The Tenant of Wildfell Hall (Penguin Classics)

by Brontë, Anne

  He uttered a low whistle and sauntered away to the window, where he stood for some minutes looking out upon the pleasing prospect of sullen, grey clouds, streaming rain, soaking lawn, and dripping, leafless trees – and muttering execrations on the weather, and then sat down to breakfast. While taking his coffee, he muttered it was ‘d—d cold.’

  ‘You should not have left it so long,’ said I.

  He made no answer, and the meal was concluded in silence. It was a relief to both when the letter-bag was brought in. It contained, upon examination, a newspaper and one or two letters for him, and a couple of letters for me, which he tossed across the table without a remark. One was from my brother, the other from Milicent Hargrave, who is now in London with her mother. His, I think, were business letters, and apparently not much to his mind, for he crushed them into his pocket with some muttered expletives, that I should have reproved him for at any other time. The paper, he set before him, and pretended to be deeply absorbed in its contents during the remainder of breakfast, and a considerable time after.

  The reading and answering of my letters, and the direction of household concerns, afforded me ample employment for the morning; after lunch, I got my drawing, and from dinner till bed-time, I read. Meanwhile, poor Arthur was sadly at a loss for something to amuse him or to occupy his time. He wanted to appear as busy and as unconcerned as I did: had the weather at all permitted, he would doubtless have ordered his horse and set off to some distant region – no matter where – immediately after breakfast, and not returned till night; had there been a lady anywhere within reach, of any age between fifteen and forty-five, he would have sought revenge and found employment in getting up – or trying to get up – a desperate flirtation with her; but being, to my private satisfaction, entirely cut off from both these sources of diversion, his sufferings were truly deplorable. When he had done yawning over his paper and scribbling short answers to his shorter letters, he spent the remainder of the morning and the whole of the afternoon in fidgeting about from room to room, watching the clouds, cursing the rain, alternately petting, and teasing, and abusing his dogs, sometimes lounging on the sofa with a book that he could not force himself to read, and very often fixedly gazing at me, when he thought I did not perceive it, with the vain hope of detecting some traces of tears, or some tokens of remorseful anguish in my face. But I managed to preserve an undisturbed though grave serenity throughout the day. I was not really angry: I felt for him all the time, and longed to be reconciled; but I determined he should make the first advances, or at least show some signs of an humble and contrite spirit, first; for, if I began, it would only minister to his self-conceit, increase his arrogance, and quite destroy the lesson I wanted to give him.

  He made a long stay in the dining-room after dinner, and, I fear, took an unusual quantity of wine, but not enough to loosen his tongue; for when he came in and found me quietly occupied with my book, too busy to lift my head on his entrance, he merely murmured an expression of suppressed disapprobation, and, shutting the door with a bang, went and stretched himself at full length on the sofa, and composed himself to sleep. But his favourite cocker, Dash, that had been lying at my feet, took the liberty of jumping upon him and beginning to lick his face. He struck it off with a smart blow;3 and the poor dog squeaked, and ran cowering back to me. When he woke up, about half an hour after, he called it to him again; but Dash only looked sheepish and wagged the tip of his tail. He called again, more sharply, but Dash only clung the closer to me, and licked my hand as if imploring protection. Enraged at this, his master snatched up a heavy book and hurled it at his head. The poor dog set up a piteous outcry and ran to the door. I let him out, and then quietly took up the book.

  ‘Give that book to me,’ said Arthur, in no very courteous tone. I gave it to him.

  ‘Why did you let the dog out?’ he asked. ‘You knew I wanted him.’

  ‘By what token?’ I replied; ‘by your throwing the book at him? but perhaps, it was intended for me?’

  ‘No – but I see you’ve got a taste of it,’ said he, looking at my hand, that had also been struck, and was rather severely grazed.

  I returned to my reading; and he endeavoured to occupy himself in the same manner; but, in a little while, after several portentous yawns, he pronounced his book to be ‘cursed trash,’ and threw it on to the table. Then followed eight or ten minutes of silence, during the greater part of which, I believe, he was staring at me. At last his patience was tired out.

  ‘What is that book, Helen?’ he exclaimed.

  I told him.

  ‘Is it interesting?’

  ‘Yes, very.’

  ‘Humph!’

  I went on reading – or pretending to read, at least – I cannot say there was much communication between my eyes and my brain; for, while the former ran over the pages, the latter was earnestly wondering when Arthur would speak next, and what he would say, and what I should answer. But he did not speak again till I rose to make the tea, and then it was only to say he should not take any. He continued lounging on the sofa, and alternately closing his eyes and looking at his watch and at me, till bed-time, when I rose, and took my candle and retired.

  ‘Helen!’ cried he, the moment I had left the room. I turned back, and stood awaiting his commands.

  ‘What do you want, Arthur?’ I said at length.

  ‘Nothing,’ replied he. ‘Go!’

  I went, but hearing him mutter something as I was closing the door, I turned again. It sounded very like ‘confounded slut,’ but I was quite willing it should be something else.

  ‘Were you speaking Arthur?’ I asked.

  ‘No,’ was the answer; and I shut the door and departed. I saw nothing more of him till the following morning at breakfast, when he came down a full hour after the usual time.

  ‘You’re very late,’ was my morning’s salutation.

  ‘You needn’t have waited for me,’ was his; and he walked up to the window again. It was just such weather as yesterday.

  ‘Oh, this confounded rain!’ he muttered. But after studiously regarding it for a minute or two, a bright idea seemed to strike him, for he suddenly exclaimed, ‘But I know what I’ll do!’ and then returned and took his seat at the table. The letter-bag was already there, waiting to be opened. He unlocked it and examined the contents, but said nothing about them.

  ‘Is there anything for me?’ I asked.

  ‘No.’

  He opened the newspaper and began to read.

  ‘You’d better take your coffee,’ suggested I; ‘it will be cold again.’

  ‘You may go,’ said he, ‘if you’ve done. I don’t want you.’

  I rose, and withdrew to the next room, wondering if we were to have another such miserable day as yesterday, and wishing intensely for an end of these mutually inflicted torments. Shortly after, I heard him ring the bell and give some orders about his wardrobe that sounded as if he meditated a long journey. He then sent for the coachman, and I heard something about the carriage and the horses, and London, and seven o’clock tomorrow morning, that startled and disturbed me not a little.

  ‘I must not let him go to London, whatever comes of it,’ said I to myself; ‘he will run into all kinds of mischief, and I shall be the cause of it. But the question is, how am I to alter his purpose? – Well, I will wait awhile, and see if he mentions it.’

  I waited most anxiously, from hour to hour; but not a word was spoken, on that or any other subject, to me. He whistled, and talked to his dogs, and wandered from room to room, much the same as on the previous day. At last I began to think I must introduce the subject myself, and was pondering how to bring it about, when John unwittingly came to my relief with the following message from the coachman.

  ‘Please sir, Richard says one of the horses has got a very bad cold, and he thinks, sir, if you could make it convenient to go the day after tomorrow, instead of tomorrow, he could physic it today so as–’

  ‘Confound his impudence!’ interjected t
he master.

  ‘Please sir, he says it would be a deal better if you could,’ persisted John, ‘for he hopes there’ll be a change in the weather shortly, and he says it’s not likely, when a horse is so bad with a cold, and physicked and all –’

  ‘Devil take the horse!’ cried the gentleman – ‘Well, tell him I’ll think about it,’ he added, after a moment’s reflection. He cast a searching glance at me, as the servant withdrew, expecting to see some token of deep astonishment and alarm; but, being previously prepared, I preserved an aspect of stoical indifference. His countenance fell as he met my steady gaze, and he turned away in very obvious disappointment, and walked up to the fireplace, where he stood in an attitude of undisguised dejection, leaning against the chimney-piece with his forehead sunk upon his arm.

  ‘Where do you want to go, Arthur?’ said I.

  ‘To London,’ replied he, gravely.

  ‘What for?’ I asked.

  ‘Because I cannot be happy here.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because my wife doesn’t love me.’

  ‘She would love you with all her heart, if you deserved it.’

  ‘What must I do to deserve it?’

  This seemed humble and earnest enough; and I was so much affected, between sorrow and joy, that I was obliged to pause a few seconds before I could steady my voice to reply.

  ‘If she gives you her heart,’ said I, ‘you must take it thankfully, and use it well, and not pull it in pieces, and laugh in her face, because she cannot snatch it away.’

  He now turned round and stood facing me, with his back to the fire.

  ‘Come then, Helen, are you going to be a good girl?’4 said he.

  This sounded rather too arrogant, and the smile that accompanied it did not please me. I therefore hesitated to reply. Perhaps, my former answer had implied too much: he had heard my voice falter, and might have seen me brush away a tear.

  ‘Are you going to forgive me, Helen?’ he resumed, more humbly.

  ‘Are you penitent!’ I replied, stepping up to him and smiling in his face.

  ‘Heart-broken!’ he answered, with a rueful countenance – yet with a merry smile just lurking within his eyes and about the corners of his mouth; but this could not repulse me, and I flew into his arms. He fervently embraced me and though I shed a torrent of tears, I think I never was happier in my life than at that moment.

  ‘Then you won’t go to London, Arthur?’ I said, when the first transport of tears and kisses had subsided.

  ‘No, love, – unless you will go with me.’

  ‘I will, gladly,’ I answered, ‘if you think the change will amuse you, and if you will put off the journey till next week.’

  He readily consented, but said there was no need of much preparation, as he should not be for staying long, for he did not wish me to be Londonized, and to lose my country freshness and originality by too much intercourse with the ladies of the world. I thought this folly; but I did not wish to contradict him now: I merely said that I was of very domestic habits, as he well knew, and had no particular wish to mingle with the world.

  So we are to go to London on Monday, the day after tomorrow. It is now four days since the termination of our quarrel, and I’m sure it has done us both good: it has made me like Arthur a great deal better and made him behave a great deal better to me. He has never once attempted to annoy me, since, by the most distant allusion to Lady F— or any of those disagreeable reminiscences of his former life – I wish I could blot them from my memory, or else get him to regard such matters in the same light as I do. Well! it is something, however, to have made him see that they are not fit subjects for a conjugal jest. He may see farther sometime – I will put no limits to my hopes; and, in spite of my aunt’s forebodings and my own unspoken fears, I trust we shall be happy yet.

  CHAPTER 25

  FIRST ABSENCE

  On the eighth of April, we went to London; on the eighth of May I returned, in obedience to Arthur’s wish: very much against my own, because I left him behind. If he had come with me, I should have been very glad to get home again, for he led me such a round of restless dissipation, while there, that, in that short space of time, I was quite tired out. He seemed bent upon displaying me to his friends and acquaintances in particular, and the public in general, on every possible occasion and to the greatest possible advantage. It was something to feel that he considered me a worthy object of pride; but I paid dear for the gratification, for in the first place, to please him, I had to violate my cherished predilections – my almost rooted principles in favour of a plain, dark, sober style of dress; I must sparkle in costly jewels and deck myself out like a painted butterfly, just as I had, long since, determined I would never do – and this was no trifling sacrifice; – in the second place, I was continually straining to satisfy his sanguine expectations and do honour to his choice, by my general conduct and deportment, and fearing to disappoint him by some awkward misdemeanour, or some trait of inexperienced ignorance about the customs of society, especially when I acted the part of hostess, which I was not unfrequently called upon to do; and in the third place, as I intimated before, I was wearied of the throng and bustle, the restless hurry and ceaseless change of a life so alien to all my previous habits. At last, he suddenly discovered that the London air did not agree with me, and I was languishing for my country home and must immediately return to Grassdale.

  I laughingly assured him that the case was not so urgent as he appeared to think it, but I was quite willing to go home if he was. He replied that he should be obliged to remain a week or two longer, as he had business that required his presence.

  ‘Then I will stay with you,’ said I.

  ‘But I can’t do with you, Helen,’ was his answer: ‘as long as you stay, I shall attend to you and neglect my business.’

  ‘But I won’t let you,’ I returned: ‘now that I know you have business to attend to, I shall insist upon your attending to it, and letting me alone – and, to tell you the truth, I shall be glad of a little rest. I can take my rides and walks in the park as usual; and your business cannot occupy all your time; I shall see you at mealtimes and in the evenings, at least, and that will be better than being leagues away and never seeing you at all.’

  ‘But my love, I cannot let you stay. How can I settle my affairs when I know that you are here, neglected –’

  ‘I shall not feel myself neglected: while you are doing your duty, Arthur, I shall never complain of neglect. If you had told me, before, that you had anything to do, it would have been half done before this; and now you must make up for lost time by redoubled exertions. Tell me what it is; and I will be your taskmaster, instead of being a hindrance.’

  ‘No, no,’ persisted the impracticable creature; ‘you must go home, Helen; I must have the satisfaction of knowing that you are safe and well, though far away. Don’t I see that you are looking quite rakish?1 – Your bright eyes are faded, and that tender, delicate bloom2 has quite deserted your cheek.’

  ‘That is only with too much gaiety and fatigue.’

  ‘It is not, I tell you; it is the London air: you are pining for the fresh breezes of your country home – and you shall feel them, before you are two days older. And remember your situation, dearest Helen; on your health, you know, depends the health, if not the life of our future hope.’

  ‘Then you really wish to get rid of me?’

  ‘Positively, I do; and I will take you down myself to Grassdale, and then return. I shall not be absent above a week – or fortnight at most’

  ‘But if I must go, I will go alone: if you must stay, it is needless to waste your time in the journey there and back.’

  But he did not like the idea of sending me alone.

  ‘Why, what helpless creature do you take me for,’ I replied, ‘that you cannot trust me to go a hundred miles in our own carriage with our own footman and maid to attend me? If you come with me I shall assuredly keep you. But tell me, Arthur, what is this tiresome bu
siness; and why did you never mention it before?’

  ‘It is only a little business with my lawyer,’ said he; and he told me something about a piece of property he wanted to sell in order to pay off a part of the encumbrances on his estate; but either the account was a little confused or I was rather dull of comprehension, for I could not clearly understand how that should keep him in town a fortnight after me. Still less can I now comprehend how it should keep him a month – for it is nearly that time since I left him, and no signs of his return as yet. In every letter he promises to be with me in a few days, and every time deceives me – or deceives himself. His excuses are vague and insufficient. I cannot doubt that he is got among his former companions again – Oh, why did I leave him? I wish – I do intensely wish he would return!

  June 29th. – No Arthur yet; and for many days I have been looking and longing in vain for a letter. His letters, when they come, are kind – if fair words and endearing epithets can give them a claim to the title – but very short, and full of trivial excuses and promises that I cannot trust; and yet how anxiously I look forward to them! how eagerly I open and devour one of those little, hastily scribbled returns for the three or four long letters, hitherto unanswered, he has had from me!

  Oh, it is cruel to leave me so long alone! He knows I have no one but Rachel to speak to, for we have no neighbours here, except the Hargraves, whose residence I can dimly descry from these upper windows embosomed among those low, woody hills beyond the Dale. I was glad when I learnt that Milicent was so near us; and her company would be a soothing solace to me now, but she is still in town with her mother: there is no one at the grove but little Esther and her French governess, for Walter is always away. I saw that paragon of manly perfections in London: he seemed scarcely to merit the eulogiums of his mother and sister, though he certainly appeared more conversable and agreeable than Lord Lowborough, more candid and high-minded than Mr Grimsby, and more polished and gentlemanly than Mr Hattersley, Arthur’s only other friend whom he judged fit to introduce to me – O Arthur, why won’t you come! why won’t you write to me at least! You talked about my health – how can you expect me to gather bloom and vigour here; pining in solitude and restless anxiety from day to day? – It would serve you right to come back and find my good looks entirely wasted away. I would beg my uncle and aunt, or my brother to come and see me, but I do not like to complain of my loneliness to them, – and indeed, loneliness is the least of my sufferings; but what is he doing – what is it that keeps him away? It is this ever-recurring question and the horrible suggestions it raises that distract me.