The Tenant of Wildfell Hall

arch 20th.—Having now got rid of Mr. Huntingdon for a season, my
spirits begin to revive. He left me early in February; and the moment
he was gone, I breathed again, and felt my vital energy return; not
with the hope of escape—he has taken care to leave me no visible chance
of that—but with a determination to make the best of existing
circumstances. Here was Arthur left to me at last; and rousing from my
despondent apathy, I exerted all my powers to eradicate the weeds that
had been fostered in his infant mind, and sow again the good seed they
had rendered unproductive. Thank heaven, it is not a barren or a stony
soil; if weeds spring fast there, so do better plants. His
apprehensions are more quick, his heart more overflowing with affection
than ever his father’s could have been, and it is no hopeless task to
bend him to obedience and win him to love and know his own true friend,
as long as there is no one to counteract my efforts.

I had much trouble at first in breaking him of those evil habits his
father had taught him to acquire, but already that difficulty is nearly
vanquished now: bad language seldom defiles his mouth, and I have
succeeded in giving him an absolute disgust for all intoxicating
liquors, which I hope not even his father or his father’s friends will
be able to overcome. He was inordinately fond of them for so young a
creature, and, remembering my unfortunate father as well as his, I
dreaded the consequences of such a taste. But if I had stinted him, in
his usual quantity of wine, or forbidden him to taste it altogether,
that would only have increased his partiality for it, and made him
regard it as a greater treat than ever. I therefore gave him quite as
much as his father was accustomed to allow him; as much, indeed, as he
desired to have—but into every glass I surreptitiously introduced a
small quantity of tartar-emetic, just enough to produce inevitable
nausea and depression without positive sickness. Finding such
disagreeable consequences invariably to result from this indulgence, he
soon grew weary of it, but the more he shrank from the daily treat the
more I pressed it upon him, till his reluctance was strengthened to
perfect abhorrence. When he was thoroughly disgusted with every kind of
wine, I allowed him, at his own request, to try brandy-and-water, and
then gin-and-water, for the little toper was familiar with them all,
and I was determined that all should be equally hateful to him. This I
have now effected; and since he declares that the taste, the smell, the
sight of any one of them is sufficient to make him sick, I have given
up teasing him about them, except now and then as objects of terror in
cases of misbehaviour. “Arthur, if you’re not a good boy I shall give
you a glass of wine,” or “Now, Arthur, if you say that again you shall
have some brandy-and-water,” is as good as any other threat; and once
or twice, when he was sick, I have obliged the poor child to swallow a
little wine-and-water without the tartar-emetic, by way of medicine;
and this practice I intend to continue for some time to come; not that
I think it of any real service in a physical sense, but because I am
determined to enlist all the powers of association in my service; I
wish this aversion to be so deeply grounded in his nature that nothing
in after-life may be able to overcome it.

Thus, I flatter myself, I shall secure him from this one vice; and for
the rest, if on his father’s return I find reason to apprehend that my
good lessons will be all destroyed—if Mr. Huntingdon commence again the
game of teaching the child to hate and despise his mother, and emulate
his father’s wickedness—I will yet deliver my son from his hands. I
have devised another scheme that might be resorted to in such a case;
and if I could but obtain my brother’s consent and assistance, I should
not doubt of its success. The old hall where he and I were born, and
where our mother died, is not now inhabited, nor yet quite sunk into
decay, as I believe. Now, if I could persuade him to have one or two
rooms made habitable, and to let them to me as a stranger, I might live
there, with my child, under an assumed name, and still support myself
by my favourite art. He should lend me the money to begin with, and I
would pay him back, and live in lowly independence and strict
seclusion, for the house stands in a lonely place, and the
neighbourhood is thinly inhabited, and he himself should negotiate the
sale of my pictures for me. I have arranged the whole plan in my head:
and all I want is to persuade Frederick to be of the same mind as
myself. He is coming to see me soon, and then I will make the proposal
to him, having first enlightened him upon my circumstances sufficiently
to excuse the project.

Already, I believe, he knows much more of my situation than I have told
him. I can tell this by the air of tender sadness pervading his
letters; and by the fact of his so seldom mentioning my husband, and
generally evincing a kind of covert bitterness when he does refer to
him; as well as by the circumstance of his never coming to see me when
Mr. Huntingdon is at home. But he has never openly expressed any
disapprobation of him or sympathy for me; he has never asked any
questions, or said anything to invite my confidence. Had he done so, I
should probably have had but few concealments from him. Perhaps he
feels hurt at my reserve. He is a strange being; I wish we knew each
other better. He used to spend a month at Staningley every year, before
I was married; but, since our father’s death, I have only seen him
once, when he came for a few days while Mr. Huntingdon was away. He
shall stay many days this time, and there shall be more candour and
cordiality between us than ever there was before, since our early
childhood. My heart clings to him more than ever; and my soul is sick
of solitude.

April 16th.—He is come and gone. He would not stay above a fortnight.
The time passed quickly, but very, very happily, and it has done me
good. I must have a bad disposition, for my misfortunes have soured and
embittered me exceedingly: I was beginning insensibly to cherish very
unamiable feelings against my fellow-mortals, the male part of them
especially; but it is a comfort to see there is at least one among them
worthy to be trusted and esteemed; and doubtless there are more, though
I have never known them, unless I except poor Lord Lowborough, and he
was bad enough in his day. But what would Frederick have been, if he
had lived in the world, and mingled from his childhood with such men as
these of my acquaintance? and what will Arthur be, with all his
natural sweetness of disposition, if I do not save him from that world
and those companions? I mentioned my fears to Frederick, and introduced
the subject of my plan of rescue on the evening after his arrival, when
I presented my little son to his uncle.

“He is like you, Frederick,” said I, “in some of his moods: I sometimes
think he resembles you more than his father; and I am glad of it.”

“You flatter me, Helen,” replied he, stroking the child’s soft, wavy
locks.

“No, you will think it no compliment when I tell you I would rather
have him to resemble Benson than his father.”

He slightly elevated his eyebrows, but said nothing.

“Do you know what sort of man Mr. Huntingdon is?” said I.

“I think I have an idea.”

“Have you so clear an idea that you can hear, without surprise or
disapproval, that I meditate escaping with that child to some secret
asylum, where we can live in peace, and never see him again?”

“Is it really so?”

“If you have not,” continued I, “I’ll tell you something more about
him”; and I gave a sketch of his general conduct, and a more particular
account of his behaviour with regard to his child, and explained my
apprehensions on the latter’s account, and my determination to deliver
him from his father’s influence.

Frederick was exceedingly indignant against Mr. Huntingdon, and very
much grieved for me; but still he looked upon my project as wild and
impracticable. He deemed my fears for Arthur disproportioned to the
circumstances, and opposed so many objections to my plan, and devised
so many milder methods for ameliorating my condition, that I was
obliged to enter into further details to convince him that my husband
was utterly incorrigible, and that nothing could persuade him to give
up his son, whatever became of me, he being as fully determined the
child should not leave him, as I was not to leave the child; and that,
in fact, nothing would answer but this, unless I fled the country, as I
had intended before. To obviate that, he at length consented to have
one wing of the old hall put into a habitable condition, as a place of
refuge against a time of need; but hoped I would not take advantage of
it unless circumstances should render it really necessary, which I was
ready enough to promise: for though, for my own sake, such a hermitage
appears like paradise itself, compared with my present situation, yet
for my friends’ sakes, for Milicent and Esther, my sisters in heart and
affection, for the poor tenants of Grassdale, and, above all, for my
aunt, I will stay if I possibly can.

July 29th.—Mrs. Hargrave and her daughter are come back from London.
Esther is full of her first season in town; but she is still
heart-whole and unengaged. Her mother sought out an excellent match for
her, and even brought the gentleman to lay his heart and fortune at her
feet; but Esther had the audacity to refuse the noble gifts. He was a
man of good family and large possessions, but the naughty girl
maintained he was old as Adam, ugly as sin, and hateful as—one who
shall be nameless.

“But, indeed, I had a hard time of it,” said she: “mamma was very
greatly disappointed at the failure of her darling project, and very,
very angry at my obstinate resistance to her will, and is so still; but
I can’t help it. And Walter, too, is so seriously displeased at my
perversity and absurd caprice, as he calls it, that I fear he will
never forgive me—I did not think he could be so unkind as he has
lately shown himself. But Milicent begged me not to yield, and I’m
sure, Mrs. Huntingdon, if you had seen the man they wanted to palm upon
me, you would have advised me not to take him too.”

“I should have done so whether I had seen him or not,” said I; “it is
enough that you dislike him.”

“I knew you would say so; though mamma affirmed you would be quite
shocked at my undutiful conduct. You can’t imagine how she lectures me:
I am disobedient and ungrateful; I am thwarting her wishes, wronging my
brother, and making myself a burden on her hands. I sometimes fear
she’ll overcome me after all. I have a strong will, but so has she, and
when she says such bitter things, it provokes me to such a pass that I
feel inclined to do as she bids me, and then break my heart and say,
‘There, mamma, it’s all your fault!’”

“Pray don’t!” said I. “Obedience from such a motive would be positive
wickedness, and certain to bring the punishment it deserves. Stand
firm, and your mamma will soon relinquish her persecution; and the
gentleman himself will cease to pester you with his addresses if he
finds them steadily rejected.”

“Oh, no! mamma will weary all about her before she tires herself with
her exertions; and as for Mr. Oldfield, she has given him to understand
that I have refused his offer, not from any dislike of his person, but
merely because I am giddy and young, and cannot at present reconcile
myself to the thoughts of marriage under any circumstances: but by next
season, she has no doubt, I shall have more sense, and hopes my girlish
fancies will be worn away. So she has brought me home, to school me
into a proper sense of my duty, against the time comes round again.
Indeed, I believe she will not put herself to the expense of taking me
up to London again, unless I surrender: she cannot afford to take me to
town for pleasure and nonsense, she says, and it is not every rich
gentleman that will consent to take me without a fortune, whatever
exalted ideas I may have of my own attractions.”

“Well, Esther, I pity you; but still, I repeat, stand firm. You might
as well sell yourself to slavery at once, as marry a man you dislike.
If your mother and brother are unkind to you, you may leave them, but
remember you are bound to your husband for life.”

“But I cannot leave them unless I get married, and I cannot get married
if nobody sees me. I saw one or two gentlemen in London that I might
have liked, but they were younger sons, and mamma would not let me get
to know them—one especially, who I believe rather liked me—but she
threw every possible obstacle in the way of our better acquaintance.
Wasn’t it provoking?”

“I have no doubt you would feel it so, but it is possible that if you
married him, you might have more reason to regret it hereafter than if
you married Mr. Oldfield. When I tell you not to marry without love,
I do not advise you to marry for love alone: there are many, many other
things to be considered. Keep both heart and hand in your own
possession, till you see good reason to part with them; and if such an
occasion should never present itself, comfort your mind with this
reflection, that though in single life your joys may not be very many,
your sorrows, at least, will not be more than you can bear. Marriage
may change your circumstances for the better, but, in my private
opinion, it is far more likely to produce a contrary result.”

“So thinks Milicent; but allow me to say I think otherwise. If I
thought myself doomed to old-maidenhood, I should cease to value my
life. The thoughts of living on, year after year, at the Grove—a
hanger-on upon mamma and Walter, a mere cumberer of the ground (now
that I know in what light they would regard it), is perfectly
intolerable; I would rather run away with the butler.”

“Your circumstances are peculiar, I allow; but have patience, love; do
nothing rashly. Remember you are not yet nineteen, and many years are
yet to pass before any one can set you down as an old maid: you cannot
tell what Providence may have in store for you. And meantime, remember
you have a right to the protection and support of your mother and
brother, however they may seem to grudge it.”

“You are so grave, Mrs. Huntingdon,” said Esther, after a pause. “When
Milicent uttered the same discouraging sentiments concerning marriage,
I asked if she was happy: she said she was; but I only half believed
her; and now I must put the same question to you.”

“It is a very impertinent question,” laughed I, “from a young girl to a
married woman so many years her senior, and I shall not answer it.”

“Pardon me, dear madam,” said she, laughingly throwing herself into
my arms, and kissing me with playful affection; but I felt a tear on my
neck, as she dropped her head on my bosom and continued, with an odd
mixture of sadness and levity, timidity and audacity,—“I know you are
not so happy as I mean to be, for you spend half your life alone at
Grassdale, while Mr. Huntingdon goes about enjoying himself where and
how he pleases. I shall expect my husband to have no pleasures but
what he shares with me; and if his greatest pleasure of all is not the
enjoyment of my company, why, it will be the worse for him, that’s
all.”

“If such are your expectations of matrimony, Esther, you must, indeed,
be careful whom you marry—or rather, you must avoid it altogether.”