The Tenant of Wildfell Hall (Penguin Classics)

by Brontë, Anne

  ‘Oh, about the wine you mean – yes, he’s safe enough for that. And as to looking askance to another woman – he’s safe enough for that too, while I live, for he worships the very ground I tread on.’

  ‘Indeed! and are you sure you deserve it?’

  ‘Why, as to that, I can’t say: you know we’re all fallible creatures, Helen; we none of us deserve to be worshipped. But are you sure your darling Huntingdon deserves all the love you give to him?’

  I knew not what to answer to this. I was burning with anger; but I suppressed all outward manifestations of it, and only bit my lip and pretended to arrange my work.

  ‘At any rate,’ resumed she, pursuing her advantage, ‘you can console yourself with the assurance that you are worthy of all the love he gives to you.’

  ‘You flatter me,’ said I; ‘but at least, I can try to be worthy of it.’ And then I turned the conversation.

  CHAPTER 28

  PARENTAL FEELINGS

  December 25th. – Last Christmas I was a bride, with a heart overflowing with present bliss, and full of ardent hopes for the future – though not unmingled with foreboding fears. Now I am a wife: my bliss is sobered, but not destroyed; my hopes diminished, but not departed; my fears increased but not yet thoroughly confirmed; – and, thank Heaven, I am a mother too. God has sent me a soul to educate for heaven, and given me a new and calmer bliss, and stronger hopes to comfort me. But where hope rises, fear must lurk behind, and when I clasp my little darling to my breast, or hang over his slumbers with unutterable delight, and a world of hope within my heart, one of two thoughts is ever at hand to check my swelling bliss; the one: ‘He may be taken from me;’1 the other: ‘He may live to curse his own existence.’2 In the first, I have this consolation: that the bud, though plucked, would not be withered, only transplanted to a fitter soil to ripen and blow beneath a brighter sun; and though I might not cherish and watch my child’s unfolding intellect, he would be snatched away from all the suffering and sins of earth; and my understanding tells me this would be no great evil; but my heart shrinks from the contemplation of such a possibility, and whispers I could not bear to see him die, and relinquish to the cold and cruel grave this cherished form, now warm with tender life, flesh of my flesh and shrine of that pure spark3 which it should be my life’s sweet labour to keep unsullied from the world, – and ardently implores that heaven would spare him still, to be my comfort and my joy, and me to be his shield, instructor, friend – to guide him along the perilous path of youth, and train him to be God’s servant while on earth, a blessed and honoured saint in heaven. But in the other case, if he should live to disappoint my hopes, and frustrate all my efforts – to be a slave of sin, the victim of vice and misery, a curse to others and himself– Eternal Father, if Thou beholdest such a life before him, tear him from me now in spite of all my anguish, and take him from my bosom to thine own, while he is yet a guileless, unpolluted lamb!

  My little Arthur! there you lie in sweet, unconscious slumber, the tiny epitome of your father, but stainless yet as that pure snow, new-fallen from heaven – God shield thee from his errors! How will I watch and toil to guard thee from them! He wakes; his tiny arms are stretched towards me; his eyes unclose; they meet my gaze, but will not answer it. Little angel!4 you do not know me; you cannot think of me or love me yet; and yet how fervently my heart is knit to yours; how grateful I am for all the joy you give me! Would that your father could share it with me – that he could feel my love, my hope, and take an equal part in my resolves and projects for the future – nay, if he could but sympathize in half my views, and share one half my feelings, it would be indeed a blessing to both himself and me: it would elevate and purify his mind, and bind him closer to his home and me.

  Perhaps, he will feel awakening interest and affection for his child as it grows older. At present, he is pleased with the acquisition, and hopes it will become a fine boy and a worthy heir, and that is nearly all I can say. At first, it was a thing to wonder and laugh at, not to touch: now, it is an object almost of indifference, except when his impatience is roused by its ‘utter helplessness’ and ‘imperturbable stupidity’ (as he calls it), or my too close attention to its wants. He frequently comes and sits beside me while I am busied with my maternal cares. I hoped at first it was for the pleasure of contemplating our priceless treasure; but I soon found it was only to enjoy my company, or escape the pains of solitude. He is kindly welcome of course, but the best compliment to a mother is to appreciate her little one. He shocked me very much on one occasion: it was about a fortnight after the birth of our son, and he was with me in the nursery. We had neither of us spoken for some time: I was lost in the contemplation of my nursling, and I thought he was similarly occupied – as far, at least, as I thought about him at all. But suddenly he startled me from my reverie by impatiently exclaiming, –

  ‘Helen, I shall positively hate that little wretch, if you worship it so madly! You are absolutely infatuated about it.’5

  I looked up in astonishment, to see if he could be in earnest.

  ‘You have not a thought to spare for anything else,’ he continued in the same strain: ‘I may go or come, be present or absent, cheerful or sad; it’s all the same to you. As long as you have that ugly little creature to dote upon, you care not a farthing what becomes of me.’

  ‘It is false, Arthur, when you enter the room, it always doubles my happiness; when you are near me, the sense of your presence delights me, though I don’t look at you; and when I think about our child, I please myself with the idea that you share my thoughts and feelings, though I don’t speak them.’

  ‘How the devil can I waste my thoughts and feelings on a little worthless idiot like that?’

  ‘It is your own son Arthur, – or, if that consideration has no weight with you, it is mine; and you ought to respect my feelings.’

  ‘Well, don’t be cross; it was only a slip of the tongue,’ pleaded he. ‘The little fellow is well enough, only I can’t worship him as you do.’

  ‘You shall nurse him for me, as a punishment,’ said I, rising to put my baby in its father’s arms.

  ‘No, don’t, Helen – don’t!’ cried he, in real disquietude.

  ‘I will: you’ll love him better, when you feel the little creature in your arms.’

  I deposited the precious burden in his hands, and retreated to the other side of the room, laughing at the ludicrous, half embarrassed air with which he sat, holding it at arm’s length, and looking upon it as if it were some curious being of quite a different species to himself.

  ‘Come, take it, Helen; take it,’ he cried at length. ‘I shall drop it, if you don’t.’

  Compassionating his distress – or rather the child’s unsafe position – I relieved him of the charge.

  ‘Kiss it, Arthur, do – you’ve never kissed it yet!’ said I, kneeling and presenting it before him.

  ‘I would rather kiss its mother,’ replied he, embracing me. ‘There now; won’t that do as well?’

  I resumed my seat in the easy chair, and gave my little one a shower of gentle kisses to make up for its other parent’s refusal.

  ‘There goes!’ cried the jealous father. ‘That’s more, in one minute, lavished on that little senseless, thankless oyster, than you have given me these three weeks past.’

  ‘Come here then, you insatiable monopolist, and you shall have as many as you like, incorrigible and undeserving as you are. – There now, won’t that suffice? I have a good mind never to give you another till you have learnt to love my baby as a father should.’

  ‘I like the little devil –’

  ‘Arthur!’

  ‘Well, the little angel – well enough,’ and he pinched its delicate little nose to prove his affection, ‘only I can’t love it – what is there to love? It can’t love me – or you either; it can’t understand a single word you say to it, or feel one spark of gratitude for all your kindness. Wait till it can show some little affection for me, and then I’ll see abo
ut loving it At present it is nothing more than a little selfish, senseless sensualist, and if you see anything adorable in it, it’s all very well – I only wonder how you can.’

  ‘If you were less selfish yourself, Arthur, you would not regard it in that light.’

  ‘Possibly not, love; but so it is: there’s no help for it.’

  CHAPTER 29

  THE NEIGHBOUR

  Dec. 25th, 1823. Another year is gone. My little Arthur lives and thrives. He is healthy but not robust, full of gentle playfulness and vivacity, already affectionate, and susceptible of passions and emotions it will be long ere he can find words to express. He has won his father’s heart at last; and now my constant terror is, lest he should be ruined by that father’s thoughtless indulgence. But I must beware of my own weakness too, for I never knew till now how strong are a parent’s temptations to spoil an only child.

  I have need of consolation in my son, for (to this silent paper I may confess it) I have but little in my husband. I love him still; and he loves me, in his own way – but oh, how different from the love I could have given, and once had hoped to receive! how little real sympathy there exists between us; how many of my thoughts and feelings are gloomily cloistered within my own mind; how much of my higher and better self is indeed unmarried – doomed either to harden and sour in the sunless shade of solitude, or to quite degenerate and fall away for lack of nutriment in this unwholesome soil! – But, I repeat, I have no right to complain: only let me state the truth – some of the truth at least, – and see hereafter, if any darker truths will blot these pages. We have now been full two years united – the ‘romance’ of our attachment must be worn away. Surely I have now got down to the lowest gradation in Arthur’s affection, and discovered all the evils of his nature: if there be any further change, it must be for the better, as we become still more accustomed to each other: surely we shall find no lower depth than this. And, if so, I can bear it well – as well, at least, as I have borne it hitherto.

  Arthur is not what is commonly called a bad man: he has many good qualities; but he is a man without self-restraint or lofty aspirations – a lover of pleasure, given up to animal enjoyments: he is not a bad husband, but his notions of matrimonial duties and comforts are not my notions. Judging from appearances, his idea of a wife is a thing to love one devotedly and to stay at home – to wait upon her husband, and amuse him and minister to his comfort in every possible way, while he chooses to stay with her; and, when he is absent, to attend to his interests, domestic or otherwise, and patiently wait his return; no matter how he may be occupied in the meantime.

  Early in spring, he announced his intention of going to London: his affairs there demanded his attendance, he said, and he could refuse it no longer. He expressed his regret at having to leave me, but hoped I would amuse myself with the baby till he returned.

  ‘But why leave me?’ I said. ‘I can go with you: I can be ready at any time.’

  ‘You would not take that child to town?’

  ‘Yes – why not?’

  The thing was absurd: the air of the town would be certain to disagree with him, and with me as a nurse; the late hours and London habits would not suit me under such circumstances; and altogether he assured me that it would be excessively troublesome, injurious, and unsafe. I overruled his objections as well as I could, for I trembled at the thought of his going alone, and would sacrifice almost anything for myself, much even for my child, to prevent it; but at length he told me, plainly, and somewhat testily, that he could not do with me: he was worn out with the baby’s restless nights,1 and must have some repose. I proposed separate apartments; but it would not do.

  ‘The truth is, Arthur,’ ‘I said at last, ‘you are weary of my company, and determined not to have me with you. You might as well have said so at once.’

  He denied it; but I immediately left the room, and flew to the nursery to hide my feelings, if I could not soothe them, there.

  I was too much hurt to express any further dissatisfaction with his plans, or at all to refer to the subject again, except for the necessary arrangements concerning his departure and the conduct of affairs during his absence, – till the day before he went, when I earnestly exhorted him to take care of himself and keep out of the way of temptation. He laughed at my anxiety, but assured me there was no cause for it, and promised to attend to my advice.

  ‘I suppose it is no use asking you to fix a day for your return?’ said I.

  ‘Why, no: I hardly can, under the circumstances; but be assured, love, I shall not be long away.’

  ‘I don’t wish to keep you a prisoner at home,’ I replied: ‘I should not grumble at your staying whole months away – if you can be happy so long without me – provided I knew you were safe; but I don’t like the idea of your being there, among your friends, as you call them.’

  ‘Pooh, pooh, you silly girl! Do you think I can’t take care of myself?’

  ‘You didn’t last time. – But THIS time, Arthur,’ I added, earnestly, ‘show me that you can, and teach me that I need not fear to trust you!’

  He promised fair, but in such a manner as we seek to soothe a child. And did he keep his promise? No; – and, henceforth, I can never trust his word. Bitter, bitter confession! Tears blind me while I write. It was early in March that he went, and he did not return till July. This time, he did not trouble himself to make excuses as before, and his letters were less frequent, and shorter and less affectionate, especially after the first few weeks: they came slower and slower, and more terse and careless every time. But still, when I omitted writing he complained of my neglect. When I wrote sternly and coldly, as I confess I frequently did at the last, he blamed my harshness, and said it was enough to scare him from his home; when I tried mild persuasion, he was a little more gentle in his replies, and promised to return; but I had learnt, at last, to disregard his promises.

  Those were four miserable months, alternating between intense anxiety, despair, and indignation; pity for him, and pity for myself. And yet, through all, I was not wholly comfortless; I had my darling, sinless, inoffensive little one to console me, but even this consolation was embittered by the constantly recurring thought, ‘How shall I teach him, hereafter, to respect his father, and yet to avoid his example?’

  But I remembered that I had brought all these afflictions, in a manner wilfully, upon myself, and I determined to bear them without a murmur. At the same time I resolved not to give myself up to misery for the transgressions of another, and endeavoured to divert myself as much as I could; and besides the companionship of my child and my dear, faithful Rachel, who evidently guessed my sorrows and felt for them, though she was too discreet to allude to them, – I had my books and pencil, my domestic affairs, and the welfare and comfort of Arthur’s poor tenants and labourers to attend to; and I sometimes sought and obtained amusement in the company of my young friend Esther Hargrave: occasionally, I rode over to see her, and once or twice I had her to spend the day with me at the manor. Mrs Hargrave did not visit London that season: having no daughter to marry, she thought it as well to stay at home and economize; and, for a wonder, Walter came down to join her in the beginning of June and stayed till near the close of August.

  The first time I saw him was on a sweet, warm evening, when I was sauntering in the park with little Arthur and Rachel, who is head-nurse and lady’s-maid in one – for, with my secluded life and tolerably active habits, I require but little attendance, and, as she had nursed me and coveted to nurse my child, and was moreover so very trustworthy, I preferred committing the important charge to her, with a young nursery-maid under her directions, to engaging anyone else: – besides it saves money; and since I have made acquaintance with Arthur’s affairs, I have learnt to regard that as no trifling recommendation; for, by my own desire, nearly the whole of the income of my fortune is devoted, for years to come, to the paying off of his debts, and the money he contrives to squander away in London is incomprehensible. – But to return to Mr Har
grave: – I was standing with Rachel beside the water, amusing the laughing baby in her arms with a twig of willow laden with golden catkins, when greatly to my surprise, he entered the park, mounted on his costly black hunter, and crossed over the grass to meet me. He saluted me with a very fine compliment, delicately worded, and modestly delivered withal, which he had doubtless concocted as he rode along. He told me he had brought a message from his mother, who, as he was riding that way, had desired him to call at the manor and beg the pleasure of my company to a friendly, family dinner tomorrow.

  ‘There is no one to meet but ourselves,’ said he; ‘but Esther is very anxious to see you; and my mother fears you will feel solitary in this great house so much alone, and wishes she could persuade you to give her the pleasure of your company more frequently, and make yourself at home in our more humble dwelling, till Mr Huntingdon’s return shall render this a little more conducive to your comfort.’

  ‘She is very kind,’ I answered, ‘but I am not alone, you see; – and those, whose time is fully occupied, seldom complain of solitude.’

  ‘Will you not come tomorrow, then? She will be sadly disappointed if you refuse.’

  I did not relish being thus compassionated for my loneliness; but, however, I promised to come.

  ‘What a sweet evening this is!’ observed he, looking round upon the sunny park, with its imposing swell and slope, its placid water, and majestic clumps of trees. ‘And what a paradise you live in!’

  ‘It is a lovely evening,’ answered I; and I sighed to think how little I had felt its loveliness, and how little of a paradise sweet Grassdale was to me – how still less to the voluntary exile from its scenes. Whether Mr Hargrave divined my thoughts, I cannot tell, but, with a half-hesitating, sympathizing seriousness of tone and manner, he asked if I had lately heard from Mr Huntingdon.