The Tenant of Wildfell Hall (Penguin Classics)

by Brontë, Anne

  ‘Not lately,’ I replied.

  ‘I thought not,’ he muttered, as if to himself, looking thoughtfully on the ground.

  ‘Are you not lately returned from London?’ I asked.

  ‘Only yesterday.’

  ‘And did you see him there?’

  ‘Yes – I saw him.’

  ‘Was he well?’

  ‘Yes – that is,’ said he, with increasing hesitation and an appearance of suppressed indignation, ‘he was as well as – as he deserved to be, but under circumstances I should have deemed incredible for a man so favoured as he is.’ He here looked up and pointed the sentence with a serious bow to me. I suppose my face was crimson.

  ‘Pardon me, Mrs Huntingdon,’ he continued, ‘but I cannot suppress my indignation when I behold such infatuated blindness and perversion of taste; – but, perhaps you are not aware –’ He paused.

  ‘I am aware of nothing sir – except that he delays his coming longer than I expected; and if at present, he prefers the society of his friends to that of his wife, and the dissipations of the town to the quiet of country life, I suppose I have those friends to thank for it. Their tastes and occupations are similar to his, and I don’t see why his conduct should awaken either their indignation or surprise.’

  ‘You wrong me cruelly,’ answered he: ‘I have shared but little of Mr Huntingdon’s society, for the last few weeks; and as for his tastes and occupations, they are quite beyond me – lonely wanderer as I am. Where I have but sipped and tasted, he drains the cup to the dregs; and if ever for a moment I have sought to drown the voice of reflection in madness and folly, or if I have wasted too much of my time and talents among reckless and dissipated companions, God knows I would gladly renounce them entirely and for ever, if I had but half the. blessings that man so thanklessly casts behind his back – but half the inducements to virtue and domestic orderly habits that he despises – but such a home, and such a partner to share it! – It is infamous!’ he muttered between his teeth. ‘And don’t think, Mrs Huntingdon,’ he added aloud, ‘that I could be guilty of inciting him to persevere in his present pursuits: on the contrary, I have remonstrated with him again and again; I have frequently expressed my surprise at his conduct and reminded him of his duties and his privileges – but to no purpose; he only –’

  ‘Enough, Mr Hargrave; you ought to be aware that whatever my husband’s faults may be, it can only aggravate the evil for me to hear them from a stranger’s lips.’

  ‘Am I then a stranger?’ said he in a sorrowful tone. ‘I am your nearest neighbour, your son’s godfather, and your husband’s friend: may I not be yours also?’

  ‘Intimate acquaintance must precede real friendship: I know but little of you, Mr Hargrave, except from report.’

  ‘Have you then forgotten the six or seven weeks I spent under your roof last autumn? I have not forgotten them. And I know enough of you, Mrs Huntingdon, to think that your husband is the most enviable man in the world, and I should be the next if you would deem me worthy of your friendship.’

  ‘If you knew more of me, you would not think it – or if you did, you would not say it, and expect me to be flattered by the compliment.’

  I stepped backward as I spoke. He saw that I wished the conversation to end; and immediately taking the hint, he gravely bowed, wished me good evening, and turned his horse towards the road. He appeared grieved and hurt at my unkind reception of his sympathizing overtures. I was not sure that I had done right in speaking so harshly to him; but at the time, I had felt irritated – almost insulted by his conduct; it seemed as if he was presuming upon the absence and neglect of my husband, and insinuating even more than the truth against him.

  Rachel had moved on, during our conversation, to some yards distance. He rode up to her, and asked to see the child. He took it carefully into his arms, looked upon it with an almost paternal smile, and I heard him say, as I approached –

  ‘And this too, he has forsaken!’

  He then tenderly kissed it, and restored it to the gratified nurse.

  ‘Are you fond of children, Mr Hargrave?’ said I, a little softened towards him.

  ‘Not in general,’ he replied; ‘but that is such a sweet child – and so like its mother,’ he added in a lower tone.

  ‘You are mistaken there; it is its father it resembles.’

  ‘Am I not right, nurse?’ said he, appealing to Rachel.

  ‘I think, sir, there’s a bit of both,’ she replied.

  He departed; and Rachel pronounced him a very nice gentleman. I had still my doubts on the subject.

  When I met him on the morrow, under his own roof, he did not offend me with any more of his virtuous indignation against Arthur or unwelcome sympathy for me; and, indeed, when his mother began, in guarded terms, to intimate her sorrow and surprise at my husband’s conduct, he, perceiving my annoyance, instantly came to the rescue, and delicately turned the conversation, at the same time warning her, by a sidelong glance, not to recur to the subject again. He seemed bent upon doing the honours of his house in the most unexceptionable manner, and exerting all his powers for the entertainment of his guest, and the display of his own qualifications as a host, a gentleman, and a companion; and actually succeeded in making himself very agreeable – only that he was too polite. – And yet, Mr Hargrave, I don’t much like you; there is a certain want of openness about you that does not take my fancy, and a lurking selfishness, at the bottom of all your fine qualities, that I do not intend to lose sight of. No; for, instead of combating my slight prejudice against you as uncharitable, I mean to cherish it, until I am convinced that I have no reason to distrust this kind, insinuating friendship you are so anxious to push upon me.

  In the course of the following six weeks, I met him several times, but always, save once, in company with his mother or his sister, or both. When I called on them, he always happened to be at home, and when they called on me, it was always he that drove them over in the phaeton. His mother, evidently, was quite delighted with his dutiful attentions and newly acquired domestic habits.

  The time that I met him alone was on a bright but not oppressively hot day in the beginning of July: I had taken little Arthur into the wood that skirts the park, and there seated him on the moss-cushioned roots of an old oak; and, having gathered a handful of bluebells and wild roses, I was kneeling before him, and presenting them, one by one, to the grasp of his tiny fingers; enjoying the heavenly beauty of the flowers, through the medium of his smiling eyes; forgetting, for the moment, all my cares, laughing at his gleeful laughter, and delighting myself with his delight, – when a shadow suddenly eclipsed the little space of sunshine on the grass before us; and, looking up, I beheld Walter Hargrave standing and gazing upon us.

  ‘Excuse me, Mrs Huntingdon,’ said he, ‘but I was spellbound; I had neither the power to come forward and interrupt you, nor to withdraw from the contemplation of such a scene. – How vigorous my little godson grows! and how merry he is this morning.’ He approached the child and stooped to take his hand; but, on seeing that his caresses were likely to produce tears and lamentations instead of a reciprocation of friendly demonstrations, he prudently drew back.

  ‘What a pleasure and comfort that little creature must be to you, Mrs Huntingdon!’ he observed with a touch of sadness in his intonation, as he admiringly contemplated the infant.

  ‘It is,’ replied I; and then I asked after his mother and sister.

  He politely answered my enquiries, and then returned again to the subject I wished to avoid; though with a degree of timidity that witnessed his fear to offend.

  ‘You have not heard from Huntingdon lately?’ he said.

  ‘Not this week,’ I replied. – Not these three weeks, I might have said.

  ‘I had a letter from him this morning. I wish it were such a one as I could show to his lady.’ He half drew from his waistcoat pocket a letter with Arthur’s still beloved hand on the address, scowled at it, and put it back again, adding – ‘But he te
lls me he is about to return next week.’

  ‘He tells me so every time he writes.’

  ‘Indeed! – Well it is like him. – But to me he always avowed it his intention to stay till the present month.’

  It struck me like a blow, this proof of premeditated transgression and systematic disregard of truth.

  ‘It is only of a piece with the rest of his conduct,’ observed Mr Hargrave, thoughtfully regarding me, and reading, I suppose, my feelings in my face.

  ‘Then he is really coming next week?’ said I, after a pause.

  ‘You may rely upon it – if the assurance can give you any pleasure. – And is it possible, Mrs Huntingdon, that you can rejoice at his return?’ he exclaimed, attentively perusing my features again.

  ‘Of course, Mr Hargrave; is he not my husband?’

  ‘Oh, Huntingdon, you know not what you slight!’ he passionately murmured.

  I took up my baby and, wishing him good morning, departed, to indulge my thoughts unscrutinized, within the sanctum of my home.

  And was I glad? – Yes, delighted; – though I was angered by Arthur’s conduct, and though I felt that he had wronged me, and was determined he should feel it too.

  CHAPTER 30

  DOMESTIC SCENES

  On the following morning, I received a few lines from him myself, confirming Hargrave’s intimations respecting his approaching return. And he did come next week, but in a condition of body and mind even worse than before. I did not however intend to pass over his derelictions this time without a remark; – I found it would not do. But the first day, he was weary with his journey, and I was glad to get him back; I would not upbraid him then; I would wait till tomorrow. Next morning, he was weary still: I would wait a little longer. But at dinner, when, after breakfasting at twelve o’clock on a bottle of soda-water and a cup of strong coffee, and lunching at two on another bottle of soda-water mingled with brandy, he was finding fault with everything on the table and declaring we must change our cook – I thought the time was come.

  ‘It is the same cook as we had before you went, Arthur,’ said I. ‘You were generally pretty well satisfied with her then.’

  ‘You must have been letting her get into slovenly habits then, while I was away. It is enough to poison one – eating such a disgusting mess!’ And he pettishly pushed away his plate, and leant back despairingly in his chair.

  ‘I think it is you that are changed, not she,’ said I, but with the utmost gentleness, for I did not wish to irritate him.

  ‘It may be so,’ he replied carelessly, as he seized a tumbler of wine and water, adding, when he had tossed it off – ‘for I have an infernal fire in my veins, that all the waters of the ocean cannot quench!’

  ‘What kindled it?’ I was about to ask, but at that moment the butler entered and began to take away the things.

  ‘Be quick Benson – do have done with that infernal clatter!’ cried his master – ‘And don’t bring the cheese! – unless you want to make me sick outright.’

  Benson, in some surprise, removed the cheese, and did his best to effect a quiet and speedy clearance of the rest, but, unfortunately, there was a rumple in the carpet, caused by the hasty pushing back of his master’s chair, at which he tripped and stumbled, causing a rather alarming concussion with the trayful of crockery in his hands, but no positive damage, save the fall and breaking of a sauce-tureen; – but, to my unspeakable shame and dismay, Arthur turned furiously around upon him, and swore at him with savage coarseness. The poor man turned pale, and visibly trembled as he stooped to pick up the fragments.

  ‘He couldn’t help it, Arthur,’ said I; ‘the carpet caught his foot – and there’s no great harm done. Never mind the pieces now, Benson, you can clear them away afterwards.’

  Glad to be released, Benson expeditiously set out the dessert and withdrew.

  ‘What could you mean, Helen, by taking the servant’s part against me,’ said Arthur, as soon as the door was closed, ‘when you knew I was distracted?’

  ‘I did not know you were distracted, Arthur, and the poor man was quite frightened and hurt at your sudden explosion.’

  ‘Poor man indeed! and do you think I could stop to consider the feelings of an insensate brute like that, when my own nerves were racked and torn to pieces by his confounded blunders?’

  ‘I never heard you complain of your nerves before.’

  ‘And why shouldn’t I have nerves as well as you?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t dispute your claim to their possession, but I never complain of mine.’

  ‘No – how should you, when you never do anything to try them?’

  ‘Then why do you try yours, Arthur?’

  ‘Do you think I have nothing to do but to stay at home and take care of myself like a woman?’

  ‘Is it impossible then, to take care of yourself like a man when you go abroad? You told me that you could – and would too; and you promised –’

  ‘Come, come, Helen, don’t begin with that nonsense now; I can’t bear it’

  ‘Can’t bear what? – to be reminded of the promises you have broken?’

  ‘Helen, you are cruel. If you knew how my heart throbbed, and how every nerve thrilled through me while you spoke, you would spare me. You can pity a dolt of a servant for breaking a dish; but you have no compassion for me, when my head is split in two and all on fire with this consuming fever.’

  He leant his head on his hand, and sighed. I went to him and put my hand on his forehead. It was burning indeed.

  ‘Then come with me into the drawing-room, Arthur; and don’t take any more wine; you have taken several glasses since dinner, and eaten next to nothing all the day. How can that make you better?’

  With some coaxing and persuasion, I got him to leave the table. When the baby was brought I tried to amuse him with that; but poor little Arthur was cutting his teeth, and his father could not bear his complaints; sentence of immediate banishment was passed upon him on the first indication of fretfulness; and, because, in the course of the evening, I went to share his exile for a little while, I was reproached, on my return, for preferring my child to my husband. I found the latter reclining on the sofa just as I had left him.

  ‘Well!’ exclaimed the injured man, in a tone of pseudo-resignation. ‘I thought I wouldn’t send for you; I thought I’d just see – how long it would please you to leave me alone.’

  ‘I have not been very long, have I, Arthur? I have not been an hour, I’m sure.’

  ‘Oh, of course, an hour is nothing to you, so pleasantly employed; but to me –’

  ‘It has not been pleasantly employed,’ interrupted I. ‘I have been nursing our poor little baby, who is very far from well, and I could not leave him till I got him to sleep.’

  ‘Oh to be sure, you’re overflowing with kindness and pity for everything but me.’

  ‘And why should I pity you? what is the matter with you?’

  ‘Well! that passes everything! After all the wear and tear that I’ve had, when I come home sick and weary, longing for comfort, and expecting to find attention and kindness, at least, from my wife, – she calmly asks what is the matter with me!’

  ‘There is nothing the matter with you,’ returned I, ‘except what you have wilfully brought upon yourself against my earnest exhortation and entreaty.’

  ‘Now, Helen,’ said he, emphatically, half rising from his recumbent posture, ‘if you bother me with another word, I’ll ring the bell and order six bottles of wine – and, by Heaven, I’ll drink them dry before I stir from this place!’

  I said no more but sat down before the table and drew a book towards me.

  ‘Do let me have quietness at least!’ continued he, ‘if you deny me every other comfort,’ and sinking back into his former position, with an impatient expiration between a sigh and a groan, he languidly closed his eyes as if to sleep.

  What the book was, that lay open on the table before me, I cannot tell, for I never looked at it. With an elbow on each side
of it, and my hands clasped before my eyes, I delivered myself up to silent weeping. But Arthur was not asleep: at the first slight sob, he raised his head and looked round, impatiently exclaiming –

  ‘What are you crying for, Helen? What the deuce is the matter now?’

  ‘I’m crying for you Arthur,’ I replied, speedily drying my tears; and starting up, I threw myself on my knees before him, and, clasping his nerveless hand between my own, continued: ‘Don’t you know that you are a part of myself? And do you think you can injure and degrade yourself,1 and I not feel it?’

  ‘Degrade myself, Helen?’

  ‘Yes, degrade! What have you been doing all this time?’

  ‘You’d better not ask,’ said he with a faint smile.

  ‘And you had better not tell – but you cannot deny that you have degraded yourself miserably. You have shamefully wronged yourself, body and soul – and me too; and I can’t endure it quietly – and I won’t!’

  ‘Well, don’t squeeze my hand so frantically and don’t agitate me so, for Heaven’s sake! Oh, Hattersley! you were right; this woman will be the death of me, with her keen feelings and her interesting force of character – There, there, do spare me a little.’

  ‘Arthur, you must repent!’ cried I, in a frenzy of desperation, throwing my arms around him and burying my face in his bosom. ‘You shall say you are sorry for what you have done!’

  ‘Well, well, I am.’

  ‘You are not! you’ll do it again.’

  ‘I shall never live to do it again, if you treat me so savagely,’ replied he, pushing me from him. ‘You’ve nearly squeezed the breath out of my body.’ He pressed his hand to his heart, and looked really agitated and ill.

  ‘Now get me a glass of wine,’ said he, ‘to remedy what you’ve done, you she-tiger! I’m almost ready to faint.’

  I flew to get the required remedy. It seemed to revive him considerably.

  ‘What a shame it is,’ said I, as I took the empty glass from his hand, ‘for a strong young man like you to reduce yourself to such a state!’