The Tenant of Wildfell Hall

une 1st, 1821.—We have just returned to Staningley—that is, we
returned some days ago, and I am not yet settled, and feel as if I
never should be. We left town sooner than was intended, in consequence
of my uncle’s indisposition;—I wonder what would have been the result
if we had stayed the full time. I am quite ashamed of my new-sprung
distaste for country life. All my former occupations seem so tedious
and dull, my former amusements so insipid and unprofitable. I cannot
enjoy my music, because there is no one to hear it. I cannot enjoy my
walks, because there is no one to meet. I cannot enjoy my books,
because they have not power to arrest my attention: my head is so
haunted with the recollections of the last few weeks, that I cannot
attend to them. My drawing suits me best, for I can draw and think at
the same time; and if my productions cannot now be seen by any one but
myself, and those who do not care about them, they, possibly, may be,
hereafter. But, then, there is one face I am always trying to paint or
to sketch, and always without success; and that vexes me. As for the
owner of that face, I cannot get him out of my mind—and, indeed, I
never try. I wonder whether he ever thinks of me; and I wonder whether
I shall ever see him again. And then might follow a train of other
wonderments—questions for time and fate to answer—concluding
with—Supposing all the rest be answered in the affirmative, I wonder
whether I shall ever repent it? as my aunt would tell me I should, if
she knew what I was thinking about.

How distinctly I remember our conversation that evening before our
departure for town, when we were sitting together over the fire, my
uncle having gone to bed with a slight attack of the gout.

“Helen,” said she, after a thoughtful silence, “do you ever think about
marriage?”

“Yes, aunt, often.”

“And do you ever contemplate the possibility of being married yourself,
or engaged, before the season is over?”

“Sometimes; but I don’t think it at all likely that I ever shall.”

“Why so?”

“Because, I imagine, there must be only a very, very few men in the
world that I should like to marry; and of those few, it is ten to one I
may never be acquainted with one; or if I should, it is twenty to one
he may not happen to be single, or to take a fancy to me.”

“That is no argument at all. It may be very true—and I hope is true,
that there are very few men whom you would choose to marry, of
yourself. It is not, indeed, to be supposed that you would wish to
marry any one till you were asked: a girl’s affections should never
be won unsought. But when they are sought—when the citadel of the
heart is fairly besieged—it is apt to surrender sooner than the owner
is aware of, and often against her better judgment, and in opposition
to all her preconceived ideas of what she could have loved, unless she
be extremely careful and discreet. Now, I want to warn you, Helen, of
these things, and to exhort you to be watchful and circumspect from the
very commencement of your career, and not to suffer your heart to be
stolen from you by the first foolish or unprincipled person that covets
the possession of it.—You know, my dear, you are only just eighteen;
there is plenty of time before you, and neither your uncle nor I are in
any hurry to get you off our hands, and I may venture to say, there
will be no lack of suitors; for you can boast a good family, a pretty
considerable fortune and expectations, and, I may as well tell you
likewise—for, if I don’t, others will—that you have a fair share of
beauty besides—and I hope you may never have cause to regret it!”

“I hope not, aunt; but why should you fear it?”

“Because, my dear, beauty is that quality which, next to money, is
generally the most attractive to the worst kinds of men; and,
therefore, it is likely to entail a great deal of trouble on the
possessor.”

“Have you been troubled in that way, aunt?”

“No, Helen,” said she, with reproachful gravity, “but I know many that
have; and some, through carelessness, have been the wretched victims of
deceit; and some, through weakness, have fallen into snares and
temptations terrible to relate.”

“Well, I shall be neither careless nor weak.”

“Remember Peter, Helen! Don’t boast, but watch. Keep a guard over
your eyes and ears as the inlets of your heart, and over your lips as
the outlet, lest they betray you in a moment of unwariness. Receive,
coldly and dispassionately, every attention, till you have ascertained
and duly considered the worth of the aspirant; and let your affections
be consequent upon approbation alone. First study; then approve; then
love. Let your eyes be blind to all external attractions, your ears
deaf to all the fascinations of flattery and light discourse.—These are
nothing—and worse than nothing—snares and wiles of the tempter, to lure
the thoughtless to their own destruction. Principle is the first thing,
after all; and next to that, good sense, respectability, and moderate
wealth. If you should marry the handsomest, and most accomplished and
superficially agreeable man in the world, you little know the misery
that would overwhelm you if, after all, you should find him to be a
worthless reprobate, or even an impracticable fool.”

“But what are all the poor fools and reprobates to do, aunt? If
everybody followed your advice, the world would soon come to an end.”

“Never fear, my dear! the male fools and reprobates will never want for
partners, while there are so many of the other sex to match them; but
do you follow my advice. And this is no subject for jesting, Helen—I
am sorry to see you treat the matter in that light way. Believe me,
matrimony is a serious thing.” And she spoke it so seriously, that
one might have fancied she had known it to her cost; but I asked no
more impertinent questions, and merely answered,—

“I know it is; and I know there is truth and sense in what you say; but
you need not fear me, for I not only should think it wrong to marry a
man that was deficient in sense or in principle, but I should never be
tempted to do it; for I could not like him, if he were ever so
handsome, and ever so charming, in other respects; I should hate
him—despise him—pity him—anything but love him. My affections not only
ought to be founded on approbation, but they will and must be so:
for, without approving, I cannot love. It is needless to say, I ought
to be able to respect and honour the man I marry, as well as love
him, for I cannot love him without. So set your mind at rest.”

“I hope it may be so,” answered she.

“I know it is so,” persisted I.

“You have not been tried yet, Helen—we can but hope,” said she in her
cold, cautious way.

“I was vexed at her incredulity; but I am not sure her doubts were
entirely without sagacity; I fear I have found it much easier to
remember her advice than to profit by it;—indeed, I have sometimes been
led to question the soundness of her doctrines on those subjects. Her
counsels may be good, as far as they go—in the main points at
least;—but there are some things she has overlooked in her
calculations. I wonder if she was ever in love.

I commenced my career—or my first campaign, as my uncle calls
it—kindling with bright hopes and fancies—chiefly raised by this
conversation—and full of confidence in my own discretion. At first, I
was delighted with the novelty and excitement of our London life; but
soon I began to weary of its mingled turbulence and constraint, and
sigh for the freshness and freedom of home. My new acquaintances, both
male and female, disappointed my expectations, and vexed and depressed
me by turns; for I soon grew tired of studying their peculiarities, and
laughing at their foibles—particularly as I was obliged to keep my
criticisms to myself, for my aunt would not hear them—and they—the
ladies especially—appeared so provokingly mindless, and heartless, and
artificial. The gentlemen seemed better, but, perhaps, it was because I
knew them less—perhaps, because they flattered me; but I did not fall
in love with any of them; and, if their attentions pleased me one
moment, they provoked me the next, because they put me out of humour
with myself, by revealing my vanity and making me fear I was becoming
like some of the ladies I so heartily despised.

There was one elderly gentleman that annoyed me very much; a rich old
friend of my uncle’s, who, I believe, thought I could not do better
than marry him; but, besides being old, he was ugly and
disagreeable,—and wicked, I am sure, though my aunt scolded me for
saying so; but she allowed he was no saint. And there was another, less
hateful, but still more tiresome, because she favoured him, and was
always thrusting him upon me, and sounding his praises in my ears—Mr.
Boarham by name, Bore’em, as I prefer spelling it, for a terrible bore
he was: I shudder still at the remembrance of his voice—drone, drone,
drone, in my ear—while he sat beside me, prosing away by the half-hour
together, and beguiling himself with the notion that he was improving
my mind by useful information, or impressing his dogmas upon me and
reforming my errors of judgment, or perhaps that he was talking down to
my level, and amusing me with entertaining discourse. Yet he was a
decent man enough in the main, I daresay; and if he had kept his
distance, I never would have hated him. As it was, it was almost
impossible to help it, for he not only bothered me with the infliction
of his own presence, but he kept me from the enjoyment of more
agreeable society.

One night, however, at a ball, he had been more than usually
tormenting, and my patience was quite exhausted. It appeared as if the
whole evening was fated to be insupportable: I had just had one dance
with an empty-headed coxcomb, and then Mr. Boarham had come upon me and
seemed determined to cling to me for the rest of the night. He never
danced himself, and there he sat, poking his head in my face, and
impressing all beholders with the idea that he was a confirmed,
acknowledged lover; my aunt looking complacently on all the time, and
wishing him God-speed. In vain I attempted to drive him away by giving
a loose to my exasperated feelings, even to positive rudeness: nothing
could convince him that his presence was disagreeable. Sullen silence
was taken for rapt attention, and gave him greater room to talk; sharp
answers were received as smart sallies of girlish vivacity, that only
required an indulgent rebuke; and flat contradictions were but as oil
to the flames, calling forth new strains of argument to support his
dogmas, and bringing down upon me endless floods of reasoning to
overwhelm me with conviction.

But there was one present who seemed to have a better appreciation of
my frame of mind. A gentleman stood by, who had been watching our
conference for some time, evidently much amused at my companion’s
remorseless pertinacity and my manifest annoyance, and laughing to
himself at the asperity and uncompromising spirit of my replies. At
length, however, he withdrew, and went to the lady of the house,
apparently for the purpose of asking an introduction to me, for,
shortly after, they both came up, and she introduced him as Mr.
Huntingdon, the son of a late friend of my uncle’s. He asked me to
dance. I gladly consented, of course; and he was my companion during
the remainder of my stay, which was not long, for my aunt, as usual,
insisted upon an early departure.

I was sorry to go, for I had found my new acquaintance a very lively
and entertaining companion. There was a certain graceful ease and
freedom about all he said and did, that gave a sense of repose and
expansion to the mind, after so much constraint and formality as I had
been doomed to suffer. There might be, it is true, a little too much
careless boldness in his manner and address, but I was in so good a
humour, and so grateful for my late deliverance from Mr. Boarham, that
it did not anger me.

“Well, Helen, how do you like Mr. Boarham now?” said my aunt, as we
took our seats in the carriage and drove away.

“Worse than ever,” I replied.

She looked displeased, but said no more on that subject.

“Who was the gentleman you danced with last,” resumed she, after a
pause—“that was so officious in helping you on with your shawl?”

“He was not officious at all, aunt: he never attempted to help me,
till he saw Mr. Boarham coming to do so; and then he stepped laughingly
forward and said, ‘Come, I’ll preserve you from that infliction.’”

“Who was it, I ask?” said she, with frigid gravity.

“It was Mr. Huntingdon, the son of uncle’s old friend.”

“I have heard your uncle speak of young Mr. Huntingdon. I’ve heard him
say, ‘He’s a fine lad, that young Huntingdon, but a bit wildish, I
fancy.’ So I’d have you beware.”

“What does ‘a bit wildish’ mean?” I inquired.

“It means destitute of principle, and prone to every vice that is
common to youth.”

“But I’ve heard uncle say he was a sad wild fellow himself, when he was
young.”

She sternly shook her head.

“He was jesting then, I suppose,” said I, “and here he was speaking at
random—at least, I cannot believe there is any harm in those laughing
blue eyes.”

“False reasoning, Helen!” said she, with a sigh.

“Well, we ought to be charitable, you know, aunt—besides, I don’t think
it is false: I am an excellent physiognomist, and I always judge of
people’s characters by their looks—not by whether they are handsome or
ugly, but by the general cast of the countenance. For instance, I
should know by your countenance that you were not of a cheerful,
sanguine disposition; and I should know by Mr. Wilmot’s, that he was a
worthless old reprobate; and by Mr. Boarham’s, that he was not an
agreeable companion; and by Mr. Huntingdon’s, that he was neither a
fool nor a knave, though, possibly, neither a sage nor a saint—but that
is no matter to me, as I am not likely to meet him again—unless as an
occasional partner in the ball-room.”

It was not so, however, for I met him again next morning. He came to
call upon my uncle, apologising for not having done so before, by
saying he was only lately returned from the Continent, and had not
heard, till the previous night, of my uncle’s arrival in town; and
after that I often met him; sometimes in public, sometimes at home; for
he was very assiduous in paying his respects to his old friend, who did
not, however, consider himself greatly obliged by the attention.

“I wonder what the deuce the lad means by coming so often,” he would
say,—“can you tell, Helen?—Hey? He wants none o’ my company, nor I
his—that’s certain.”

“I wish you’d tell him so, then,” said my aunt.

“Why, what for? If I don’t want him, somebody does, mayhap” (winking at
me). “Besides, he’s a pretty tidy fortune, Peggy, you know—not such a
catch as Wilmot; but then Helen won’t hear of that match: for, somehow,
these old chaps don’t go down with the girls—with all their money,
and their experience to boot. I’ll bet anything she’d rather have this
young fellow without a penny, than Wilmot with his house full of gold.
Wouldn’t you, Nell?”

“Yes, uncle; but that’s not saying much for Mr. Huntingdon; for I’d
rather be an old maid and a pauper than Mrs. Wilmot.”

“And Mrs. Huntingdon? What would you rather be than Mrs.
Huntingdon—eh?”

“I’ll tell you when I’ve considered the matter.”

“Ah! it needs consideration, then? But come, now—would you rather be an
old maid—let alone the pauper?”

“I can’t tell till I’m asked.”

And I left the room immediately, to escape further examination. But
five minutes after, in looking from my window, I beheld Mr. Boarham
coming up to the door. I waited nearly half-an-hour in uncomfortable
suspense, expecting every minute to be called, and vainly longing to
hear him go. Then footsteps were heard on the stairs, and my aunt
entered the room with a solemn countenance, and closed the door behind
her.

“Here is Mr. Boarham, Helen,” said she. “He wishes to see you.”

“Oh, aunt!—Can’t you tell him I’m indisposed?—I’m sure I am—to see
him.”

“Nonsense, my dear! this is no trifling matter. He is come on a very
important errand—to ask your hand in marriage of your uncle and me.”

“I hope my uncle and you told him it was not in your power to give it.
What right had he to ask any one before me?”

“Helen!”

“What did my uncle say?”

“He said he would not interfere in the matter; if you liked to accept
Mr. Boarham’s obliging offer, you—”

“Did he say obliging offer?”

“No; he said if you liked to take him you might; and if not, you might
please yourself.”

“He said right; and what did you say?”

“It is no matter what I said. What will you say?—that is the
question. He is now waiting to ask you himself; but consider well
before you go; and if you intend to refuse him, give me your reasons.”

“I shall refuse him, of course; but you must tell me how, for I want
to be civil and yet decided—and when I’ve got rid of him, I’ll give you
my reasons afterwards.”

“But stay, Helen; sit down a little and compose yourself. Mr. Boarham
is in no particular hurry, for he has little doubt of your acceptance;
and I want to speak with you. Tell me, my dear, what are your
objections to him? Do you deny that he is an upright, honourable man?”

“No.”

“Do you deny that he is sensible, sober, respectable?”

“No; he may be all this, but—”

“But Helen! How many such men do you expect to meet with in the
world? Upright, honourable, sensible, sober, respectable! Is this
such an every-day character that you should reject the possessor of
such noble qualities without a moment’s hesitation? Yes, noble I may
call them; for think of the full meaning of each, and how many
inestimable virtues they include (and I might add many more to the
list), and consider that all this is laid at your feet. It is in your
power to secure this inestimable blessing for life—a worthy and
excellent husband, who loves you tenderly, but not too fondly so as to
blind him to your faults, and will be your guide throughout life’s
pilgrimage, and your partner in eternal bliss. Think how—”

“But I hate him, aunt,” said I, interrupting this unusual flow of
eloquence.

“Hate him, Helen! Is this a Christian spirit?—you hate him? and he so
good a man!”

“I don’t hate him as a man, but as a husband. As a man, I love him so
much that I wish him a better wife than I—one as good as himself, or
better—if you think that possible—provided she could like him; but I
never could, and therefore—”

“But why not? What objection do you find?”

“Firstly, he is at least forty years old—considerably more, I should
think—and I am but eighteen; secondly, he is narrow-minded and bigoted
in the extreme; thirdly, his tastes and feelings are wholly dissimilar
to mine; fourthly, his looks, voice, and manner are particularly
displeasing to me; and, finally, I have an aversion to his whole person
that I never can surmount.”

“Then you ought to surmount it. And please to compare him for a moment
with Mr. Huntingdon, and, good looks apart (which contribute nothing to
the merit of the man, or to the happiness of married life, and which
you have so often professed to hold in light esteem), tell me which is
the better man.”

“I have no doubt Mr. Huntingdon is a much better man than you think
him; but we are not talking about him now, but about Mr. Boarham; and
as I would rather grow, live, and die in single blessedness—than be his
wife, it is but right that I should tell him so at once, and put him
out of suspense—so let me go.”

“But don’t give him a flat denial; he has no idea of such a thing, and
it would offend him greatly: say you have no thoughts of matrimony at
present—”

“But I have thoughts of it.”

“Or that you desire a further acquaintance.”

“But I don’t desire a further acquaintance—quite the contrary.”

And without waiting for further admonitions I left the room and went to
seek Mr. Boarham. He was walking up and down the drawing-room, humming
snatches of tunes and nibbling the end of his cane.

“My dear young lady,” said he, bowing and smirking with great
complacency, “I have your kind guardian’s permission—”

“I know, sir,” said I, wishing to shorten the scene as much as
possible, “and I am greatly obliged for your preference, but must beg
to decline the honour you wish to confer, for I think we were not made
for each other, as you yourself would shortly discover if the
experiment were tried.”

My aunt was right. It was quite evident he had had little doubt of my
acceptance, and no idea of a positive denial. He was amazed, astounded
at such an answer, but too incredulous to be much offended; and after a
little humming and hawing, he returned to the attack.

“I know, my dear, that there exists a considerable disparity between us
in years, in temperament, and perhaps some other things; but let me
assure you, I shall not be severe to mark the faults and foibles of a
young and ardent nature such as yours, and while I acknowledge them to
myself, and even rebuke them with all a father’s care, believe me, no
youthful lover could be more tenderly indulgent towards the object of
his affections than I to you; and, on the other hand, let me hope that
my more experienced years and graver habits of reflection will be no
disparagement in your eyes, as I shall endeavour to make them all
conducive to your happiness. Come, now! What do you say? Let us have no
young lady’s affectations and caprices, but speak out at once.”

“I will, but only to repeat what I said before, that I am certain we
were not made for each other.”

“You really think so?”

“I do.”

“But you don’t know me—you wish for a further acquaintance—a longer
time to—”

“No, I don’t. I know you as well as I ever shall, and better than you
know me, or you would never dream of uniting yourself to one so
incongruous—so utterly unsuitable to you in every way.”

“But, my dear young lady, I don’t look for perfection; I can excuse—”

“Thank you, Mr. Boarham, but I won’t trespass upon your goodness. You
may save your indulgence and consideration for some more worthy object,
that won’t tax them so heavily.”

“But let me beg you to consult your aunt; that excellent lady, I am
sure, will—”

“I have consulted her; and I know her wishes coincide with yours; but
in such important matters, I take the liberty of judging for myself;
and no persuasion can alter my inclinations, or induce me to believe
that such a step would be conducive to my happiness or yours—and I
wonder that a man of your experience and discretion should think of
choosing such a wife.”

“Ah, well!” said he, “I have sometimes wondered at that myself. I have
sometimes said to myself, ‘Now Boarham, what is this you’re after? Take
care, man—look before you leap! This is a sweet, bewitching creature,
but remember, the brightest attractions to the lover too often prove
the husband’s greatest torments!’ I assure you my choice has not been
made without much reasoning and reflection. The seeming imprudence of
the match has cost me many an anxious thought by day, and many a
sleepless hour by night; but at length I satisfied myself that it was
not, in very deed, imprudent. I saw my sweet girl was not without her
faults, but of these her youth, I trusted, was not one, but rather an
earnest of virtues yet unblown—a strong ground of presumption that her
little defects of temper and errors of judgment, opinion, or manner
were not irremediable, but might easily be removed or mitigated by the
patient efforts of a watchful and judicious adviser, and where I failed
to enlighten and control, I thought I might safely undertake to pardon,
for the sake of her many excellences. Therefore, my dearest girl, since
I am satisfied, why should you object—on my account, at least?”

“But to tell you the truth, Mr. Boarham, it is on my own account I
principally object; so let us—drop the subject,” I would have said,
“for it is worse than useless to pursue it any further,” but he
pertinaciously interrupted me with,—“But why so? I would love you,
cherish you, protect you,” &c., &c.

I shall not trouble myself to put down all that passed between us.
Suffice it to say, that I found him very troublesome, and very hard to
convince that I really meant what I said, and really was so obstinate
and blind to my own interests, that there was no shadow of a chance
that either he or my aunt would ever be able to overcome my objections.
Indeed, I am not sure that I succeeded after all; though wearied with
his so pertinaciously returning to the same point and repeating the
same arguments over and over again, forcing me to reiterate the same
replies, I at length turned short and sharp upon him, and my last words
were,—“I tell you plainly, that it cannot be. No consideration can
induce me to marry against my inclinations. I respect you—at least, I
would respect you, if you would behave like a sensible man—but I cannot
love you, and never could—and the more you talk the further you repel
me; so pray don’t say any more about it.”

Whereupon he wished me a good-morning, and withdrew, disconcerted and
offended, no doubt; but surely it was not my fault.