The Tenant of Wildfell Hall
sand,—which fall had shortly after taken place, as Hattersley must have
been conscious while he read.
Almost at the commencement of the first letter I had the unexpected
pleasure of seeing him blush; but he immediately turned his back to me,
and finished the perusal at the window. At the second, I saw him, once
or twice, raise his hand, and hurriedly pass it across his face. Could
it be to dash away a tear? When he had done, there was an interval
spent in clearing his throat and staring out of the window, and then,
after whistling a few bars of a favourite air, he turned round, gave me
back the letters, and silently shook me by the hand.
“I’ve been a cursed rascal, God knows,” said he, as he gave it a hearty
squeeze, “but you see if I don’t make amends for it—d—n me if I don’t!”
“Don’t curse yourself, Mr. Hattersley; if God had heard half your
invocations of that kind, you would have been in hell long before
now—and you _cannot_ make amends for the past by doing your duty for
the future, inasmuch as your duty is only what you _owe_ to your Maker,
and you cannot do _more_ than fulfil it: another must make amends for
your past delinquencies. If you intend to reform, invoke God’s
blessing, His mercy, and His aid; not His curse.”
“God help me, then—for I’m sure I need it. Where’s Milicent?”
“She’s there, just coming in with her sister.”
He stepped out at the glass door, and went to meet them. I followed at
a little distance. Somewhat to his wife’s astonishment, he lifted her
off from the ground, and saluted her with a hearty kiss and a strong
embrace; then placing his two hands on her shoulders, he gave her, I
suppose, a sketch of the great things he meant to do, for she suddenly
threw her arms round him, and burst into tears, exclaiming,—“Do, do,
Ralph—we shall be so happy! How very, very good you are!”
“Nay, not I,” said he, turning her round, and pushing her towards me.
“Thank _her;_ it’s her doing.”
Milicent flew to thank me, overflowing with gratitude. I disclaimed all
title to it, telling her her husband was predisposed to amendment
before I added my mite of exhortation and encouragement, and that I had
only done what she might, and ought to have done herself.
“Oh, no!” cried she; “I couldn’t have influenced him, I’m sure, by
anything that I could have said. I should only have bothered him by my
clumsy efforts at persuasion, if I had made the attempt.”
“You never tried me, Milly,” said he.
Shortly after they took their leave. They are now gone on a visit to
Hattersley’s father. After that they will repair to their country home.
I hope his good resolutions will not fall through, and poor Milicent
will not be again disappointed. Her last letter was full of present
bliss, and pleasing anticipations for the future; but no particular
temptation has yet occurred to put his virtue to the test. Henceforth,
however, she will doubtless be somewhat less timid and reserved, and he
more kind and thoughtful.—Surely, then, her hopes are not unfounded;
and I have one bright spot, at least, whereon to rest my thoughts.
CHAPTER XLIII
October 10th.—Mr. Huntingdon returned about three weeks ago. His
appearance, his demeanour and conversation, and my feelings with regard
to him, I shall not trouble myself to describe. The day after his
arrival, however, he surprised me by the announcement of an intention
to procure a governess for little Arthur: I told him it was quite
unnecessary, not to say ridiculous, at the present season: I thought I
was fully competent to the task of teaching him myself—for some years
to come, at least: the child’s education was the only pleasure and
business of my life; and since he had deprived me of every other
occupation, he might surely leave me that.
He said I was not fit to teach children, or to be with them: I had
already reduced the boy to little better than an automaton; I had
broken his fine spirit with my rigid severity; and I should freeze all
the sunshine out of his heart, and make him as gloomy an ascetic as
myself, if I had the handling of him much longer. And poor Rachel, too,
came in for her share of abuse, as usual; he cannot endure Rachel,
because he knows she has a proper appreciation of him.
I calmly defended our several qualifications as nurse and governess,
and still resisted the proposed addition to our family; but he cut me
short by saying it was no use bothering about the matter, for he had
engaged a governess already, and she was coming next week; so that all
I had to do was to get things ready for her reception. This was a
rather startling piece of intelligence. I ventured to inquire her name
and address, by whom she had been recommended, or how he had been led
to make choice of her.
“She is a very estimable, pious young person,” said he; “you needn’t be
afraid. Her name is Myers, I believe; and she was recommended to me by
a respectable old dowager: a lady of high repute in the religious
world. I have not seen her myself, and therefore cannot give you a
particular account of her person and conversation, and so forth; but,
if the old lady’s eulogies are correct, you will find her to possess
all desirable qualifications for her position: an inordinate love of
children among the rest.”
All this was gravely and quietly spoken, but there was a laughing demon
in his half-averted eye that boded no good, I imagined. However, I
thought of my asylum in ——shire, and made no further objections.
When Miss Myers arrived, I was not prepared to give her a very cordial
reception. Her appearance was not particularly calculated to produce a
favourable impression at first sight, nor did her manners and
subsequent conduct, in any degree, remove the prejudice I had already
conceived against her. Her attainments were limited, her intellect
noways above mediocrity. She had a fine voice, and could sing like a
nightingale, and accompany herself sufficiently well on the piano; but
these were her only accomplishments. There was a look of guile and
subtlety in her face, a sound of it in her voice. She seemed afraid of
me, and would start if I suddenly approached her. In her behaviour she
was respectful and complaisant, even to servility: she attempted to
flatter and fawn upon me at first, but I soon checked that. Her
fondness for her little pupil was overstrained, and I was obliged to
remonstrate with her on the subject of over-indulgence and injudicious
praise; but she could not gain his heart. Her piety consisted in an
occasional heaving of sighs, and uplifting of eyes to the ceiling, and
the utterance of a few cant phrases. She told me she was a clergyman’s
daughter, and had been left an orphan from her childhood, but had had
the good fortune to obtain a situation in a very pious family; and then
she spoke so gratefully of the kindness she had experienced from its
different members, that I reproached myself for my uncharitable
thoughts and unfriendly conduct, and relented for a time, but not for
long: my causes of dislike were too rational, my suspicions too well
founded for that; and I knew it was my duty to watch and scrutinize
till those suspicions were either satisfactorily removed or confirmed.
I asked the name and residence of the kind and pious family. She
mentioned a common name, and an unknown and distant place of abode, but
told me they were now on the Continent, and their present address was
unknown to her. I never saw her speak much to Mr. Huntingdon; but he
would frequently look into the school-room to see how little Arthur got
on with his new companion, when I was not there. In the evening, she
sat with us in the drawing-room, and would sing and play to amuse him
or us, as she pretended, and was very attentive to his wants, and
watchful to anticipate them, though she only talked to me; indeed, he
was seldom in a condition to be talked to. Had she been other than she
was, I should have felt her presence a great relief to come between us
thus, except, indeed, that I should have been thoroughly ashamed for
any decent person to see him as he often was.
I did not mention my suspicions to Rachel; but she, having sojourned
for half a century in this land of sin and sorrow, has learned to be
suspicious herself. She told me from the first she was “down of that
new governess,” and I soon found she watched her quite as narrowly as I
did; and I was glad of it, for I longed to know the truth: the
atmosphere of Grassdale seemed to stifle me, and I could only live by
thinking of Wildfell Hall.
At last, one morning, she entered my chamber with such intelligence
that my resolution was taken before she had ceased to speak. While she
dressed me I explained to her my intentions and what assistance I
should require from her, and told her which of my things she was to
pack up, and what she was to leave behind for herself, as I had no
other means of recompensing her for this sudden dismissal after her
long and faithful service: a circumstance I most deeply regretted, but
could not avoid.
“And what will you do, Rachel?” said I; “will you go home, or seek
another place?”
“I have no home, ma’am, but with you,” she replied; “and if I leave you
I’ll never go into place again as long as I live.”
“But I can’t afford to live like a lady now,” returned I: “I must be my
own maid and my child’s nurse.”
“What _signifies!_” replied she, in some excitement. “You’ll want
somebody to clean and wash, and cook, won’t you? I can do all that; and
never mind the wages: I’ve my bits o’ savings yet, and if you wouldn’t
take me I should have to find my own board and lodging out of ’em
somewhere, or else work among strangers: and it’s what I’m not used to:
so you can please yourself, ma’am.” Her voice quavered as she spoke,
and the tears stood in her eyes.
“I should like it above all things, Rachel, and I’d give you such wages
as I could afford: such as I should give to any servant-of-all-work I
might employ: but don’t you see I should be dragging you down with me
when you have done nothing to deserve it?”
“Oh, fiddle!” ejaculated she.
“And, besides, my future way of living will be so widely different to
the past: so different to all you have been accustomed to—”
“Do you think, ma’am, I can’t bear what my missis can? surely I’m not
so proud and so dainty as that comes to; and my little master, too, God
bless him!”
“But I’m young, Rachel; I sha’n’t mind it; and Arthur is young too: it
will be nothing to him.”
“Nor me either: I’m not so old but what I can stand hard fare and hard
work, if it’s only to help and comfort them as I’ve loved like my own
bairns: for all I’m too old to bide the thoughts o’ leaving ’em in
trouble and danger, and going amongst strangers myself.”
“Then you sha’n’t, Rachel!” cried I, embracing my faithful friend.
“We’ll all go together, and you shall see how the new life suits you.”
“Bless you, honey!” cried she, affectionately returning my embrace.
“Only let us get shut of this wicked house, and we’ll do right enough,
you’ll see.”
“So think I,” was my answer; and so that point was settled.
By that morning’s post I despatched a few hasty lines to Frederick,
beseeching him to prepare my asylum for my immediate reception: for I
should probably come to claim it within a day after the receipt of that
note: and telling him, in few words, the cause of my sudden resolution.
I then wrote three letters of adieu: the first to Esther Hargrave, in
which I told her that I found it impossible to stay any longer at
Grassdale, or to leave my son under his father’s protection; and, as it
was of the last importance that our future abode should be unknown to
him and his acquaintance, I should disclose it to no one but my
brother, through the medium of whom I hoped still to correspond with my