The Tenant of Wildfell Hall

n 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.

[Illustration]

“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 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 meal-times, 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. Your bright eyes are faded, and that tender,
delicate bloom 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 a maid to attend me? If you come with me I shall assuredly
keep you. But tell me, Arthur, what is this tiresome business; 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 incumbrances 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 has 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.—Oh,
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.

July 3rd.—My last bitter letter has wrung from him an answer at last,
and a rather longer one than usual; but still I don’t know what to make
of it. He playfully abuses me for the gall and vinegar of my latest
effusion, tells me I can have no conception of the multitudinous
engagements that keep him away, but avers that, in spite of them all,
he will assuredly be with me before the close of next week; though it
is impossible for a man so circumstanced as he is to fix the precise
day of his return: meantime he exhorts me to the exercise of patience,
“that first of woman’s virtues,” and desires me to remember the saying,
“Absence makes the heart grow fonder,” and comfort myself with the
assurance that the longer he stays away the better he shall love me
when he returns; and till he does return, he begs I will continue to
write to him constantly, for, though he is sometimes too idle and often
too busy to answer my letters as they come, he likes to receive them
daily; and if I fulfil my threat of punishing his seeming neglect by
ceasing to write, he shall be so angry that he will do his utmost to
forget me. He adds this piece of intelligence respecting poor Milicent
Hargrave:

“Your little friend Milicent is likely, before long, to follow your
example, and take upon her the yoke of matrimony in conjunction with a
friend of mine. Hattersley, you know, has not yet fulfilled his direful
threat of throwing his precious person away on the first old maid that
chose to evince a tenderness for him; but he still preserves a resolute
determination to see himself a married man before the year is out.
‘Only,’ said he to me, ‘I must have somebody that will let me have my
own way in everything—not like your wife, Huntingdon: she is a
charming creature, but she looks as if she had a will of her own, and
could play the vixen upon occasion’ (I thought ‘you’re right there,
man,’ but I didn’t say so). ‘I must have some good, quiet soul that
will let me just do what I like and go where I like, keep at home or
stay away, without a word of reproach or complaint; for I can’t do with
being bothered.’ ‘Well,’ said I, ‘I know somebody that will suit you to
a tee, if you don’t care for money, and that’s Hargrave’s sister,
Milicent.’ He desired to be introduced to her forthwith, for he said he
had plenty of the needful himself, or should have when his old governor
chose to quit the stage. So you see, Helen, I have managed pretty well,
both for your friend and mine.”

Poor Milicent! But I cannot imagine she will ever be led to accept such
a suitor—one so repugnant to all her ideas of a man to be honoured and
loved.

5th.—Alas! I was mistaken. I have got a long letter from her this
morning, telling me she is already engaged, and expects to be married
before the close of the month.

“I hardly know what to say about it,” she writes, “or what to think. To
tell you the truth, Helen, I don’t like the thoughts of it at all. If I
am to be Mr. Hattersley’s wife, I must try to love him; and I do try
with all my might; but I have made very little progress yet; and the
worst symptom of the case is, that the further he is from me the better
I like him: he frightens me with his abrupt manners and strange
hectoring ways, and I dread the thoughts of marrying him. ‘Then why
have you accepted him?’ you will ask; and I didn’t know I had accepted
him; but mamma tells me I have, and he seems to think so too. I
certainly didn’t mean to do so; but I did not like to give him a flat
refusal, for fear mamma should be grieved and angry (for I knew she
wished me to marry him), and I wanted to talk to her first about it: so
I gave him what I thought was an evasive, half negative answer; but
she says it was as good as an acceptance, and he would think me very
capricious if I were to attempt to draw back—and indeed I was so
confused and frightened at the moment, I can hardly tell what I said.
And next time I saw him, he accosted me in all confidence as his
affianced bride, and immediately began to settle matters with mamma. I
had not courage to contradict them then, and how can I do it now? I
cannot; they would think me mad. Besides, mamma is so delighted with
the idea of the match; she thinks she has managed so well for me; and I
cannot bear to disappoint her. I do object sometimes, and tell her what
I feel, but you don’t know how she talks. Mr. Hattersley, you know,
is the son of a rich banker, and as Esther and I have no fortunes, and
Walter very little, our dear mamma is very anxious to see us all well
married, that is, united to rich partners. It is not my idea of being
well married, but she means it all for the best. She says when I am
safe off her hands it will be such a relief to her mind; and she
assures me it will be a good thing for the family as well as for me.
Even Walter is pleased at the prospect, and when I confessed my
reluctance to him, he said it was all childish nonsense. Do you think
it nonsense, Helen? I should not care if I could see any prospect of
being able to love and admire him, but I can’t. There is nothing about
him to hang one’s esteem and affection upon; he is so diametrically
opposite to what I imagined my husband should be. Do write to me, and
say all you can to encourage me. Don’t attempt to dissuade me, for my
fate is fixed: preparations for the important event are already going
on around me; and don’t say a word against Mr. Hattersley, for I want
to think well of him; and though I have spoken against him myself, it
is for the last time: hereafter, I shall never permit myself to utter a
word in his dispraise, however he may seem to deserve it; and whoever
ventures to speak slightingly of the man I have promised to love, to
honour, and obey, must expect my serious displeasure. After all, I
think he is quite as good as Mr. Huntingdon, if not better; and yet you
love him, and seem to be happy and contented; and perhaps I may
manage as well. You must tell me, if you can, that Mr. Hattersley is
better than he seems—that he is upright, honourable, and
open-hearted—in fact, a perfect diamond in the rough. He may be all
this, but I don’t know him. I know only the exterior, and what, I
trust, is the worst part of him.”

She concludes with “Good-by, dear Helen. I am waiting anxiously for
your advice—but mind you let it be all on the right side.”

Alas! poor Milicent, what encouragement can I give you? or what
advice—except that it is better to make a bold stand now, though at the
expense of disappointing and angering both mother and brother and
lover, than to devote your whole life, hereafter, to misery and vain
regret?

Saturday, 13th.—The week is over, and he is not come. All the sweet
summer is passing away without one breath of pleasure to me or benefit
to him. And I had all along been looking forward to this season with
the fond, delusive hope that we should enjoy it so sweetly together;
and that, with God’s help and my exertions, it would be the means of
elevating his mind, and refining his taste to a due appreciation of the
salutary and pure delights of nature, and peace, and holy love. But
now—at evening, when I see the round red sun sink quietly down behind
those woody hills, leaving them sleeping in a warm, red, golden haze, I
only think another lovely day is lost to him and me; and at morning,
when roused by the flutter and chirp of the sparrows, and the gleeful
twitter of the swallows—all intent upon feeding their young, and full
of life and joy in their own little frames—I open the window to inhale
the balmy, soul-reviving air, and look out upon the lovely landscape,
laughing in dew and sunshine—I too often shame that glorious scene with
tears of thankless misery, because he cannot feel its freshening
influence; and when I wander in the ancient woods, and meet the little
wild flowers smiling in my path, or sit in the shadow of our noble
ash-trees by the water-side, with their branches gently swaying in the
light summer breeze that murmurs through their feathery foliage—my ears
full of that low music mingled with the dreamy hum of insects, my eyes
abstractedly gazing on the glassy surface of the little lake before me,
with the trees that crowd about its bank, some gracefully bending to
kiss its waters, some rearing their stately heads high above, but
stretching their wide arms over its margin, all faithfully mirrored
far, far down in its glassy depth—though sometimes the images are
partially broken by the sport of aquatic insects, and sometimes, for a
moment, the whole is shivered into trembling fragments by a transient
breeze that sweeps the surface too roughly—still I have no pleasure;
for the greater the happiness that nature sets before me, the more I
lament that he is not here to taste it: the greater the bliss we
might enjoy together, the more I feel our present wretchedness apart
(yes, ours; he must be wretched, though he may not know it); and the
more my senses are pleased, the more my heart is oppressed; for he
keeps it with him confined amid the dust and smoke of London—perhaps
shut up within the walls of his own abominable club.

But most of all, at night, when I enter my lonely chamber, and look out
upon the summer moon, “sweet regent of the sky,” floating above me in
the “black blue vault of heaven,” shedding a flood of silver radiance
over park, and wood, and water, so pure, so peaceful, so divine—and
think, Where is he now?—what is he doing at this moment? wholly
unconscious of this heavenly scene—perhaps revelling with his boon
companions, perhaps—God help me, it is too—too much!

23rd.—Thank heaven, he is come at last! But how altered! flushed and
feverish, listless and languid, his beauty strangely diminished, his
vigour and vivacity quite departed. I have not upbraided him by word or
look; I have not even asked him what he has been doing. I have not the
heart to do it, for I think he is ashamed of himself—he must be so
indeed, and such inquiries could not fail to be painful to both. My
forbearance pleases him—touches him even, I am inclined to think. He
says he is glad to be home again, and God knows how glad I am to get
him back, even as he is. He lies on the sofa, nearly all day long; and
I play and sing to him for hours together. I write his letters for him,
and get him everything he wants; and sometimes I read to him, and
sometimes I talk, and sometimes only sit by him and soothe him with
silent caresses. I know he does not deserve it; and I fear I am
spoiling him; but this once, I will forgive him, freely and entirely. I
will shame him into virtue if I can, and I will never let him leave me
again.

He is pleased with my attentions—it may be, grateful for them. He likes
to have me near him: and though he is peevish and testy with his
servants and his dogs, he is gentle and kind to me. What he would be,
if I did not so watchfully anticipate his wants, and so carefully
avoid, or immediately desist from doing anything that has a tendency to
irritate or disturb him, with however little reason, I cannot tell. How
intensely I wish he were worthy of all this care! Last night, as I sat
beside him, with his head in my lap, passing my fingers through his
beautiful curls, this thought made my eyes overflow with sorrowful
tears—as it often does; but this time, a tear fell on his face and made
him look up. He smiled, but not insultingly.

“Dear Helen!” he said—“why do you cry? you know that I love you” (and
he pressed my hand to his feverish lips), “and what more could you
desire?”

“Only, Arthur, that you would love yourself as truly and as
faithfully as you are loved by me.”

“That would be hard, indeed!” he replied, tenderly squeezing my hand.

August 24th.—Arthur is himself again, as lusty and reckless, as light
of heart and head as ever, and as restless and hard to amuse as a
spoilt child, and almost as full of mischief too, especially when wet
weather keeps him within doors. I wish he had something to do, some
useful trade, or profession, or employment—anything to occupy his head
or his hands for a few hours a day, and give him something besides his
own pleasure to think about. If he would play the country gentleman and
attend to the farm—but that he knows nothing about, and won’t give his
mind to consider,—or if he would take up with some literary study, or
learn to draw or to play—as he is so fond of music, I often try to
persuade him to learn the piano, but he is far too idle for such an
undertaking: he has no more idea of exerting himself to overcome
obstacles than he has of restraining his natural appetites; and these
two things are the ruin of him. I lay them both to the charge of his
harsh yet careless father, and his madly indulgent mother.—If ever I am
a mother I will zealously strive against this crime of
over-indulgence. I can hardly give it a milder name when I think of the
evils it brings.

Happily, it will soon be the shooting season, and then, if the weather
permit, he will find occupation enough in the pursuit and destruction
of the partridges and pheasants: we have no grouse, or he might have
been similarly occupied at this moment, instead of lying under the
acacia-tree pulling poor Dash’s ears. But he says it is dull work
shooting alone; he must have a friend or two to help him.

“Let them be tolerably decent then, Arthur,” said I. The word “friend”
in his mouth makes me shudder: I know it was some of his “friends” that
induced him to stay behind me in London, and kept him away so long:
indeed, from what he has unguardedly told me, or hinted from time to
time, I cannot doubt that he frequently showed them my letters, to let
them see how fondly his wife watched over his interests, and how keenly
she regretted his absence; and that they induced him to remain week
after week, and to plunge into all manner of excesses, to avoid being
laughed at for a wife-ridden fool, and, perhaps, to show how far he
could venture to go without danger of shaking the fond creature’s
devoted attachment. It is a hateful idea, but I cannot believe it is a
false one.

“Well,” replied he, “I thought of Lord Lowborough for one; but there is
no possibility of getting him without his better half, our mutual
friend, Annabella; so we must ask them both. You’re not afraid of her,
are you, Helen?” he asked, with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

“Of course not,” I answered: “why should I? And who besides?”

“Hargrave for one. He will be glad to come, though his own place is so
near, for he has little enough land of his own to shoot over, and we
can extend our depredations into it, if we like; and he is thoroughly
respectable, you know, Helen—quite a lady’s man: and I think, Grimsby
for another: he’s a decent, quiet fellow enough. You’ll not object to
Grimsby?”

“I hate him: but, however, if you wish it, I’ll try to endure his
presence for a while.”

“All a prejudice, Helen, a mere woman’s antipathy.”

“No; I have solid grounds for my dislike. And is that all?”

“Why, yes, I think so. Hattersley will be too busy billing and cooing,
with his bride to have much time to spare for guns and dogs at
present,” he replied. And that reminds me, that I have had several
letters from Milicent since her marriage, and that she either is, or
pretends to be, quite reconciled to her lot. She professes to have
discovered numberless virtues and perfections in her husband, some of
which, I fear, less partial eyes would fail to distinguish, though they
sought them carefully with tears; and now that she is accustomed to his
loud voice, and abrupt, uncourteous manners, she affirms she finds no
difficulty in loving him as a wife should do, and begs I will burn that
letter wherein she spoke so unadvisedly against him. So that I trust
she may yet be happy; but, if she is, it will be entirely the reward of
her own goodness of heart; for had she chosen to consider herself the
victim of fate, or of her mother’s worldly wisdom, she might have been
thoroughly miserable; and if, for duty’s sake, she had not made every
effort to love her husband, she would, doubtless, have hated him to the
end of her days.