligate, I noticed, at times, a peculiar expression in his face that
I could neither interpret nor define: a slight twitching about the
muscles of the mouth; a sudden flash in the eye, as he darted a sudden
glance at the child and then at me: and then I could fancy there arose
a gleam of hard, keen, sombre satisfaction in his countenance at the
look of impotent wrath and anguish he was too certain to behold in
mine. But on one occasion, when Arthur had been behaving particularly
ill, and Mr. Huntingdon and his guests had been particularly provoking
and insulting to me in their encouragement of him, and I particularly
anxious to get him out of the room, and on the very point of demeaning
myself by a burst of uncontrollable passion—Mr. Hargrave suddenly rose
from his seat with an aspect of stern determination, lifted the child
from his father’s knee, where he was sitting half-tipsy, cocking his
head and laughing at me, and execrating me with words he little knew
the meaning of, handed him out of the room, and, setting him down in
the hall, held the door open for me, gravely bowed as I withdrew, and
closed it after me. I heard high words exchanged between him and his
already half-inebriated host as I departed, leading away my bewildered
and disconcerted boy.
But this should not continue: my child must not be abandoned to this
corruption: better far that he should live in poverty and obscurity,
with a fugitive mother, than in luxury and affluence with such a
father. These guests might not be with us long, but they would return
again: and he, the most injurious of the whole, his child’s worst
enemy, would still remain. I could endure it for myself, but for my son
it must be borne no longer: the world’s opinion and the feelings of my
friends must be alike unheeded here, at least—alike unable to deter me
from my duty. But where should I find an asylum, and how obtain
subsistence for us both? Oh, I would take my precious charge at early
dawn, take the coach to M——, flee to the port of ——, cross the
Atlantic, and seek a quiet, humble home in New England, where I would
support myself and him by the labour of my hands. The palette and the
easel, my darling playmates once, must be my sober toil-fellows now.
But was I sufficiently skilful as an artist to obtain my livelihood in
a strange land, without friends and without recommendation? No; I must
wait a little; I must labour hard to improve my talent, and to produce
something worth while as a specimen of my powers, something to speak
favourably for me, whether as an actual painter or a teacher. Brilliant
success, of course, I did not look for, but some degree of security
from positive failure was indispensable: I must not take my son to
starve. And then I must have money for the journey, the passage, and
some little to support us in our retreat in case I should be
unsuccessful at first: and not too little either: for who could tell
how long I might have to struggle with the indifference or neglect of
others, or my own inexperience or inability to suit their tastes?
What should I do then? Apply to my brother and explain my circumstances
and my resolves to him? No, no: even if I told him _all_ my grievances,
which I should be very reluctant to do, he would be certain to
disapprove of the step: it would seem like madness to him, as it would
to my uncle and aunt, or to Milicent. No; I must have patience and
gather a hoard of my own. Rachel should be my only confidante—I thought
I could persuade her into the scheme; and she should help me, first, to
find out a picture-dealer in some distant town; then, through her
means, I would privately sell what pictures I had on hand that would do
for such a purpose, and some of those I should thereafter paint.
Besides this, I would contrive to dispose of my jewels, not the family
jewels, but the few I brought with me from home, and those my uncle
gave me on my marriage. A few months’ arduous toil might well be borne
by me with such an end in view; and in the interim my son could not be
much more injured than he was already.
Having formed this resolution, I immediately set to work to accomplish
it, I might possibly have been induced to wax cool upon it afterwards,
or perhaps to keep weighing the pros and cons in my mind till the
latter overbalanced the former, and I was driven to relinquish the
project altogether, or delay the execution of it to an indefinite
period, had not something occurred to confirm me in that determination,
to which I still adhere, which I still think I did well to form, and
shall do better to execute.
Since Lord Lowborough’s departure I had regarded the library as
entirely my own, a secure retreat at all hours of the day. None of our
gentlemen had the smallest pretensions to a literary taste, except Mr.
Hargrave; and he, at present, was quite contented with the newspapers
and periodicals of the day. And if, by any chance, he should look in
here, I felt assured he would soon depart on seeing me, for, instead of
becoming less cool and distant towards me, he had become decidedly more
so since the departure of his mother and sisters, which was just what I
wished. Here, then, I set up my easel, and here I worked at my canvas
from daylight till dusk, with very little intermission, saving when
pure necessity, or my duties to little Arthur, called me away: for I
still thought proper to devote some portion of every day exclusively to
his instruction and amusement. But, contrary to my expectation, on the
third morning, while I was thus employed, Mr. Hargrave _did_ look in,
and did _not_ immediately withdraw on seeing me. He apologized for his
intrusion, and said he was only come for a book; but when he had got
it, he condescended to cast a glance over my picture. Being a man of
taste, he had something to say on this subject as well as another, and
having modestly commented on it, without much encouragement from me, he
proceeded to expatiate on the art in general. Receiving no
encouragement in that either, he dropped it, but did not depart.
“You don’t give us much of your company, Mrs. Huntingdon,” observed he,
after a brief pause, during which I went on coolly mixing and tempering
my colours; “and I cannot wonder at it, for you must be heartily sick
of us all. I myself am so thoroughly ashamed of my companions, and so
weary of their irrational conversation and pursuits—now that there is
no one to humanize them and keep them in check, since you have justly
abandoned us to our own devices—that I think I shall presently withdraw
from amongst them, probably within this week; and I cannot suppose you
will regret my departure.”
He paused. I did not answer.
“Probably,” he added, with a smile, “your only regret on the subject
will be that I do not take all my companions along with me. I flatter
myself, at times, that though among them I am not of them; but it is
natural that you should be glad to get rid of me. I may regret this,
but I cannot blame you for it.”
“I shall not rejoice at _your_ departure, for you _can_ conduct
yourself like a gentleman,” said I, thinking it but right to make some
acknowledgment for his good behaviour; “but I must confess I shall
rejoice to bid adieu to the rest, inhospitable as it may appear.”
“No one can blame you for such an avowal,” replied he gravely: “not
even the gentlemen themselves, I imagine. I’ll just tell you,” he
continued, as if actuated by a sudden resolution, “what was said last
night in the dining-room, after you left us: perhaps you will not mind
it, as you’re so _very_ philosophical on certain points,” he added with
a slight sneer. “They were talking about Lord Lowborough and his
delectable lady, the cause of whose sudden departure is no secret
amongst them; and her character is so well known to them all, that,
nearly related to me as she is, I could not attempt to defend it. Curse
me!” he muttered, _par parenthése_, “if I don’t have vengeance for
this! If the villain must disgrace the family, must he blazon it abroad
to every low-bred knave of his acquaintance? I beg your pardon, Mrs.
Huntingdon. Well, they were talking of these things, and some of them
remarked that, as she was separated from her husband, he might see her
again when he pleased.”
“‘Thank you,’ said he; ‘I’ve had enough of her for the present: I’ll
not trouble to see her, unless she comes to me.’
“‘Then what do you mean to do, Huntingdon, when we’re gone?’ said Ralph
Hattersley. ‘Do you mean to turn from the error of your ways, and be a
good husband, a good father, and so forth; as I do, when I get shut of
you and all these rollicking devils you call your friends? I think it’s
time; and your wife is fifty times too good for you, you _know_—’
“And he added some praise of you, which you would not thank me for
repeating, nor him for uttering; proclaiming it aloud, as he did,
without delicacy or discrimination, in an audience where it seemed
profanation to utter your name: himself utterly incapable of
understanding or appreciating your real excellences. Huntingdon,
meanwhile, sat quietly drinking his wine,—or looking smilingly into his
glass and offering no interruption or reply, till Hattersley shouted
out,—‘Do you hear me, man?’
“‘Yes, go on,’ said he.
“‘Nay, I’ve done,’ replied the other: ‘I only want to know if you
intend to take my advice.’
“‘What advice?’
“‘To turn over a new leaf, you double-dyed scoundrel,’ shouted Ralph,
‘and beg your wife’s pardon, and be a good boy for the future.’
“‘My wife! what wife? I have no wife,’ replied Huntingdon, looking
innocently up from his glass, ‘or if I have, look you, gentlemen: I
value her so highly that any one among you, that can fancy her, may
have her and welcome: you may, by Jove, and my blessing into the
bargain!’
“I—hem—someone asked if he really meant what he said; upon which he
solemnly swore he did, and no mistake. What do you think of that, Mrs.
Huntingdon?” asked Mr. Hargrave, after a short pause, during which I
had felt he was keenly examining my half-averted face.
“I say,” replied I, calmly, “that what he prizes so lightly will not be
long in his possession.”
“You cannot mean that you will break your heart and die for the
detestable conduct of an infamous villain like that!”
“By no means: my heart is too thoroughly dried to be broken in a hurry,
and I mean to live as long as I can.”
“Will you leave him then?”
“Yes.”
“When: and how?” asked he, eagerly.
“_When_ I am ready, and _how_ I can manage it most effectually.”
“But your child?”
“My child goes with me.”
“He will not allow it.”
“I shall not ask him.”