The Tenant of Wildfell Hall

hose were four miserable months, alternating between intense anxiety,
despair, and indignation, pity for him and pity for myself. And yet,
through all, I was not wholly comfortless: I had my darling, sinless,
inoffensive little one to console me; but even this consolation was
embittered by the constantly-recurring thought, “How shall I teach him
hereafter to respect his father, and yet to avoid his example?”

But I remembered that I had brought all these afflictions, in a manner
wilfully, upon myself; and I determined to bear them without a murmur.
At the same time I resolved not to give myself up to misery for the
transgressions of another, and endeavoured to divert myself as much as
I could; and besides the companionship of my child, and my dear,
faithful Rachel, who evidently guessed my sorrows and felt for them,
though she was too discreet to allude to them, I had my books and
pencil, my domestic affairs, and the welfare and comfort of Arthur’s
poor tenants and labourers to attend to: and I sometimes sought and
obtained amusement in the company of my young friend Esther Hargrave:
occasionally I rode over to see her, and once or twice I had her to
spend the day with me at the Manor. Mrs. Hargrave did not visit London
that season: having no daughter to marry, she thought it as well to
stay at home and economise; and, for a wonder, Walter came down to join
her in the beginning of June, and stayed till near the close of August.

The first time I saw him was on a sweet, warm evening, when I was
sauntering in the park with little Arthur and Rachel, who is head-nurse
and lady’s-maid in one—for, with my secluded life and tolerably active
habits, I require but little attendance, and as she had nursed me and
coveted to nurse my child, and was moreover so very trustworthy, I
preferred committing the important charge to her, with a young
nursery-maid under her directions, to engaging any one else: besides,
it saves money; and since I have made acquaintance with Arthur’s
affairs, I have learnt to regard that as no trifling recommendation;
for, by my own desire, nearly the whole of the income of my fortune is
devoted, for years to come, to the paying off of his debts, and the
money he contrives to squander away in London is incomprehensible. But
to return to Mr. Hargrave. I was standing with Rachel beside the water,
amusing the laughing baby in her arms with a twig of willow laden with
golden catkins, when, greatly to my surprise, he entered the park,
mounted on his costly black hunter, and crossed over the grass to meet
me. He saluted me with a very fine compliment, delicately worded, and
modestly delivered withal, which he had doubtless concocted as he rode
along. He told me he had brought a message from his mother, who, as he
was riding that way, had desired him to call at the Manor and beg the
pleasure of my company to a friendly family dinner to-morrow.

“There is no one to meet but ourselves,” said he; “but Esther is very
anxious to see you; and my mother fears you will feel solitary in this
great house so much alone, and wishes she could persuade you to give
her the pleasure of your company more frequently, and make yourself at
home in our more humble dwelling, till Mr. Huntingdon’s return shall
render this a little more conducive to your comfort.”

“She is very kind,” I answered, “but I am not alone, you see;—and those
whose time is fully occupied seldom complain of solitude.”

“Will you not come to-morrow, then? She will be sadly disappointed if
you refuse.”

I did not relish being thus compassionated for my loneliness; but,
however, I promised to come.

“What a sweet evening this is!” observed he, looking round upon the
sunny park, with its imposing swell and slope, its placid water, and
majestic clumps of trees. “And what a paradise you live in!”

“It is a lovely evening,” answered I; and I sighed to think how little
I had felt its loveliness, and how little of a paradise sweet Grassdale
was to me—how still less to the voluntary exile from its scenes.
Whether Mr. Hargrave divined my thoughts, I cannot tell, but, with a
half-hesitating, sympathising seriousness of tone and manner, he asked
if I had lately heard from Mr. Huntingdon.

“Not lately,” I replied.

“I thought not,” he muttered, as if to himself, looking thoughtfully on
the ground.

“Are you not lately returned from London?” I asked.

“Only yesterday.”

“And did you see him there?”

“Yes—I saw him.”

“Was he well?”

“Yes—that is,” said he, with increasing hesitation and an appearance of
suppressed indignation, “he was as well as—as he deserved to be, but
under circumstances I should have deemed incredible for a man so
favoured as he is.” He here looked up and pointed the sentence with a
serious bow to me. I suppose my face was crimson.

“Pardon me, Mrs. Huntingdon,” he continued, “but I cannot suppress my
indignation when I behold such infatuated blindness and perversion of
taste;—but, perhaps, you are not aware—” He paused.

“I am aware of nothing, sir—except that he delays his coming longer
than I expected; and if, at present, he prefers the society of his
friends to that of his wife, and the dissipations of the town to the
quiet of country life, I suppose I have those friends to thank for it.
Their tastes and occupations are similar to his, and I don’t see why
his conduct should awaken either their indignation or surprise.”

“You wrong me cruelly,” answered he. “I have shared but little of Mr.
Huntingdon’s society for the last few weeks; and as for his tastes and
occupations, they are quite beyond me—lonely wanderer as I am. Where I
have but sipped and tasted, he drains the cup to the dregs; and if ever
for a moment I have sought to drown the voice of reflection in madness
and folly, or if I have wasted too much of my time and talents among
reckless and dissipated companions, God knows I would gladly renounce
them entirely and for ever, if I had but half the blessings that man
so thanklessly casts behind his back—but half the inducements to
virtue and domestic, orderly habits that he despises—but such a home,
and such a partner to share it! It is infamous!” he muttered, between
his teeth. “And don’t think, Mrs. Huntingdon,” he added aloud, “that I
could be guilty of inciting him to persevere in his present pursuits:
on the contrary, I have remonstrated with him again and again; I have
frequently expressed my surprise at his conduct, and reminded him of
his duties and his privileges—but to no purpose; he only—”

“Enough, Mr. Hargrave; you ought to be aware that whatever my husband’s
faults may be, it can only aggravate the evil for me to hear them from
a stranger’s lips.”

“Am I then a stranger?” said he in a sorrowful tone. “I am your
nearest neighbour, your son’s godfather, and your husband’s friend; may
I not be yours also?”

“Intimate acquaintance must precede real friendship; I know but little
of you, Mr. Hargrave, except from report.”

“Have you then forgotten the six or seven weeks I spent under your roof
last autumn? I have not forgotten them. And I know enough of you,
Mrs. Huntingdon, to think that your husband is the most enviable man in
the world, and I should be the next if you would deem me worthy of your
friendship.”

“If you knew more of me, you would not think it, or if you did you
would not say it, and expect me to be flattered by the compliment.”

I stepped backward as I spoke. He saw that I wished the conversation to
end; and immediately taking the hint, he gravely bowed, wished me
good-evening, and turned his horse towards the road. He appeared
grieved and hurt at my unkind reception of his sympathising overtures.
I was not sure that I had done right in speaking so harshly to him;
but, at the time, I had felt irritated—almost insulted by his conduct;
it seemed as if he was presuming upon the absence and neglect of my
husband, and insinuating even more than the truth against him.

Rachel had moved on, during our conversation, to some yards’ distance.
He rode up to her, and asked to see the child. He took it carefully
into his arms, looked upon it with an almost paternal smile, and I
heard him say, as I approached,—

“And this, too, he has forsaken!”

He then tenderly kissed it, and restored it to the gratified nurse.

“Are you fond of children, Mr. Hargrave?” said I, a little softened
towards him.

“Not in general,” he replied, “but that is such a sweet child, and so
like its mother,” he added in a lower tone.

“You are mistaken there; it is its father it resembles.”

“Am I not right, nurse?” said he, appealing to Rachel.

“I think, sir, there’s a bit of both,” she replied.

He departed; and Rachel pronounced him a very nice gentleman. I had
still my doubts on the subject.

In the course of the following six weeks I met him several times, but
always, save once, in company with his mother, or his sister, or both.
When I called on them, he always happened to be at home, and, when they
called on me, it was always he that drove them over in the phaeton. His
mother, evidently, was quite delighted with his dutiful attentions and
newly-acquired domestic habits.

The time that I met him alone was on a bright, but not oppressively hot
day, in the beginning of July: I had taken little Arthur into the wood
that skirts the park, and there seated him on the moss-cushioned roots
of an old oak; and, having gathered a handful of bluebells and
wild-roses, I was kneeling before him, and presenting them, one by one,
to the grasp of his tiny fingers; enjoying the heavenly beauty of the
flowers, through the medium of his smiling eyes: forgetting, for the
moment, all my cares, laughing at his gleeful laughter, and delighting
myself with his delight,—when a shadow suddenly eclipsed the little
space of sunshine on the grass before us; and looking up, I beheld
Walter Hargrave standing and gazing upon us.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Huntingdon,” said he, “but I was spell-bound; I had
neither the power to come forward and interrupt you, nor to withdraw
from the contemplation of such a scene. How vigorous my little godson
grows! and how merry he is this morning!” He approached the child, and
stooped to take his hand; but, on seeing that his caresses were likely
to produce tears and lamentations, instead of a reciprocation of
friendly demonstrations, he prudently drew back.

“What a pleasure and comfort that little creature must be to you, Mrs.
Huntingdon!” he observed, with a touch of sadness in his intonation, as
he admiringly contemplated the infant.

“It is,” replied I; and then I asked after his mother and sister.

He politely answered my inquiries, and then returned again to the
subject I wished to avoid; though with a degree of timidity that
witnessed his fear to offend.

“You have not heard from Huntingdon lately?” he said.

“Not this week,” I replied. Not these three weeks, I might have said.

“I had a letter from him this morning. I wish it were such a one as I
could show to his lady.” He half drew from his waistcoat-pocket a
letter with Arthur’s still beloved hand on the address, scowled at it,
and put it back again, adding—“But he tells me he is about to return
next week.”

“He tells me so every time he writes.”

“Indeed! well, it is like him. But to me he always avowed it his
intention to stay till the present month.”

It struck me like a blow, this proof of premeditated transgression and
systematic disregard of truth.

“It is only of a piece with the rest of his conduct,” observed Mr.
Hargrave, thoughtfully regarding me, and reading, I suppose, my
feelings in my face.

“Then he is really coming next week?” said I, after a pause.

“You may rely upon it, if the assurance can give you any pleasure. And
is it possible, Mrs. Huntingdon, that you can rejoice at his return?”
he exclaimed, attentively perusing my features again.

“Of course, Mr. Hargrave; is he not my husband?”

“Oh, Huntingdon; you know not what you slight!” he passionately
murmured.

I took up my baby, and, wishing him good-morning, departed, to indulge
my thoughts unscrutinized, within the sanctum of my home.

And was I glad? Yes, delighted; though I was angered by Arthur’s
conduct, and though I felt that he had wronged me, and was determined
he should feel it too.