The Tenant of Wildfell Hall
yet in single blessedness. Shortly after the death of her mother she
withdrew the light of her presence from Ryecote Farm, finding it
impossible any longer to endure the rough manners and unsophisticated
habits of her honest brother Robert and his worthy wife, or the idea of
being identified with such vulgar people in the eyes of the world, and
took lodgings in —— the county town, where she lived, and still lives,
I suppose, in a kind of close-fisted, cold, uncomfortable gentility,
doing no good to others, and but little to herself; spending her days
in fancy-work and scandal; referring frequently to her “brother the
vicar,” and her “sister, the vicar’s lady,” but never to her brother
the farmer and her sister the farmer’s wife; seeing as much company as
she can without too much expense, but loving no one and beloved by
none—a cold-hearted, supercilious, keenly, insidiously censorious old
maid.
CHAPTER XLIX
Though Mr. Lawrence’s health was now quite re-established, my visits to
Woodford were as unremitting as ever; though often less protracted than
before. We seldom _talked_ about Mrs. Huntingdon; but yet we never met
without mentioning her, for I never sought his company but with the
hope of hearing something about her, and he never sought mine at all,
because he saw me often enough without. But I always began to talk of
other things, and waited first to see if _he_ would introduce the
subject. If he did not, I would casually ask, “Have you heard from your
sister lately?” If he said “No,” the matter was dropped: if he said
“Yes,” I would venture to inquire, “How is she?” but never “How is her
husband?” though I might be burning to know; because I had not the
hypocrisy to profess any anxiety for his recovery, and I had not the
face to express any desire for a contrary result. Had I any such
desire?—I fear I must plead guilty; but since you have heard my
confession, you must hear my justification as well—a few of the
excuses, at least, wherewith I sought to pacify my own accusing
conscience.
In the first place, you see, his life did harm to others, and evidently
no good to himself; and though I wished it to terminate, I would not
have hastened its close if, by the lifting of a finger, I could have
done so, or if a spirit had whispered in my ear that a single effort of
the will would be enough,—unless, indeed, I had the power to exchange
him for some other victim of the grave, whose life might be of service
to his race, and whose death would be lamented by his friends. But was
there any harm in wishing that, among the many thousands whose souls
would certainly be required of them before the year was over, this
wretched mortal might be one? I thought not; and therefore I wished
with all my heart that it might please heaven to remove him to a better
world, or if that might not be, still to take him out of this; for if
he were unfit to answer the summons now, after a warning sickness, and
with such an angel by his side, it seemed but too certain that he never
would be—that, on the contrary, returning health would bring returning
lust and villainy, and as he grew more certain of recovery, more
accustomed to her generous goodness, his feelings would become more
callous, his heart more flinty and impervious to her persuasive
arguments—but God knew best. Meantime, however, I could not but be
anxious for the result of His decrees; knowing, as I did, that (leaving
myself entirely out of the question), however Helen might feel
interested in her husband’s welfare, however she might deplore his
fate, still while he lived she must be miserable.
A fortnight passed away, and my inquiries were always answered in the
negative. At length a welcome “yes” drew from me the second question.
Lawrence divined my anxious thoughts, and appreciated my reserve. I
feared, at first, he was going to torture me by unsatisfactory replies,
and either leave me quite in the dark concerning what I wanted to know,
or force me to drag the information out of him, morsel by morsel, by
direct inquiries. “And serve you right,” you will say; but he was more
merciful; and in a little while he put his sister’s letter into my
hand. I silently read it, and restored it to him without comment or
remark. This mode of procedure suited him so well, that thereafter he
always pursued the plan of showing me her letters at once, when
“inquired” after her, if there were any to show—it was so much less
trouble than to tell me their contents; and I received such confidences
so quietly and discreetly that he was never induced to discontinue
them.
But I devoured those precious letters with my eyes, and never let them
go till their contents were stamped upon my mind; and when I got home,
the most important passages were entered in my diary among the
remarkable events of the day.
The first of these communications brought intelligence of a serious
relapse in Mr. Huntingdon’s illness, entirely the result of his own
infatuation in persisting in the indulgence of his appetite for
stimulating drink. In vain had she remonstrated, in vain she had
mingled his wine with water: her arguments and entreaties were a
nuisance, her interference was an insult so intolerable that, at
length, on finding she had covertly diluted the pale port that was
brought him, he threw the bottle out of the window, swearing he would
not be cheated like a baby, ordered the butler, on pain of instant
dismissal, to bring a bottle of the strongest wine in the cellar, and
affirming that he should have been well long ago if he had been let to
have his own way, but she wanted to keep him weak in order that she
might have him under her thumb—but, by the Lord Harry, he would have no
more humbug—seized a glass in one hand and the bottle in the other, and
never rested till he had drunk it dry. Alarming symptoms were the
immediate result of this “imprudence,” as she mildly termed it—symptoms
which had rather increased than diminished since; and this was the
cause of her delay in writing to her brother. Every former feature of
his malady had returned with augmented virulence: the slight external
wound, half healed, had broken out afresh; internal inflammation had
taken place, which might terminate fatally if not soon removed. Of
course, the wretched sufferer’s temper was not improved by this
calamity—in fact, I suspect it was well nigh insupportable, though his
kind nurse did not complain; but she said she had been obliged at last
to give her son in charge to Esther Hargrave, as her presence was so
constantly required in the sick-room that she could not possibly attend
to him herself; and though the child had begged to be allowed to
continue with her there, and to help her to nurse his papa, and though
she had no doubt he would have been very good and quiet, she could not
think of subjecting his young and tender feelings to the sight of so
much suffering, or of allowing him to witness his father’s impatience,
or hear the dreadful language he was wont to use in his paroxysms of
pain or irritation.
The latter (continued she) most deeply regrets the step that has
occasioned his relapse; but, as usual, he throws the blame upon me. If
I had reasoned with him like a rational creature, he says, it never
would have happened; but to be treated like a baby or a fool was enough
to put any man past his patience, and drive him to assert his
independence even at the sacrifice of his own interest. He forgets how
often I had _reasoned_ him “past his patience” before. He appears to be
sensible of his danger; but nothing can induce him to behold it in the
proper light. The other night, while I was waiting on him, and just as
I had brought him a draught to assuage his burning thirst, he observed,
with a return of his former sarcastic bitterness, “Yes, you’re mighty
attentive _now!_ I suppose there’s _nothing_ you wouldn’t do for me
now?”
“You know,” said I, a little surprised at his manner, “that I am
willing to do anything I can to relieve you.”
“Yes, _now_, my immaculate angel; but when once you have secured your
reward, and find yourself safe in heaven, and me howling in hell-fire,
catch you lifting a finger to serve me _then!_ No, you’ll look
complacently on, and not so much as dip the tip of your finger in water
to cool my tongue!”
“If so, it will be because of the great gulf over which I cannot pass;
and if I _could_ look complacently on in such a case, it would be only
from the assurance that you were being purified from your sins, and
fitted to enjoy the happiness I felt.—But are you _determined_, Arthur,
that I shall not meet you in heaven?”
“Humph! What should I do there, I should like to know?”
“Indeed, I cannot tell; and I fear it is too certain that your tastes
and feelings must be widely altered before you can have any enjoyment
there. But do you prefer sinking, without an effort, into the state of
torment you picture to yourself?”
“Oh, it’s all a fable,” said he, contemptuously.
“Are you sure, Arthur? are you _quite_ sure? Because, if there is any
doubt, and if you _should_ find yourself mistaken after all, when it is
too late to turn—”
“It would be rather awkward, to be sure,” said he; “but don’t bother me
now—I’m not going to die yet. I can’t and won’t,” he added vehemently,
as if suddenly struck with the appalling aspect of that terrible event.
“Helen, you _must_ save me!” And he earnestly seized my hand, and
looked into my face with such imploring eagerness that my heart bled
for him, and I could not speak for tears.
* * * * *
The next letter brought intelligence that the malady was fast
increasing; and the poor sufferer’s horror of death was still more
distressing than his impatience of bodily pain. _All_ his friends had
not forsaken him; for Mr. Hattersley, hearing of his danger, had come
to see him from his distant home in the north. His wife had accompanied
him, as much for the pleasure of seeing her dear friend, from whom she
had been parted so long, as to visit her mother and sister.
Mrs. Huntingdon expressed herself glad to see Milicent once more, and
pleased to behold her so happy and well. She is now at the Grove,
continued the letter, but she often calls to see me. Mr. Hattersley
spends much of his time at Arthur’s bed-side. With more good feeling
than I gave him credit for, he evinces considerable sympathy for his
unhappy friend, and is far more willing than able to comfort him.
Sometimes he tries to joke and laugh with him, but that will not do;
sometimes he endeavours to cheer him with talk about old times, and
this at one time may serve to divert the sufferer from his own sad
thoughts; at another, it will only plunge him into deeper melancholy
than before; and then Hattersley is confounded, and knows not what to
say, unless it be a timid suggestion that the clergyman might be sent
for. But Arthur will never consent to that: he knows he has rejected
the clergyman’s well-meant admonitions with scoffing levity at other
times, and cannot dream of turning to him for consolation now.
Mr. Hattersley sometimes offers his services instead of mine, but
Arthur will not let me go: that strange whim still increases, as his
strength declines—the fancy to have me always by his side. I hardly
ever leave him, except to go into the next room, where I sometimes
snatch an hour or so of sleep when he is quiet; but even then the door
is left ajar, that he may know me to be within call. I am with him now,
while I write, and I fear my occupation annoys him; though I frequently
break off to attend to him, and though Mr. Hattersley is also by his
side. That gentleman came, as he said, to beg a holiday for me, that I
might have a run in the park, this fine frosty morning, with Milicent
and Esther and little Arthur, whom he had driven over to see me. Our