The Tenant of Wildfell Hall

ept. 23rd.—Our guests arrived about three weeks ago. Lord and Lady
Lowborough have now been married above eight months; and I will do the
lady the credit to say that her husband is quite an altered man; his
looks, his spirits, and his temper, are all perceptibly changed for the
better since I last saw him. But there is room for improvement still.
He is not always cheerful, nor always contented, and she often
complains of his ill-humour, which, however, of all persons, she
ought to be the last to accuse him of, as he never displays it against
her, except for such conduct as would provoke a saint. He adores her
still, and would go to the world’s end to please her. She knows her
power, and she uses it too; but well knowing that to wheedle and coax
is safer than to command, she judiciously tempers her despotism with
flattery and blandishments enough to make him deem himself a favoured
and a happy man.

But she has a way of tormenting him, in which I am a fellow-sufferer,
or might be, if I chose to regard myself as such. This is by openly,
but not too glaringly, coquetting with Mr. Huntingdon, who is quite
willing to be her partner in the game; but I don’t care for it,
because, with him, I know there is nothing but personal vanity, and a
mischievous desire to excite my jealousy, and, perhaps, to torment his
friend; and she, no doubt, is actuated by much the same motives; only,
there is more of malice and less of playfulness in her manœuvres. It
is obviously, therefore, my interest to disappoint them both, as far as
I am concerned, by preserving a cheerful, undisturbed serenity
throughout; and, accordingly, I endeavour to show the fullest
confidence in my husband, and the greatest indifference to the arts of
my attractive guest. I have never reproached the former but once, and
that was for laughing at Lord Lowborough’s depressed and anxious
countenance one evening, when they had both been particularly
provoking; and then, indeed, I said a good deal on the subject, and
rebuked him sternly enough; but he only laughed, and said,—“You can
feel for him, Helen, can’t you?”

“I can feel for anyone that is unjustly treated,” I replied, “and I can
feel for those that injure them too.”

“Why, Helen, you are as jealous as he is!” cried he, laughing still
more; and I found it impossible to convince him of his mistake. So,
from that time, I have carefully refrained from any notice of the
subject whatever, and left Lord Lowborough to take care of himself. He
either has not the sense or the power to follow my example, though he
does try to conceal his uneasiness as well as he can; but still, it
will appear in his face, and his ill-humour will peep out at intervals,
though not in the expression of open resentment—they never go far
enough for that. But I confess I do feel jealous at times, most
painfully, bitterly so; when she sings and plays to him, and he hangs
over the instrument, and dwells upon her voice with no affected
interest; for then I know he is really delighted, and I have no power
to awaken similar fervour. I can amuse and please him with my simple
songs, but not delight him thus.

28th.—Yesterday, we all went to the Grove, Mr. Hargrave’s
much-neglected home. His mother frequently asks us over, that she may
have the pleasure of her dear Walter’s company; and this time she had
invited us to a dinner-party, and got together as many of the country
gentry as were within reach to meet us. The entertainment was very well
got up; but I could not help thinking about the cost of it all the
time. I don’t like Mrs. Hargrave; she is a hard, pretentious,
worldly-minded woman. She has money enough to live very comfortably, if
she only knew how to use it judiciously, and had taught her son to do
the same; but she is ever straining to keep up appearances, with that
despicable pride that shuns the semblance of poverty as of a shameful
crime. She grinds her dependents, pinches her servants, and deprives
even her daughters and herself of the real comforts of life, because
she will not consent to yield the palm in outward show to those who
have three times her wealth; and, above all, because she is determined
her cherished son shall be enabled to “hold up his head with the
highest gentlemen in the land.” This same son, I imagine, is a man of
expensive habits, no reckless spendthrift and no abandoned sensualist,
but one who likes to have “everything handsome about him,” and to go to
a certain length in youthful indulgences, not so much to gratify his
own tastes as to maintain his reputation as a man of fashion in the
world, and a respectable fellow among his own lawless companions; while
he is too selfish to consider how many comforts might be obtained for
his fond mother and sisters with the money he thus wastes upon himself:
as long as they can contrive to make a respectable appearance once a
year, when they come to town, he gives himself little concern about
their private stintings and struggles at home. This is a harsh judgment
to form of “dear, noble-minded, generous-hearted Walter,” but I fear it
is too just.

Mrs. Hargrave’s anxiety to make good matches for her daughters is
partly the cause, and partly the result, of these errors: by making a
figure in the world, and showing them off to advantage, she hopes to
obtain better chances for them; and by thus living beyond her
legitimate means, and lavishing so much on their brother, she renders
them portionless, and makes them burdens on her hands. Poor Milicent, I
fear, has already fallen a sacrifice to the manœuvrings of this
mistaken mother, who congratulates herself on having so satisfactorily
discharged her maternal duty, and hopes to do as well for Esther. But
Esther is a child as yet, a little merry romp of fourteen: as
honest-hearted, and as guileless and simple as her sister, but with a
fearless spirit of her own, that I fancy her mother will find some
difficulty in bending to her purposes.