The Tenant of Wildfell Hall (Penguin Classics)

by Brontë, Anne

  Already, I believe, he knows much more of my situation than I have told him. I can tell this by the air of tender sadness pervading his letters; and by the fact of his so seldom mentioning my husband, and generally evincing a kind of covert bitterness when he does refer to him; as well as by the circumstances of his never coming to see me when Mr Huntingdon is at home. But he has never openly expressed any disapprobation of him or sympathy for me; he has never asked any questions, or said anything to invite my confidence. Had he done so, I should probably have had but few concealments from him. Perhaps, he feels hurt at my reserve. He is a strange being – I wish we knew each other better. He used to spend a month at Staningley every year, before I was married; but, since our father’s death, I have only seen him once, when he came for a few days while Mr Huntingdon was away. He shall stay many days this time, and there shall be more candour and cordiality between us than ever there was before, since our early childhood: my heart clings to him more than ever; and my soul is sick of solitude.

  April 16th. – He is come and gone. He would not stay above a fortnight. The time passed quickly, but very, very happily, and it has done me good. I must have a bad disposition, for my misfortunes have soured and embittered me exceedingly: I was beginning insensibly to cherish very unamiable feelings against my fellow mortals – the male part of them especially; but it is a comfort to see there is at least one among them worthy to be trusted and esteemed; and doubtless there are more, though I have never known them – unless I accept poor Lord Lowborough, and he was bad enough in his day; but what would Frederick have been, if he had lived in the world, and mingled from his childhood with such men as these of my acquaintance? and what will Arthur be, with all his natural sweetness of disposition, if I do not save him. from that world and those companions? I mentioned my fears to Frederick and introduced the subject of my plan of rescue on the evening after his arrival, when I presented my little son to his uncle.

  ‘He is like you, Frederick,’ said I, ‘in some of his moods: I sometimes think he resembles you more than his father; and I am glad of it.’

  ‘You flatter me, Helen,’ replied he, stroking the child’s soft, wavy locks.

  ‘No, – you will think it no compliment when I tell you I would rather have him to resemble Benson than his father.’

  He slightly elevated his eyebrows, but said nothing.

  ‘Do you know what sort of man Mr Huntingdon is?’ said I.

  ‘I think I have an idea.’

  ‘Have you so clear an idea that you can hear, without surprise or disapproval, that I meditate escaping with that child to some secret asylum where we can live in peace and never see him again?’

  ‘Is it really so?’

  ‘If you have not,’ continued I, ‘I’ll tell you something more about him’ – and I gave a sketch of his general conduct, and a more particular account of his behaviour with regard to his child, and explained my apprehensions on the latter’s account, and my determination to deliver him from his father’s influence.

  Frederick was exceedingly indignant against Mr Huntingdon, and very much grieved for me; but still, he looked upon my project as wild and impracticable; he deemed my fears for Arthur disproportioned to the circumstances, and opposed so many objections to my plan, and devised so many milder methods for ameliorating my condition, that I was obliged to enter into further details to convince him that my husband was utterly incorrigible, and that nothing could persuade him to give up his son whatever became of me, he being as fully determined the child should not leave him, as I was not to leave the child; and that, in fact, nothing would answer but this, unless I fled the country as I had intended before. To obviate that, he at length consented to have one wing of the old Hall put into a habitable condition, as a place of refuge against a time of need; but hoped I would not take advantage of it, unless circumstances should render it really necessary, which I was ready enough to promise; for, though, for my own sake, such a hermitage appears like paradise itself compared with my present situation, yet for my friends’ sakes – for Milicent and Esther, my sisters in heart and affection, for the poor tenants of Grassdale, and above all for my aunt – I will stay if I possibly can.

  July 29th. – Mrs Hargrave and her daughter are come back from London. Esther is full of her first season in town; but she is still heartwhole and unengaged. Her mother sought out an excellent match for her, and even brought the gentleman to lay his heart and fortune at her feet; but Esther had the audacity to refuse the noble gifts. He was a man of good family and large possessions, but the naughty girl maintained he was old as Adam, ugly as sin, and hateful as – one who shall be nameless.

  ‘But indeed, I had a hard time of it,’ said she: ‘mamma was very greatly disappointed at the failure of her darling project, and very, very angry at my obstinate resistance to her will, – and is so still; but I can’t help it And Walter, too, is so seriously displeased at my perversity and absurd caprice, as he calls it, that I fear he will never forgive me – I did not think he could be so unkind as he has lately shown himself. But Milicent begged me not to yield, and I’m sure, Mrs Huntingdon, if you had seen the man they wanted to palm upon me, you would have advised me not to take him too.’

  ‘I should have done so whether I had seen him or not,’ said I. ‘It is enough that you dislike him.’

  ‘I knew you would say so; though mamma affirmed you would be quite shocked at my undutiful conduct – you can’t imagine how she lectures me – I am disobedient and ungrateful; I am thwarting her wishes, wronging my brother, and making myself a burden on her hands – I sometimes fear she’ll overcome me after all. I have a strong will, but so has she, and when she says such bitter things, it provokes me to such a pass that I feel inclined to do as she bids me, and then break my heart and say “There, mamma, it’s all your fault!” ‘

  ‘Pray don’t!’ said I. ‘Obedience from such a motive would be positive wickedness, and certain to bring the punishment it deserved. Stand firm, and your mamma will soon relinquish her persecution; – and the gentleman himself will cease to pester you with his addresses if he finds them steadily rejected.’

  ‘Oh, no! mamma will weary all about her before she tires herself with her exertions; and as for Mr Oldfield, she has given him to understand that I have refused his offer, not from any dislike of his person, but merely because I am giddy and young, and cannot at present reconcile myself to the thought of marriage under any circumstances: but, by next season, she has no doubt, I shall have more sense, and hopes my girlish fancies will be worn away. So she has brought me home, to school me into a proper sense of my duty, against4 the time comes round again – indeed, I believe she will not put herself to the expense of taking me up to London again, unless I surrender: she cannot afford to take me to town for pleasure and nonsense, she says, and it is not every rich gentleman that will consent to take me without a fortune, whatever exalted ideas I may have of my own attractions.’

  ‘Well Esther, I pity you; but still, I repeat, stand firm. You might as well sell yourself to slavery at once, as marry a man you dislike. If your mother and brother are unkind to you, you may leave them, but remember you are bound to your husband for life.’

  ‘But I cannot leave them unless I get married, and I cannot get married if nobody sees me. I saw one or two gentlemen in London, that I might have liked, but they were younger sons,5 and mamma would not let me get to know them – one especially, who I believe rather liked me, but she threw every possible obstacle in the way of our better acquaintance – wasn’t it provoking?’

  ‘I have no doubt you would feel it so, but it is possible that if you married him, you might have more reason to regret it hereafter, than if you married Mr Oldfield. When I tell you not to marry without love, I do not advise you to marry for love alone – there are many, many other things to be considered. Keep both heart and hand in your own possession, till you see good reason to part with them; and if such an occasion should never present itself, comfort your mind wit
h this reflection: that, though in single life your joys may not be very many, your sorrows, at least will not be more than you can bear. Marriage may change your circumstances for the better, but in my private opinion, it is far more likely to produce a contrary result’

  ‘So thinks Milicent, but allow me to say, I think otherwise. If I thought myself doomed to old-maidenhood, I should cease to value my life. The thought of living on, year after year at the Grove – a hanger-on upon mamma and Walter – a mere cumberer of the ground6 (now that I know in what light they would regard it), is perfectly intolerable – I would rather run away with the butler.’

  ‘Your circumstances are peculiar I allow; but have patience, love; do nothing rashly. Remember you are not yet nineteen, and many years are yet to pass before anyone can set you down as an old maid: you cannot tell what Providence may have in store for you. And meantime, remember you have a right to the protection and support of your mother and brother, however they may seem to grudge it.’

  ‘You are so grave, Mrs Huntingdon,’ said Esther after a pause. ‘When Milicent uttered the same discouraging sentiments concerning marriage, I asked if she was happy: she said she was; but I only half believed her; and now I must put the same question to you.’

  ‘It is a very impertinent question,’ laughed I, ‘from a young girl to a married woman so many years her senior – and I shall not answer it.’

  ‘Pardon me, dear madam’ said she, laughingly throwing herself into my arms, and kissing me with playful affection; but I felt a tear on my neck, as she dropped her head on my bosom and continued, with an odd mixture of sadness and levity, timidity and audacity, – ‘I know you are not so happy as I mean to be, for you spend half your life alone at Grassdale, while Mr Huntingdon goes about enjoying himself where, and how he pleases – I shall expect my husband to have no pleasures but what he shares with me; and if his greatest pleasure of all is not the enjoyment of my company – why – it will be the worse for him – that’s all.’

  ‘If such are your expectations of matrimony, Esther, you must indeed, be careful whom you marry – or rather, you must avoid it altogether.’

  CHAPTER 42

  A REFORMATION

  Sept. 1st. – No Mr Huntingdon yet. Perhaps he will stay among his friends till Christmas; and then, next spring, he will be off again. If he continue this plan, I shall be able to stay at Grassdale well enough – that is, I shall be able to stay, and that is enough; even an occasional bevy of friends at the shooting season may be borne if Arthur get so firmly attached to me – so well established in good sense and principles, before they come, that I shall be able, by reason and affection, to keep him pure from their contaminations. Vain hope, I fear! but still, till such a time of trial comes, I will forbear to think of my quiet asylum in the beloved old hall.

  Mr and Mrs Hattersley have been staying at the Grove a fortnight; and as Mr Hargrave is still absent, and the weather was remarkably fine, I never passed a day without seeing my two friends, Milicent and Esther, either there or here. On one occasion, when Mr Hattersley had driven them over to Grassdale in the phaeton, with little Helen and Ralph, and we were all enjoying ourselves in the garden – I had a few minutes’ conversation with that gentleman, while the ladies were amusing themselves with the children.

  ‘Do you want to hear anything of your husband, Mrs Huntingdon?’ said he.

  ‘No, unless you can tell me when to expect him home.’

  ‘I can’t. – You don’t want him, do you?’ said he with a broad grin.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, I think you’re better without him, sure enough – for my part, I’m downright weary of him. I told him I’d leave him if he didn’t mend his manners – and he wouldn’t; so I left him – you see I’m a better man than you think me; – and what’s more, I have serious thoughts of washing my hands of him entirely, and the whole set of ‘em, and comporting myself from this day forward, with all decency and sobriety as a Christian and the father of a family should do. – What do you think of that?’

  ‘It is a resolution you ought to have formed long ago.’

  ‘Well, I’m not thirty yet it isn’t too late, is it?’

  ‘No; it is never too late to reform, as long as you have the sense to desire it, and the strength to execute your purpose.’

  ‘Well, to tell you the truth, I’ve thought of it often and often before, but he’s such devilish good company is Huntingdon, after all – you can’t imagine what a jovial good fellow he is when he’s not fairly drunk, only just primed or half-seas-over – we all have a bit of a liking for him at the bottom of our hearts, though we can’t respect him.’

  ‘But should you wish yourself to be like him?’

  ‘No, I’d rather be like myself, bad as I am.’

  ‘You can’t continue as bad as you are without getting worse – and more brutalized every day – and therefore more like him.’

  I could not help smiling at the comical, half angry, half confounded look he put on at this rather unusual mode of address.

  ‘Never mind my plain speaking,’ said I; ‘it is from the best of motives. But tell me, should you wish your sons to be like Mr Huntingdon – or even like yourself?’

  ‘Hang it, no.’

  ‘Should you wish your daughter to despise you – or, at least, to feel no vestige of respect for you, and no affection but what is mingled with the bitterest regret?’

  ‘Oh, blast it, no! I couldn’t stand that.’

  ‘And finally, should you wish your wife to be ready to sink into the earth when she hears you mentioned; and to loathe the very sound of your voice, and shudder at your approach?’

  ‘She never will; she likes me all the same, whatever I do.’

  ‘Impossible, Mr Hattersley! you mistake her quiet submission for affection.’

  ‘Fire and fury –’

  ‘Now don’t burst into a tempest at that – I don’t mean to say she does not love you – she does, I know, a great deal better than you deserve – but I am quite sure, that if you behave better, she will love you more, and if you behave worse, she will love you less and less till all is lost in fear, aversion, and bitterness of soul, if not in secret hatred and contempt. But, dropping the subject of affection, should you wish to be the tyrant of her life – to take away all the sunshine from her existence, and make her thoroughly miserable?’

  ‘Of course not; and I don’t, and I’m not going to.’

  ‘You have done more towards it than you suppose.’

  ‘Pooh, pooh! she’s not the susceptible, anxious, worriting1 creature you imagine: she’s a little meek, peaceable, affectionate body; apt to be rather sulky at times, but quiet and cool in the main, and ready to take things as they come.’

  ‘Think of what she was five years ago, when you married her, and what she is now.’

  ‘I know – she was a little plump lassie then, with a pretty pink and white face: now, she’s a poor little bit of a creature, fading and melting away like a snow-wreath – but hang it! – by Jupiter, that’s not my fault!’

  ‘What is the cause of it then? Not years, for she’s only five and twenty.’

  ‘It’s her own delicate health, and – confound it, madam! what would you make of me? – and the children, to be sure, that worry her to death between them.’

  ‘No, Mr Hattersley, the children give her more pleasure than pain: they are fine well dispositioned children –’

  ‘I know they are – bless ‘em!’

  ‘Then why lay the blame on them? – I’ll tell you what it is: it’s silent fretting and constant anxiety on your account, mingled I suspect, with something of bodily fear on her own. When you behave well, she can only rejoice with trembling; she has no security, no confidence in your judgment or principles; but is continually dreading the close of such short-lived felicity: when you behave ill, her causes of terror and misery are more than anyone can tell but herself. In patient endurance of evil, she forgets it is our duty to admonish our neighbours of
their transgressions.2 – Since you will mistake her silence for indifference, come with me, and I’ll show you one or two of her letters – no breach of confidence, I hope, since you are her other half.’

  He followed me into the library. I sought out and put into his hands two of Milicent’s letters; one dated from London and written during one of his wildest seasons of reckless dissipation; the other in the country during a lucid interval. The former was full of trouble and anguish; not accusing him, but deeply regretting his connection with his profligate companions, abusing Mr Grimsby and others, insinuating bitter things against Mr Huntingdon, and most ingeniously throwing the blame of her husband’s misconduct on to other men’s shoulders. The latter was full of hope and joy, yet with a trembling consciousness that this happiness would not last; praising his goodness to the skies, but with an evident, though but half-expressed wish that it were based on a surer foundation than the natural impulses of the heart, and a half prophetic dread of the fall of that house so founded on the sand,3 – which fall had shortly after taken place, as Hattersley must have been conscious while he read.