The Tenant of Wildfell Hall

ctober 10th.—Mr. Huntingdon returned about three weeks ago. His
appearance, his demeanour and conversation, and my feelings with regard
to him, I shall not trouble myself to describe. The day after his
arrival, however, he surprised me by the announcement of an intention
to procure a governess for little Arthur: I told him it was quite
unnecessary, not to say ridiculous, at the present season: I thought I
was fully competent to the task of teaching him myself—for some years
to come, at least: the child’s education was the only pleasure and
business of my life; and since he had deprived me of every other
occupation, he might surely leave me that.

He said I was not fit to teach children, or to be with them: I had
already reduced the boy to little better than an automaton; I had
broken his fine spirit with my rigid severity; and I should freeze all
the sunshine out of his heart, and make him as gloomy an ascetic as
myself, if I had the handling of him much longer. And poor Rachel, too,
came in for her share of abuse, as usual; he cannot endure Rachel,
because he knows she has a proper appreciation of him.

I calmly defended our several qualifications as nurse and governess,
and still resisted the proposed addition to our family; but he cut me
short by saying it was no use bothering about the matter, for he had
engaged a governess already, and she was coming next week; so that all
I had to do was to get things ready for her reception. This was a
rather startling piece of intelligence. I ventured to inquire her name
and address, by whom she had been recommended, or how he had been led
to make choice of her.

“She is a very estimable, pious young person,” said he; “you needn’t be
afraid. Her name is Myers, I believe; and she was recommended to me by
a respectable old dowager: a lady of high repute in the religious
world. I have not seen her myself, and therefore cannot give you a
particular account of her person and conversation, and so forth; but,
if the old lady’s eulogies are correct, you will find her to possess
all desirable qualifications for her position: an inordinate love of
children among the rest.”

All this was gravely and quietly spoken, but there was a laughing demon
in his half-averted eye that boded no good, I imagined. However, I
thought of my asylum in ——shire, and made no further objections.

When Miss Myers arrived, I was not prepared to give her a very cordial
reception. Her appearance was not particularly calculated to produce a
favourable impression at first sight, nor did her manners and
subsequent conduct, in any degree, remove the prejudice I had already
conceived against her. Her attainments were limited, her intellect
noways above mediocrity. She had a fine voice, and could sing like a
nightingale, and accompany herself sufficiently well on the piano; but
these were her only accomplishments. There was a look of guile and
subtlety in her face, a sound of it in her voice. She seemed afraid of
me, and would start if I suddenly approached her. In her behaviour she
was respectful and complaisant, even to servility: she attempted to
flatter and fawn upon me at first, but I soon checked that. Her
fondness for her little pupil was overstrained, and I was obliged to
remonstrate with her on the subject of over-indulgence and injudicious
praise; but she could not gain his heart. Her piety consisted in an
occasional heaving of sighs, and uplifting of eyes to the ceiling, and
the utterance of a few cant phrases. She told me she was a clergyman’s
daughter, and had been left an orphan from her childhood, but had had
the good fortune to obtain a situation in a very pious family; and then
she spoke so gratefully of the kindness she had experienced from its
different members, that I reproached myself for my uncharitable
thoughts and unfriendly conduct, and relented for a time, but not for
long: my causes of dislike were too rational, my suspicions too well
founded for that; and I knew it was my duty to watch and scrutinize
till those suspicions were either satisfactorily removed or confirmed.

I asked the name and residence of the kind and pious family. She
mentioned a common name, and an unknown and distant place of abode, but
told me they were now on the Continent, and their present address was
unknown to her. I never saw her speak much to Mr. Huntingdon; but he
would frequently look into the school-room to see how little Arthur got
on with his new companion, when I was not there. In the evening, she
sat with us in the drawing-room, and would sing and play to amuse him
or us, as she pretended, and was very attentive to his wants, and
watchful to anticipate them, though she only talked to me; indeed, he
was seldom in a condition to be talked to. Had she been other than she
was, I should have felt her presence a great relief to come between us
thus, except, indeed, that I should have been thoroughly ashamed for
any decent person to see him as he often was.

I did not mention my suspicions to Rachel; but she, having sojourned
for half a century in this land of sin and sorrow, has learned to be
suspicious herself. She told me from the first she was “down of that
new governess,” and I soon found she watched her quite as narrowly as I
did; and I was glad of it, for I longed to know the truth: the
atmosphere of Grassdale seemed to stifle me, and I could only live by
thinking of Wildfell Hall.

At last, one morning, she entered my chamber with such intelligence
that my resolution was taken before she had ceased to speak. While she
dressed me I explained to her my intentions and what assistance I
should require from her, and told her which of my things she was to
pack up, and what she was to leave behind for herself, as I had no
other means of recompensing her for this sudden dismissal after her
long and faithful service: a circumstance I most deeply regretted, but
could not avoid.

“And what will you do, Rachel?” said I; “will you go home, or seek
another place?”

“I have no home, ma’am, but with you,” she replied; “and if I leave you
I’ll never go into place again as long as I live.”

“But I can’t afford to live like a lady now,” returned I: “I must be my
own maid and my child’s nurse.”

“What signifies!” replied she, in some excitement. “You’ll want
somebody to clean and wash, and cook, won’t you? I can do all that; and
never mind the wages: I’ve my bits o’ savings yet, and if you wouldn’t
take me I should have to find my own board and lodging out of ’em
somewhere, or else work among strangers: and it’s what I’m not used to:
so you can please yourself, ma’am.” Her voice quavered as she spoke,
and the tears stood in her eyes.

“I should like it above all things, Rachel, and I’d give you such wages
as I could afford: such as I should give to any servant-of-all-work I
might employ: but don’t you see I should be dragging you down with me
when you have done nothing to deserve it?”

“Oh, fiddle!” ejaculated she.

“And, besides, my future way of living will be so widely different to
the past: so different to all you have been accustomed to—”

“Do you think, ma’am, I can’t bear what my missis can? surely I’m not
so proud and so dainty as that comes to; and my little master, too, God
bless him!”

“But I’m young, Rachel; I sha’n’t mind it; and Arthur is young too: it
will be nothing to him.”

“Nor me either: I’m not so old but what I can stand hard fare and hard
work, if it’s only to help and comfort them as I’ve loved like my own
bairns: for all I’m too old to bide the thoughts o’ leaving ’em in
trouble and danger, and going amongst strangers myself.”

“Then you sha’n’t, Rachel!” cried I, embracing my faithful friend.
“We’ll all go together, and you shall see how the new life suits you.”

“Bless you, honey!” cried she, affectionately returning my embrace.
“Only let us get shut of this wicked house, and we’ll do right enough,
you’ll see.”

“So think I,” was my answer; and so that point was settled.

By that morning’s post I despatched a few hasty lines to Frederick,
beseeching him to prepare my asylum for my immediate reception: for I
should probably come to claim it within a day after the receipt of that
note: and telling him, in few words, the cause of my sudden resolution.
I then wrote three letters of adieu: the first to Esther Hargrave, in
which I told her that I found it impossible to stay any longer at
Grassdale, or to leave my son under his father’s protection; and, as it
was of the last importance that our future abode should be unknown to
him and his acquaintance, I should disclose it to no one but my
brother, through the medium of whom I hoped still to correspond with my
friends. I then gave her his address, exhorted her to write frequently,
reiterated some of my former admonitions regarding her own concerns,
and bade her a fond farewell.

The second was to Milicent; much to the same effect, but a little more
confidential, as befitted our longer intimacy, and her greater
experience and better acquaintance with my circumstances.

The third was to my aunt: a much more difficult and painful
undertaking, and therefore I had left it to the last; but I must give
her some explanation of that extraordinary step I had taken: and that
quickly, for she and my uncle would no doubt hear of it within a day or
two after my disappearance, as it was probable that Mr. Huntingdon
would speedily apply to them to know what was become of me. At last,
however, I told her I was sensible of my error: I did not complain of
its punishment, and I was sorry to trouble my friends with its
consequences; but in duty to my son I must submit no longer; it was
absolutely necessary that he should be delivered from his father’s
corrupting influence. I should not disclose my place of refuge even to
her, in order that she and my uncle might be able, with truth, to deny
all knowledge concerning it; but any communications addressed to me
under cover to my brother would be certain to reach me. I hoped she and
my uncle would pardon the step I had taken, for if they knew all, I was
sure they would not blame me; and I trusted they would not afflict
themselves on my account, for if I could only reach my retreat in
safety and keep it unmolested, I should be very happy, but for the
thoughts of them; and should be quite contented to spend my life in
obscurity, devoting myself to the training up of my child, and teaching
him to avoid the errors of both his parents.

These things were done yesterday: I have given two whole days to the
preparation for our departure, that Frederick may have more time to
prepare the rooms, and Rachel to pack up the things: for the latter
task must be done with the utmost caution and secrecy, and there is no
one but me to assist her. I can help to get the articles together, but
I do not understand the art of stowing them into the boxes, so as to
take up the smallest possible space; and there are her own things to
do, as well as mine and Arthur’s. I can ill afford to leave anything
behind, since I have no money, except a few guineas in my purse; and
besides, as Rachel observed, whatever I left would most likely become
the property of Miss Myers, and I should not relish that.

But what trouble I have had throughout these two days, struggling to
appear calm and collected, to meet him and her as usual, when I was
obliged to meet them, and forcing myself to leave my little Arthur in
her hands for hours together! But I trust these trials are over now: I
have laid him in my bed for better security, and never more, I trust,
shall his innocent lips be defiled by their contaminating kisses, or
his young ears polluted by their words. But shall we escape in safety?
Oh, that the morning were come, and we were on our way at least! This
evening, when I had given Rachel all the assistance I could, and had
nothing left me but to wait, and wish and tremble, I became so greatly
agitated that I knew not what to do. I went down to dinner, but I could
not force myself to eat. Mr. Huntingdon remarked the circumstance.

“What’s to do with you now?” said he, when the removal of the second
course gave him time to look about him.

“I am not well,” I replied: “I think I must lie down a little; you
won’t miss me much?”

“Not the least: if you leave your chair, it’ll do just as well—better,
a trifle,” he muttered, as I left the room, “for I can fancy somebody
else fills it.”

“Somebody else may fill it to-morrow,” I thought, but did not say.
“There! I’ve seen the last of you, I hope,” I muttered, as I closed
the door upon him.

Rachel urged me to seek repose at once, to recruit my strength for
to-morrow’s journey, as we must be gone before the dawn; but in my
present state of nervous excitement that was entirely out of the
question. It was equally out of the question to sit, or wander about my
room, counting the hours and the minutes between me and the appointed
time of action, straining my ears and trembling at every sound, lest
someone should discover and betray us after all. I took up a book and
tried to read: my eyes wandered over the pages, but it was impossible
to bind my thoughts to their contents. Why not have recourse to the old
expedient, and add this last event to my chronicle? I opened its pages
once more, and wrote the above account—with difficulty, at first, but
gradually my mind became more calm and steady. Thus several hours have
passed away: the time is drawing near; and now my eyes feel heavy and
my frame exhausted. I will commend my cause to God, and then lie down
and gain an hour or two of sleep; and then!—

Little Arthur sleeps soundly. All the house is still: there can be no
one watching. The boxes were all corded by Benson, and quietly conveyed
down the back stairs after dusk, and sent away in a cart to the M——
coach-office. The name upon the cards was Mrs. Graham, which
appellation I mean henceforth to adopt. My mother’s maiden name was
Graham, and therefore I fancy I have some claim to it, and prefer it to
any other, except my own, which I dare not resume.