The Tenant of Wildfell Hall

ecember 25th.—Last Christmas I was a bride, with a heart overflowing
with present bliss, and full of ardent hopes for the future, though not
unmingled with foreboding fears. Now I am a wife: my bliss is sobered,
but not destroyed; my hopes diminished, but not departed; my fears
increased, but not yet thoroughly confirmed; and, thank heaven, I am a
mother too. God has sent me a soul to educate for heaven, and give me a
new and calmer bliss, and stronger hopes to comfort me.

Dec. 25th, 1823.—Another year is gone. My little Arthur lives and
thrives. He is healthy, but not robust, full of gentle playfulness and
vivacity, already affectionate, and susceptible of passions and
emotions it will be long ere he can find words to express. He has won
his father’s heart at last; and now my constant terror is, lest he
should be ruined by that father’s thoughtless indulgence. But I must
beware of my own weakness too, for I never knew till now how strong are
a parent’s temptations to spoil an only child.

I have need of consolation in my son, for (to this silent paper I may
confess it) I have but little in my husband. I love him still; and he
loves me, in his own way—but oh, how different from the love I could
have given, and once had hoped to receive! How little real sympathy
there exists between us; how many of my thoughts and feelings are
gloomily cloistered within my own mind; how much of my higher and
better self is indeed unmarried—doomed either to harden and sour in the
sunless shade of solitude, or to quite degenerate and fall away for
lack of nutriment in this unwholesome soil! But, I repeat, I have no
right to complain; only let me state the truth—some of the truth, at
least,—and see hereafter if any darker truths will blot these pages. We
have now been full two years united; the “romance” of our attachment
must be worn away. Surely I have now got down to the lowest gradation
in Arthur’s affection, and discovered all the evils of his nature: if
there be any further change, it must be for the better, as we become
still more accustomed to each other; surely we shall find no lower
depth than this. And, if so, I can bear it well—as well, at least, as I
have borne it hitherto.

Arthur is not what is commonly called a bad man: he has many good
qualities; but he is a man without self-restraint or lofty aspirations,
a lover of pleasure, given up to animal enjoyments: he is not a bad
husband, but his notions of matrimonial duties and comforts are not my
notions. Judging from appearances, his idea of a wife is a thing to
love one devotedly, and to stay at home to wait upon her husband, and
amuse him and minister to his comfort in every possible way, while he
chooses to stay with her; and, when he is absent, to attend to his
interests, domestic or otherwise, and patiently wait his return, no
matter how he may be occupied in the meantime.

Early in spring he announced his intention of going to London: his
affairs there demanded his attendance, he said, and he could refuse it
no longer. He expressed his regret at having to leave me, but hoped I
would amuse myself with the baby till he returned.

“But why leave me?” I said. “I can go with you: I can be ready at any
time.”

“You would not take that child to town?”

“Yes; why not?”

The thing was absurd: the air of the town would be certain to disagree
with him, and with me as a nurse; the late hours and London habits
would not suit me under such circumstances; and altogether he assured
me that it would be excessively troublesome, injurious, and unsafe. I
over-ruled his objections as well as I could, for I trembled at the
thoughts of his going alone, and would sacrifice almost anything for
myself, much even for my child, to prevent it; but at length he told
me, plainly, and somewhat testily, that he could not do with me: he was
worn out with the baby’s restless nights, and must have some repose. I
proposed separate apartments; but it would not do.

“The truth is, Arthur,” I said at last, “you are weary of my company,
and determined not to have me with you. You might as well have said so
at once.”

He denied it; but I immediately left the room, and flew to the nursery,
to hide my feelings, if I could not soothe them, there.

I was too much hurt to express any further dissatisfaction with his
plans, or at all to refer to the subject again, except for the
necessary arrangements concerning his departure and the conduct of
affairs during his absence, till the day before he went, when I
earnestly exhorted him to take care of himself and keep out of the way
of temptation. He laughed at my anxiety, but assured me there was no
cause for it, and promised to attend to my advice.

“I suppose it is no use asking you to fix a day for your return?” said
I.

“Why, no; I hardly can, under the circumstances; but be assured, love,
I shall not be long away.”

“I don’t wish to keep you a prisoner at home,” I replied; “I should not
grumble at your staying whole months away—if you can be happy so long
without me—provided I knew you were safe; but I don’t like the idea of
your being there among your friends, as you call them.”

“Pooh, pooh, you silly girl! Do you think I can’t take care of myself?”

“You didn’t last time. But THIS time, Arthur,” I added, earnestly,
“show me that you can, and teach me that I need not fear to trust you!”

He promised fair, but in such a manner as we seek to soothe a child.
And did he keep his promise? No; and henceforth I can never trust his
word. Bitter, bitter confession! Tears blind me while I write. It was
early in March that he went, and he did not return till July. This time
he did not trouble himself to make excuses as before, and his letters
were less frequent, and shorter and less affectionate, especially after
the first few weeks: they came slower and slower, and more terse and
careless every time. But still, when I omitted writing, he complained
of my neglect. When I wrote sternly and coldly, as I confess I
frequently did at the last, he blamed my harshness, and said it was
enough to scare him from his home: when I tried mild persuasion, he was
a little more gentle in his replies, and promised to return; but I had
learnt, at last, to disregard his promises.