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THE  TENANT  OF  WILDFELL  HALL 


THE 


TENANT  OF  WILDFELL  HALL 


BY    ANNE    BRONTE. 


A.     NEW    EDITION. 


LONDON: 
SMITH,   ELDER,   &    CO.,  15  WATERLOO    PLACE. 

1892. 


THE 

TENANT   OF   WILDFELL  HALL. 


CHAPTER  I. 

Tou  must  go  back  with  me  to  the  autumn  of  1827. 

My  lather,  as  you  know,  was  a  sort  of  gentleman  farmer  in 

shire  ;  and  I,  by  his  express  desire,  succeeded  him  in  the 

game  quiet  occupation,  not  very  willingly,  for  ambition  urged 
me  to  higher  aims,  and  self-conceit  assured  me  that,  in  dis- 
regarding its  voice,  I  was  burying  my  talent  in  the  earth,  and 
hiding  my  light  under  a  bushel.  My  mother  had  done  her 
utmost  to  persuade  me  that  J  was  capable  of  great  achieve- 
ments ;  but  my  father,  who  thought  ambition  was  the  surest 
road  to  ruin,  and  change  but  another  word  for  destruction, 
would  listen  to  no  scheme  for  bettering  either  my  own  condi- 
tion, or  that  of  my  fellow  mortals.  He  assured  me  it  was  all 
rubbish,  and  exhorted  me,  with  his  dying  breath,  to  continue 
in  the  good  old  way,  to  follow  his  steps,  and  those  of  his  father 
before  him,  and  let  my  highest  ambition  be,  to  walk  honestly 
through  the  world,  looking  neither  to  the  right  hand  nor  to 
the  left,  and  to  transmit  the  paternal  acres  to  my  children  in, 
at  least,  as  flourishing  a  condition  as  he  left  them  to  me. 

"  Well ! — an  honest  and  industrious  farmer  is  one  of  the 
most  useful  members  of  society ;  and  if  I  devote  my  talents 
to  the  cultivation  of  my  farm,  and  the  improvement  of  agri- 
culture in  general,  I  shall  thereby  benefit,  not  only  my  own 
immediate  connections  and  dependants,  but,  in  some  degree, 
mankind  at  large  :— hence  I  shall  not  have  lived  in  vain." 

With  such  reflections  as  these,  I  was  endeavouring  to  con- 
sole myself,  as  I  plodded  home  from  the  fields,  one  cold,  damp, 
cloudy  evening  towards  the  close  of  October.  But  the  gleam 
of  a  bright  red  fire  through  the  parlour  window  had  mort 
effect  in  cheering  my  spirits,  and  rebuking  my  thankless  re- 
innings,  than  all  the  sage  reflections  and  good  resolutions  I 
had  forced  my  mind  to  frame ; — for  I  was  young  then,  remem- 

2045031 


6  THE  TENAKT 

her — only  four  and  twenty — and  had  not  acquired  half  the 
rule  over  my  own  spirit,  that  I  now  possess — trifling  as  that 
may  be. 

However,  that  haven  of  bliss  must  not  be  entered  till  I  had 
exchanged  my  miry  bo'ots  for  a  clean  pair  of  shoes,  and  my 
rough  surtout  for  a  respectable  coat,  and  made  myself  gene- 
rally presentable  before  decent  society ;  for  my  mother,  with 
all  her  kindness,  was  vastly  particular  on  certain  points. 

In  ascending  to  my  room,  I  was  met  upon  the  stairs  by  a 
smart,  pretty  girl  of  nineteen,  with  a  tidy,  dumpy  figure,  a 
round  face,  bright,  blooming  cheeks,  glossy,  clustering  curls, 
and  little  merry  brown  eyes.  I  need  not  tell  you  this  was  my 
sister  Rose.  She  is,  I  know,  a  comely  matron  still,  and 
doubtless,  no  less  lovely — in  your  eyes — than  on  the  happy 
day  you  first  beheld  her.  Nothing  told  me  then,  that  she,  a 
few  years  hence,  would  be  the  wife  of  one  entirely  unknown 
to  me  as  yet,  but  destined,  hereafter  to  become  a  closer  friend 
than  even  herself,  more  intimate  than  that  unmannerly  lad  of 
seventeen,  by  whom  I  was  collared  in  the  passage,  on  coming 
down,  and  well-nigh  jerked  off  my  equilibrium,  and  who,  in 
correction  for  his  impudence,  received  a  resounding  whack 
over  the  sconce,  which,  however,  sustained  no  serious  injury 
from  the  infliction;  as  besides  being  more  than  commonly 
thick,  it  was  protected  by  a  redundant  shock  of  short,  reddish 
curls,  that  my  mother  called  auburn. 

On  entering  the  parlour,  we  found  that  honoured  lady 
seated  in  her  arm-chair  at  the  fire-side,  working  away  at  her 
knitting,  according  to  her  usual  custom,  when  she  had  nothing 
else  to  do.  She  had  swept  the  hearth,  and  made  a  bright 
blazing  fire  for  our  reception ;  the  servant  had  just  brought 
in  the  tea-tray ;  and  Rose  was  producing  the  sugar-basin  and 
tea-caddy,  from  the  cupboard  in  the  black,  oak  sideboard, 
that  shone  like  polished  ebony,  in  the  cheerful  parlour  twi- 
light. 

"Well!  here  they  both  are,"  cried  my  mother,  looking 
round  upon  us  without  retarding  the  motion  of  her  nimble 
fingers,  and  glittering  needles.  "  Now  shut  the  door,  and 
come  to  the  fire,  while  Rose  gets  the  tea  ready ;  I'm  sure  you 
must  be  starved ; — and  tell  me  what  you've  been  about  all 
day ; — I  like  to  know  what  my  children  have  been  about." 

"  I've  been  breaking  in  the  grey  colt — no  easy  business  that 
—directing  the  ploughing  of  the  last  wheat  stubble — for  the 
ploughboy  h&i  not  the  sense  to  direct  himself — and  carrying 
out  a  plan  for  the  extensive  and  efficient  draining  of  the  low 
meadow-lands." 

"  That's  my  brave  boy ! — and  Fergus — what  have  ycu  been 
doing?" 


OF   WILDFKIX   UAJi.  7 

•'  Badger-baiting." 

And  here  he  proceeded  to  give  a  particular  account  of  his 
eport,  and  the  respective  traits  of  prowess  evinced  by  the  badger 
and  the  dogs ;  my  mother  pretending  to  listen  with  deep  at- 
tention, and  watching  his  animated  countenance  with  a  degrco 
of  maternal  admiration  I  thought  highly  disproportioned  to 
its  object. 

"It's  time  you  should  be  doing  something  else,  Fergus, 
said  I,  as  soon  as  a  momentary  pause  in  his  narration  allowed 
me  to  get  in  a  word. 

"What  can  I  do?"  replied  he  ;  "my  mother  won't  let  me 
go  to  sea  or  enter  the  army ;  and  I'm  determined  to  do  nothing 
else — except  make  myself  such  a  nuisance  to  you  all,  that  you 
will  be  thankful  to  get  rid  of  me  on  any  terms." 

Our  parent  soothingly  stroked  his  stiff,  short  curls.  He 
growled,  and  tried  to  look  sulky,  and  then  we  all  took  our 
seats  at  the  table,  in  obedience  to  the  thrice  repeated  summons 
of  Rose. 

"  Now  take  your  tea,"  said  she ;  "  and  I'll  tell  you  what 
I've  been  doing.  I've  been  to  call  on  the  Wilsons ;  and  it's  a 
thousand  pities  you  didn't  go  with  me,  Gilbert,  for  Eliza  Mill- 
ward  was  there ! " 

"Well!  what  of  her?" 

"  Oh  nothing ! — I'm  not  going  to  tell  you  about  her ; — only 
that  she's  a  nice,  amusing  little  thing,  when  she  is  in  a  merry 
humour,  and  I  shouldn't  mind  calling  her " 

"Hush,  hush,  my  dear!  your  brother  has  no  such  idea!" 
whispered  my  mother  earnestly,  holding  up  her  finger. 

"  Well,"  resumed  Rose  ;  "  I  was  going  to  tell  you  an  im- 
portant piece  of  news  I  heard  there — I've  been  bursting  with 
it  ever  since.  You  know  it  was  reported  a  month  ago,  that 
somebody  was  going  to  take  Wildfell  Hall — and— what  do  you 
think?  It  has  actually  been  inhabited  above  a  week! — and 
we  never  knew!" 

"  Impossible  !  "  cried  my  mother. 

"  Preposterous ! ! !"  shrieked  Fergus. 

"  It  has  indeed ! — and  by  a  single  lady  !" 

"  Good  gracious,  my  dear !  The  place  is  in  ruins !" 

"  She  has  had  two  or  three  rooms  made  habitable ;  and 
there  she  lives,  all  alone — except  an  old  woman  for  a  ser- 
vant!" 

"  Oh  dear !  that  spoils  it — I'd  hoped  she  was  a  witch,"  ob- 
served Fergus,  while  carving  his  inch-thick  slice  of  bread  and 
butter. 

"  Nonsense,  Fergus  !    But  isn't  it  strange,  mamma  ?  " 

"  Strange  !   I  can  hardly  believe  it." 

"  But  you  may  believe  it ;  for  Jane  Wilson  has  seen  her. 


8  THE    TENANT 

She  went  with  her  mother,  who,  of  course,  when  she  heard 
of  8  stranger  being  in  the  neighbourhood,  would  be  on  pins 
«nd  needles  till  she  had  seen  her  and  got  all  she  could  out  of 
her.  She  is  called  Mrs.  Graham,  and  she  is  in  mourning — 
not  widow's  weeds,  but  slightish  mourning — and  she  is 
quite  young,  they  say, — not  above  five  or  six  and  twenty, 
— but  so  reserved !  They  tried  all  they  could  to  find  out 
who  she  was,  and  where  she  came  from,  and  all  about  her,  but 
neither  Mis.  Wilson,  with  her  pertinacious  and  impertinent 
home-thrusts,  nor  Miss  Wilson,  with  her  skilful  manoeuvring, 
could  manage  to  elicit  a  single  satisfactory  answer,  or  even  a 
casual  remark,  or  chance  expression  calculated  to  allay  their 
curiosity,  or  throw  the  faintest  ray  of  light  upon  her  history, 
circumstances,  or  connections.  Moreover,  she  was  barely 
civil  to  them,  and  evidently  better  pleased  to  say  'good  bye,' 
than  '  how  do  you  do.'  But  Eliza  Millward  says  her  father 
intends  to  call  upon  her  soon,  to  olFer  some  pastoral  advice, 
which  he  fears  she  needs,  as,  though  she  is  known  to  have  en- 
tered the  neighbourhood  early  last  week,  she  did  not  make 
her  appearance  at  church  on  Sunday ;  and  she — Eliza,  that  is 
— will  beg  to  accompany  him,  and  is  sure  she  can  succeed  in 
wheedling  something  out  of  her — you  know,  Gilbert,  she  can 
do  anything.  And  we  should  call  some  time,  mamma ;  it's 
only  proper,  you  know." 

"Of  course,  my  dear.  Poor  thing!  how  lonely  she  must  feel!" 

"  And  pray,  be  quick  about  it ;  and  mind  you  bring  me  word 
how  much  sugar  she  puts  in  her  tea,  and  what  sort  of  caps 
and  aprons  she  wears,  and  all  about  it ;  for  I  don't  know  how 
I  can  live  till  I  know,"  said  Fergus,  very  gravely. 

But  if  he  intended  the  speech  to  be  hailed  as  a  master-stroke 
of  wit,  he  signally  failed,  for  nobody  laughed.  However,  he 
was  not  much  disconcerted  at  that ;  for  when  he  had  taken  a 
mouthful  of  bread  and  butter,  and  was  about  to  swallow  a 
gulp  of  tea,  the  humour  of  the  thing  burst  upon  him  with  such 
irresistible  force,  that  he  was  obliged  to  jump  up  from  the 
table,  and  rush  snorting  and  choking  from  the  room ;  and  a 
minute  after,  was  heard  screaming  in  fearful  agony  in  the 
garden. 

As  for  me,  I  was  hungry,  and  contented  myself  with  silently 
demolishing  the  tea,  ham,  and  toast,  while  my  mother  and 
sister  went  on  talking,  and  continued  to  discuss  the  apparent 
or  non-apparent  circumstances,  and  probable  or  improbable 
history  of  the  mysterious  lady ;  but  1  must  confess  that,  after 
my  brother's  misadventure,  I  once  or  twice  raised  the  cup  to 
my  lips,  and  put  it  down  again  without  daring  to  taste  the 
contents,  lest  I  should  injure  my  dignity  by  a  similar  ex- 
plosion. 


OF   WILDFELL  HAUL. 

The  next  day,  my  mother  and  Rose  hastened  to  pay  their 
compliments  to  the  fair  recluse ;  and  came  back  but  little 
wiser  than  they  went ;  though  my  mother  declared  she  did 
not  regret  the  journey,  for  it'  she  had  not  gained  much  good, 
she  flattered  herself  she  had  imparted  some,  and  that  was 
better :  she  had  given  some  useful  advice,  which,  she  hoped, 
would  not  be  thrown  away ;  for  Mrs.  Graham,  though  she 
said  little  to  any  purpose,  and  appeared  somewhat  self-opinion- 
ated, seemed  not  incapable  of  reflection, — though  she  did  not 
know  where  she  had  been  all  her  life,  poor  thing,  for  she  be- 
trayed a  lamentable  ignorance  on  certain  points,  and  had  not 
even  the  sense  to  be  ashamed  of  it. 

u  On  what  points,  mother  ?"  asked  I. 

"  On  household  matters,  and  all  the  little  niceties  of  cookery, 
and  such  things,  that  every  lady  ought  to  be  familiar  with, 
whether  she  be  required  to  make  a  practical  use  of  her  know- 
ledge or  not.  I  gave  her  some  useful  pieces  of  information, 
however,  and  several  excellent  receipts,  the  value  of  which 
she  evidently  could  not  appreciate,  for  she  begged  I  would 
not  trouble  myself,  as  she  lived  in  such  a  plain,  quiet  way, 
that  she  was  sure  she  should  never  make  use  of  them.  '  No 
matter,  my  dear,'  said  I ;  '  it  is  what  every  respectable  female 
ought  to  know  ; — and  besides,  though  you  are  alone  now,  you 
will  not  be  always  so ;  you  have  been  married,  and  probably 
— I  might  say  almost  certainly — will  be  again.'  '  You  are 
mistaken  there,  Ma'am,'  said  she,  almost  haughtily ;  '  I  am 
certain  I  never  shall.' — But  I  told  her  I  knew  better." 

u  Some  romantic  young  widow,  I  suppose,"  said  I,  "  come 
there  to  end  her  days  in  solitude,  and  mourn  in  secret  for  the 
dear  departed — but  it  won't  last  long." 

u  No,  I  think  not,"  observed  Rose ;  "  for  she  didn't  seem 
very  disconsolate  after  all;  and  she's  excessively  pretty — 
handsome  rather — you  must  see  her,  Gilbert ;  you  will  call 
her  a  perfect  beauty,  though  you  could  hardly  pretend  to  dis- 
cover a  resemblance  between  her  and  Eliza  Millward." 

"  Well,  I  can  imagine  many  faces  more  beautiful  than 
Eliza's,  though  not  more  charming.  I  allow  she  has  small 
claims  to  perfection ;  but  then,  I  maintain  that,  if  she  were 
more  perfect,  she  would  be  less  interesting." 

"And  so  you  prefer  her  faults  to  other  people's  perfections  ?  " 

"  Just  so — saving  my  mother's  presence." 

"  Oh,  my  dear  Gilbert,  what  nonsense  you  talk ! — I  know 
you  don't  mean  it ;  it's  quite  out  of  the  question,"  said  my 
mother,  getting  up,  and  bustling  out  of  the  room,  under  pre- 
tence of  household  business,  in  order  to  escape  the  contradic- 
tion that  was  trembling  on  my  tongue. 

After  that,  Rose  favoured  me  with  further  particulars  re- 


10  Tllli   TENAJST 

Bpecting  Mrs.  Graham.  Her  appearance,  manners,  and  dress, 
and  the  very  furniture  cf  the  room  she  inhabited,  were  all  set 
before  me,  with  rather  more  clearness  and  precision  than  I 
cared  to  see  them ;  but,  as  I  was  not  a  very  attentive  listener, 
I  could  not  repeat  the  description  if  I  would. 

The  next  day  was  Saturday ;  and,  on  Sunday,  everybody 
wondered  whether  or  not  the  fair  unknown  would  profit  by  the 
vicar's  remonstrance,  and  come  to  church.  I  confess,  I  looked 
with  some  interest  myself  towards  the  old  family  pew,  apper- 
taining to  Wildfell  Hall,  where  the  faded  crimson  cushions 
and  lining  had  been  impressed  and  unrenewed  so  many  years, 
and  the  grim  escutcheons,  with  their  lugubrious  borders  of 
rusty  black  cloth,  frowned  so  sternly  from  the  wall  above. 

And  there  I  beheld  a  tall,  lady-like  figure,  clad  in  black. 
Her  face  was  towards  me,  and  there  was  something  in  it, 
which,  once  seen,  invited  me  to  look  again.  Her  hair  wa? 
raven  black,  and  disposed  in  long  glossy  ringlets,  a  style  of 
coiffure  rather  unusual  in  those  days,  but  always  graceful 
and  becoming ;  her  complexion  was  clear  and  pale  ;  her  eyes 
I  could  not  see,  for  being  bent  upon  her  prayer-book  they 
were  concealed  by  their  drooping  lids  and  long  black  lashes, 
but  the  brows  above  were  expressive  and  well  defined ;  the 
forehead  was  lofty  and  intellectual,  the  nose,  a  perfect  aqui- 
line, and  the  features,  in  general,  unexceptionable — only  there 
was  a  slight  hollowness  about  the  cheeks  and  eyes,  and  the 
lips,  though  finely  formed,  were  a  little  too  thin,  a  little  too 
firmly  compressed,  and  had  something  about  them  that  be- 
tokened, I  thought,  no  very  soft  or  amiable  temper ;  and  I 
said  in  my  heart 

u  I  would  rather  admire  you  from  this  distance,  fair  lady, 
thaii  be  the  partner  of  your  home." 

Just  then,  she  happened  to  raise  her  eyes,  and  they  met 
mine ;  I  did  not  choose  to  withdraw  my  gaze,  and  she  turned 
again  to  her  book,  but  with  a  momentary,  indefinable  expres- 
sion of  quiet  scorn,  that  was  inexpressibly  provoking  to  me. 

"  She  thinks  me  an  impudent  puppy,"  thought  I.  "  Humph! 
— she  shall  change  her  mind  before  long,  if  I  think  it  worth 
while." 

But  then,  it  flashed  upon  me  that  these  were  very  improper 
thoughts  for  a  place  of  worship,  and  that  my  behaviour,  on 
the  present  occasion,  was  anything  but  what  it  ought  to  be. 
Previous,  however,  to  directing  my  mind  to  the  service,  I 
glanced  round  the  church  to  see  if  any  one  had  been  observ- 
ing me; — but  no, —  all,  who  were  not  attending  to  their 
prayer-books,  were  attending  to  the  strange  lady, — my  good 
mother  and  sister  among  the  rest,  and  Mrs.  Wilson  and  her 
daughter ;  and  even  Eliza  Millward  was  slily  glancing  from 


OK    WILUiKLL   HALL.  11 

the  corners  of  her  eyes  towards  the  object  of  general  attrac- 
tion. Then,  she  glanced  at  me,  simpered  a  little,  and  blushed, 
modestly  looked  at  her  prayer-book,  and  endeavoured  to 
compose  her  features. 

Here  I  was  transgressing  again ;  and  this  time  1  was  made 
sensible  of  it  by  a  sudden  dig  in  the  ribs,  from  the  elbow  ot 
my  pert  brother.  For  the  present,  I  could  only  resent  the 
insult  by  pressing  my  foot  upon  his  toes,  deferring  further 
vengeance  till  we  got  out  of  church. 

Now,  Halford,  before  I  close  this  letter,  I'll  tell  you  who 
Eliza  Milhvard  was ;  she  was  the  vicar's  younger  daughter, 
and  a  very  engaging  little  creature,  for  whom  I  felt  no  ssnall 
degree  oi  partiality ; — and  she  knew  it,  though  I  had  nevei 
come  to  any  direct  explanation,  and  had  no  definite  intention 
of  so  doing,  for  my  mother,  who  maintained  there  was  no  one 
good  enough  for  me  within  twenty  miles  round,  could  not 
bear  the  thoughts  of  my  marrying  that  insignificant  little 
thing,  who,  in  addition  to  her  numerous  other  disqualifica- 
tions, had  not  twenty  pounds  to  call  her  own.  Eliza's  figure 
was  at  once  slight  and  plump,  her  face  small,  and  nearly  as 
round  as  my  sister's, — complexion,  something  similar  to  hers, 
but  more  delicate  and  less  decidedly  blooming, — nose,  re- 
trousse,— features,  generally  irregular ; — and,  altogether,  she 
was  rather  charming  than  pretty.  But  her  eyes — I  must  not 
forget  those  remarkable  features,  for  therein  her  chief  attrac- 
tion lay — in  outward  aspect  at  least; — they  were  long  and 
narrow  in  shape,  the  irids  black,  or  very  dark  brown,  the  ex- 
pression various,  and  ever  changing,  but  always  either  preter- 
naturally — I  had  almost  said  diabolically — wicked,  or  irre- 
sistibly bewitching — often  both.  Her  voice  was  gentle  and 
childish,  her  tread  light  and  soft  as  that  of  a  cat ; — but  her 
manners  more  frequently  resembled  those  of  a  pretty,  playful 
kitten,  that  is  now  pert  and  roguish,  now  timid  and  demure, 
according  to  its  own  sweet  will. 

Her  sister,  Mary,  was  several  years  older,  several  inches 
taller,  and  of  a  larger,  coarser  build — a  plain,  quiet,  sensible 
girl,  who  had  patiently  nursed  their  mother,  through  her  last 
Jong,  tedious  illness,  and  been  the  housekeeper,  and  family 
drudge,  from  thence  to  the  present  time.  She  was  trusted 
and  valued  by  her  father,  loved  and  courted  by  all  dogs,  cats, 
children,  and  poor  people,  and  slighted  and  neglected  by 
everybody  else. 

The  Reverend  Michael  Millward,  himself,  was  a  tall,  pon- 
derous, elderly  gentleman,  who  placed  a  shovel  hat  above  his 
large,  square,  massive-featured  face,  carried  a  stout  walking 
stick  in  his  hand,  and  incased  his  still  powerful  limbs  in  knee- 
breeches  and  gaiters, — or  black  silk  stockings  on  state  occa- 


12  THE   TENANT 

eions.  He  was  a  man  of  fixed  principles,  strong  prejudice*, 
and  regular  habits,  intolerant  of  dissent  in  any  shape,  acting 
under  a  firm  conviction  that  his  opinions  were  always  right, 
and  whoever  differed  from  them  must  be,  either  most  deplor- 
ably ignorant,  or  wilfully  blind. 

In  childhood,  I  had  always  been  accustomed  to  regard  him 
with  a  feeling  of  reverential  awe — but  lately,  even  now,  sur- 
mounted, for,  though  he  had  a  fatherly  kindness  for  the  well- 
behaved,  he  was  a  strict  disciplinarian,  and  had  often  sternly 
reproved  our  juvenile  failings  and  peccadilloes;  and  moreover, 
in  those  days  whenever  he  called  upon  our  parents,  we  had  to 
Btand  up  before  him,  and  say  our  catechism,  or  repeat  u  How 
doth  the  little  busy  bee,"  or  some  other  hymn,  or — worse  than 
all — be  questioned  about  his  last  text,  and  the  heads  of  the 
discourse,  which  we  never  could  remember.  Sometimes,  the 
worthy  gentleman  would  reprove  my  mother  for  being  over 
indulgent  to  her  sons,  with  a  reference  to  old  Eli,  or  David 
and  Absalom,  which  was  particularly  galling  to  her  feelings ; 
and,  very  highly  as  she  respected  him,  and  all  his  sayings,  I 
once  heard  her  exclaim,  "  I  wish  to  goodness  he  had  a  son 
himself!  He  wouldn't  be  so  ready  with  his  advice  to  other 
people  then ;— he'd  bee  what  it  is  to  have  a  couple  of  boys  to 
keep  in  order." 

He  had  a  laudable  care  for  his  own  bodily  health — kept  very 
early  hours,  regularly  took  a  walk  before  breakfast,  was  vastly 
particular  about  warm  and  dry  clothing,  had  never  been 
known  to  preach  a  sermon  without  previously  swallowing  a 
raw  egg — albeit  he  was  gifted  with  good  lungs  and  a  powerful 
voice, — and  was,  generally,  extremely  particular  about  what 
he  ate  and  drank,  though  by  no  means  abstemious,  and  having 
a  mode  of  dietary  peculiar  to  himself, — being  a  great  despiser 
of  tea  and  such  slops,  and  a  patron  of  malt  liquors,  bacon  and 
eggs,  ham,  hung  beef,  and  other  strong  meats,  which  agreed 
well  enough  with  his  digestive  organs,  and  therefore  were  main- 
tained by  him  to  be  good  and  wholesome  for  everybody,  and 
confidently  recommended  to  the  most  delicate  convalescents 
or  dyspeptics,  who,  if  they  failed  to  derive  the  promised  bene- 
fit from  his  prescriptions,  were  told  it  was  because  they  had 
not  persevered,  and  if  they  complained  of  inconvenient  re- 
sults therefrom,  were  assured  it  was  all  fancy. 

I  will  just  touch  upon  two  other  persons  whom  I  have  men- 
tioned, and  then  bring  this  long  letter  to  a  close.  These  are 
Mrs.  Wilson  and  her  daughter.  The  former  was  the  widow 
of  a  substantial  farmer,  a  narrow-minded,  tattling  old  gossip, 
whose  character  is  not  worth  describing.  She  had  two  sons, 
Robert,  a  rough  countrified  farmer,  and  Richard,  a  retiring, 
studious  young  man,  who  was  studying  the  classics  with  the 


OF   WILDFELL  HALL.  13 

vicar's  assistance,  preparing  for  college,  with  a  view  to  enter 
the  church. 

Their  sister  Jane  was  a  young  lady  of  some  talents,  and 
more  ambition.  She  had,  at  her  own  desire,  received  a  regular 
boarding-school  education,  superior  to  what  any  member  of 
the  family  had  obtained  before.  She  had  taken  the  polish 
well,  acquired  considerable  elegance  of  manners,  quite  lost  her 
provincial  accent,  and  could  boast  of  more  accomplishments 
than  the  vicar's  daughters.  She  was  considered  a  beauty  be- 
sides ;  but  never  for  a  moment  could  she  number  me  amongst 
her  admirers.  She  was  about  six  and  twenty,  rather  tall,  and 
very  slender,  her  hair  was  neither  chesnut  nor  auburn,  but  a 
most  decided,  bright,  light  red,  her  complexion  was  remarkably 
fair  and  brilliant,  her  head  small,  neck  long,  chin  well  turned, 
but  very  short,  lips  thin  and  red,  eyes  clear  hazel,  quick  and 
penetrating,  but  entirely  destitute  of  poetry  or  feeling.  She 
had,  or  might  have  had,  many  suitors  in  her  own  rank  of  life, 
but  scornfully  repulsed  or  rejected  them  all ;  for  none  but  a 
gentleman  could  please  her  refined  taste,  and  none  but  a  rich 
one  could  satisfy  her  soaring  ambition.  One  gentleman  there 
was,  from  whom  she  had  lately  received  some  rather  pointed 
attentions,  and  upon  whose  heart,  name,  and  fortune,  it  was 
whispered,  she  had  serious  designs.  This  was  Mr.  Lawrence, 
the  young  squire,  whose  family  had  formerly  occupied  Wildfell 
Hall,  but  had  deserted  it,  some  fifteen  years  ago,  for  a  more 
modern  and  commodious  mansion  in  the  neighbouring  parish. 

Now,  Halford,  I  bid  you  adieu  for  the  present.  This  is  the 
first  instalment  of  my  debt.  If  the  coin  suits  you,  tell  me  so, 
and  I'll  send  you  the  rest  at  my  leisure :  if  you  would  rather 
remain  my  creditor  than  stuff  your  purse  with  such  ungainly 
heavy  pieces, — tell  me  still,  and  I'll  pardon  your  bad  taste, 
and  willingly  keep  the  treasure  to  myself. 

Yours,  immutably, 

GILBERT  MARKHAM. 


CHAPTER  II. 

1  PERCEIVE,  with  joy,  my  most  valued  friend,  that  the  cloud 
of  your  displeasure  has  past  away  ;  the  light  of  your  counte- 
nance blesses  me  once  more,  and  you  desire  the  continuation 
of  my  story :  therefore,  without  more  ado,  you  shall  have  it. 

1  think  the  day  I  last  mentioned  was  a  certain  Sunday,  the 
latest  in  the  October  oi'  1827.  On  the  following  Tuesday  I 
was  out  with  my  dog  and  gun,  in  pursuit  of  such  game  as  I 
Could  find  within  the  territory  of  Linden-Car;  but  finding 


14  THE  TENANT 

none  at  all,  I  turned  my  arms  against  the  hawks  and  carrion 
crows,  whose  depredations,  as  I  suspected,  had  deprived  me  of 
better  prey.  To  this  end,  I  left  the  more  frequented  regions, 
the  wooded  valleys,  the  corn-fields  and  the  meadow-lands, 
and  proceeded  to  mount  the  steep  acclivity  of  Wildfell,  the 
wildest  and  the  loftiest  eminence  in  our  neighbourhood,  where, 
as  you  ascend,  the  hedges,  as  well  as  the  trees,  become  scanty 
and  stunted,  the  former,  at  length,  giving  place  to  rough  stone 
fences,  partly  greened  over  with  ivy  and  moss,  the  latter  to 
larches  and  Scotch  fir-trees,  or  isolated  blackthorns.  The 
fields,  being  rough  and  stony,  and  wholly  unfit  for  the  plough, 
were  mostly  devoted  to  the  pasturing  of  sheep  and  cattle ; 
the  soil  was  thin  and  poor :  bits  of  grey  rock  here  and  there 
peeped  out  from  the  grassy  hillocks ;  bilberry  plants  and 
heather — relics  of  more  savage  wildness — grew  under  the 
walls  ;  and  in  many  of  the  enclosures,  ragweeds  and  rushes 
usurped  supremacy  over  the  scanty  herbage  ; — but  these  were 
not  my  property. 

Near  the  top  of  this  hill,  about  two  miles  from  Linden-Car, 
stood  Wildfell  Hall,  a  superannuated  mansion  of  the  Eliza- 
bethan era,  built  of  dark  grey  stone, — venerable  and  pic- 
turesque to  look  at,  but,  doubtless,  cold  and  gloomy  enough 
to  inhabit,  with  its  thick  stone  mullions  and  little  latticed 
panes,  its  time-eaten  air-holes,  and  its  too  lonely,  too  unshel- 
tered situation, — only  shielded  from  the  war  of  wind  and 
weather  by  a  group  of  Scotch  firs,  themselves  half  blighted 
with  storms,  and  looking  as  stern  and  gloomy  as  the  Hall 
itself.  Behind  it  lay  a  few  desolate  fields,  and  then,  the  brown 
heath-clad  summit  of  the  hill ;  before  it  (enclosed  by  stone 
walls,  and  entered  by  an  iron  gate  with  large  balls  of  grey 
granite — similar  to  those  which  decorated  the  roof  and  gables 
— surmounting  the  gate-posts)  was  a  garden, —  once  stocked 
with  such  hard  plants  and  flowers  as  could  best  brook  the  soil 
and  climate,  and  such  trees  and  shrubs  as  could  best  endure 
•  the  gardener's  torturing  shears,  and  most  readily  assume  the 
shapes  he  chose  to  give  them, — now,  having  been  left  so  many 
years,  unfilled  and  untrimmed,  abandoned  to  the  weeds  and 
the  grass,  to  the  frost  and  the  wind,  the  rain  and  the  drought, 
it  presented  a  very  singular  appearance  indeed.  The  close 
green  walls  of  privet,  that  had  bordered  the  principal  walk, 
were  two-thirds  withered  away,  and  the  rest  grown  beyond  all 
reasonable  bounds ;  the  old  boxwood  swan,  that  sat  beside  the 
scraper,  had  lost  its  neck  and  half  its  body :  the  castellated 
towers  of  laurel  in  the  middle  of  the  garden,  the  gigantic 
warrior  that  stood  on  one  side  of  the  gateway,  and  the  lion 
that  guarded  the  other,  were  sprouted  into  such  fantastic 


OF  WII.DFKLL   HALL.  16 

shapes  as  resembled  nothing  either  in  heaven  or  earth,  or  in 
the  waters  under  the  earth ;  but,  to  my  young  imagination, 
they  presented  all  of  them  a  goblinish  appearance,  that  har- 
monised well  with  the  ghostly  legions  and  dark  traditions  our 
old  nurse  had  told  us  respecting  the  haunted  hall  and  its 
departed  occupants. 

1  had  succeeded  in  killing  a  hawk  and  two  crows  when  I 
came  within  sight  of  the  mansion  ;  and  then,  relinquishing 
further  depredations,  I  sauntered  on,  to  have  a  look  at  the 
old  place,  and  see  what  changes  had  been  wrought  in  it  by 
its  new  inhabitant.  I  did  not  like  to  go  quite  to  the  front 
and  stare  in  at  the  gate ;  but  I  paused  beside  the  garden  wall, 
and  looked,  and  saw  no  change — except  in  one  wing,  where 
the  broken  windows  and  dilapidated  roof  had  evidently  been 
repaired,  and  where  a  thin  wreath  of  smoke  was  curling  up 
from  the  stack  of  chimneys. 

While  I  thus  stood,  leaning  on  my  gun,  and  looking  up  at 
the  dark  gables,  sunk  in  an  idle  reverie,  weaving  a  tissue  of 
wayward  fancies,  in  which  old  associations  and  the  fair  young 
hermit,  now  within  those  walls,  bore  a  nearly  equal  part,  I 
heard  a  slight  rustling  and  scrambling  just  within  the  garden ; 
and,  glancing  in  the  direction  whence  the  sound  proceeded,  I 
beheld  a  tiny  hand  elevated  above  the  wall :  it  clung  to  the 
topmost  stone,  and  then  another  little  hand  was  raised  to  take 
a  firmer  hold,  and  then  appeared  a  small  white  forehead,  sur- 
mounted with  wreaths  of  light  brown  hair,  with  a  pair  of 
deep  blue  eyes  beneath,  and  the  upper  portion  of  a  diminutive 
ivory  nose. 

The  eyes  did  not  notice  me,  but  sparkled  with  glee  on  be- 
holding Sancho,  my  beautiful  black  and  white  setter,  that 
was  coursing  about  the  field  with  its  muzzle  to  the  ground. 
The  little  creature  raised  its  face  and  called  aloud  to  the  dog. 
The  good-natured  animal  paused,  looked  up,  and  wagged  his 
tail,  but  made  no  further  advances.  T,he  child  (a  little  boy, 
apparently  about  five  years  old)  scrambled  up  to  the  top  of 
the  wall  and  called  again  and  again  ;  but  finding  this  of  no 
avail,  apparently  made  up  his  mind,  like  Mahomet,  to  go  to 
the  mountain,  since  the  mountain  would  not  come  to  him,  and 
attempted  to  get  over ;  but  a  crabbed  old  cherry  tree,  that 
grew  hard  by,  caught  him  by  the  frock  in  one  of  its  crooked 
scraggy  arms  that  stretched  over  the  wall.  In  attempting  to 
disengage  himself,  his  foot  slipped,  and  down  he  tumbled — 
but  not  to  the  earth ; — the  tree  still  kept  him  suspended. 
There  was  a  silent  struggle,  and  then  a  piercing  shriek ; — 
but,  in  an  instant,  I  had  dropped  my  gun  on  the  grass,  and 
caught  the  little  fellow  in  my  arms. 

I  wiped  his  eyes  with  his  frock,  told  him  he  was  all  right, 


16  THE   TENANT 

and  called  Sancho  to  pacify  him.  He  was  just  putting  h!s 
li*.tle  hand  on  the  dog's  neck  and  beginning  to  smile  thrcm^h 
hia  tears,  when  I  heard,  behind  me,  a  click  of  the  iron  gate, 
and  a  rustle  of  female  garments,  and  lo !  Mrs.  Graham  darted 
upon  me, — her  ueck  uncovered,  her  black  locks  streaming  in 
the  wind. 

"Give  me  the  child !"  she  said,  in  a  voice  scarce  louder  than 
a  whisper,  but  with  a  tone  of  startling  vehemence,  and,  seizing 
the  boy,  she  snatched  him  from  me,  as  if  some  dire  contamina- 
tion were  in  my  touch,  and  then  stood  with  one  hand  firmly 
clasping  his,  the  other  on  his  shoulder,  fixing  upon  me  her 
large,  luminous,  dark  eyes — pale,  breathless,  quivering  with 
agitation. 

"I  was  not  harming  the  child,  madam,"  said  I,  scarce 
knowing  whether  to  be  most  astonished  or  displeased ;  "  he 
was  tumbling  off  the  wall  there  ;  and  I  was  so  fortunate  as  to 
catch  him,  while  he  hung  suspended  headlong  from  that  tree, 
and  prevent  I  know  not  what  catastrophe." 

"  1  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  stammered  she  ; — suddenly  calm- 
ing down, — the  light  of  reason  seeming  to  break  upon  her 
beclouded  spirit,  and  a  faint  blush  mantling  on  her  cheek — 
41 1  did  not  know  you  ; — and  I  thought " 

She  stooped  to  kiss  the  child,  and  fondly  clasped  her  arm 
round  his  neck. 

"  You  thought  I  was  going  to  kidnap  your  son,  I  sup- 
pose?" 

She  stroked  his  head  with  a  half-embarrassed  laugh,  and 
replied, — 

"  I  did  not  know  he  had  attempted  to  climb  the  wall. — I 
have  the  pleasure  of  addressing  Mr.  Markham,  I  believe  V 
she  added,  somewhat  abruptly. 

I  bowed,  but  ventured  to  ask  how  she  knew  me. 

"  Your  sister  called  here,  a  few  days  ago,  with  Mrs.  Mark- 
ham." 

"  Is  the  resemblance  so  strong  then  ?  "  I  asked,  in  some 
surprise,  and  not  so  greatly  flattered  at  the  idea  as  1  ought  to 
have  been. 

"  There  is  a  likeness  about  the  eyes  and  complexion  I 
think,"  replied  she,  somewhat  dubiously  survej'ing  my  face  ; 
— u  and  I  think  I  saw  you  at  church  on  Sunday." 

I  smiled. — There  was  something  either  in  that  smile  or  the: 
recollections  it  awakened  that  was  particularly  displeasing  to 
her,  for  she  suddenly  assumed  again  that  proud,  chilly  look 
that  had  so  unspeakably  roused  my  corruption  at  church — ^ 
look  of  repellent  scorn,  so  easily  assumed,  and  so  entirely 
without  the  least  distortion  of  a  single  feature,  that,  while 
Uiere,  it  seemed  like  the  natural  expression  of  the  face,  and 


OF  WILDFELL  HALL.  17 

•iras  me  more  provoking  to  me,  because  I  could  not  think  it 
affected. 

"  Good  morning,  Mr.  Markham,"  said  she  ;  and  without 
another  word  or  glance,  she  withdrew,  with  her  child,  into  the 
garden ;  and  I  returned  home,  angry  and  dissatisfied — 1 
could  scarcely  tell  you  why — and  therefore  will  not  attempt 
it. 

I  only  stayed  to  put  away  my  gun  and  powder-horn,  and 
give  some  requisite  directions  to  one  of  the  farming-men,  and 
then  repaired  to  the  vicarage,  to  solace  my  spirit  and  sooth 
my  ruffled  temper  with  the  company  and  conversation  of 
Eliza  Milliard. 

I  found  her,  as  usual,  busy  with  some  piece  of  soft  em- 
broidery (the  mania  lor  Berlin  wools  had  not  yet  commenced), 
while  her  sister  was  seated  at  the  chimney-corner,  with  the 
cat  on  her  knee,  mending  a  heap  of  stockings. 

"Mary — Mary  !  put  them  away  !"  Eliza  was  hastily  saying 
;ust  as  I  entered  the  room. 

"Not  I,  indeed!"  was  the  phlegmatic  reply;  and  my  ap- 
pearance prevented  further  discussion. 

"You're  so  unfortunate,  Mr.  Markham!"  observed  the 
younger  sister,  with  one  ot  her  arch,  sidelong  glances. 
"  Papa's  just  gone  out  into  the  parish,  and  not  likely  to  be 
back  for  an  hour!" 

"  Never  mind  ;  I  can  manage  to  spend  a  few  minutes  with 
his  daughters,  if  they'll  allow  me,"  said  I,  bringing  a  chair 
to  the  fire,  and  seating  myself  therein,  without  waiting  to  be 
asked. 

"  Well,  if  you'll  be  very  good  and  amusing,  we  shall  nog 
object." 

"Let  your  permission  be  unconditional,  pray;  for  I  came 
not  to  give  pleasure,  but  to  seek  it,"  I  answered. 

However,  I  thought  it  but  reasonable  to  make  some  slight 
exertion  to  render  my  company  agreeable ;  and  what  little 
effort  I  made,  was  apparently  pretty  successful,  for  Miss 
Eliza  was  never  in  a  better  humour.  We  seemed,  indeed,  tc 
be  mutually  pleased  with  each  other,  and  managed  to  main- 
tain between  us  a  cheerful  and  animated,  though  not  very 
profound  conversation.  It  was  little  better  than  a  tete-a-tete, 
for  Miss  Millward  never  opened  her  lips,  except  occasionally 
to  correct  some  random  assertion  or  exaggerated  expression 
of  her  sister's,  and  once  to  ask  her  to  pick  up  the  ball  of 
cotton,  that  had  rolled  under  the  table.  I  did  this  myself, 
however,  as  in  duty  bound. 

"  Thank  you,  Mr.  Markham,"  said  she,  as  I  presented  it 
to  her.  "  I  would  have  picked  it  up  myself;  only  I  did  not 
trant  to  disturb  the  cat." 


18  THE  TENANT 

"Mary,  dear,  that  won't  excuse  you  in  Mr.  Markham's 
eyes,"  said  Eliza ;  "  he  hates  cats,  I  dare  say,  as  cordially  as 
he  does  old  maids — like  all  other  gentlemen.  Don't  you,  Mr. 
Markham?" 

"I  believe  it  is  natural  for  our  unamiable  sex  to  dislike 
the  creatures,"  replied  I ;  "  for  you  ladies  lavish  so  many 
caresses  upon  them." 

"  Bless  them — little  darlings !"  cried  she,  in  a  sudden  burst 
of  enthusiasm,  turning  round  and  overwhelming  her  sister's 
pet  with  a  shower  of  kisses. 

"Don't,  Eliza!"  said  Miss  Millward,  somewhat  gruffly,  as 
she  impatiently  pushed  her  away. 

But  it  was  time  for  me  to  be  going :  make  what  haste  I 
would,  I  should  still  be  too  late  for  tea  ;  and  my  mother  was 
the  soul  of  order  and  punctuality. 

My  fair  friend  was  evidently  unwilling  to  bid  me  adieu.  I 
tenderly  squeezed  her  little  hand  at  parting  ;  and  she  repaid 
me  with  one  of  her  softest  smiles  and  most  bewitching  glances. 
I  went  home  very  happy,  with  a  heart  brimful  of  complacency 
lor  myself,  and  overflowing  with  love  for  Eliza. 


CHAPTER  IH. 

Two  days  after,  Mrs.  Graham  called  at  Linden-Car,  contrary 
to  the  expectation  of  Rose,  who  entertained  an  idea  that  the 
mysterious  occupant  of  Wildfell  Hall  would  wholly  disregard 
the  common  observances  of  civilised  life, — in  which  opinion 
she  was  supported  by  the  Wilsons,  who  testified  that  neither 
their  call  nor  the  Millwards'  had  been  returned  as  yet.  Now, 
however,  the  cause  of  that  omission  was  explained,  though 
not  entirely  to  the  satisfaction  of  Rose.  Mrs.  Graham  had 
brought  her  child  with  her,  and  on  my  mother's  expressing 
surprise  tliat  he  could  walk  so  far,  she  replied, — 

"  It  is  a  long  walk  for  him  ;  but  I  must  have  either  taken 
him  with  me,  or  relinquished  the  visit  altogether ;  for  I  never 
leave  him  alone ;  and  I  think,  Mrs.  Markham,  I  must  beg 
you  to  make  my  excuses  to  the  Millwards  and  Mrs.  Wilson, 
when  you  see  them,  as  I  fear  I  cannot  do  myself  the  pleasure 
of  calling  upon  them  till  my  little  Arthur  is  able  to  accom- 
pany me." 

"  But  you  have  a  servant,"  said  Rose ;  "  could  you  not 
leave  him  with  her?" 

"  She  has  her  own  occupations  to  attend  to  ,•  and  besides, 
die  is  too  old  to  run  after  a  child,  and  he  is  too  mercurial  to 
be  tied  to  an  elderly  woman." 

"But  you  left  him  to  come  to  church." 


OF  WILDFELL  HALL.  It 

"  Yes,  once  ;  but  I  would  not  have  left  him  for  any  other 
purpose  ;  and  I  think,  in  future,  I  must  contrive  to  bring  him 
with  me,  or  stay  at  home." 

"  Is  he  so  mischievous  ? "  asked  my  mother,  considerably 
shocked. 

"  No,"  replied  the  lady,  sadly  smiling,  as  she  stroked  the 
wavy  locks  of  her  son,  who  was  seated  on  a  low  stool  at  her 
feet,  "but  he  is  my  only  treasure  ;  and  I  am  his  only  friend, 
so  we  don't  like  to  be  separated."  ^ 

"  But,  my  dear,  I  call  that  doting,"  said  my  plain-spoken 
parent.  "  You  should  try  to  suppress  such  foolish  fondness, 
as  well  to  save  your  son  from  ruin  as  yourself  from  ridicule." 

"Ruin!  Mrs.  Markham?" 

"  Yes ;  it  is  spoiling  the  child.  Even  at  his  age,  he  ought 
not  to  be  always  tied  to  his  mother's  apron  string  ;  he  should 
learn  to  be  ashamed  of  it." 

"  Mrs.  Markham,  I  beg  you  will  not  say  such  things  in  his 
presence,  at  least.  I  trust  my  son  will  never  be  ashamed  to 
love  his  mother ! "  said  Mrs.  Graham,  with  a  serious  energy 
that  startled  the  company. 

My  mother  attempted  to  appease  her  by  an  explanation ; 
but  she  seemed  to  think  enough  had  been  said  on  the  subjuct, 
and  abruptly  turned  the  conversation. 

"Just  as  I  thought,"  said  I  to  myself:  "  the  lady's  temper 
is  none  of  the  mildest,  notwithstanding  her  sweet,  pale  face 
and  lofty  brow,  where  thought  and  suffering  seem  equally  to 
have  stamped  their  impress." 

All  this  time,  I  was  seated  at  a  table  on  the  other  side  of 
the  room,  apparently  immersed  in  the  perusal  of  a  volume  of 
the  Farmer's  Magazine,  which  I  happened  to  have  been  read- 
ing at  the  moment  of  our  visitor's  arrival ;  and,  not  choosing 
to  be  over  civil,  I  had  merely  bowed  as  she  entered,  and  con- 
tinued my  occupation  as  before. 

In  a  little  while,  however,  I  was  sensible  that  some  one 
was  approaching  me,  with  a  light,  but  slow  and  hesitating 
tread.  It  was  little  Arthur,  irresistibly  attracted  by  my  dog 
Sancho,  that  was  lying  at  my  feet.  On  looking  up,  I  beheld 
him  standing  about  two  yards  off,  with  his  clear  blue  eyes 
wistfully  gazing  on  the  dog,  transfixed  to  the  spot,  not  by 
fear  of  the  animal,  but  by  a  timid  disinclination  to  approach 
its  master.  A  little  encouragement,  however,  induced  him 
to  come  forward.  The  child,  though  shy,  was  not  sullen.  In 
a  minute  he  was  kneeling  on  the  carpet,  with  his  arms  round 
Sancho's  neck,  and  in  a  minute  or  two  more,  the  little  fellow 
was  seated  on  my  knee,  surveying  with  eager  interest  the 
various  specimens  of  horses,  cattle,  pigs,  and  model  farms 
portrayed  in  the  volume  before  me.  I  glanced  at  his  mother 


20  THE   TENANT 

now  and  then,  to  see  how  she  relished  the  new-sprung  inti- 
macy ;  and  I  saw,  by  the  unquiet  aspect  of  her  eye,  that  for 
some  reason  or  other  she  was  uneasy  at  the  child's  position. 

14  Arthur,"  said  she,  at  length,  "  come  here.  You  are 
troublesome  to  Mr.  Markham :  he  wishes  to  read." 

"  By  no  means,  Mrs.  Graham ;  pray  let  him  stay.  I  am 
as  much  amused  as  he  is,"  pleaded  I.  But  still,  with  hand 
and  eye,  she  silently  called  him  to  her  side. 

"  No,  mamma,"  said  the  child;  "  let  me  look  at  these  pic- 
tures first;  and  then  I'll  come,  and  tell  you  all  about  them." 

"  We  are  going  to  have  a  small  party  on  Monday,  the  fifth 
of  November,"  said  my  mother;  "and  I  hope  you  will  not 
refuse  to  make  one,  Mrs.  Graham.  You  can  bring  your  little 
boy  with  you,  you  know — I  dare  say  we  shall  be  able  to  amuse 
him; — and  then  you  can  make  your  own  apologies  to  the  Mill- 
wards  and  Wilsons, — they  will  all  be  here,  I  expect." 

"  Thank  you,  I  never  go  to  parties." 

"  Ob !  but  this  will  be  quite  a  family  concern — early  hours, 
and  nobody  here  but  ourselves,  and  just  the  Mill  wards  and 
Wilsons,  most  of  whom  you  already  know,  and  Mr.  Lawrence, 
your  landlord,  with  whom  you  ought  to  make  acquaint- 
ance." 

"  I  do  know  something  of  him — but  you  must  excuse  me 
this  time ;  for  the  evenings,  now,  are  dark  and  damp,  and 
Arthur,  I  fear,  is  too  delicate  to  risk  exposure  to  their  in- 
fluence with  impunity.  We  must  defer  the  enjoyment  of  your 
hospitality,  till  the  return  of  longer  days  and  warmer  nights." 

Rose,  now,  at  a  hint  from  my  mother,  produced  a  decanter 
of  wine,  with  accompaniments  of  glasses  and  cake,  from  the 
cupboard  and  the  oak  sideboard,  and  the  refreshment  was  duly 
presented  to  the  guests.  They  both  partook  of  the  cake,  but 
obstinately  refused  the  wine,  in  spite  of  their  hostess's  hospi- 
table attempts  to  force  it  upon  them.  Arthur,  especially, 
shrank  from  the  ruby  nectar  as  if  in  terror  and  disgust,  and 
was  ready  to  cry  when  urged  to  take  it. 

"Never  mind,  Arthur,"  said  his  mamma,  "Mrs.  Markham 
thinks  it  will  do  you  good,  as  you  were  tired  with  your  walk  ; 
but  she  will  not  oblige  you  to  take  it! — I  dare  say  you  will  do 
very  well  without.  He  detests  the  very  sight  of  wine,"  she 
added,  "  and  the  smell  of  it  almost  makes  him  sick.  I  have 
been  accustomed  to  make  him  swallow  a  little  wine  or  weak 
upirits-and-water,  by  way  of  medicine  when  he  was  sick,  and, 
in  fact,  I  have  done  what  I  could  to  make  him  hate  them." 

Everybody  laughed,  except  the  young  widow  and  her  son. 

"  Well,  Mrs.  Graham,"  said  my  mother,  wiping  the  tears  of 
merriment  from  her  bright  blue  eyes — "  well,  you  surprise 
me  1  I  really  gave  you  credit  for  having  more  sense. — The 


OF   WILDFKLL  ITAIX.  21 

poor  child  will  be  the  veriest  milksop  that  ever  was  sopped  ! 
Only  think  what  a  man  you  will  make  of  him,  if  you  persist 

"  I  think  it  a  very  excellent  plan,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Gra- 
ham with  imperturbable  gravity.  "  By  that  means  I  hope  to 
save  him  from  one  degrading  vice  at  least.  I  wish  I  could 
render  the  incentives  to  every  other  equally  innoxious  m 
his  case." 

"  But  by  such  means,"  said  I,  "  you  will  never  render  him 
virtuous. — What  is  it  that  constitutes  virtue,  Mrs.  Graham  ? 
Is  it  the  circumstance  of  being  able  and  willing  to  resist  temp- 
tation ;  or  that  of  having  no  temptations  to  resist  ? — Is  he  a 
strong  man  that  overcomes  great  obstacles  and  performs  sur- 
prising achievements,  though  by  dint  of  great  muscular  exer- 
tion, and  at  the  risk  of  some  subsequent  fatigue,  or  he  that 
sits  in  his  chair  all  day,  with  nothing  to  do  more  laborious 
than  stirring  the  fire,  and  carrying  his  food  to  his  mouth  ?  It 
you  would  have  your  son  to  walk  honourably  through  the 
world,  you  must  not  attempt  to  clear  the  stones  from  his  path, 
but  teach  him  to  walk  firmly  over  them — not  insist  upon  lead- 
ing him  by  the  hand,  but  let  him  learn  to  go  alone." 

41 1  will  lead  him  by  the  hand,  Mr.  Markham,  till  he  has 
strength  to  go  alone ;  and  I  will  clear  as  many  stones  from 
his  path  as  I  can,  and  teach  him  to  avoid  the  rest — or  walk 
firmly  over  them,  as  you  say; — for  when  I  have  done  my  ut- 
most, in  the  way  of  clearance,  there  will  still  be  plenty  left  to 
exercise  all  the  agility,  steadiness,  and  circumspection" he  will 
ever  have. — It  is  all  very  well  to  talk  about  noble  resistance, 
and  trials  of  virtue ;  but  for  fifty — or  five  hundred  men  that 
have  yielded  to  temptation,  show  me  one  that  has  had  virtue 
to  resist.  And  why  should  I  take  it  for  granted  that  my  son 
will  be  one  in  a  thousand  ? — and  not  rather  prepare  for  the 

worst,  and  suppose  he  will  be  like  his like  the  rest  of 

mankind,  unless  I  take  care  to  prevent  it?" 

"  You  are  very  complimentary  to  us  all,"  I  observed. 

"  I  know  nothing  about  you — I  speak  of  those  I  do  know— 
and  when  I  see  the  whole  race  of  mankind  (with  a  few  rare 
exceptions)  stumbling  and  blundering  along  the  path  of  life, 
sinking  into  every  pitfall,  and  breaking  their  shins  over  every 
impediment  that  lies  in  their  way,  shall  I  not  use  all  the 
means  in  my  power  to  insure  for  him  a  smoother  and  a  safer 
passage?" 

"  Yes,  but  the  surest  means  will  be  to  endeavour  to  fortify 
him  against  temptation,  not  to  remove  it  out  of  his  way." 

"  I  will  do  both,  Mr.  Markham.  God  knows  he  will  have 
temptations  enough  to  assail  him,  both  from  within  and  with- 
out, when  I  have  done  all  I  can  to  render  vice  as  uninviting  to 


22  THE  TENANT 

him,  as  it  is  abominable  in  its  own  nature — I  myself  have  had, 
indeed,  but  few  incentives  to  what  the  world  calls  vice,  but 
yet  I  have  experienced  temptations  and  trials  of  another 
kind,  that  have  required,  on  many  occasions,  more  watchful- 
ness and  firmness  to  resist,  than  I  have  hitherto  been  able  to 
muster  against  them.  And  this,  I  believe,  is  what  most  others 
would  acknowledge,  who  are  accustomed  to  reflection,  and 
wishfal  to  strive  against  their  natural  corruptions." 

'  Yes,"  said  my  mother,  but  half  apprehending  her  drift ; 
"  but  you  would  not  judge  of  a  boy  by  yourself — and  my  dear 
Mrs.  Graham,  let  me  warn  you  in  good  time  against  the  error 
— the  fatal  error,  I  may  call  it— of  taking  that  boy's  education 
upon  yourself.  Because  you  are  clever  in  some  things,  and 
well  informed,  you  may  fancy  yourself  equal  to  the  task ;  but 
indeed  you  are  not ;  and  if  you  persist  in  the  attempt,  believe 
me  you  will  bitterly  repent  it  when  the  mischief  is  done." 

"  I  am  to  send  him  to  school,  I  suppose,  to  learn  to  despise 
his  mother's  authority  and  affection !"  said  the  lady,  with 
rather  a  bitter  smile. 

"  Oh,  no ! — But  if  you  would  have  a  boy  to  despise  his 
mother,  let  her  keep  him  at  home,  aud  spend  her  life  in  pet- 
ting him  up,  and  slaving  to  indulge  his  follies  and  caprices." 

"  I  perfectly  agree  with  you,  Mrs.  Markham ;  but  nothing 
can  be  further  from  my  principles  and  practice  than  such 
criminal  weakness  as  that." 

"  Well,  but  you  will  treat  him  like  a  girl — you'll  spoil  his 
spirit,  and  make  a  mere  Miss  Nancy  of  him — you  will  indeed, 
Mrs.  Giaham,  whatever  you  may  think.  But  I'll  get  Mr. 
Millward  to  talk  to  you  about  it : — he'll  tell  you  the  conse- 
quences ; — he'll  set  it  before  you  as  plain  as  the  day ; — and  tell 
you  what  you  ought  to  do,  and  all  about  it; — and,  I  don't 
doubt,  he'll  be  able  to  convince  you  in  a  minute." 

"  No  occasion  to  trouble  the  vicar,"  said  Mrs.  Graham, 
glancing  at  me — I  suppose  I  was  smiling  at  my  mother's  un- 
bounded confidence  in  that  worthy  gentleman — "  Mr.  Mark- 
ham  here,  thinks  his  powers  of  conviction  at  least  equal  to 
Mr.  Mill  ward's.  If  I  hear  not  him,  neither  should  I  be  con- 
vinced though  one  rose  from  the  dead,  he  would  tell  you. 
Well,  Mr.  Markham,  you  that  maintain  that  a  boy  should  net 
be  shielded  from  evil,  but  sent  out  to  battle  against  it,  alone 
and  unassisted — not  taught  to  avoid  the  snares  of  life,  but 
boldly  to  rush  into  them,  or  over  them,  as  he  may— to  seek 
danger  rather  than  shun  it,  and  feed  his  virtue  by  temptation, 
— would  you " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mrs.  Graham — but  you  get  on  too 
fast.  I  have  not  yet  said  that  a  boy  should  be  taught  to  rush 
into  the  snares  of  life, — or  even  wilfully  to  seek  temptation 


OP  W1LDFELL  HALL.  23 

for  the  sake  of  exercising  his  virtue  by  overcoming  it ; — I  only 
say  that  it  is  better  to  arm  and  strengthen  your  hero,  than  to 
disarm  and  enfeeble  the  foe  ; — and  if  you  were  to  rear  an  oak 
sapling  in  a  hothouse,  tending  it  carefully  night  and  day, 
and  shielding  it  from  every  breath  of  wind,  you  could  not  ex- 
pect it  to  become  a  hardy  tree,  like  that  which  has  grown  up 
on  the  mountain-side,  exposed  to  all  the  action  of  the  ele- 
ments, and  not  even  sheltered  from  the  shock  of  the  tempest." 

"  Granted  ; — but  would  you  use  the  same  argument  with 
regard  to  a  girl?" 

"  Certainly  not." 

"  No  ;  you  would  have  her  to  be  tenderly  and  delicately 
nurtured,  like  a  hot-house  plant — taught  to  cling  to  others  for 
direction  and  support,  and  guarded,  as  much  as  possible,  from 
the  very  knowledge  of  evil.  But  will  you  be  so  good  as  to 
inform  me  why  you  make  this  distinction  ?  Is  it  that  you 
think  she  has  no  virtue  ?  " 

"Assuredly  not." 

"Well,  but  you  affirm  that  virtue  is  only  elicited  by  temp- 
tation ; — and  you  think  that  a  woman  cannot  be  too  little  ex- 
posed to  temptation,  or  too  little  acquainted  with  vice,  or  any- 
thing connected  therewith.  It  must  be,  either,  that  you  think 
she  is  essentially  so  vicious,  or  so  feeble-minded  that  she  can- 
not withstand  temptation, — and  though  she  may  be  pure  and 
innocent  as  long  as  she  is  kept  in  ignorance  and  restraint,  yet, 
being  destitute  of  real  virtue,  to  teach  her  how  to  sin,  is  at 
once  to  make  her  a  sinner,  and  the  greater  her  knowledge,  the 
wider  her  liberty,  the  deeper  will  be  her  depravity, — whereas, 
in  the  nobler  sex,  there  is  a  natural  tendency  to  goodness, 
guarded  by  a  superior  fortitude,  which,  the  more  it  is  exercised 
by  trials  and  dangers,  is  only  the  further  developed " 

"  Heaven  forbid  that  I  should  think  so !"  I  interrupted  her 
at  last. 

"  Well  then,  it  must  be  that  you  think  they  are  both  weak 
and  prone  to  err,  and  the  slightest  error,  the  merest  shadow  of 
pollution,  will  ruin  the  one,  while  the  character  of  the  other 
will  be  strengthened  and  embellished — his  education  properly 
finished  by  a  little  practical  acquaintance  with  forbidden 
things.  Such  experience,  to  him  (to  use  a  trite  simile),  will 
be  like  the  storm  to  the  oak,  which,  though  it  may  scatter  the 
leaves,  and  snap  the  smaller  branches,  serves  but  to  rivet  the 
roots,  and  to  harden  and  condense  the  fibres  of  the  tree.  You 
would  have  us  encourage  our  sons  to  prove  all  things  by  their 
own  experience,  while  our  daughters  must  not  even  profit  by 
the  experience  of  others.  Now  I  would  have  both  so  to  bene- 
fit by  the  experience  of  others,  and  the  precepts  of  a  higher 
authority,  that  they  should  know  beforehand  to  refuse  the  evil 


24  THE 

and  choose  the  good,  and  require  no  experimental  proof8  to 
teach  them  the  evil  of  transgression.  I  would  not  send  a 
poor  girl  into  the  world,  unarmed  against  her  foes,  and  igno- 
rant of  the  snares  that  beset  her  path  ;  nor  would  I  watch  and 
guard  her,  till,  deprived  of  self-respect  and  self-reliance,  she 
lost  the  power  or  the  will  to  watch  and  guard  herself; — and 
as  for  my  son — if  I  thought  he  would  grow  up  to  be  what  you 
call  a  man  of  the  world — one  that  has  '  seen  life,'  and  glories 
in  his  experience,  even  though  he  should  so  far  profit  by  it  as 
to  sober  down,  at  length,  into  a  useful  and  respected  member 
of  society — I  would  rather  that  he  died  to-morrow  ! — rather 
a  thousand  times!"  she  earnestly  repeated,  pressing  her  dar- 
ling to  her  side  and  kissing  his  forehead  with  intense  affection. 
He  had,  already,  left  his  new  companion,  and  been  standing 
for  some  time  beside  his  mother's  knee,  looking  up  into  her 
face,  and  listening  in  silent  wonder  to  her  incomprehensible 
discourse. 

"  Well !  you  ladies  must  always  have  the  last  word,  I  sup- 
pose," said  I,  observing  her  rise,  and  begin  to  take  leave  of  my 
mother. 

14  You  may  have  as  many  words  as  you  please, — only  I  can't 
stay  to  hear  them." 

"No ;  that  is  the  way :  you  hear  just  as  much  of  an  argu- 
ment as  you  please;  and  the  rest  may  be  spoken  to  the  wind." 

"If  you  are  anxious  to  say  anything  more  on  the  subject," 
replied  she,  as  she  shook  hands  with  Kose,  "  you  must  bring 
your  sister  to  see  me  some  fine  day,  and  I'll  listen,  as  patiently 
as  you  could  wish,  to  whatever  you  please  to  say.  I  would 
rather  be  lectured  by  you  than  the  vicar,  because  I  should 
have  less  remorse  in  telling  you  at  the  end  of  the  discourse, 
that  I  preserve  my  own  opinion  precisely  the  same  as  at  the 
beginning — as  would  be  the  case,  I  am  persuaded,  with  regard 
to  either  logician." 

"  Yes,  of  course,"  replied  I,  determined  to  be  as  provoking 
as  herself;  "for,  when  a  lady  does  consent  to  listen  to  an  ar- 
gument against  her  own  opinions,  she  is  always  predetermined 
to  withstand  it — to  listen  only  with  her  bodily  ears,  keeping 
the  mental  organs  resolutely  closed  against  the  strongest 
reasoning." 

"  Good  morning,  Mr.  Markham,"  said  my  fair  antagonist, 
with  a  pitying  smile  ;  and  deigning  no  further  rejoinder,  she 
slightly  bowed,  and  was  about  to  withdraw ;  but  her  son,  with 
childish  impertinence,  arrested  her  by  exclaiming, — 

"  Mamma,  you  have  not  shaken  hands  with  Mr.  Markham ! " 

She  laughingly  turned  round,  and  held  out  her  hand.  I 
pave  it  a  spiteful  squeeze ;  for  I  was  annoyed  at  the  continual 
injustice  she  had  done  me  from  the  very  dawn  of  our  acquaint- 


OF   WILDKKI.I.   It.U.L.  26 

ance.  Without  knowing  anything  about  my  real  disposition 
and  principles,  she  was  evidently  prejudiced  against  me,  and 
seemed  bent  upon  showing  me  that  her  opinions  respecting 
me,  on  every  particular,  fell  far  below  those  I  entertained  oi 
myself.  I  was  naturally  touchy,  or  it  would  not  have  vexed 
me  so  much.  Perhaps,  too,  I  was  a  little  bit  spoiled  by  my 
mother  and  sister,  and  some  other  ladies  of  my  acquaintance ; 
— and  yet  I  was  by  no  means  a  fop — of  that  I  am  fully  con- 
vinced, whether  you  are  or  not. 


OUR  party, 
spite  of  Mi 


CHAPTER  IV. 

/,  on  the  5th  of  November,  passed  off  very  well,  in 
spite  "of  Mrs.  Graham's  refusal  to  grace  it  with  her  presence. 
Indeed,  it  is  probable  that,  had  she  been  there,  there  would 
have  been  less  cordiality,  freedom,  and  frolic  amongst  us  than 
there  was  without  her. 

My  mother,  as  usual,  was  cheerful  and  chatty,  full  of  acti- 
vity and  goodnature,  and  only  faulty  in  being  too  anxious  to 
make  her  guests  happy,  thereby  forcing  several  of  them  to  do 
what  their  soul  abhorred,  in  the  way  of  eating  or  drinking, 
sitting  opposite  the  blazing  fire,  or  talking  when  they  would 
be  silent.  Nevertheless,  they  bore  it  very  well,  being  all  in 
their  holiday  humours. 

Mr.  Millward  was  mighty  in  important  dogmas  and  senten- 
tious jokes,  pompous  anecdotes  and  oracular  discourses,  dealt 
out  for  the  edification  of  the  whole  assembly  in  general,  and 
of  the  admiring  Mrs.  Markham,  the  polite  Mr.  Lawrence,  the 
sedate  Mary  Millward,  the  quiet  Richard  Wilson,  and  the 
matter-of-fact  Robert,  in  particular, — as  being  the  most  atten- 
tive listeners. 

Mrs.  Wilson  was  more  brilliant  than  ever,  with  her  budgets 
of  fresh  news  and  old  scandal,  strung  together  with  trivial 
questions  and  remarks,  and  oft-repeated  observations,  uttered 
apparently  for  the  sole  purpose  of  denying  a  moment's  rest  to 
her  inexhaustible  organs  of  speech.  She  had  brought  her 
knitting  with  her,  and  it  seemed  as  if  her  tongue  had  laid  a 
wager  with  her  fingers,  to  outdo  them  in  swift  and  ceaseless 
motion. 

Her  daughter  Jane  was,  of  course,  as  graceful  and  elegant, 
as  witty  and  seductive,  as  she  could  possibly  manage  to  be ; 
tor  here  were  all  the  ladies  to  outshine,  and  all  the  gentlemen 
to  charm, — and  Mr.  Lawrence,  especially,  to  capture  and 
subdue.  Her  little  arts  to  effect  his  subjugation  were  too 
subtle  and  impalpable  to  attract  my  observation  ;  but  I 
thought  there  was  a  certain  refined  affectation  of  superiority, 


26  THE  TENANT 

and  an  ungenial  self-consciousness  about  her,  that  negatived 
all  her  advantages ;  and  after  she  was  gone,  Rose  interpreted 
to  me  her  various  looks,  words,  and  actions  with  a  mingled 
acuteness  and  asperity  that  made  me  wonder,  equally,  at  the 
lady's  artifice  and  my  sister's  penetration,  and  ask  myself  if 
she  too  had  an  eye  to  the  squire — but  never  mind,  Halford  ; 
she  had  not. 

Richard  Wilson,  Jane's  younger  brother,  sat  in  a  corner, 
apparently  good-tempered,  but  silent  and  shy,  desirous  to 
escape  observation,  but  willing  enough  to  listen  and  observe  ; 
and,  although  somewhat  out  of  his  element,  he  would  have 
been  happy  enough  in  his  own  quiet  way,  if  my  mother  could 
only  have  let  him  alone  ;  but  in  her  mistaken  kindness,  she 
would  keep  persecuting  him  with  her  attentions — pressing 
upon  him  all  manner  of  viands,  under  the  notion  that  he  was 
too  bashful  to  help  himself,  and  obliging  him  to  shout  across 
the  room  his  monosyllabic  replies  to  the  numerous  questions 
and  observations  by  which  she  vainly  attempted  to  draw  him 
into  conversation. 

Rose  informed  me  that  he  never  would  have  favoured  us 
with  his  company,  but  lor  the  importunities  of  his  sister  Jane, 
who  was  most  anxious  to  show  Mr.  Lawrence  that  she  had  at 
least  one  brother  more  gentlemanly  and  refined  than  Robert. 
That  worthy  individual  she  had  been  equally  solicitous  to 
keep  away ;  but  he  affirmed  that  he  saw  no  reason  why  he 
should  not  enjoy  a  crack  with  Markham  and  the  old  lady, 
(my  mother  was  not  old,  really,)  and  bonny  Miss  Rose  and 
the  parson,  as  well  as  the  best ; — and  he  was  in  the  right  of  it 
too.  So  he  talked  common-place  with  my  mother  and  Rose, 
and  discussed  parish  affairs  with  the  vicar,  farming  matters 
with  me,  and  politics  with  us  both. 

Mary  Millward  was  another  mute, — not  so  much  tormented 
with  cruel  kindness  as  Dick  Wilson,  because  she  had  a  certain 
short,  decided  way  of  answering  and  refusing,  and  was  sup- 
posed to  be  rather  sullen  than  diffident.  However  that  might 
be,  she  certainly  did  not  give  much  pleasure  to  the  company ; 
— nor  did  she  appear  to  derive  much  from  it.  Eliza  told  me 
she  had  only  come  because  her  father  insisted  upon  it,  having 
taken  it  into  his  head  that  she  devoted  herself  too  exclusively 
to  her  household  duties,  to  the  neglect  of  such  relaxations  and 
innocent  enjoyments  as  were  proper  to  her  age  and  sex.  She 
seemed  to  me  to  be  good-humoured  enough  on  the  whole. 
Once  or  twice  she  was  provoked  to  laughter  by  the  wit  or 
the  merriment  of  some  favoured  individual  amongst  us  ;  and 
then  I  observed  she  sought  the  eye  of  Richard  Wilson,  who 
sat  over  against  her.  As  he  studied  with  her  father,  she  had 
some  acquaintance  with  him,  in  spite  of  the  retiring  habits  of 


OP  WILDFELL  HALL.  27 

both,  and  I  suppose  there  was  a  kind  of  fellow-feeling  esta- 
blished between  them. 

My  Eliza  was  charming  beyond  description,  coquettish  with 
out  affectation,  and  evidently  more  desirous  to  engage  my 
attention  than  that  of  all  the  room  besides.  Her  delight  in 
having  me  near  her,  seated  or  standing  by  her  side,  whisper- 
ing in  her  ear,  or  pressing  her  hand  in  the  dance,  was  plainly 
legible  in  her  glowing  face  and  heaving  bosom,  however  belied 
by  saucy  words  and  gestures.  But  I  had  better  hold  my 
tongue  :  if  I  boast  of  these  things  now,  I  shall  have  to  blush 
hereafter. 

To  proceed,  then,  with  the  various  individuals  of  our  party ; 
Rose  was  simple  and  natural  as  usual,  and  fall  of  mirth  arid 
vivacity. 

Fergus  was  impertinent  and  absurd  ;  but  his  impertinence 
and  folly  served  to  make  others  laugh,  if  they  did  not  raise 
himself  in  their  estimation. 

And  finally  (for  I  omit  myself),  Mr.  Lawrence  was  gentle- 
manly and  inoffensive  to  all,  and  polite  to  the  vicar  and  the 
ladies,  especially  his  hostess  and  her  daughter,  and  Miss 
Wilson — misguided  man  ;  he  had  not  the  taste  to  prefer  Eliza 
Millward.  Mr.  Lawrence  and  I  were  on  tolerably  intimate 
terms.  Essentially  of  reserved  habits,  and  but  seldom  quit- 
ting the  secluded  place  of  his  birth,  where  he  had  lived  in 
solitary  state  since  the  death  of  his  father,  he  had  neither  the 
opportunity  nor  the  inclination  for  forming  many  acquaint- 
ances ;  and,  of  all  he  had  ever  known,  I  (judging  by  the  results) 
was  the  companion  most  agreeable  to  his  taste.  I  liked  the 
man  well  enough,  but  he  was  too  cold,  and  shy,  and  self-con- 
tained, to  obtain  my  cordial  sympathies.  A  spirit  of  candour 
and  frankness,  when  wholly  unaccompanied  with  coarseness, 
he  admired  in  others,  but  he  could  not  acquire  it  himself. 
His  excessive  reserve  upon  all  his  own  concerns  was,  indeed, 
provoking  and  chilly  enough  ;  but  I  forgave  it,  from  a  con- 
viction that  it  originated  less  in  pride  and  want  of  confidence 
in  his  friends,  than  in  a  certain  morbid  feeling  of  delicacy, 
and  a  peculiar  diffidence,  that  he  was  sensible  of,  but  wanted 
energy  to  overcome.  His  heart  was  like  a  sensitive  plant, 
that  opens  for  a  moment  in  the  sunshine,  but  curls  up  and 
shrinks  into  itself  at  the  slightest  touch  of  the  finger,  or  the 
lightest  breath  of  wind.  And,  upon  the  whole,  our  intimacy 
was  rather  a  mutual  predilection  than  a  deep  and  solid  friend- 
ship, such  as  has  since  arisen  between  myself  and  you,  Hal- 
ford,  whom,  in  spite  of  your  occasional  crustiness,  I  can  liken 
to  nothing  so  well  as  an  old  coat,  unimpeachable  in  texture, 
but  easy  and  loose — that  has  conformed  itself  to  the  shape  oi 
the  wearer,  and  which  he  may  use  as  he  pleases,  without 


28  THE   TENANT 

being  bothered  with  the  fear  of  spoiling  it ; — whereas  Mr. 
Lawrence  was  like  a  new  garment,  all  very  neat  and  trim  to 
look  at,  but  so  tight  in  the  elbows,  that  you  would  fear  to 
Bplit  the  seams  by  the  unrestricted  motion  of  your  arms,  and 
so  smooth  and  fine  in  surface  that  you  scruple  to  expose  it  to 
a  single  drop  of  rain. 

Soon  after  the  arrival  of  the  guests,  my  mother  mentioned 
Mrs.  Graham,  regretted  she  was  not  there  to  meet  them,  and 
explained  to  the  Millwards  and  Wilsons  the  reasons  she  had 
given  for  neglecting  to  return  their  calls,  hoping  they  would 
excuse  her,  as  she  was  sure  she  did  not  mean  to  be  uncivil, 
and  would  be  glad  to  see  them  at  any  time  ; — 

"  But  she  is  a  very  singular  lady,  Mr.  Lawrence,"  added 
she  ;  "  we  don't  know  what  to  make  of  her — but  I  dare  say 
you  can  tell  us  something  about  her,  for  she  is  your  tenant, 
you  know, — and  she  said  she  knew  you  a  little." 

All  eyes  were  turned  to  Mr.  Lawrence.  I  thought  he 
looked  unnecessarily  confused  at  being  so  appealed  to. 

"  I,  Mrs.  Markham  ! "  said  he  ;  "  you  are  mistaken — I  don't 
— that  is — I  have  seen  her,  certainly  ;  but  I  am  the  last  per- 
son you  should  apply  to  for  information  respecting  Mrs. 
Graham." 

He  then  immediately  turned  to  Rose,  and  asked  her  to 
favour  the  company  with  a  song,  or  a  tune  on  the  piano. 

"  No,"  said  she,  "  you  must  ask  Miss  Wilson :  she  out- 
thines  us  all  in  singing,  and  music  too." 

Miss  Wilson  demurred. 

"  She'll  sing  readily  enough,"  said  Fergus,  "  if  you'll  un- 
dertake to  stand  by  her,  Mr.  Lawrence,  and  turn  over  the 
leaves  for  her." 

"  I  shall  be  most  happy  to  do  so,  Miss  Wilson ;  will  you 
allow  me  ?  " 

She  bridled  her  long  neck  and  smiled,  and  suffered  him  to 
lead  her  to  the  instrument,  where  she  played  and  sang,  in 
her  very  best  style,  one  piece  after  another ;  while  he  stood 
patiently  by,  leaning  one  hand  on  the  back  of  her  chair,  and 
turning  over  the  leaves  of  her  book  with  the  other.  Per- 
haps he  was  as  much  charmed  with  her  performance  as  she 
was.  It  was  all  very  fine  in  its  way  ;  but  I  cannot  say  that 
it  moved  me  very  deeply.  There  was  plenty  of  skill  and 
execution,  but  precious  little  feeling. 

But  we  had  not  done  with  Mrs.  Graham  yet. 

"I  don't  take  wine,  Mrs.  Markham,"  said  Mr.  Mill;vanl, 
upon  the  introduction  of  that  beverage  ;  "  I'll  take  a  little  of 
your  home-brewed  ale.  I  always  prefer  your  home-brewed 
to  anything  else." 

Flattered  at  this  compliment,  my  mother  rang  the  bell,  an;] 


OF   WILDFELL  HALL.  S9 

a  china  jug  of  our  best  ale  was  presently  brought  and  set 
before  the  worthy  gentleman  who  so  well  knew  how  to  appre- 
ciate its  excellences. 

"  Now  TIIIS  is  the  thing  !"  cried  he,  pouring  out  a  glass  of 
the  same  in  a  long  stream,  skilfully  directed  from  the  jug  to 
the  tumbler,  so  as  to  produce  much  foam  without  spilling  a 
drop  ;  and,  having  surveyed  it  for  a  moment  opposite  the 
camclle,  he  took  a  deep  draught,  and  then  smacked  his  lips, 
drew  a  long  breath,  and  refilled  his  glass,  my  mother  looking 
on  with  the  greatest  satisfaction. 

"There's  nothing  like  this,  Mrs.  Markham !"  said  he.  "I 
always  maintain  that  there's  nothing  to  compare  with  your 
home-brewed  ale." 

"  I'm  sure  I'm  glad  you  like  it,  sir.  I  always  look  after 
the  brewing  myself,  as  well  as  the  cheese  and  the  butter — I 
like  to  have  things  well  done,  while  we're  about  it." 

"  Quite  right,  Mrs.  Markham  !" 

"  But  then,  Mr.  Millward,  you  don't  think  it  wrong  to  take 
a  little  wine  now  and  then — or  a  little  spirits  either  ! "  said 
my  mother,  as  she  handed  a  smoking  tumbler  of  gin-and- 
water  to  Mrs.  Wilson,  who  affirmed  that  wine  sat  heavy  on 
her  stomach,  and  whose  son  Robert  was  at  that  moment  help- 
ing himself  to  a  pretty  stiff  glass  of  the  same. 

"  By  no  means  !"  replied  the  oracle,  with  a  Jove-like  nod ; 
44  these  things  are  all  blessings  and  mercies,  if  we  only  knew 
how  to  make  use  of  them." 

"  But  Mrs.  Graham  doesn't  think  so.  You  shall  just  hear 
now  what  she  told  us  the  other  day — I  told  her  I'd  tell  you." 

And  my  mother  favoured  the  company  with  a  particular 
account  of  that  lady's  mistaken  ideas  and  conduct  regarding 
the  matter  in  hand,  concluding  with,  "  Now,  don't  you  think 
it  is  wrong  ?  " 

44  Wrong!"  repeated  the  vicar,  with  more  than  common 
solemnity — '4  criminal,  I  should  say — criminal ! — Not  only  ia 
it  making  a  fool  of  the  boy,  but  it  is  despising  the  gifts  of 
Providence,  and  teaching  him  to  trample  them  under  his 
feet." 

He  then  entered  more  fully  into  the  question,  and  explained 
at  large  the  folly  and  impiety  of  such  a  proceeding.  My 
mother  heard  him  with  profoundest  reverence  ;  and  even  Mra. 
Wilson  vouchsafed  to  rest  her  tongue  for  a  moment,  and  listen 
in  silence,  while  she  complacently  sipped  her  gin-and-water. 
Mr.  Lawrence  sat  with  his  elbow  on  the  table,  carelessly  play- 
ing with  his  half-empty  wine-glass,  and  covertly  smiling  to 
himself. 

"  But  don't  yon  think,  Mr.  Millward,"  suggested  be,  when 
at  length  that  gentleman  paused  in  his  discourse,  44  that  when 


80  THE  TENANT 

A  child  may  be  naturally  prone  to  intemperance — by  the  fault 
of  its  parents  or  ancestors,  for  instance — some  precautions  are 
advisable  ?  "  (Now  it  was  generally  believed  that  Mr.  Law- 
rence's father  had  shortened  his  days  by  intemperance.) 

44  Some  precautions,  it  may  be ;  but  temperance,  sir,  is  one 
thing,  and  abstinence  another." 

"  But  I  have  heard  that,  with  some  persons,  temperance — 
that  is,  moderation — is  almost  impossible ;  and  if  abstinence 
be  an  evil  (which  some  have  doubted),  no  one  will  deny  that 
excess  is  a  greater.  Some  parents  have  entirely  prohibited 
their  children  from  tasting  intoxicating  liquors ;  but  a  parent's 
authority  cannot  last  for  ever :  children  are  naturally  prone  to 
hanker  after  forbidden  things ;  and  a  child,  in  such  a  case, 
would  be  likely  to  have  a  strong  curiosity  to  taste,  and  try  the 
effect  of  what  has  been  so  lauded  and  enjoyed  by  others,  so 
strictly  forbidden  to  himself — which  curiosity  would  gene- 
rally be  gratified  on  the  first  convenient  opportunity;  and 
the  restraint  once  broken,  serious  consequences  might  ensue. 
I  don't  pretend  to  be  a  judge  of  such  matters,  but  it  seems  to 
me,  that  this  plan  of  Mrs.  Graham's,  as  you  describe  it,  Mrs. 
Markham,  extraordinary  as  it  may  be,  is  not  without  its  ad- 
vantages ;  for  here  you  eee  the  child  is  delivered  at  once  from 
temptation  ;  he  has  no  secret  curiosity,  no  hankering  desire  ; 
he  is  as  well  acquainted  with  the  tempting  liquors  as  he  ever 
wishes  to  be  ;  and  is  thoroughly  disgusted  with  them,  without 
having  suffered  from  their  effects." 

"  And  is  that  right,  sir  ?  Have  I  not  proven  to  you  how 
wrong  it  is — how  contrary  to  Scripture  and  to  reason  to  teach 
a  child  to  look  with  contempt  and  disgust  upon  the  blessings 
of  Providence,  instead  of  to  use  them  aright?" 

44  You  may  consider  laudanum  a  blessing  of  Providence, 
sir,"  replied  Mr.  Lawrence,  smiling ;  "  and  yet,  you  will  allow 
that  most  of  us  had  better  abstain  from  it,  even  hi  modera- 
tion ;  but,"  added  he,  "  I  would  not  desire  you  to  follow  out 
my  simile  too  closely — in  witness  whereof  I  finish  my  glass." 

"  And  take  another,  I  hope,  Mr.  Lawrence,"  said  my  mo- 
ther, pushing  the  bottle  towards  him. 

He  politely  declined,  and  pushing  his  chair  a  little  away 
from  the  table,  leant  back  towards  me — I  was  seated  a  trill  n 
behind,  on  the  sofa  beside  Eliza  Millward — and  carelessly  asked 
me  if  I  knew  Mrs.  Graham. 

"  I  have  met  her  once  or  twice,"  I  replied. 

44  What  do  you  think  of  her  ?" 

44 1  cannot  say  that  I  like  her  much.  She  is  handsome — or 
rather  I  should  say  distinguished  and  interesting — in  her  ap- 
pearance, but  by  no  means  amiable — a  woman  liable  to  take 
strong  prejudices,  I  should  fancy,  and  stick  to  them  through 


OF  WILDFELL   HALL.  81 

thick  and  thin,  twisting  everything  into  conformity  with  her 
own  preconceived  opinions — too  hard,  too  sharp,  too  bitter  for 
my  taste." 

He  made  no  reply,  but  looked  down  and  bit  his  lip,  and 
shortly  after  rose  and  sauntered  up  to  Miss  Wilson,  as  much 
repelled  by  me,  I  fancy,  as  attracted  by  her.  I  scarcely  no- 
ticed it  at  the  time,  but  afterwards,  I  was  led  to  recall  this  and 
other  trifling  facts,  of  a  similar  nature,  to  my  remembrance, 
when — but  I  must  not  anticipate. 

We  wound  up  the  evening  with  dancing — our  worthy 
pastor  thinking  it  no  scandal  to  be  present  on  the  occasion, 
though  one  of  the  village  musicians  was  engaged  to  direct  our 
evolutions  with  his  violin.  But  Mary  Millward  obstinately 
refused  to  join  us ;  and  so  did  Richard  Wilson,  though  my 
mother  earnestly  entreated  him  to  do  so,  and  even  offered  to 
be  his  partner. 

We  managed  very  well  without  them,  however.  With  a 
single  set  of  quadrilles,  and  several  country  dances,  we  carried 
it  on  to  a  pretty  late  hour ;  and  at  length,  having  called  upon 
our  musician  to  strike  up  a  waltz,  I  was  just  about  to  whirl 
Eliza  round  in  that  delightful  dance,  accompanied  by  Law- 
rence and  Jane  Wilson,  and  Fergus  and  Rose,  when  Mr. 
Millward  interposed  with — 

"  No,  no,  I  don't  allow  that !  Come,  it's  time  to  be  going 
now." 

"Oh,  no,  papa!"  pleaded  Eliza. 

"  High  time,  my  girl — high  time  !  Moderation  in  all  things, 
remember !  That's  the  plan — '  Let  your  moderation  be  known 
unto  all  men!'" 

But  in  revenge,  I  followed  Eliza  into  the  dimly-lighted  pas- 
sage, where,  under  pretence  of  helping  her  on  with  her  shawl,  I 
fear  I  must  plead  guilty  to  snatching  a  kiss  behind  her  father's 
back,  while  he  was  enveloping  his  throat  and  chin  in  the  folds  of 
a  mighty  comforter.  But  alas  !  in  turning  round,  there  was  my 
mother  close  beside  me.  The  consequence  was,  that  no  sooner 
were  the  guests  departed,  than  I  was  doomed  to  a  very  serious 
remonstrance,  which  unpleasantly  checked  the  galloping  course 
of  my  spirits,  and  made  a  disagreeable  close  to  the  evening. 

"My  dear  Gilbert,"  said  she,  UI  wish  you  wouldn't  do  so  ! 
You  know  how  deeply  I  have  your  advantage  at  heart,  how  I 
love  you  and  prize  you  above  everything  else  in  the  world, 
and  how  much  I  long  to  see  you  well  settled  in  life — and  how 
bittej  ly  it  would  grieve  me  to  see  you  married  to  that  girl — 
or  any  other  in  the  neighbourhood.  What  you  see  in  her  I 
don't  know.  It  isn't  only  the  want  of  money  that  I  think 
about — nothing  of  the  kind — but  there's  neither  beauty,  not 
cleverness,  nor  goodness,  nor  anything  else  that's  desirable. 


32  THE   TENANT 

If  you  knew  your  own  value,  as  I  do,  you  wouldn't  dream  ol 
it.  Do  wait  awhile  and  see !  If  you  bind  yourself  to  her, 
you'll  repent  it  all  your  lifetime  when  you  look  round  and 
see  how  many  better  there  are.  Take  my  word  for  it,  you 
will." 

"  Well,  mother,  do  be  quiet ! — I  hate  to  be  lectured  ! — I'm 
not  going  to  marry  yet,  1  tell  you ;  but — dear  me  !  mayn't  1 
enjoy  myself  at  all?" 

44  Yes,  my  dear  boy,  but  not  in  that  way.  Indeed,  you 
shouldn't  do  such  things.  You  would  be  wronging  the  girl, 
if  she  were  what  she  ought  to  be  ;  but  I  assure  you  she  is  as 
artful  a  little  hussy  as  anybody  need  wish  to  see  ;  and  you'll 
j»et  entangled  in  her  snares  before  you  know  where  you  are. 
And  if  you  marry  her,  Gilbert,  you'll  break  my  heart — so 
there's  an  end  of  it." 

41  Well,  don't  cry  about  it,  mother,"  said  I,  for  the  tears 
were  gushing  from  her  eyes ;  "  there,  let  that  kiss  eii'ace  the  one 
I  gave  Eliza ;  don't  abuse  her  any  more,  and  set  your  mind  at 
rest;  for  I'll  promise  never — that  is,  I'll  promise  to  think 
twice  before  I  take  any  important  step  you  seriously  disap- 
prove of." 

So  saying,  I  lighted  my  candle,  and  went  to  bed,  consider- 
ably quenched  in  spirit. 


C II AFTER  V. 

IT  was  about  the  close  of  the  month,  that,  yielding  at  length 
to  the  urgent  importunities  of  Rose,  I  accompanied  her  in  a 
visit  to  Wildfell  Hall.  To  our  surprise,  we  were  ushered  into 
a  room  where  the  first  object  that  met  the  eye  was  a  painter's 
easel,  with  a  table  beside  it  covered  with  rolls  of  canvass, 
bottles  of  oil  and  varnish,  palette,  brushes,  paints,  &c.  Lean- 
ing against  the  wall  were  several  sketches  in  various  stages  of 
progression,  and  a  few  finished  paintings — mostly  of  landscapes 
and  figures. 

44 1  must  make  you  welcome  to  my  studio,"  said  Mrs. 
Graham,  4'  there  is  no  fire  in  the  sitting  room  to-day,  and  it 
is  rather  too  cold  to  show  you  into  a  place  with  an  empty 
grate." 

And  disengaging  a  couple  of  chairs  from  the  artistical 
lumber  that  usurped  them,  she  bid  us  be  seated,  and  re- 
sumed her  place  beside  the  easel — not  facing  it  exactly, 
but  now  and  then  glancing  at  the  picture  upon  it  while  she 
conversed,  and  giving  it  an  occasional  touch  with  her  brush, 
aa  if  she  found  it  impossible  to  wean  her  attention  entirely 
from  her  occupation  to  fix  it  upon  her  guests.  It  was  a  view 


OF   WILDFEIi   ILVLL.  S3 

of  Wildfell  Hall,  as  seen  at  early  morning  from  the  field 
below,  rising  in  dark  relief  against  a  sky  of  clear  silvery 
blue,  with  a  few  red  streaks  on  the  horizon,  faithfully  drawn 
and  coloured,  and  very  elegantly  and  artistically  handled. 

I  see  your  heart  is  in  your  work,  Mrs.  Graham,"  observed 
I :  ••  1  must  beg  you  to  go  on  with  it ;  for  if  you  suffer  our 
presence  to  interrupt  you,  we  shall  be  constrained  to  regard 
ourselves  as  unwelcome  intruders." 

"Oh,  no!"  replied  she,  throwing  her  brush  on  to  the 
table,  as  if  startled  into  politeness.  "  I  am  not  so  beset 
with  visitors,  but  that  I  can  readily  spare  a  few  minutes  to 
the  few  that  do  favour  me  with  their  company." 

"  You  have  almost  completed  your  painting,"  said  I,  ap- 
proaching to  observe  it  more  closely,  and  surveying  it  with 
a  greater  degree  of  admiration  and  delight  than  I  cared  to 
express.  "  A  few  more  touches  in  the  foreground  will  finish 
it,  I  should  think.  But  why  have  you  called  it  Fernley 

Manor,  Cumberland,  instead  of  Wildfell  Hall,  shire?" 

I  asked,  alluding  to  the  name  she  had  traced  in  small  cha- 
racters at  the  bottom  of  the  canvas. 

But  immediately  I  was  sensible  of  having  committed  an 
act  of  impertinence  in  so  doing ;  for  she  coloured  and  hesi- 
tated ;  but  after  a  moment's  pause,  with  a  kind  of  despe- 
jate  frankness,  she  replied, — 

"Because  I  have  friends — acquaintances  at  least — in  the 
world,  from  whom  I  desire  my  present  abode  to  be  concealed  ; 
and  as  they  might  see  the  picture,  and  might  possibly  recog- 
nise the  style,  in  spite  of  the  false  initials  I  have  put  in  the 
corner,  I  take  the  precaution  to  give  a  false  name  to  the  place 
also,  in  order  to  put  them  on  a  wrong  scent,  if  they  should 
attempt  to  trace  me  out  by  it." 

"Then  you  don't  intend  to  keep  the  picture?"  said  I, 
anxious  to  say  anything  to  change  the  subject. 

"  No  ;  I  cannot  afford  to  paint  for  my  own  amusement." 

"  Mamma  sends  all  her  pictures  to  London,"  said  Arthur ; 
"  and  somebody  sells  them  for  her  there,  and  sends  us  the 
money." 

In  looking  round  upon  the  other  pieces,  I  remarked  a  pretty 
sketch  of  Lindenhope  from  the  top  of  the  hill ;  another  view 
of  the  old  hall,  basking  in  the  sunny  haze  of  a  quiet  sum- 
mer afternoon ;  and  a  simple  but  striking  little  picture  of  a 
child  brooding  with  looks  of  silent  but  deep  and  sorrowful 
regret,  over  a  handful  of  withered  flowers,  with  glimpses  of 
dark  low  hills  and  autumnal  fields  behind  it,  and  a  dull  be- 
clouded sky  above. 

"  You  see  there  is  a  sad  dearth  of  subjects,"  observed  the 
fair  artist.  "  I  took  the  old  hall  once  on  a  moonlight  night, 

6 


34  THE   TENANT 

and  I  suppose  I  must  take  it  again  on  a  snowy  winter's  day, 
and  then  again  on  a  dark  cloudy  evening  ;  for  I  really  Lave 
nothing  else  to  paint.  I  have  been  told  that  you  have  » 
tine  view  of  the  sea,  somewhere  in  the  neighbourhood — Is 
It  true  ? — and  is  it  within  walking  distance  ? " 

"  Yes,  il  you  don't  object  to  walking  four  miles — or  nearly 
so — little  short  of  eight  miles,  there  and  back — and  over  a 
somewhat  rough,  fatiguing  road." 

"  In  what  direction  does  it  lie  ?" 

I  described  the  situation  as  well  as  1  could,  and  was  en- 
tering upon  an  explanation  of  the  various  roads,  lanes,  and 
fields  to  be  traversed  in  order  to  reach  it,  the  goings  straight 
on,  and  turnings  to  the  right,  and  the  left,  when  she  checked 
me  with, — • 

"  Oh,  stop ! — don't  tell  me  now :  I  shall  forget  every  word 
of  your  directions  before  I  require  them.  I  shall  not  think 
about  going  till  next  spring ;  and  then,  perhaps,  I  may 
trouble  you.  At  present  we  have  the  winter  before  us, 

She  suddenly  paused,  with  a  suppressed  exclamation,  started 
up  Irom  her  seat,  and  saying,  "Excuse  me  one  moment," 
hurried  from  the  room,  and  shut  the  door  behind  her. 

Curious  to  see  what  had  startled  her  so,  I  looked  towards 
the  window — for  her  eyes  had  been  carelessly  fixed  upon  it 
the  moment  before — and  just  beheld  the  skirts  of  a  man's  coat 
vanishing  behind  a  large  holly-bush  that  stood  between  the 
window  and  the  porch. 

"  It's  mamma's  friend,"  said  Arthur. 

Rose  and  I  looked  at  each  other. 

''  I  don't  know  what  to  make  of  her  at  all,"  whispered 
Ro*e. 

The  child  looked  at  her  in  grave  surprise.  She  straight- 
way began  to  talk  to  him  on  indifferent  matters,  while  I 
amused  myself  with  looking  at  the  pictures.  There  was  one 
in  an  obscure  corner  that  I  had  not  before  observed.  It  was 
a  little  child,  seated  on  the  grass  with  its  lap  full  of  flowers. 
The  tiny  features  and  large  blue  eyes,  smiling  through  a 
shock  of  light  brown  curls,  shaken  over  the  forehead  as  it 
bent  above  its  treasure,  bore  sufficient  resemblance  to  those 
of  the  young  gentleman  before  me,  to  proclaim  it  a  portrait  of 
Arthur  Graham  in  his  early  infancy. 

In  taking  this  up  to  bring  it  to  the  light,  I  discovered  an- 
other behind  it,  with  its  face  to  the  wall.  I  ventured  to  take 
(hat  up  too.  Jt  was  the  portrait  of  a  gentleman  in  the  full 
nriroe  of  youthful  manhood — handsome  enough,  and  not 
badly  executed ;  but,  if  done  by  the  same  hand  as  the  others, 
it  was  evidently  some  years  before  ;  for  there  was  far  more 


OF   AVILDFELL  HALL.  85 

careful  minuteness  of  detail,  and  less  of  that  freshness  of  co- 
louring and  freedom  of  handling,  that  delighted  and  surprised 
me  in  them.  Nevertheless,  I  surveyed  it  with  considerable 
interest.  There  was  a  certain  individuality  in  the  features 
and  expression  that  stamped  it,  at  once,  a  successful  likeness?. 
The  bright  blue  eyes  regarded  the  spectator  with  a  kind  ot 
lurking  drollery — you  almost  expected  to  see  them  wink;  the 
lips — a  little  too  voluptuously  full — seemed  ready  to  break 
into  a  smile  ;  the  warmly-tinted  cheeks  were  embellished  with 
a  luxuriant  growth  of  reddish  whiskers ;  while  the  bright 
chestnut  hair,  clustering  in  abundant,  wavy  curls,  trespassed 
too  much  upon  the  forehead,  and  seemed  to  intimate  that  the 
owner  thereof  was  prouder  of  his  beauty  than  his  intellect — 
as,  perhaps,  he  had  reason  to  be ; — and  yet  he  looked  no 
fool. 

I  had  not  had  the  portrait  in  my  hands  two  minutes  before 
the  fair  artist  returned. 

"  Only  some  one  come  about  the  pictures,"  said  she,  in 
apology  for  her  abrupt  departure  :  "  I  told  him  to  wait." 

"  I  fear  it  will  be  considered  an  act  of  impertinence,"  said  I, 
"  to  presume  to  look  at  a  picture  that  the  artist  has  turned  to 
the  wall ;  but  may  I  ask " 

"  It  is  an  act  of  very  great  impertinence,  sir ;  and  therefore 
I  beg  you  will  ask  nothing  about  it,  for  your  curiosity  will  not 
be  gratified,"  replied  she,  attempting  to  cover  the  tartness  of 
her  rebuke  with  a  smile  ;  but  I  could  see,  by  her  flushed 
cheek  and  kindling  eye,  that  she  was  seriously  annoyed. 

"  I  was  only  going  to  ask  if  you  had  painted  it  yourself, ' 
said  I,  sulkily  resigning  the  picture  into  her  hands  ;  for  with- 
out a  grain  of  ceremony  she  took  it  from  me ;  and  quickly 
restoring  it  to  the  dark  corner,  with  its  face  to  the  wall, 
placed  the  other  against  it  as  before,  and  then  turned  to  me 
and  laughed. 

But  I  was  in  no  humour  for  jesting.  I  carelessly  turned  to 
the  window,  and  stood  looking  out  upon  the  desolate  garden, 
leaving  her  to  talk  to  Rose  for  a  minute  or  two ;  and  then, 
telling  my  sister  it  was  time  to  go,  shook  hands  with  the  little 
gentleman,  coolly  bowed  to  the  lady,  and  moved  towards  the 
door.  But,  having  bid  adieu  to  Rose,  Mrs.  Graham  presented 
her  hand  to  me,  saying,  with  a  soft  voice,  and  by  no  means  a 
disagreeable  smile, — 

"  Let  not  the  sun  go  down  upon  your  wrath,  Mr.  Mark- 
ham.  I'm  sorry  I  offended  you  by  my  abruptness." 

When  a  lady  condescends  to  apologise,  there  is  no  keeping 
one's  anger  of  course ;  so  we  parted  good  friends  for  once; 
and  this  time,  I  squeezed  her  hand  with  a  cordial,  not  a  spiteful 
pressure. 


THE  TENAM7 


CHAPTER  VI. 

DURING  the  next  four  months  I  did  not  enter  Mrs.  Grahanv« 
house,  nor  she  mine ;  but  still  the  ladies  continued  to  talk 
about  her,  and  still  our  acquaintance  continued,  though 
slowly,  to  advance.  As  for  their  talk,  I  paid  but  little  attention 
to  that  (when  it  related  to  the  fair  hermit,  I  mean),  and  the 
only  information  I  derived  from  it  was,  that,  one  fine  frosty 
day  she  had  ventured  to  take  her  little  boy  as  far  as  the  vicar- 
age, and  that,  unfortunately,  nobody  was  at  home  but  Miss 
Alillward ;  nevertheless,  she  had  sat  a  long  time,  and,  by  all 
accounts,  they  had  found  a  good  deal  to  say  to  each  other,  and 
parted  with  a  mutual  desire  to  meet  again.  But  Mary  liked 
children,  and  fond  mammas  like  those  who  can  duly  appre- 
ciate their  treasures. 

But  sometimes  I  saw  her  myself,  not  only  when  she  came 
to  church,  but  when  she  was  out  on  the  hills  with  her  son, 
whether  taking  a  long,  purpose-like  walk,  or — on  special  fine 
days — leisurely  rambling  over  the  moor  or  the  bleak  pasture - 
lands,  surrounding  the  old  hall,  herself  with  a  book  in  her 
hand,  her  son  gambolling  about  her ;  and,  on  any  of  these  oc- 
casions, when  I  caught  sight  of  her  in  my  solitary  walks  or 
rides,  or  while  following  my  agricultural  pursuits,  I  gene- 
rally contrived  to  meet  or  overtake  her,  for  I  rather  liked  to 
see  Mrs.  Graham,  and  to  talk  to  her,  and  I  decidedly  liked 
to  talk  to  her  little  companion,  whom,  when  once  the  ice 
of  his  shyness  was  fairly  broken,  I  found  to  be  a  very  amiable, 
intelligent,  and  entertaining  little  fellow ;  and  we  soon  became 
excellent  friends  —  how  much  to  the  gratification  of  his 
mamma  I  cannot  undertake  to  say.  I  suspected  at  first  that 
she  was  desirous  of  throwing  cold  water  on  this  growing  inti- 
macy— to  quench,  as  it  were,  the  kindling  flame  of  our  friend- 
ship— but  discovering,  at  length,  in  spite  of  her  prejudice 
against  me,  that  I  was  perfectly  harmless,  and  even  well- 
intentioned,  and  that,  between  myself  and  my  dog,  her  son 
derived  a  great  deal  of  pleasure  from  the  acquaintance  that 
he  would  not  otherwise  have  known,  she  ceased  to  object,  and 
even  welcomed  my  coming  with  a  smile. 

As  for  Arthur,  he  would  shout  his  welcome  from  afar,  and 
run  to  meet  me  fifty  yards  from  his  mother's  side.  If  I  hap- 
pened to  be  on  horseback  he  was  sure  to  get  a  canter  or  a 
gallop  ;  or,  if  there  was  one  of  the  draught  horses  within  an 
available  distance,  he  was  treated  to  a  steady  ride  upon  that, 
which  served  his  turn  almost  as  well ;  but  his  mother  would 
always  follow  and  trudge  beside  him — not  so  much,  I  believe* 
to  ensure  his  safe  conduct,  as  to  see  that  I  instilled  no  objec- 


OF   WILDFELL   HALL.  37 

tionable  notions  into  his  infant  mind,  for  she  was  ever  on  the 
watch,  and  never  would  allow  him  to  be  taken  out  of  her 
sight.  What  pleased  her  best  of  all  was  to  see  him  romping 
and  racing  with  Sancho,  while  I  walked  by  her  side — not,  I 
fear,  for  love  of  my  company  (though  I  sometimes  deluded 
myself  with  that  idea),  so  much  as  for  the  delight  she  took  in 
seeing  her  son  thus  happily  engaged  in  the  enjoyment  of 
those  active  sports  so  invigorating  to  his  tender  frame,  yet  so 
seldom  exercised  for  want  of  playmates  suited  to  his  years ; 
and,  perhaps,  her  pleasure  was  sweetened  not  a  little  by  the 
fact  of  my  being  with  her  instead  of  with  him,  and  therefore 
incapable  of  doing  him  any  injury  directly  or  indirectly,  de- 
signedly or  otherwise,  small  thanks  to  her  for  that  same. 

But  sometimes,  I  believe,  she  really  had  some  little  gratifi- 
cation in  conversing  with  me ;  and  one  bright  February 
morning,  during  twenty  minutes'  stroll  along  the  moor,  she 
laid  aside  her  usual  asperity  and  reserve,  and  fairly  entered 
into  conversation  with  me,  discoursing  with  so  much  eloquence 
and  depth  of  thought  and  feeling  on  a  subject  happily  coin- 
ciding with  my  own  ideas,  and  looking  so  beautiful  withal, 
that  I  went  home  enchanted  ;  and  on  the  way  (morally) 
started  to  find  myself  thinking  that,  after  all,  it  would,  per- 
haps, be  better  to  spend  one's  days  with  such  a  woman  than 
with  Eliza  Millward ;  and  then,  I  (figuratively)  blushed  for 
my  inconstancy. 

On  entering  the  parlour  I  found  Eliza  there  with  Rose,  and 
no  one  else.  The  surprise  was  not  altogether  so  agreeable  aa 
it  ought  to  have  been.  We  chatted  together  a  long  time,  but 
I  found  her  rather  frivolous,  and  even  a  little  insipid,  com- 
pared with  the  more  mature  and  earnest  Mrs.  Graham.  Alas, 
for  human  constancy ! 

"  However,"  thought  I,  "  I  ought  not  to  marry  Eliza,  since 
my  mother  so  strongly  objects  to  it,  and  I  ought  not  to  delude 
the  girl  with  the  idea  that  I  intended  to  do  so.  Now,  if  this 
mood  continue,  I  shall  have  less  difficulty  in  emancipating  my 
affections  from  her  soft  yet  unrelenting  sway ;  and,  thougn 
Mrs.  Graham  might  be  equally  objectionable,  I  may  be  per- 
mitted, like  the  doctors,  to  cure  a  greater  evil  by  a  less,  for  I 
shall  not  fall  seriously  in  love  with  the  young  widow,  I  think, 
nor  she  with  me — that's  certain — but  if  I  find  a  little  pleasure 
in  her  society  I  may  surely  be  allowed  to  seek  it ;  and  if  the 
star  of  her  divinity  be  bright  enough  to  dim  the  lustre  of 
Eliza's  so  much  the  better,  but  I  scarcely  can  think  it." 

And  thereafter  I  seldom  suffered  a  fine  day  to  pass  without 
paying  a  visit  to  Wildfell  about  the  time  my  new  acquaintance 
usually  left  her  hermitage  ;  but  so  frequently  was  I  balked  in 
any  expectations  of  another  interview,  so  changeable  was  ehe 


88  THE  TEXAKT 

in  her  times  of  coming  forth  and  in  her  places  of  resort,  sa 
transient  were  the  occasional  glimpses  I  was  able  to  obtain, 
that  I  felt  half  inclined  to  think  she  took  as  much  pains  to 
avoid  my  company  as  I  to  seek  hers ;  but  this  was  too  dis- 
agreeable a  supposition  to  be  entertained  a  moment  after  it 
could  conveniently  be  dismissed. 

One  calm,  clear  afternoon,  however,  in  March,  as  I  was  su- 
perintending the  rolling  of  the  meadow-land,  and  the  repair- 
ing of  a  hedge  in  the  valley,  I  saw  Mrs.  Graham  down  by  the 
brook,  with  a  sketch-book  in  her  hand,  absorbed  in  the  exer- 
cise of  her  favourite  art,  while  Arthur  was  putting  on  the 
time  with  constructing  dams  and  breakwaters  in  the  shallow, 
stony  stream.  I  was  rather  in  want  of  amusement,  and  so 
rare  an  opportunity  was  not  to  be  neglected  ;  so,  leaving  both 
meadow  and  hedge,  I  quickly  repaired  to  the  spot,  but  not  be- 
fore Sancho,  who,  immediately  upon  perceiving  his  }roung 
friend,  scoured  at  fall  gallop  the  intervening  space,  and  pounced 
upon  him  with  an  impetuous  mirth  that  precipitated  the  child 
almost  into  the  middle  of  the  beck ;  but,  happily,  the  stones 
preserved  him  from  any  serious  wetting,  while  their  smooth- 
ness prevented  his  being  too  much  hurt  to  laugh  at  the  unto- 
ward event. 

Mrs.  Graham  was  studying  the  distinctive  characters  of  the 
different  varieties  of  trees  in  their  winter  nakedness,  and 
copying,  with  a  spirited,  though  delicate  touch,  their  various 
ramifications.  She  did  not  talk  much,  but  I  stood  and 
watched  the  progress  of  her  pencil :  it  was  a  pleasure  to  be- 
hold it  so  dexterously  guided  by  those  fair  and  graceful  fin- 
Ej.  But  ere  long  their  dexterity  became  impaired,  they 
an  to  hesitate,  to  tremble  slightly,  and  make  false  strokes, 
then  suddenly  came  to  a  pause,  while  their  owner  laugh- 
ingly raised  her  face  to  mine,  and  told  me  that  her  sketch  did 
not  profit  by  my  superintendence. 

"  Then,"  said  I,  "  I'll  talk  to  Arthur,  till  you've  done." 

"  I  should  like  to  have  a  ride,  Mr.  Markham,  if  mamma 
will  let  me,"  said  the  child. 

"  What  on,  my  boy?" 

"  I  think  there's  a  horse  in  that  field,"  replied  he,  pointing 
to  where  the  strong  black  mare  was  pulling  the  roller. 

"  No,  no,  Arthur  ;  it's  too  far,"  objected  his  mother. 

But  I  promised  to  bring  him  safe  back  after  a  turn  or  two 
up  and  down  the  meadow  ;  and  when  she  looked  at  his  eager 
face  she  smiled  and  let  him  go.  It  was  the  first  time  she  had 
even  allowed  me  to  take  him  so  much  as  half  a  field's  length 
from  her  side. 

Enthroned  upon  his  monstrous  steed,  and  solemnly  pro- 
ceeding up  and  down  the  wide,  steep  field,  he  looked  the 


OF   WILDFELL  HALL.  89 

very  incarnation  of  quiet,  gleeful  satisfaction  and  delight. 
The  rolling,  however,  was  soon  completed ;  but  when  I  dis- 
mounted the  gallant  horseman,  and  restored  him  to  his  mo« 
ther,  she  seemed  rather  displeased  at  my  keeping  him  sc 
long.  She  had  shut  up  her  sketch-book,  and  been,  probably, 
for  some  minutes  impatiently  waiting  his  return. 

It  was  now  high  time  to  go  home,  she  said,  and  would  have 
bid  me  good  evening,  but  I  was  not  going  to  leave  her  yet :  I 
accompanied  her  half  way  up  the  hill.  She  became  more 
sociable,  and  I  was  beginning  to  be  very  happy ;  but,  on 
coming  within  sight  of  the  grim  old  hall,  she  stood  still  and 
turned  towards  me  while  she  spoke,  as  if  expecting  I  should 
go  no  further,  that  the  conversation  would  end  here,  and  I 
should  now  take  leave  and  depart — as,  indeed,  it  was  time  to 
do,  for  "  the  clear,  cold  eve  "  was  fast  "  declining,"  the  sun  had 
set,  and  the  gibbous  moon  was  visibly  brightening  in  the  pale 
grey  sky ;  but  a  feeling  almost  of  compassion  riveted  me  to 
the  spot.  It  seemed  hard  to  leave  her  to  such  a  lonely,  com- 
fortk*ss  home.  I  looked  up  at  it.  Silent  and  grim  it  frowned 
before  us.  A  faint,  red  light  was  gleaming  from  the  lower 
windows  of  one  wing,  but  all  the  other  windows  were  in  -dark- 
ness, and  many  exhibited  their  black,  cavernous  gulfs,  en- 
tirely  destitute  of  glazing  or  framework. 

"Do  you  not  find  it  a  desolate  place  to  live  in?"  said  I, 
after  a  moment  of  silent  contemplation. 

"  I  do,  sometimes,"  replied  she.  "  On  winter  evenings, 
when  Arthur  is  in  bed,  and  I  am  sitting  there  alone,  hearing 
the  bleak  wind  moaning  round  me  and  howling  through  the 
ruinous  old  chambers,  no  books  or  occupations  can  repress  the 
dismal  thoughts  and  apprehensions  that  come  crowding  in — 
but  it  is  folly  to  give  way  to  such  weakness  I  know.  If  Rachel 
is  satisfied  with  such  a  life,  why  should  not  I  ? — Indeed  I 
cannot  be  too  thankful  for  such  an  asylum,  while  it  is  left 
me." 

The  closing  sentence  was  uttered  in  an  under  tone,  as  if 
spoken  rather  to  herself  than  to  me.  She  then  bid  me  good 
evening  and  withdrew. 

I  had  not  proceeded  many  steps  on  my  way  homewards, 
when  I  perceived  Mr.  Lawrence,  on  his  pretty  grey  pony, 
coming  up  the  rugged  lane  that  crossed  over  the  hill  top.  I 
went  a  little  out  of  my  way  to  speak  to  him  ;  for  we  had  not 
met  for  some  time. 

"  Was  that  Mrs.  Graham  you  were  speaking  to  just  now?" 
said  he,  after  the  first  few  words  of  greeting  had  passed  be- 
tween us. 

"Yes." 

"Humph!  I  thought  so."    He  looked  contemplatively  at 


40  THE   TENANT 

his  horse's  mane,  as  if  he  had  some  serious  cause  of  dissatis- 
faction with  it,  or  something  else. 

"Well!  what  then?" 

"Oh,  nothing!"  replied  he.  "Only,  I  thought  you  dis- 
liked her,"  he  quietly  added,  curling  his  classic  lip  with  a 
slightly  sarcastic  smile. 

'  Suppose  I  did ;  mayn't  a  man  change  his  mind  on  further 
acquaintance  ?  " 

"  Yes,  of  course,"  returned  he,  nicely  reducing  an  entan- 
glement in  the  pony's  redundant  hoary  mane.  Then  sud- 
denly turning  to  me,  and  fixing  his  shy,  hazel  eyes  upon  me 
with  a  steady  penetrating  gaze,  he  ad'ded,  "  Then  you  have 
changed  your  mind  ?  " 

"  I  can't  say  that  I  have  exactly.  No ;  I  think  I  hold 
the  same  opinion  respecting  her  as  before — but  slightly  ame- 
liorated." 

"  Oh."  He  looked  round  for  something  else  to  talk  about ; 
and  glancing  up  at  the  moon,  made  some  remark  upon  the 
beauty  of  the  evening,  which  I  did  not  answer,  as  being  irre- 
levant to  the  subject. 

"  Lawrence,"  said  I,  calmly  looking  him  in  the  face,  "  are 
you  in  love  with  Mrs.  Graham  ? " 

Instead  of  his  being  deeply  offended  at  this,  as  I  more  than 
half  expected  he  would,  the  first  start  of  surprise,  at  the  au- 
dacious question,  was  followed  by  a  tittering  laugh,  as  if  he 
was  highly  amused  at  the  idea. 

"I  in  love  with  her!"  repeated  he.  "  What  makes  you 
dream  of  such  a  thing  ?" 

"  From  the  interest  you  take  in  the  progress  of  my  ac- 
quaintance with  the  lady,  and  the  changes  of  my  opinion  con- 
cerning her,  I  thought  you  might  be  jealous." 

He  laughed  again.  "Jealous!  no — But  I  thought  you 
were  going  to  marry  Eliza  Millward." 

"  You  thought  wrong,  then ;  I  am  not  going  to  marry 
either  one  or  the  other — that  I  know  of." 

"  Then  I  think  you'd  better  let  them  alone." 

"  Are  you  going  to  marry  Jane  Wilson  ?  " 

He  coloured,  and  played  with  the  mane  again,  but  an- 
swered,— 

"  No,  I  think  not." 

"  Then  you  had  better  let  her  alone." 

She  won't  let  me  alone — he  might  have  said ;  but  lie  only 
looked  silly  and  said  nothing  for  the  space  of  half  a  minute, 
and  then  made  another  attempt  to  turn  the  conversation ; 
and,  this  time,  I  let  it  pass  ;  for  he  had  borne  enough :  an- 
other word  on  the  subject  would  hare  been  like  the  last  atom 
that  breaks  the  camel's  back. 


OF   WILDFELL   HALL.  41 

1  was  too  late  for  tea ;  but  my  mother  had  kindly  kept  the 
tea-pot  and  muffin  warm  upon  the  hobs,  and,  though  she 
scolded  me  a  little,  readily  admitted  my  excuses  ;  and  when  I 
complained  of  the  flavour  of  the  overdrawn  tea,  she  poured 
the  remainder  into  the  slop-basin,  and  bade  Rose  put  some 
fresh  into  the  pot,  and  reboil  the  kettle,  which  offices  were 
performed  with  great  commotion,  and  certain  remarkable 
comments. 

"  Well ! — if  it  had  been  me  now,  I  should  have  had  no  tea 
at  all — if  it  had  been  Fergus,  eve.i,  he  would  have  to  put  up 
with  such  as  there  was,  and  been  wld  to  be  thankful,  for  it 
was  far  too  good  for  him ;  but  you — we  cau't  do  too  much  for 
you.  It's  always  so — if  there's  anything  particularly  nice  at 
table,  mamma  winks  and  nods  at  me,  to  abstain  from  it,  and 
if  I  don't  attend  to  that,  she  whispers,  '  Don't  eat  so  much  of 
that,  Rose  ;  Gilbert  will  like  it  for  his  supper' — I'm  nothing  at 
all.  In  the  parlour,  it's  '  Come,  Rose,  put  away  your  thing?, 
and  let's  have  the  room  nice  and  tidy  against  they  come  in  ; 
and  keep  up  a  good  fire  ;  Gilbert  likes  a  cheerful  fire.'  In 
the  kitchen — '  Make  that  pie  a  large  one,  Rose ;  I  dare  say 
the  boys'll  be  hungry ; — and  don't  put  so  much  pepper  in, 
they'll  not  like  it  I'm  sure' — or,  'Rose,  don't  put  so  many 
spices  in  the  pudding,  Gilbert  likes  it  plain,' — or,  '  Mind  you 
put  plenty  of  currants  in  the  cake,  Fergus  likes  plenty.'  If  I 
say,  '  Well,  mamma,  I  don't,'  I'm  told  I  ought  not  to  think  of 
myself — '  You  know,  Rose,  in  all  household  matters,  we  have 
only  two  things  to  consider,  first,  what's  proper  to  be  done, 
and,  secondly,  what's  most  agreeable  to  the  gentlemen  of  the 
house — anything  will  do  for  the  ladies.'  " 

"  And  very  good  doctrine  too,"  said  my  mother.  "  Gilbert 
thinks  so,  I'm  sure." 

"  Very  convenient  doctrine,  for  us,  at  all  events,"  said  I ; 
"  but  if  you  would  really  study  my  pleasure,  mother,  you 
must  consider  your  own  comfort  and  convenience  a  little 
more  than  you  do— as  for  Rose,  I  have  no  doubt  she'll  take 
care  of  herself;  and  whenever  she  docs  make  a  sacrifice  or 
perform  a  remarkable  act  of  devotedness,  she'll  take  good 
care  to  let  me  know  the  extent  of  it.  But  for  you,  I  might 
sink  into  the  grossest  condition  of  self-indulgence  and  care- 
lessness about  the  wants  of  others,  from  the  mere  habit  of 
being  constantly  cared  for  myself,  and  having  all  my  wants 
anticipated  or  immediately  supplied,  while  left  in  total  igno- 
rance of  what  is  done  for  me, — if  Rose  did  not  enlighten  me 
now  and  then  ;  and  I  should  receive  all  your  kindness  as  a 
matter  of  course,  and  never  know  how  much  I  owe  you." 

"  Ah !  and  you  never  will  know,  Gilbert,  till  you're  mar- 
ried. Then,  when  you've  got  some  trifling,  self-conceited  girl 


42  THE  TENANT 

like  Eliza  Millward,  careless  of  everything  but  her  own  im- 
mediate pleasure  and  advantage,  or  some  misguided,  obstinat« 
woman  like  Mrs.  Graham,  ignorant  of  her  principal  duties, 
and  clever  only  in  what  concerns  her  least  to  know — then 
you'll  find  the  difference." 

"  It  will  do  me  good,  mother ;  I  was  not  sent  into  the 
world  merely  to  exercise  the  good  capacities  and  good  feel- 
ings of  others — was  I  ? — but  to  exert  my  own  towards  them  ; 
and  when  I  marry,  I  shall  expect  to  find  more  pleasure  in 
making  my  wife  happy  and  comfortable,  than  in  being  made 
so  by  her  :  I  would  rather  give  than  receive." 

"  Oh  !  that's  all  nonsense,  my  dear.  It's  mere  boy's  talk 
that !  You'll  soon  tire  of  petting  and  humouring  your  wife, 
be  she  ever  so  charming,  and  then  comes  the  trial." 

"  Well,  then,  we  must  bear  one  another's  burdens." 

"  Then  you  must  fall  each  into  your  proper  place.  You'll 
do  your  business,  and  she,  if  she's  worthy  of  you,  will  do 
hers  ;  but  it's  your  business  to  please  yourself,  and  hers  to 
please  you.  I'm  sure  your  poor,  dear  father  was  as  good  a 
husband  as  ever  lived,  and  after  the  first  six  months  or  so 
were  over,  I  should  as  soon  have  expected  him  to  fly,  as  to 
put  himself  out  of  his  way  to  pleasure  me.  He  always  said  I 
was  a  good  wife,  and  did  my  duty ;  and  he  always  did  his 
— bless  him  ! — he  was  steady  and  punctual,  seldom  found  fault 
without  a  reason,  always  did  justice  to  my  good  dinners,  and 
hardly  ever  spoiled  my  cookery  by  delay — and  that's  as  much 
as  any  woman  can  expect  of  any  man." 

Is  it  so,  Halford?  Is  that  the  extent  of  your  domestic  vir- 
tues ;  and  does  your  happy  wife  exact  no  more  ? 

CHAPTER  VII. 

NOT  many  days  after  this,  on  a  mild  sunny  morning — rather 
soft  under  foot ;  for  the  last  fall  of  snow  was  only  just  wasted 
away,  leaving  yet  a  thin  ridge,  here  and  there,  lingering  on 
the  fresh  green  grass  beneath  the  hedges  ;  but  beside  them 
already,  the  young  primroses  were  peeping  from  among  their 
moist,  dark  foliage,  and  the  lark  above  was  singing  of  summer, 
and  hope,  and  love,  and  every  heavenly  thing— I  was  out  on 
the  hill-side,  enjoying  these  delights,  and  looking  after  the 
well-being  of  my  young  lambs  and  their  mothers,  when,  on 
glancing  round  me,  I  beheld  three  persons  ascending  from  the 
vale  below.  They  were  Eliza  Millward,  Fergus,  and  Rose  ; 
BO  I  crossed  the  field  to  meet  them ;  and,  being  told  they 
were  going  to  Wildfell  Hall,  I  declared  myself  willing  to  go 
with  them,  and  offering  my  arm  to  Eliza,  who  readily  accepted 


OF  WILDFELL  HALL.  48 

it  in  lieu  of  my  brother's,  told  the  latter  he  might  go  back, 
for  I  would  accompany  the  ladies. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  1"  exclaimed  he.  "  It's  the  ladies  that 
are  accompanying  me,  not  I  them.  You  had  all  had  a  peep 
at  this  wonderful  stranger  but  me,  and  I  could  endure  my 
wretched  ignorance  no  longer — come  what  would,  I  must  be 
satisfied ;  so  I  begged  Rose  to  go  with  me  to  the  hall,  and  in- 
troduce me  to  her  at  once.  She  swore  she  would  not,  unless 
Miss  Eliza  would  go  too ;  so  I  ran  to  the  vicarage  and  fetched 
her ;  and  we've  come  hooked  all  the  way,  as  fond  as  a  pair  of 
lovers — and  now  you've  taken  her  from  me  ;  and  you  want  to 
deprive  me  of  my  walk  and  my  visit  besides.  Go  back  to 
your  fields  and  your  cattle,  you  lubberly  fellow  ;  you're  not 
fit  to  associate  with  ladies  and  gentlemen,  like  us,  that  have 
nothing  to  do  but  to  run  snooking  about  to  our  neighbours' 
houses,  peeping  into  their  private  corners  ;  and  scenting  out 
their  secrets,  and  picking  holes  in  their  coats,  when  we  don't 
find  them  ready  made  to  our  hands — you  don't  understand 
such  refined  sources  of  enjoyment." 

"  Can't  you  both  go  ? "  suggested  Eliza,  disregarding  the 
latter  half  of  the  speech. 

"  Yes,  both,  to  be  sure ! "  cried  Rose  ;  "  the  more  the  mer- 
rier— and  I'm  sure  we  shall  want  all  the  cheerfulness  we  can 
carry  with  us  to  that  great,  dark,  gloomy  room,  with  its  nar- 
row latticed  windows,  and  its  dismal  old  furniture — unless  she 
shows  us  into  her  studio  again." 

So  we  went  all  in  a  body ;  and  the  meagre  old  maid-ser- 
vant, that  opened  the  door,  ushered  us  into  an  apartment, 
such  as  Rose  had  described  to  me  as  the  scene  of  her  first  in- 
troduction to  Mrs.  Graham,  a  tolerably  spacious  and  lofty 
room,  but  obscurely  lighted  by  the  old-fashioned  windows, 
the  ceiling,  panels,  and  chimney-piece  of  grim  black  oak — the 
latter  elaborately  but  not  very  tastefully  carved, — with  tables 
and  chairs  to  match,  an  old  bookcase  on  one  side  of  the  fire- 
place, stocked  with  a  motley  assemblage  of  books,  and  an 
elderly  cabinet  piano  on  the  other. 

The  lady  was  seated  in  a  stiff,  high-backed  arm-chair,  with 
a  small,  round  table,  containing  a  desk  and  a  work-basket,  on 
one  side  of  her,  and  her  little  boy  on  the  other,  who  stood 
leaning  his  elbow  on  her  knee,  and  reading  to  her,  with  won- 
derful fluency,  from  a  small  volume  that  lay  in  her  lap  ; 
while  she  rested  her  hand  on  his  shoulder,  and  abstractedly 
played  with  the  long,  wavy  curls  that  fell  on  his  ivory  neck. 
They  struck  me  as  forming  a  pleasing  contrast  to  all  the  sur- 
rounding objects  ;  but  of  course  their  position  was  imme- 
diately changed  on  our  entrance.  I  could  only  observe  the 


utance. 

Mrs.  Graham  was  particularly  delighted  to 
something  indescribably  chilly  in  her  quiet, 
I  did  not  talk  much  to  her.  Seating  myself 


14  THE  TEN  AST 

picture  during  the  few  hrief  seconds  that  Rachel  held  the 
door  for  our  admittance. 

I  do  not  think  Mrs.  Graham  was 
see  us :  there  was 

calm  civility  ;  but  I  did  not  talk  much  to  her.  Seating  myself 
near  the  window,  a  little  back  from  the  circle,  I  called  Arthur 
to  me,  and  he  and  I  and  Sancho  amused  ourselves  very 
pleasantly  together,  while  the  two  young  ladies  baited  his 
mother  with  small  talk,  and  Fergus  sat  opposite,  with  his  legs 
crossed,  and  his  hands  in  his  breeches  pockets,  leaning  back 
in  his  chair,  and  staring  now  up  at  the  ceiling,  now  straight 
lor  ward  at  his  hostess  (in  a  manner  that  made  me  strongly  in- 
clined to  kick  him  out  ot  the  room),  now  whistling  sotto  voce 
to  himself  a  snatch  of  a  favourite  air,  now  interrupting  the 
conversation,  or  filling  up  a  pause  (as  the  case  might  be) 
with  some  most  impertinent  question  or  remark.  At  one 
time  it  was, — 

"It  amazes  me,  Mrs.  Graham,  how  you  could  choose  such 
a  dilapidated,  rickety  old  place  as  this  to  live  in.  If  you 
couldn't  afford  to  occupy  the  whole  house,  and  have  it  mended 
up,  why  couldn't  you  take  a  neat  little  cottage?" 

"Perhaps  I  was  too  proud,  Mr.  Fergus,"  replied  she, 
emiling  ;  "  perhaps  I  took  a  particular  fancy  for  this  romantic, 
old-fashioned  place — but,  indeed,  it  has  many  advantages  over 
a  cottage — in  the  first  place,  you  see,  the  rooms  are  larger  and 
more  airy ;  in  the  second  place,  the  unoccupied  apartments, 
which  I  don't  pay  for,  may  serve  as  lumber-rooms,  if  I  have 
anything  to  put  in  them  ;  and  they  are  very  useful  for  my  lit- 
tle boy  to  run  about  in  on  rainy  days  when  he  can't  go  out ; 
and  then  there  is  the  garden  for  him  to  play  in,  and  for  me  to 
work  in.  You  see  I  have  effected  some  little  improvement 
already,"  continued  she,  turning  to  the  window.  "  There  is 
a  bed  of  young  vegetables  in  that  corner,  and  here  are  some 
snowdrops  and  primroses  already  in  bloom — and  there,  too,  is 
a  yellow  crocus  just  opening  in  the  sunshine." 

"  But  then  how  can  you  bear  such  a  situation — your  near- 
est neighbours  two  miles  distant,  and  nobody  looking  in  or 
passing  by? — Rose  would  go  stark  mad  in  such  a  place.  She 
can't  put  on  life  unless  she  sees  half  a  dozen  fresh  gowns  and 
bonnets  a- day — not  to  speak  of  the  faces  within ;  but  you 
might  sit  watching  at  these  windows  all  day  long,  and  never 
see  so  much  as  an  old  woman  carrying  her  eggs  to  market." 

"  I  am  not  sure  the  loneliness  of  the  place  was  not  one  of 
its  chief  recommendations.  I  take  no  pleasure  in  watching 
people  pass  the  windows  ;  and  I  like  to  be  quiet." 

"  Oh !  as  good  as  to  say,  you  wish  we  would  all  of  us  mind 
our  own  business,  and  let  you  alone." 


OF   WILDFELL  HALL  45 

"  No,  I  dislike  an  extensive  acquaintance  ;  but  if  I  have  a 
few  friends,  of  course  I  am  glad  to  see  them  occasionally.  No 
one  can  be  happy  in  eternal  solitude.  Therefore,  Mr.  Fergus, 
if  you  choose  to  enter  my  house  as  a  friend,  I  will  make  you 
welcome ;  if  not,  I  must  contess,  I  would  rather  you  kept 
away."  She  then  turned  and  addressed  some  observation  to 
Rose  or  Eliza. 

"  And  Mrs.  Graham,"  said  he  again,  five  minutes  after,  "  we 
were  disputing,  as  we  came  along,  a  question  that  you  cau 
readily  decide  for  us,  as  it  mainly  regarded  yoursell — and,  in- 
deed, we  often  hold  discussions  about  you ;  for  some  of  ua 
have  nothing  better  to  do  than  to  talk  about  our  neighbours' 
concerns,  and  we,  the  indigenous  plants  of  the  soil,  have 
known  each  other  so  long,  and  talked  each  other  over  so  often, 
that  we  are  quite  sick  of  that  game  ;  so  that  a  stranger  coming 
amongst  us  makes  an  invaluable  addition  to  our  exhausted 
sources  of  amusement.  Well,  the  question,  or  questions,  you 
are  requested  to  solve " 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  Fergus !"  cried  Rose,  in  a  fever  of  ap- 
prehension and  wrath. 

"  I  won't,  I  tel]  you.  The  questions  you  are  requested  to 
solve  are  these  : — First,  concerning  your  birth,  extraction,  and 
previous  residence.  Some  will  have  it  that  you  are  a  foreigner, 
and  some  an  Englishwoman  ;  some  a  native  of  the  north  coun- 
try, and  some  of  the  south  ;  some  say " 

"  Well,  Mr.  Fergus,  I'll  tell  you.  I'm  an  Englishwoman — 
and  I  don't  see  why  any  one  should  doubt  it — and  I  was  born 
in  the  country  neither  in  the  extreme  north  nor  south  of  our 
happy  isle  ;  and  in  the  country  I  have  chiefly  passed  my  life, 
and  now,  I  hope,  you  are  satisfied ;  for  I  am  not  disposed  to 
answer  any  more  questions  at  present." 

"  Except  this " 

"No,  not  one  more  !"  laughed  she,  and,  instantly  quitting 
her  seat,  she  sought  refuge  at  the  window  by  which  I  was 
seated,  and,  in  very  desperation,  to  escape  my  brother's  per- 
secutions, endeavoured  to  draw  me  into  conversation. 

"Mr.  Markham,"  said  she,  her  rapid  utterance  and  height- 
ened colour  too  plainly  evincing  her  disquietude  ;  "  have  you 
forgotten  the  fine  sea-view  we  were  speaking  of  some  time 
aujo  ?  I  think  I  must  trouble  you,  now,  to  tell  me  the  nearest 
way  to  it ;  for  if  this  beautiful  weather  continue,  I  shall,  per- 
haps, be  able  to  walk  there,  and  take  my  sketch ;  I  have  ex- 
hausted every  other  subject  for  painting ;  and  I  long  to  see 
it." 

I  was  about  to  comply  with  her  request,  but  Rose  would 
not  suffer  me  to  proceed. 

"Oh,  don't  tell  her,  Gilbert!"  cried  she;  "she  shall  go 


16  THE  TENANT 

with  us.  It's Bay  you  are  thinking  about,  I  suppose,  Mrs. 

Graham  ?  It  is  a  very  long  walk,  too  far  for  you,  and  out  of 
the  question  for  Arthur.  But  we  were  thinking  about  making 
a  pic-nic  to  see  it,  some  fine  day  ;  and,  if  you  will  wait  till  the 
settled  fine  weather  comes,  I'm  sure  we  shall  all  be  delighted 
to  have  you  amongst  us." 

Poor  Mrs.  Graham  looked  dismayed,  and  attempted  to  make 
excuses,  but  Rose,  either  compassionating  her  lonely  life,  or 
anxious  to  cultivate  her  acquaintance,  was  determined  to  have 
her ;  and  every  objection  was  overruled.  She  was  told  it 
would  only  be  a  small  party,  and  all  friends,  and  that  the  best 
view  of  all  was  from Cliffs,  full  five  miles  distant. 

"  Just  a  nice  walk  for  the  gentlemen,"  continued  Rose  ; 
41  but  the  ladies  will  drive  and  walk  by  turns ;  for  we  shall 
have  our  pony- carriage,  which  will  be  plenty  large  enough  to 
contain  little  Arthur  and  three  ladies,  together  with  your 
sketching  apparatus,  and  our  provisions." 

So  the  proposal  was  finally  acceded  to  ;  and,  after  some  fur- 
ther discussion  respecting  the  time  and  manner  of  the  pro- 
jected excursion,  we  rose,  and  took  our  leave. 

But  this  was  only  March  :  a  cold,  wet  April,  and  two  weeks 
of  May  passed  over  before  we  could  venture  forth  on  our  ex- 
pedition with  the  reasonable  hope  of  obtaining  that  pleasure 
we  sought  in  pleasant  prospects,  cheerful  society,  fresh  air, 
good  cheer  and  exercise,  without  the  alloy  of  bad  roads, 
cold  winds,  or  threatening  clouds.  Then,  on  a  glorious 
morning,  we  gathered  our  forces  and  set  forth.  The  company 
consisted  of  Mrs.  and  Master  Graham,  Mary  and  Eliza  Mill- 
ward,  Jane  and  Richard  Wilson,  and  Rose,  Fergus,  and  Gil- 
bert Markham. 

Mr.  Lawrence  had  been  invited  to  join  us,  but,  for  some 
reason  best  known  to  himself,  had  refused  to  give  us  his  com- 
pany. I  had  solicited  the  favour  myself.  When  I  did  so,  he 
hesitated,  and  asked  who  were  going.  Upon  my  naming  Miss 
Wilson  among  the  rest,  he  seemed  half  inclined  to  go,  but 
when  I  mentioned  Mrs.  Graham,  thinking  it  might  be  a  fur- 
ther inducement,  it  appeared  to  have  a  contrary  effect,  and  he 
declined  it  altogether,  and,  to  confess  the  truth,  the  decision 
was  not  displeasing  to  me,  though  I  could  scarcely  tell  you 
why. 

It  was  about  mid-day,  when  we  reached  the  place  of  our 
destination.  Mrs.  Graham  walked  all  the  way  to  the  cliffs  ; 
and  little  Arthur  walked  the  greater  part  of  it  too  ;  for  he 
was  now  much  more  hardy  and  active  than  when  he  first  en- 
tered the  neighbourhood,  and  he  did  not  like  being  in  the  car- 
riage with  strangers,  while  all  his  four  friends,  mamma,  and 
Bancho,  and  Mr.  Markham,  and  Miss  Millward,  were  on  foot. 


OF  WILDFELL   HAIX.  47 

journeying  far  behind,  or  passing  through  distant  fields  and 
lanes. 

I  have  a  very  pleasant  recollection  of  that  walk,  along  the 
hard,  white,  sunny  road,  shaded  here  and  there  with  bright 
green  trees,  and  adorned  with  flowery  banks  and  blossoming 
hedges  of  delicious  fragrance  ;  or  through  pleasant  fields  and 
lanes,  all  glorious  in  the  sweet  flowers  and  brilliant  verdure 
of  delightful  May.  It  was  true,  Eliza  was  not  beside  me ; 
but  she  was  with  her  friends  in  the  pony-carriage,  as  happy,  I 
trusted,  as  I  was  ;  and  even  when  we  pedestrians,  having  for- 
saken the  highway  for  a  short  cut  across  the  fields,  beheld  the 
little  carriage  far  away,  disappearing  amid  the  green,  embow- 
ering trees,  I  did  not  hate  those  trees  for  snatching  the  dear 
little  bonnet  and  shawl  from  my  sight,  nor  did  I  feel  that  all 
those  intervening  objects  lay  between  my  happiness  and  me  ; 
for,  to  confess  the  truth,  I  was  too  happy  in  the  company  of 
Mrs.  Graham,  to  regret  the  absence  of  Eliza  Millward. 

The  former,  it  is  true,  was  most  provokingly  unsociable  at 
first — seemingly  bent  upon  talking  to  no  one  but  Mary  Mill- 
ward  and  Arthur.  She  and  Mary  journeyed  along  together, 
generally  frdh  the  child  between  them  ; — but  where  the  road 
permitted,  I  always  walked  on  the  other  side  of  her,  Richard 
Wilson  taking  the  other  side  of  Miss  Millward,  and  Fergus 
roving  here  and  there  according  to  his  fancy;  and  after  a 
while,  she  became  more  friendly,  and  at  length  I  succeeded 
in  securing  her  attention  almost  entirely  to  myself— and  then 
I  was  happy  indeed  ;  for  whenever  she  did  condescend  to  con- 
verse, I  liked  to  listen.  Where  her  opinions  and  sentiments 
tallied  with  mine,  it  was  her  extreme  good  sense,  her  exquisite 
taste  and  feeling,  that  delighted  me ;  where  they  differed,  it 
was  still  her  uncompromising  boldness  in  the  avowal  or  defence 
of  that  difference,  her  earnestness  and  keenness,  that  piqued 
my  fancy:  and  even  when  she  angered  me  by  her  unkind 
words  or  looks,  and  her  uncharitable  conclusions  respecting 
me,  it  only  made  me  the  more  dissatisfied  with  myself  for  hav- 
ing so  unfavourably  impressed  her,  and  the  more  desirous  to 
vindicate  my  character  and  disposition  in  her  eyes,  and,  if  pos- 
sible, to  win  her  esteem. 

At  length  our  walk  was  ended.  The  increasing  height  and 
boldness  of  the  hills  had  for  some  time  intercepted  the  pro- 
spect ;  but,  on  gaining  the  summit  of  a  steep  acclivity,  and 
looking  downward,  an  opening  lay  before  us — and  the  blue 
sea  burst  upon  our  sight ! — deep  violet  blue — not  deadly  calm, 
but  covered  with  glinting  breakers — diminutive  white  specks 
twinkling  on  its  bosom,  and  scarcely  to  be  distinguished,  by 
the  keenest  vision,  from  the  little  sea-mews  that  sported  above, 


48  THE  TENANT 

their  white  wings  glittering  in  the  sunshine  :  only  one  or  two 
vessels  were  visible  ;  and  those  were  far  away. 

I  looked  at  my  companion  to  see  what  she  thought  of  this 
glorious  scene.  She  said  nothing :  but  she  stood  still,  and 
fixed  her  eyes  upon  it  with  a  gaze  that  assured  me  she  was 
not  disappointed.  She  had  very  fine  eyes,  by-the-bye — I 
don't  know  whether  I've  told  before,  but  they  were  full  of 
Boul,  large,  clear,  and  nearly  black — not  brown,  hut  very  dark 
grey.  A  cool,  reviving  breeze  blew  from  the  sea — soft,  pure, 
salubrious :  it  waved  her  drooping  ringlets,  and  imparted  a 
livelier  colour  to  her  usually  too  pallid  lip  and  cheek.  She 
felt  its  exhilarating  influence,  and  so  did  I — I  felt  it  tingling 
through  my  frame,  but  dared  not  give  way  to  it  while  she  re* 
mained  so  quiet.  There  was  an  aspect  of  subdued  exhilara- 
tion in  her  face,  that  kindled  into  almost  a  smile  of  exalted, 
glad  intelligence  as  her  eye  met  mine.  Never  had  she  looked 
eo  lovely :  never  had  my  heart  so  warmly  cleaved  to  her  as 
now.  Had  we  been  left  two  minutes  longer,  standing  there 
alone,  I  cannot  answer  for  the  consequences.  Happily  for 
my  discretion,  perhaps  for  my  enjoyment  during  the  remainder 
of  the  day,  we  were  speedily  summoned  to  the  repast — a  very 
respectable  collation,  which  Rose,  assisted  by  Miss  Wilson 
and  Eliza,  who,  having  shared  her  seat  in  the  carriage,  had 
arrived  with  her  a  little  before  the  rest,  had  set  out  upon  an 
elevated  platform  overlooking  the  sea,  and  sheltered  from  the 
hot  sun  by  a  shelving  rock  and  overhanging  trees. 

Mrs.  Graham  seated  herself  at  a  distance  from  me.  Eliza 
was  my  nearest  neighbour.  She  exerted  herself  to  be  agree- 
able, in  her  gentle,  unobtrusive  way,  and  was,  no  doubt,  as 
fascinating  and  charming  as  ever,  if  I  could  only  have  felt  it. 
But  soon,  my  heart  began  to  warm  towards  her  once  again  ; 
and  we  were  all  very  merry  and  happy  together — as  far  as  I 
could  see — throughout  the  protracted,  social  meal. 

When  that  was  over,  Rose  summoned  Fergus  to  help  her 
to  gather  up  the  fragments,  and  the  knives,  dishes,  &c.,  and 
restore  them  to  the  baskets ;  and  Mrs.  Graham  took  her  camp- 
stool  and  drawing  materials ;  and  having  begged  Miss  Mill- 
ward  to  take  charge  of  her  precious  son,  and  strictly  enjoined 
him  not  to  wander  from  his  new  guardian's  side,  she  left  us 
and  proceeded  along  the  steep,  stony  hill,  to  a  loftier,  more 
precipitous  eminence  at  some  distance,  whence  a  still  finer 
prospect  was  to  be  had,  where  she  preferred  taking  her  sketch, 
though  some  of  the  ladies  told  her  it  was  a  frightful  place, 
and  advised  her  not  to  attempt  it. 

When  she  was  gone,  I  felt  as  if  there  was  to  be  no  more 
fun — though  it  is  difficult  to  say  what  she  had  contributed  to 


OF  WILDFELL  HALL.  49 

«,he  hilarity  of  the  party.  No  jests,  and  little  laughter,  had 
escaped  her  lips ;  but  her  smile  had  animated  my  mirth,  a 
keen  observation  or  a  cheerful  word  from  her  had  insensibly 
sharpened  my  wits,  and  thrown  an  interest  over  all  that  was 
done  and  said  by  the  rest.  Even  my  conversation  with  Eliza 
had  been  enlivened  by  her  presence,  though  I  knew  it  not ; 
and  now  that  she  was  gone,  Eliza's  playful  nonsense  ceased 
to  amuse  me — nay,  grew  wearisome  to  my  soul,  and  I  grew 
weary  of  amusing  her :  I  felt  myself  drawn  by  an  irresistible 
attraction  to  that  distant  point  where  the  fair  artist  sat  and 
plied  her  solitary  task — and  not  long  did  I  attempt  to  resist 
it :  while  my  little  neighbour  was  exchanging  a  few  words 
with  Miss  Wilson,  I  rose  and  cannily  slipped  away.  A  few 
rapid  strides,  and  a  little  active  clambering,  soon  brought  me 
to  the  place  where  she  was  seated — a  narrow  ledge  of  rock  at 
the  very  verge  of  the  cliff  which  descended  with  a  steep,  pre- 
cipitous slant,  quite  down  to  the  rocky  shore. 

She  did  not  hear  me  coming :  the  falling  of  my  shadow 
across  her  paper,  gave  her  an  electric  start ;  and  she  looked 
hastily  round — any  other  lady  of  my  acquaintance  would  have 
screamed  under  such  a  sudden  alarm. 

"  Oh  !  I  didn't  know  it  was  you. — Why  did  you  startle  me 
so?"  said  she,  somewhat  testily.  "I  hate  anybody  to  come 
upon  me  so  unexpectedly." 

"Why,  what  did  you  take  me  for?"  said  I:  "if  I  had 
known  you  were  so  nervous,  I  would  have  been  more  cautious ; 
but " 

"  Well,  never  mind.  What  did  you  come  for  ?  are  they 
all  coming?" 

•  No ;  this  little  ledge  could  scarcely  contain  them  all." 
I'm  glad,  for  I'm  tired  of  talking." 

Well,  then,  I  won't  talk.     I'll  only  sit  and  watch  your 
drawing." 

1  Oh,  but  you  know  I  don't  like  that." 

1  Then  I'll  content  myself  with  admiring  this  magnificent 
prospect." 

She  made  no  objection  to  this  ;  and,  for  some  time,  sketched 
away  in  silence.  But  I  could  not  help  stealing  a  glance,  now 
and  then,  from  the  splendid  view  at  our  feet  to  the  elegant 
white  hand  that  held  the  pencil,  and  the  graceful  neck  and 
glossy  raven  curls  that  drooped  over  the  paper. 

"  Now,"  thought  I,  "  if  I  had  but  a  pencil  and  a  morsel  of 
paper,  I  could  make  a  lovelier  sketch  than  hers,  admitting  I 
had  the  power  to  delineate  faithfully  what  is  before  me." 

But  though  this  satisfaction  was  denied  me,  I  was  very  well 
content  to  sit  beside  her  there,  and  say  nothing. 


50  THE  TENANT 

"  Are  you  there  still,  Mr.  Markham?"  said  she  at  length, 
looking  round  upon  me — for  I  was  seated  a  little  behind  on  a 
mossy  projection  of  the  cliff. — "  Why  don't  you  go  and  amuse 
yourself  with  your  friends  ?  " 

u  Because  I  am  tired  of  them,  like  you ;  and  I  shall  have 
enough  of  them  to-morrow — or  at  any  time  hence  ;  but  you 
I  may  not  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  again  for  I  know  not 
bow  long." 

"What  was  Arthur  doing  when  you  came  away?" 

"  He  was  with  Miss  Millward  where  you  left  him — all  right, 
but  hoping  mamma  would  not  be  long  away.  You  didn't  in- 
trust him  to  me,  by-the-bye,"  I  grumbled,  "  though  I  had  the 
honoiir  of  a  much  longer  acquaintance  ;  but  Miss  Millward 
has  the  art  of  conciliating  and  amusing  children,"  I  carelessly 
added,  "  if  she  is  good  for  nothing  else." 

"  Miss  Millward  has  many  estimable  qualities,  which  such 
as  you  cannot  be  expected  to  perceive  or  appreciate.  Will 
you  tell  Arthur  that  I  shall  come  in  a  few  minutes?" 

"  If  that  be  the  case,  I  will  wait,  with  your  permission, 
till  those  lew  minutes  are  past ;  and  then  I  can  assist  you  to 
descend  this  difficult  path." 

"Thank  you — I  always  manage  best,  on  such  occasions, 
without  assistance." 

"But,  at  least,  I  can  carry  your  stool  and  sketch-book." 

She  did  not  deny  me  this  1'avour ;  but  I  was  rather  offended 
at  her  evident  desire  to  be  rid  of  me,  and  was  beginning  to 
repent  of  my  pertinacity,  when  she  somewhat  appeased  me 
by  consulting  my  taste  and  judgment  about  some  doubtful 
matter  in  her  drawing.  My  opinion,  happily,  met  her  appro- 
bation, and  the  improvement  I  suggested  was  adopted  with- 
out hesitation. 

"I  have  often  wished  in  vain,"  said  she,  "for  another's 
judgment  to  appeal  to  when  I  could  scarcely  trust  the  direc- 
tion of  my  own  eye  and  head,  they  having  been  so  long  oc- 
cupied with  the  contemplation  of  a  single  object,  as  to  become 
almost  incapable  of  forming  a  proper  idea  respecting  it." 

"That,"  replied  I,  "is  only  one  of  many  evils  to  which  a 
soliuiry  life  exposes  us." 

"  True,"  said  she  ;  and  again  we  relapsed  into  silence. 

About  two  minutes  after,  however,  she  declared  her  sketch 
completed  and  closed  the  book. 

On  returning  to  the  scene  of  our  repast,  we  found  all  the 
company  had  deserted  it,  with  the  exception  of  three — Mary 
Millward,  Richard  Wilson,  and  Arthur  Graham.  The 
younger  gentleman  lay  fast  asleep  with  his  head  pillowed  on 
the  lady's  lap  ;  the  other  was  seated  beside  her  with  a  pocket 
edition  of  some  classic  author  in  his  hand.  He  never  went 


OF  WILDFELL  HALL.  51 

anywhere  without  such  a  companion  wherewith  to  improve 
his  leisure  moments :  all  time  seemed  lost  that  was  not  de- 
voted to  study,  or  exacted,  by  his  physical  nature,  for  the 
bare  support  of  life.  Even  now,  he  could  not  abandon  him- 
self to  the  enjoyment  of  that  pure  air  and  balmy  sunshine — 
that  splendid  prospect,  and  those  soothing  sounds,  the  music 
of  the  waves  and  of  the  soft  wind  in  the  sheltering  trees  above 
him — not  even  with  a  lady  by  his  side  (though  not  a  very 
charming  one,  I  will  allow) — he  must  pull  out  his  book,  and 
make  the  most  of  his  time  while  digesting  his  temperate  meal, 
and  reposing  his  weary  limbs,  unused  to  so  much  exercise. 

Perhaps,  however,  he  spared  a  moment  to  exchange  a  word 
or  a  glance  with  his  companion  now  and  then — at  any  rate, 
she  did  not  appear  at  all  resentful  of  his  conduct;  for  her 
homely  features  wore  an  expression  of  unusual  cheerfulness 
and  serenity,  and  she  was  studying  his  pale,  thoughtful  face 
en  we  arrived. 


with  great  complacency  whei 

The  journey  homeward  w£ 

me,  as  the  former  part  of  1 


was  by  no  means  so  agreeable,  tc 
part  of  the  day ;  tor  now  Mrs.  Graham 
was  in  the  carriage,  and  Eliza  Millward  was  the  companion  of 
my  walk.  She  had  observed  my  preference  for  the  young 
widow,  and  evidently  felt  herself  neglected.  She  did  not 
manifest  her  chagrin  by  keen  reproaches,  bitter  sarcasms,  or 
pouting  sullen  silence — any  or  all  of  these  I  could  easily  have 
endured,  or  lightly  laughed  away ;  but  she  showed  it  by  a 
kind  of  gentle  melancholy,  a  mild,  reproachful  sadness  that 
cut  me  to  the  heart.  I  tried  to  cheer  her  up,  and  apparently 
succeeded  in  some  degree,  before  the  walk  was  over ;  but  in  the 
very  act  my  conscience  reproved  me,  knowing,  as  I  did,  that, 
sooner  or  later,  the  tie  must  be  broken,  and  this  was  only 
nourishing  false  hopes,  and  putting  off  the  evil  day. 

When  the  pony-carriage  had  approached  as  near  Wildfell 
Hall  as  the  road  would  permit — unless,  indeed,  it  proceeded 
up  the  long  rough  lane,  which  Mrs.  Graham  would  not  allow 
— the  young  widow  and  her  son  alighted,  relinquishing  the 
driver's  seat  to  Rose  ;  and  I  persuaded  Eliza  to  take  the  lat- 
ter's  place.  Having  put  her  comfortably  in,  bid  her  take  care 
of  the  evening  air,  and  wished  her  a  kind  good-night,  I  felt 
considerably  relieved,  and  hastened  to  offer  my  services  to 
Mrs.  Graham  to  carry  her  apparatus  up  the  fields,  but  she 
had  already  hung  her  camp-stool  on  her  arm  and  taken  her 
sketch-book  in  her  hand  ;  and  insisted  upon  bidding  me  adieu 
then  and  there,  with  the  rest  of  the  company.  But  this  tune, 
B!IC  declined  my  proffered  aid  in  so  kind  and  friendly  a  manner 
that  I  almost  forgave  her. 


62  THE  TENANT 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

Six  weeks  had  past  away.  It  was  a  splendid  morning  about 
the  close  of  June.  Most  of  the  hay  was  cut,  but  the  last 
week  had  been  very  unfavourable  ;  and  now  that  fine  weather 
was  come  at  last,  being  determined  to  make  the  most  of  it,  I 
had  gathered  all  hands  together  into  the  hayfield,  and  was 
working  away  myself,  in  the  midst  of  them,  in  my  shirt- 
sleeves, with  a  light,  shady  straw  hat  on  my  head,  catching 
up  armfuls  of  moist,  reeking  grass,  and  shaking  it  out  to  the 
lour  winds  of  heaven,  at  the  head  of  a  goodly  file  ot  servants 
and  hirelings — intending  so  to  labour,  from  morning  to  night, 
with  as  much  zeal  and  assiduity  as  I  could  look  for  from  any 
of  them,  as  well  to  prosper  the  work  by  my  own  exertion  as 
to  animate  the  workers  by  my  example — when  lo  !  my  reso- 
lutions were  overthrown  in  a  moment,  by  the  simple  fact  of 
my  brother's  running  up  to  me  and  putting  into  my  hand  a 
small  parcel,  just  arrived  from  London,  which  I  had  been 
tor  some  time  expecting.  I  tore  off  the  cover,  and  disclosed 
an  elegant  and  portable  edition  of  "  Marmion." 

"  I  guess  I  know  who  that's  for,"  said  Fergus,  who  stood 
looking  on  while  I  complacently  examined  the  volume. 
"That's  for  Miss  Eliza,  now." 

He  pronounced  this  with  a  tone  and  look  so  prodigiously 
knowing,  that  I  was  glad  to  contradict  him. 

44  You're  wrong,  my  lad,"  said  I ;  and,  taking  up  my  coat, 
I  deposited  the  book  in  one  of  its  pockets,  and  then  put  it  on 
(i.e.  the  coat).  "  Now  come  here,  you  idle  dog,  and  make 
yourself  useful  for  once  ;"  I  continued — "  Pull  off  your  coat, 
and  take  my  place  in  the  field  till  I  come  back." 

"  Till  you  come  back  ? — and  where  are  you  going,  pray  ?" 

"  No  matter  where — the  when  is  all  that  concerns  you  ; 
— and  I  shall  be  back  by  dinner,  at  least." 

u  Oh,  ho !  and  I'm  to  labour  away  till  then,  am  I  ? — and  to 
keep  all  these  fellows  hard  at  it  besides  ?  Well,  well !  I'll 
submit — for  once  in  a  way. — Come,  my  lads,  you  must  look 
sharp  :  I'm  come  to  help  you  now : — and  wo  be  to  that  man, 
or  woman  either,  that  pauses  for  a  moment  amongst  you — 
whether  to  stare  about  him,  to  scratch  his  head,  or  blow  his 
nose — no  pretext  will  serve — nothing  but  work,  work,  work 
in  the  sweat  of  your  face,"  &c.  &c. 

Leaving  him  thus  haranguing  the  people,  more  to  their 
amusement  than  edification,  I  returned  to  the  house,  and, 
having  made  some  alteration  in  my  toilet,  hastened  away 
to  Wildfell  Hall,  with  the  book  in  my  pocket ;  for  it  was 
destined  for  the  shelves  of  Mrs  Graham. 


OF   WILDFELL   HALL.  53 

"  \Vhat,  then,  had  she  and  you  got  on  so  well  together  aa 
to  come  to  the  giving  and  receiving  of  presents  ?"— Not  pre- 
cisely, old  buck  ;  this  was  my  first  experiment  in  that  line ; 
and  I  was  very  anxious  to  see  the  result  of  it. 

We  had  met  several  times  since  the Bay  excursion, 

and  I  had  found  she  was  not  averse  to  my  company,  pro- 
vided I  confined  my  conversation  to  the  discussion  of  abstract 
matters,  or  topics  of  common  interest  ; — the  moment  I 
touched  upon  the  sentimental  or  the  complimentary,  or  made 
the  slightest  approach  to  tenderness  in  word  or  look,  I  waa 
not  only  punished  by  an  immediate  change  in  her  manner  at 
the  time,  but  doomed  to  find  her  more  cold  and  distant,  if 
not  entirely  inaccessible,  when  next  I  sought  her  company. 
This  circumstance  did  not  greatly  disconcert  me  however,  be- 
cause I  attributed  it,  not  so  much  to  any  dislike  of  my  person, 
as  to  some  absolute  resolution  against  a  second  marriage 
formed  prior  to  the  time  of  our  acquaintance,  whether  from 
excess  of  affection  for  her  late  husband,  or  because  she  had 
had  enough  of  him  and  the  matrimonial  state  together.  At 
first,  indeed,  she  had  seemed  to  take  a  pleasure  in  mortifying 
my  vanity  and  crushing  my  presumption — relentlessly  nipping 
off  bud  by  bud  as  they  ventured  to  appear  ;  and  then,  I  con- 
fess, I  was  deeply  wounded,  though,  at  the  same  time,  stimu- 
lated to  seek  revenge : — but  latterly,  finding,  beyond  a  doubt, 
that  I  was  not  that  empty-headed  coxcomb  she  had  first  sup- 
posed me,  she  had  repulsed  my  modest  advances  in  quite  a 
different  spirit.  It  was  a  kind  of  serious,  almost  sorrowful 
displeasure,  which  I  soon  learnt  carefully  to  avoid  awakening. 

"  Let  me  first  establish  my  position  as  a  friend,"  thought 
I, — "  the  patron  and  playfellow  of  her  son,  the  sober,  solid, 
plain-dealing  friend  of  herself,  and  then,  when  I  have  made 
myself  fairly  necessary  to  her  comfort  and  enjoyment  in  life 
(as  I  believe  I  can),  we'll  see  what  next  may  be  effected." 

So  we  talked  about  painting,  poetry,  and  music,  theology, 
geology,  and  philosophy :  once  or  twice  I  lent  her  a  book, 
and  once  she  lent  me  one  in  return :  I  met  her  in  her  walks 
as  often  as  I  could ;  I  came  to  her  house  as  often  as  I  dared. 
My  first  pretext  for  invading  the  sanctum  was  to  bring  Arthur 
a  little  waddling  puppy  of  which  Sancho  was  the  father,  and 
which  delighted  the  child  beyond  expression,  and,  conse- 
quently, could  not  fail  to  please  his  mamma.  My  second 
was  to  bring  him  a  book,  which,  knowing  his  mother's  parti- 
cularity, I  had  carefully  selected,  and  which  I  submitted  for 
her  approbation  before  presenting  it  to  him.  Then,  I  brought 
her  some  plants  for  her  garden,  in  my  sister's  name — having 
previously  persuaded  Rose  to  send  them.  Each  of  these 
times  I  inquired  after  the  picture  she  was  painting  from  the 


54  THE  TENANT 

sketch  taken  on  the  cliff,  and  was  admitted  into  the  studio, 
and  asked  my  opinion  or  advice  respecting  its  progress. 

My  last  visit  had  been  to  return  the  book  she  had  lent  me ; 
and  then  it  was,  that,  in  casually  discussing  the  poetry  of  Sir 
Walter  Scott,  she  had  expressed  a  wish  to  see  "Marmion," 
and  I  had  conceived  the  presumptuous  idea  of  making  her  a 
present  of  it,  and,  on  my  return  home,  instantly  sent  for  the 
smart  little  volume  I  had  this  morning  received.  But  an 
apology  for  invading  the  hermitage  was  still  necessary  ;  so  I 
had  furnished  myself  with  a  blue  morocco  collar  for  Arthur's 
little  dog;  and  that  being  given  and  received,  with  much 
more  joy  and  gratitude,  on  the  part  of  the  receiver,  than  the 
worth  of  the  gift  or  the  selfish  motive  of  the  giver  deserved, 
I  ventured  to  ask  Mrs.  Graham  for  one  more  look  at  the 
picture,  if  it  was  still  there. 

"  Oh,  yes  !  come  in,"  said  she  (for  I  had  met  them  in  the 
garden).  "  It  is  finished  and  framed,  all  ready  for  sending 
away  ;  but  give  me  your  last  opinion,  and,  if  you  can  suggest 
any  further  improvement,  it  shall  be — duly  considered,  at 
least." 

The  picture  was  strikingly  beautiful :  it  was  the  very  scene 
itself,  transferred  as  if  by  magic  to  the  canvas ;  but  I  ex- 
pressed my  approbation  in  guarded  terms,  and  few  words,  for 
fear  of  displeasing  her.  She,  however,  attentively  watched 
my  looks,  and  her  artist's  pride  was  gratified,  no  doubt,  to 
read  my  heart-felt  admiration  in  my  eyes.  But,  while  I 
gazed,  I  thought  upon  the  book,  and  wondered  how  it  was  to 
be  presented.  My  heart  failed  me  ;  but  I  determined  not  to 
be  such  a  fool  as  to  come  away  without  having  made  the 
attempt.  It  was  useless  waiting  for  an  opportunity,  and  use- 
less trying  to  concoct  a  speech  for  the  occasion.  The  more 
plainly  and  naturally  the  thing  was  done,  the  better,  I 
thought ;  so  I  just  looked  out  of  the  window  to  screw  up  my 
courage,  and  then  pulled  out  the  book,  turned  round,  and 
put  it  into  her  hand,  with  this  short  explanation : 

"  You  were  wishing  to  see  '  Marmion,'  Mrs.  Graham  ;  and 
here  it  is,  if  you  will  be  so  kind  as  to  take  it." 

A  momentary  blush  suffused  her  face — perhaps,  a  blush  of 
sympathetic  shame  for  such  an  awkward  style  of  presenta- 
tion :  she  gravely  examined  the  volume  on  both  sides ;  then 
silently  turned  over  the  leaves,  knitting  her  brows  the  while, 
in  serious  cogitation ;  then  closed  the  book,  and  turning  from 
it  to  me,  quietly  asked  the  price  of  it— I  felt  the  hot  blood 
rush  to  my  face. 

"  I'm  sorry  to  offend  you,  Mr.  Markham,"  said  she,  "  but 
unless  I  pay  for  the  book,  I  cannot  take  it."  And  she  laid  it 
on  the  table. 


OF  W1LDFELL  HALL.  55 

"Why  cannot  vou?" 

44  Because," — she  paused,  and  looked  at  the  carpet. 

"  Why  cannot  you?"  I  repeated,  with  a  degree  of  irasci- 
bility that  roused  her  to  lift  her  eyes,  and  look  me  steadily  in 
the  face. 

"  Because  I  don't  like  to  put  myself  under  obligations  that 
I  can  never  repay — I  am  obliged  to  you  already  for  your 
kindness  to  my  son  ;  but  his  grateful  affection  and  your  own 
good  feelings  must  reward  you  for  that." 

"Nonsense!"  ejaculated  I. 

She  turned  her  eyes  on  me  again,  with  a  look  of  quiet, 
grave  surprise,  that  had  the  effect  of  a  rebuke,  whether  in- 
tended for  such  or  not. 

" Then  you  won't  take  the  book?"  I  asked,  more  mildly 
than  I  had  yet  spoken. 

"  I  will  gladly  take  it,  if  you  will  let  me  pay  for  it." 

I  told  her  the  exact  price,  and  the  cost  of  the  carriage 
besides,  in  as  calm  a  tone  as  I  could  command — for,  in  fact,  I 
was  ready  to  weep  with  disappointment  and  vexation. 

She  produced  her  purse,  and  coolly  counted  out  the 
money,  but  hesitated  to  put  it  into  my  hand.  Attentively 
regarding  me,  in  a  tone  of  soothing  softness,  she  observed, — 

41  You  think  yourself  insulted,  Mr.  Markham — I  wish  I 
could  make  you  understand  that — that  I " 

44 1  do  understand  you,  perfectly,"  I  said.  "You  think 
that  if  you  were  to  accept  that  trifle  from  me  now,  I  should 
presume  upon  it  hereafter ;  but  you  are  mistaken : — if  you 
will  only  oblige  me  by  taking  it,  believe  me,  I  shall  build  no 
hopes  upon  it,  and  consider  this  no  precedent  for  future  fa- 
vours : — and  it  is  nonsense  to  talk  about  putting  yourself  under 
obligations  to  me  when  you  must  know  that  in  such  a  case 
the  obligation  is  entirely  on  my  side, — the  favour  on  yours." 

41  Well,  then,  I'll  take  you  at  your  word,"  she  answered, 
with  a  most  angelic  smile,  returning  the  odious  money  to  her 
purse — "  but  remember  !" 

44 1  will  remember — what  I  have  said; — but  do  not  you 
punish  my  presumption  by  withdrawing  your  friendship  en- 
tirely from  me, — or  expect  me  to  atone  for  it  by  being  more 
distant  than  before,"  said  I,  extending  my  hand  to  take  leave, 
for  I  was  too  much  excited  to  remain. 

"  Well  then !  let  us  be  as  we  were,"  replied  she,  frankly 
placing  her  hand  in  mine ;  and  while  I  held  it  there,  I  had 
much  difficulty  to  refrain  from  pressing  it  to  my  lips  ; — but 
that  would  be  suicidal  madness :  I  had  been  bold  enough 
already,  and  this  premature  offering  had  well-nigh  given  the 
death-blow  to  my  hopes. 

Jt  was  with  an  agitated  burning  heart  and  brain  that  I 


56  THE   TENANT 

hurried  homewards,  regardless  ol  that  scorching  noon-day 
sun — forgetful  of  everything  but  her  I  had  just  left — re- 
gretting nothing  but  her  impenetrability,  and  my  own  preci- 
pitancy and  want  of  tact — fearing  nothing  but  her  hateful 
resolution,  and  my  inability  to  overcome  it — hoping  nothing 

but  halt, — I  will  not  bore  you  with  my  conflicting  hopes 

and  fears — my  serious  cogitations  and  resolves. 

CHAPTER   IX. 

THOUGH  my  affections  might  now  be  said  to  be  fairly  weaned 
1'rom  Eliza  Millward,  I  did  not  yet  entirely  relinquish  my  visits 
to  the  vicarage,  because  I  wanted,  as  it  were,  to  let  her  down 
easy  ;  without  raising  much  sorrow,  or  incurring  much  resent- 
ment,— or  making  myself  the  talk  of  the  parish  ;  and  besides, 
if  I  had  wholly  kept  away,  the  vicar,  who  looked  upon  my 
visits  as  paid  chiefly,  if  not  entirely,  to  himself,  would  have 
felt  himself  decidedly  affronted  by  the  neglect.  But  when  I 
called  there  the  day  after  my  interview  with  Mrs.  Graham,  he 
happened  to  be  from  home — a  circumstance  by  no  means  so 
agreeable  to  me  now  as  it  had  been  on  former  occasions.  Miss 
Millward  was  there,  it  is  true,  but  she,  of  course,  would  be 
little  better  than  a  nonentity.  However,  I  resolved  to  make 
my  visit  a  short  one,  and  to  talk  to  Eliza  in  a  brotherly, 
friendly  sort  of  way,  such  as  our  long  acquaintance  might 
warrant  me  in  assuming,  and  which,  I  thought,  could  neither 
give  offence  nor  serve  to  encourage  false  hopes. 

It  was  never  my  custom  to  talk  about  Mrs.  Graham  either 
to  her  or  any  one  else ;  but  I  had  not  been  seated  three 
minutes,  before  she  brought  that  lady  on  to  the  carpet  herself, 
in  a  rather  remarkable  manner. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Markhara!"  said  she,  with  a  shocked  expression 
and  voice  subdued  almost  to  a  whisper,  "  what  do  you  think 
of  these  shocking  reports  about  Mrs.  Graham? — can  you  en- 
courage us  to  disbelieve  them  'i " 

"What  reports?" 

"Ah,  now!  you  knowl"  she  slyly  smiled  and  shook  her 
hcstd. 

"  I  know  nothing  about  them.  What  in  the  world  do  you 
moan,  Eliza?" 

"  Oh,  don't  ask  me !  /  can't  explain  it."  She  took  up  the 
cambric  handkerchief  which  she  had  been  beautifying  with  a 
deep  lace  border,  and  began  to  be  very  busy. 

11  What  is  it,  Miss  Millward?  what  does  she  mean?"  said 
I,  appealing  to  her  sister,  who  seemed  to  be  absorbed  in  the 
hemming  of  a  large,  coarse  sheet. 


OF   WILDFELL  HALL.  57 

"  I  don't  know,"  replied  she.  "  Some  idle  slander  some- 
body has  been  inventing,  I  suppose.  I  never  heard  it  till 
Eliza  told  me  the  other  day, — but  if  all  the  parish  dinned  it 
in  my  ears,  I  shouldn't  believe  a  word  of  it — I  know  Mrs. 
Graham  too  well!" 

"  Quite  right,  Miss  Mill  ward !— and  so  do  I — whatever  it 
may  be." 

"Well!"  observed  Eliza,  with  a  gentle  sigh,  "it's  well  to 
have  such  a  comfortable  assurance  regarding  the  worth  of  those 
we  love.  I  only  wish  you  may  not  find  your  confidence  mis- 
placed." 

And  she  raised  her  face,  and  gave  me  such  a  look  of  sorrow- 
ful tenderness  as  might  have  melted  my  heart,  but  within 
those  eyes  there  lurked  a  something  that  I  did  not  like  ;  and 
I  wondered  how  I  ever  could  have  admired  them,  her  sister's 
honest  face  and  small  grey  optics  appeared  far  more  agreeable  ; 
but  I  was  out  of  temper  with  Eliza,  at  that  moment,  for  her 
insinuations  against  Mrs.  Graham,  which  were  lalse,  I  was 
certain,  whether  she  knew  it  or  not. 

I  said  nothing  more  on  the  subject,  however,  at  the  time, 
and  but  little  on  any  other  ;  for,  finding  I  could  not  well  re- 
cover my  equanimity,  I  presently  rose  and  took  leave,  excusing 
myself  under  the  plea  of  business  at  the  farm ;  and  to  the 
farm  I  went,  not  troubling  my  mind  one  whit  about  the  possible 
truth  of  these  mysterious  reports,  but  only  wondering  what 
they  were,  by  whom  originated,  and  on  what  foundations 
raised,  and  how  they  could  the  most  effectually  be  silenced  or 
disproved. 

A  few  days  after  this,  we  bad  another  of  our  quiet  little 

Earties,  to  which  the  usual  company  of  friends  and  neighbours 
ad  been  invited,  and  Mrs.  Graham  among  the  number.  She 
could  not  now  absent  herself  under  the  plea  of  dark  evenings 
or  inclement  weather,  and,  greatly  to  my  relief,  she  came. 
Without  her  I  should  have  found  the  whole  affair  an  intoler- 
able bore  ;  but  the  moment  of  her  arrival  brought  new  life  to 
the  house,  and  though  I  must  not  neglect  the  other  guests  for 
her,  or  expect  to  engross  much  of  her  attention  and  conversa- 
tion to  myself  alone,  I  anticipated  an  evening  of  no  common 
enjoyment.  w 

Mr.  Lawrence  came  too.  He  did  not  arrive  till  some  time 
after  the  rest  were  assembled.  I  was  curious  to  see  how  he 
would  comport  himself  to  Mrs.  Graham.  A  slight  bow  was 
all  that  passed  between  them  on  his  entrance  ;  and  having 
politely  greeted  the  other  members  of  the  company,  he  seated 
himself  quite  aloof  from  the  young  widow,  between  my  mother 
and  Rose. 
"Pid  you  ever  see  such  art?"  whispered  Eliza,  who  waa 


58  THE  TENANT 

my  nearest  neighbour.  "  Would  you  n<yt  say  they  were  per- 
fect strangers?" 

"Almost;  but  what  then?" 

"  What  then  1  why,  you  can't  pretend  to  be  ignorant  ?" 

"  Ignorant  of  what  ? "  demanded  I,  so  sharply  that  she 
started  and  replied, — 

"  Oh,  hush !  don't  speak  so  loud." 

"  Well,  tell  me  then,"  I  answered  in  a  lower  tone,  "  what 
is  it  you  mean  ?  I  hate  enigmas." 

"  Well,  you  know,  I  don't  vouch  for  the  truth  of  it — indeed, 
far  from  it — but  haven't  you  heard " 

"  I've  heard  nothing,  except  from  you." 

"  You  must  be  wilfully  deaf  then,  for  any  one  will  tell  you 
that ;  but  I  shall  only  anger  you  by  repeating  it,  I  see,  so  I 
had  better  hold  my  tongue." 

She  closed  her  lips  and  folded  her  hands  before  with  an  air 
of  injured  meekness. 

"  If  you  had  wished  not  to  anger  me,  you  should  have  held 
your  tongue  from  the  beginning ;  or  else  spoken  out  plainly 
and  honestly  all  you  had  to  say." 

She  turned  aside  her  face,  pulled  out  her  handkerchief,  rose, 
and  went  to  the  window,  where  she  stood  for  some  time, 
evidently  dissolved  in  tears.  I  was  astounded,  provoked, 
ashamed — not  so  much  of  my  harshness  as  for  her  childish 
weakness.  However,  no  one  seemed  to  notice  her,  and  shortly 
'ifter  we  were  summoned  to  the  tea-table ;  in  those  parts  it 
was  customary  to  sit  to  the  table  at  tea-time,  on  all  occasions, 
and  make  a  meal  of  it,  for  we  dined  early.  On  taking  my 
seat,  I  had  Hose  on  one  side  of  me,  and  an  empty  chair  on  the 
other. 

"  May  I  sit  by  you  ?"  said  a  soft  voice  at  my  elbow. 

"  If  you  like,"  was  the  reply ;  and  Eliza  slipped  into  the 
vacant  chair  ;  then  looking  up  in  my  face  with  a  half-sad,  half« 
playful  smile,  she  whispered, — 

"  You're  so  stern,  Gilbert." 

I  handed  down  her  tea  with  a  slightly  contemptuous  smile, 
and  said  nothing,  for  I  had  nothing  to  say. 

"  What  have  I  done  to  offend  you  ?  "  said  she,  more  plain- 
tively. "  I  wish  I  knew." 

"  Come,  take  your  tea,  Eliza,  and  don't  be  foolish,"  re- 
sponded I,  handing  her  the  sugar  and  cream. 

Just  then,  there  arose  a  slight  commotion  on  the  other  side 
of  me,  occasioned  by  Miss  Wilson's  coming  to  negotiate  an 
exchange  of  seats  with  Rose. 

"  Will  you  be  so  good  as  to  exchange  places  with  me,  Misa 
Markham  ?  "  said  she,  "for  I  don't  like  to  sit  by  Mrs.  Graham. 
If  your  mamma  thinks  proper  to  invite  such  persons  to  her 


OF  \VILDFEIX  HA1X.  69 

house,  she  cannot  object  to  her  daughter's  keeping  company 
with  them." 

This  latter  clause  was  added  in  a  sort  of  soliloquy  when 
Rose  was  gone  ;  but  I  was  not  polite  enough  to  let  it  pass. 

"  Will  you  be  so  good  as  to  tell  me  what  you  mean,  Miss 
Wilson?"  said  I. 

The  question  startled  her  a  little,  but  not  much. 

"  Why,  Mr.  Markham,"  replied  she,  coolly,  having  quickly 
recovered  her  self-possession,  "  it  surprises  me  rather  that 
Mrs.  Markham  should  invite  such  a  person  as  Mrs.  Graham 
to  her  house  ;  but,  perhaps,  she  is  not  aware  that  the  lady's 
character  is  considered  scarcely  respectable." 

"  She  is  not,  nor  am  I ;  and  therefore,  you  would  oblige  me 
by  explaining  your  meaning  a  little  farther." 

"  This  is  scarcely  the  time  or  the  place  for  such  explana- 
tions ;  but  I  think  you  can  hardly  be  so  ignorant  as  you  pre- 
tend, you  must  know  her  as  well  as  I  do." 

"  I  think  I  do,  perhaps  a  little  better ;  and  therefore,  if  you 
will  inform  me  what  you  have  heard  or  imagined  against 
her,  I  shall,  perhaps,  be  able  to  set  you  right." 

"  Can  you  tell  me,  then,  who  was  her  husband,  or  if  she 
ever  had  any  ?  " 

Indignation  kept  me  silent.  At  such  a  time  and  place  I 
could  not  trust  myself  to  answer. 

"  Have  you  never  observed,"  said  Eliza,  "  what  a  striking 
likeness  there  is  between  that  child  of  hers  and " 

"  And  whom  ?"  demanded  Miss  Wilson,  with  an  air  of  cold, 
but  keen  severity. 

Eliza  was  startled  ;  the  timidly  spoken  suggestion  had  been 
intended  for  my  ear  alone. 

"Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon!"  pleaded  she,  "I  maybe  mis- 
taken— perhaps  I  was  mistaken."  But  she  accompanied  the 
words  with  a  sly  glance  of  derision  directed  to  me  from  the 
corner  of  her  disingenuous  eye. 

"  There's  no  need  to  ask  my  pardon,"  replied  her  friend, 
"  but  I  see  no  one  here  that  at  all  resembles  that  child,  except 
his  mother ;  and  when  you  hear  ill-natured  reports,  Miss 
Eliza,  I  will  thank  you,  that  is,  I  think  you  will  do  well,  to 
refrain  from  repeating  them.  I  presume  the  person  you  allude 
to  is  Mr.  Lawrence ;  but  I  think  I  can  assure  you  that  your 
suspicions,  in  that  respect,  are  utterly  misplaced ;  and  if  he 
has  any  particular  connection  with  the  lady  at  all  (which  no 
one  has  a  right  to  assert),  at  least  he  has  (what  cannot  be  said 
of  some  others)  sufficient  sense  of  propriety  to  withhold  him 
from  acknowledging  anything  more  than  a  bowing  acquaint- 
ance in  the  presence  of  respectable  persons ;  he  was  evidently 
both  surprised  and  annoyed  to  find  her  here." 


CO  THE  1EITANT 

"  Go  it !"  cried  Fergus,  who  sat  on  the  other  side  of  Eliza, 
and  was  the  only  individual  who  shared  that  side  of  the  table 
with  us,  "go  it  like  bricks !  mind  you  don't  leave  her  one 
stone  upon  another." 

Miss  Wilson  drew  herself  up  with  a  look  of  freezing  scorn, 
but  said  nothing.  Eliza  would  have  replied,  but  I  interrupted 
her  by  saying  as  calmly  as  I  could,  though  in  a  tone  which 
betrayed,  no  doubt,  some  little  of  what  I  felt  within, — 

"  We  have  had  enough  of  this  subject ;  if  we  can  only  speak 
to  slander  our  betters,  let  us  hold  our  tongues." 

"  I  think  you'd  better,"  observed  Fergus,  "  and  so  does  our 
good  parson ;  he  has  been  addressing  the  company  in  his 
richest  vein  all  the  while,  and  eyeing  you  from  time  to  time, 
with  looks  ol  stern  distaste,  while  you  sat  there,  irreverently 
whispering  and  muttering  together ;  and  once  he  paused  in 
the  middle  of  a  story  or  a  sermon,  I  don't  know  which,  and 
fixed  his  eyes  upon  you,  Gilbert,  as  much  as  to  say,  '  When 
Mr.  Markham  has  done  flirting  with  those  two  ladies  1  will 
proceed.'" 

What  more  was  said  at  the  tea-table  I  cannot  tell,  nor  how 
I  found  patience  to  sit  till  the  meal  was  over.  I  remember, 
however,  that  I  swallowed  with  difficulty  the  remainder  of  the 
tea  that  was  in  my  cup,  and  ate  nothing ;  and  that  the  first 
thing  I  did  was  to  stare  at  Arthur  Graham,  who  sat  beside  his 
mother  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  table,  and  the  second  to 
stare  at  Mr.  Lawrence,  who  sat  below  ;  and,  first,  it  struck  me 
that  there  was  a  likeness ;  but,  on  further  contemplation,  I 
concluded  it  was  only  in  imagination.  Both,  it  is  true,  had 
more  delicate  features  and  smaller  bones  than  commonly  fall 
to  the  lot  of  individuals  of  the  rougher  sex,  and  Lawrence's 
complexion  was  pale  and  clear,  and  Arthur's  delicately  fair ; 
but  Arthur's  tiny,  somewhat  snubby  nose  could  never  become 
so  long  and  straight  as  Mr.  Lawrence's  ;  and  the  outline  of  his 
face,  though  not  full  enough  to  be  round,  and  too  finely  con- 
verging to  the  small,  dimpled  chin  to  be  square,  could  never 
be  drawn  out  to  the  long  oval  of  the  other's,  while  the  child's 
hair  was  evidently  of  a  lighter,  warmer  tint  than  the  elder 
gentleman's  had  ever  been,  and  his  large,  clear,  blue  eyes, 
though  prematurely  serious  at  times,  were  utterly  dissimilar 
to  the  shy  hazel  eyes  of  Mr.  Lawrence,  whence  the  sensitive 
soul  looked  so  distrustfully  forth,  as  ever  ready  to  retire 
within,  from  the  offences  of  a  too  rude,  too  uncongenial  world. 
Wretch  that  I  was  to  harbour  that  detestable  idea  for  a  mo- 
ment I  Did  I  not  know  Mrs.  Graham?  Had  I  not  seen  her, 
conversed  with  her  time  after  time  ?  Was  I  not  certain  that 
she,  in  intellect,  in  purity  and  elevation  of  soul,  was  immeasur- 
ably superior  to  any  of  her  detractors  j  that  she  was,  in  factj 


OF   WILPFET.L   HALL.  61 

the  noblest,  the  most  adorable,  of  her  sex  I  had  ever  beheld, 
or  even  imagined  to  exist  ?  Yes,  and  I  would  say  with  Mary 
Millward  (sensible  girl  as  she  was),  that  if  all  the  parish,  ay, 
or  all  the  world,  should  din  these  horrible  lies  in  my  ears,  I 
would  not  believe  them,  for  I  knew  her  better  than  they. 

Meantime  my  brain  was  on  fire  with  indignation,  and  my 
heart  seemed  ready  to  burst  from  its  prison  with  conflicting 
passions.  I  regarded  my  two  lair  neighbours  with  a  feeling 
of  abhorrence  and  loathing  I  scarcely  endeavoured  to  conceal. 
I  was  rallied  from  several  quarters  for  my  abstraction  and 
ungallant  neglect  of  the  ladies  ;  but  I  cared  little  for  that :  all 
I  cared  about,  besides  that  one  grand  subject  of  my  thoughts, 
was  to  see  the  cups  travel  up  to  the  tea-tray,  and  not  come 
down  again.  I  thought  Mr.  Millward  never  would  cease  tell- 
ing us  that  he  was  no  tea-drinker,  and  that  it  was  highly  in- 
jurious to  keep  loading  the  stomach  with  slops  to  the  exclu- 
sion of  more  wholesome  sustenance,  and  so  give  himself  time 
to  finish  his  fourth  cup. 

At  length  it  was  over ;  and  I  rose  and  left  the  table  and 
the  guests  without  a  word  of  apology — I  could  endure  their 
company  no  longer.  I  rushed  out  to  cool  my  brain  in  the 
balmy  evening  air,  and  to  compose  my  mind  or  indulge  my 
passionate  thoughts  in  the  solitude  of  the  garden. 

To  avoid  being  seen  from  the  windows  I  went  down  a  quiet 
little  avenue  that  skirted  one  side  of  the  inclosure,  at  the  bot- 
tom of  which  was  a  seat  embowered  in  roses  and  honey- 
suckles. Here  I  sat  down  to  think  over  the  virtues  and 
wrongs  of  the  lady  of  Wildfell  Hall ;  but  I  had  not  been  so 
occupied  two  minutes,  before  voices  and  laughter,  and  glimpses 
of  moving  objects  through  the  trees,  informed  me  that  the 
whole  company  had  turned  out  to  take  an  airing  in  the  gar- 
den too.  However,  I  nestled  up  in  a  corner  of  the  bower, 
and  hoped  to  retain  possession  of  it,  secure  alike  from  obser- 
vation and  intrusion.  But  no — confound  it — there  was  some 
one  coming  down  the  avenue  !  Why  couldn't  they  enjoy  the 
flowers  and  sunshine  of  the  open  garden,  and  leave  that  sun- 
less nook  to  me,  and  the  gnats  and  midges  ? 

But,  peeping  through  my  fragrant  screen  of  the  interwoven 
branches  to  discover  who  the  intruders  were  (for  a  murmur  of 
voices  told  me  it  was  more  than  one),  my  vexation  instantly 
subsided,  and  far  other  feelings  agitated  my  still  unquiet  soul ; 
for  there  was  Mrs.  Graham,  slowly  moving  down  the  walk 
with  Arthur  by  her  side,  and  no  one  else.  Why  were  they 
alone  ?  Had  the  poison  of  detracting  tongues  already  spread 
through  all ;  and  had  they  all  turned  their  backs  upon  her? 
I  now  recollected  having  seen  Mrs.  Wilson,  in  the  early  part 
of  the  evening,  edging  her  chair  close  up  to  my  mother,  and 


62  TOE  TENANT 

bending  forward,  evidently  in  the  delivery  of  some  important, 
confidential  intelligence ;  and  from  the  incessant  wagging  ot 
her  head,  the  frequent  distortions  of  her  wrinkled  physio- 
gnomy, and  the  winking  and  malicious  twinkle  of  her  little 
ugly  eyes,  I  judged  it  was  some  spicy  piece  of  scandal  that 
engaged  her  powers ;  and  from  the  cautious  privacy  of  the 
communication  I  supposed  some  person  then  present  was  the 
luckless  object  of  her  calumnies  ;  and  from  all  these  tokens, 
together  with  my  mother's  looks  and  gestures  of  mingled 
horror  and  incredulity,  I  now  concluded  that  object  to  have 
been  Mrs.  Graham.  I  did  not  emerge  from  my  place  of  con- 
cealment till  she  had  nearly  reached  the  bottom  of  the  walk, 
lest  my  appearance  should  drive  her  away ;  and  when  I  did 
step  forward  she  stood  still  and  seemed  inclined  to  turn  back  aa 
it  was. 

"  Oh,  don't  let  U9  disturb  you,  Mr.  Markham  ! "  said  she. 
"  We  came  here  to  seek  retirement  ourselves,  not  to  intrude 
on  your  seclusion." 

"  I  am  no  hermit,  Mrs.  Graham — though  I  own  it  looks 
rather  like  it  to  absent  myself  in  this  uncourteous  fashion 
from  my  guests." 

"  I  feared  you  were  unwell,"  said  she,  with  a  look  of  real 
concern. 

"  I  was  rather,  but  it's  over  now.  Do  sit  here  a  little  and 
rest,  and  tell  me  how  you  like  this  arbour,"  said  I,  and,  lifting 
Arthur  by  the  shoulders,  I  planted  him  in  the  middle  of  the 
seat  by  way  of  securing  his  mamma,  who,  acknowledging  it 
to  be  a  tempting  place  of  refuge,  threw  herself  back  in  one 
corner  while  I  took  possession  of  the  other. 

But  that  word  refuge  disturbed  me.  Had  their  unkindness 
then  really  driven  her  to  seek  for  peace  in  solitude  ? 

"  Why  have  they  left  you  alone  ?"  I  asked. 

"  It  is  I  who  have  left  them,"  w^s  the  smiling  rejoinder. 
"I  was  wearied  to  death  with  small-talk — nothing  wears  me 
out  like  that.  I  cannot  imagine  how  they  can  go  on  as 
they  do." 

1  could  not  heJp  smiling  at  the  serious  depth  of  her  won- 
derment. 

"  Is  it  that  they  think  it  a  duty  to  be  continually  talking," 
pursued  she  ;  "  and  so  never  pause  to  think,  but  till  up  with 
aimless  trifles  and  vain  repetitions  when  subjects  of  real  inte- 
rest fail  to  present  themselves  ?  or  do  they  really  take  a  plea- 
sure in  such  discourse?" 

"  Very  likely  they  do,"  said  I :  "  their  shallow  minds  can 
hold  no  great  ideas,  and  their  light  heads  are  carried  away  by 
trivialities  that  would  not  move  a  better-furnished  skull ;  and 
their  only  alternative  to  such  discourse  is  to  plunge  over  head 


OP  W1LDFELL  HALL.  63 

and  cars  into  the  slough  of  scandal — which  is  their  chief 
delight." 

"Not  all  of  them,  surely  ?"  cried  the  lady,  astonished  at 
the  bitterness  of  my  remark. 

"  No,  certainly ;  I  exonerate  my  sister  from  such  degraded 
tastes,  and  my  mother,  too,  if  you  included  her  in  your  ani- 
madversions." 

"  I  meant  no  animadversions  against  any  one,  and  certainly 
intended  no  disrespectful  allusions  to  your  mother.  I  have 
known  some  sensible  persons  great  adepts  in  that  style  of 
conversation  when  circumstances  impelled  them  to  it ;  but  it 
is  a  gift  I  cannot  boast  the  possession  of.  I  kept  up  my  at- 
tention on  this  occasion  as  long  as  I  could,  but  when  my 
powers  were  exhausted  1  stole  away  to  seek  a  few  minutes 
repose  in  this  quiet  walk.  I  hate  talking  where  there  is 
no  exchange  of  ideas  or  sentiments,  and  no  good  given  or 
received." 

"  Well,"  said  I,  "  if  ever  I  trouble  you  with  my  loquacity 
tell  me  so  at  once,  and  I  promise  not  to  be  offended ;  for  I 

possess  the  faculty  of  enjoying  the  company  of  those  I of 

my  friends  as  well  in  silence  as  in  conversation." 

"  I  don't  quite  believe  you ;  but  if  it  were  so  you  would 
exactly  suit  me  for  a  companion." 

44  I  am  all  you  wish,  then,  in  other  respects  ?" 

"  No,  I  don't  mean  that.  How  beautiful  those  little  clus- 
ters of  foliage  look,  where  the  sun  comes  through  behind 
them!"  said  she,  on  purpose  to  change  the  subject. 

And  they  did  look  beautiful,  where  at  intervals  the  level 
rays  of  the  sun  penetrating  the  thickness  of  trees  and  shrubs 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  path  before  us,  relieved  their 
dusky  verdure  by  displaying  patches  of  semitransparent  leaves 
of  resplendent  golden  green. 

"  I  almost  wish  I  were  not  a  painter,"  observed  my  com- 
panion. 

44  Why  so  ?  one  would  think  at  such  a  time  you  would 
most  exult  in  your  privilege  of  being  able  to  imitate  the 
various  brilliant  and  delightful  touches  of  nature." 

4 '  No  ;  for  instead  of  delivering  myself  up  to  the  full  en- 
joyment of  them  as  others  do,  I  am  always  troubling  my  head 
about  how  I  could  produce  the  same  effect  upon  canvas ; 
and  as  that  can  never  be  done,  it  is  mere  vanity  and  vexation 
of  spirit." 

44  Perhaps  you  cannot  do  it  to  satisfy  yourself,  but  you  may 
and  do  succeed  in  delighting  others  with  the  result  of  your 
endeavours." 

"  Well,  after  all  I  should  not  complain :  perhaps  few  people 


64  THE  TENANT 

gam  their  livelihood  with  so  much  pleasure  in  their  toil  as  1 
do.  Here  is  some  one  coming." 

She  seemed  vexed  at  the  interruption. 

"It  is  only  Mr.  Lawrence  and  Miss  Wilson,"  said  I, 
41  coming  to  enjoy  a  quiet  stroll.  They  will  not  disturb  us." 

I  could  not  quite  decipher  the  expression  of  her  face  ;  but 
I  was  satisfied  there  was  no  jealousy  therein.  What  business 
had  I  to  look  ior  it  ? 

"  What  sort  of  a  person  is  Miss  Wilson  ?"  she  asked. 

"  She  is  elegant  and  accomplished  above  the  generality  of 
her  birth  and  station ;  and  some  say  she  is  lady-like  and 
agreeable." 

"  I  thought  her  somewhat  frigid,  and  rather  supercilious  in 
her  manner  to-day." 

"  Very  likely  she  might  be  so  to  you.  She  has  possibly 
taken  a  prejudice  against  you,  for  I  think  she  regards  you  in 
the  light  of  a  rival." 

"Me!  Impossible,  Mr.  Markham!"  said  she,  evidently 
astonished  and  annoyed. 

"  Well,  I  know  nothing  about  it,"  returned  I,  rather  dog- 
gedly ;  for  I  thought  her  annoyance  was  chiefly  against  myself. 

The  pair  had  now  approached  within  a  few  paces  ot  us. 
Our  arbour  was  set  snugly  back  in  a  corner  before  which  the 
avenue  at  its  termination  turned  off  into  the  more  airy  walk 
along  the  bottom  of  the  garden.  As  they  approached  this,  I 
saw,  by  the  aspect  of  Jane  Wilson,  that  she  was  directing  her 
companion's  attention  to  us ;  and,  as  well  by  her  cold,  sar- 
castic smile  as  by  the  few  isolated  words  of  her  discourse  that 
reached  me,  I  knew  full  well  that  she  was  impressing  him 
with  the  idea  that  we  were  strongly  attached  to  each  other.  I 
noticed  that  he  coloured  up  to  the  temples,  gave  us  one  fur- 
tive glance  in  passing,  and  walked  on,  looking  grave,  but 
seemingly  offering  no  reply  to  her  remarks. 

It  was  true,  then,  that  he  had  some  designs  upon  Mrs.  Gra- 
ham ;  and,  were  they  honourable,  he  would  not  be  so  anxious 
to  conceal  them.  She  was  blameless,  of  course,  but  he  was 
detestable  beyond  all  count. 

While  these  thoughts  flashed  through  my  mind,  my  compa- 
nion abruptly  rose,  and  calling  her  son,  said  they  would  no\» 
«jo  in  quest  of  the  company,  and  departed  up  the  avenue. 
Doubtless  she  had  heard  or  guessed  something  of  Miss  Wil- 
son's remarks,  and  therefore  it  was  natural  enough  she  should 
choose  to  continue  the  t§te-a-tete  no  longer,  especially  as  at 
that  moment  my  cheeks  were  burning  with  indignation  against 
my  former  friend,  the  token  of  which  she  might  mistake  for  a 
Hush  of  stupid  embarrassment.  For  this  I  owed  Miss  Wilson 


OF   WILDFELL  HALL.  65 

yet  another  grudge  ;  and  still  the  more  I  thought  upon  her 
conduct  the  more  I  hated  her. 

It  was  late  in  the  evening  before  I  joined  the  company.  I 
found  Mrs.  Graham  already  equipped  for  departure,  and 
taking  leave  of  the  rest  who  were  now  returned  to  the  house. 
I  offered,  nay,  begged  to  accompany  her  home.  Mr.  Law- 
rence was  standing  by  at  the  time  conversing  with  some  one 
else.  He  did  not  look  at  us,  but,  on  hearing  my  earnest  re- 
quest, he  paused  in  the  middle  of  a  sentence  to  listen  for  her 
reply,  and  went  on,  with  a  look  of  quiet  satisfaction  the  mo- 
ment he  found  it  was  to  be  a  denial. 

A  denial  it  was,  decided,  though  not  unkind.  She  could 
not  be  persuaded  to  think  there  was  danger  for  herself  or  her 
child  in  traversing  those  lonely  lanes  and  fields  without  at- 
tendance. It  was  daylight  still,  and  she  should  meet  no 
one ;  or  if  she  did,  the  people  were  quiet  and  harmless  she 
was  well  assured.  In  fact  she  would  not  hear  of  any  one's 
putting  himself  out  of  the  way  to  accompany  her,  though 
Fergus  vouchsafed  to  offer  his  services  in  case  they  should  be 
more  acceptable  than  mine,  and  my  mother  begged  she  might 
send  one  of  the  farming-men  to  escort  her. 

When  she  was  gone  the  rest  was  all  a  blank  or  worse. 
Lawrence  attempted  to  draw  me  into  conversation,  but  I 
snubbed  him  and  went  to  another  part  of  the  room.  Shortly 
after  the  party  broke  up  and  he  himself  took  leave.  When 
he  came  to  me  I  was  blind  to  his  extended  hand,  and  deaf  to 
his  good  night  till  he  repeated  it  a  second  time  ;  and  then,  to 
get  rid  of  him,  I  muttered  an  inarticulate  reply  accompanied 
by  a  sulky  nod. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Markham?"  whispered  he. 

I  replied  by  a  wrathful  and  contemptuous  stare. 

"  Are  you  angry  because  Mrs.  Graham  would  not  let  you 
go  home  with  her  ?  "  he  asked  with  a  faint  smile  that  nearly 
exasperated  me  beyond  control. 

But,  swallowing  down  all  fiercer  answers,  I  merely  de- 
manded,— 

"  What  business  is  it  of  yours?  " 

"  Why,  none,"  replied  he,  with  provoking  quietness ; 
"  only,"  and  he  raised  his  eyes  to  my  face,  and  spoke  with 
unusual  solemnity,  "  only  let  me  tell  you,  Markham,  that  if 
you  have  any  designs  in  that  quarter  they  will  certainly  fail ; 
and  it  grieves  me  to  see  you  cherishing  false  hopes,  and  wast- 
ing your  strength  in  useless  efforts,  for " 

""Hypocrite!"  I  exclaimed;  and  he  held  his  breath,  and 
looked  very  blank,  turned  white  about  the  gills,  and  went 
away  without  another  word. 

I  had  wounded  him  to  the  quick ;  and  I  was  glad  of  it. 

5 


66  THE  TESAKT 


CHAPTER  X. 

were  gone,  I  learnt  that  the  vile  slander  had  ir.- 
deed  been  circulated  throughout  the  company,  in  the  very 
presence  of  the  victim.  Rose,  however,  vowed  she  did  no* 
and  would  not  believe  it,  and  my  mother  made  the  same  de- 
claration, though  not,  I  fear,  with  the  same  amount  of  real, 
unwavering  incredulity.  It  seemed  to  dwell  continually  on 
her  mind,  and  she  kept  irritating  me  from  time  to  time  by 
such  expressions  as — "  Dear,  dear,  who  would  have  thought 
it ! — Well !  I  always  thought  there  was  something  odd  about 
her. — You  see  what  it  is  for  women  to  affect  to  be  different  to 
other  people."  And  once  it  was, — 

"  I  misdoubted  that  appearance  of  mystery  from  the  very 
first — I  thought  there  would  no  good  come  of  it ;  but  this  is 
a  sad,  sad  business  to  be  sure ! " 

"  Why  mother,  you  said  you  didn't  believe  these  tales," 
said  Fergus. 

u  No  more  I  do,  my  dear  ;  but  then,  you  know,  there  must 
be  some  foundation." 

"The  foundation  is  in  the  wickedness  and  falsehood  of  the 
world,"  said  I,  "  and  in  the  i'act  that  Mr.  Lawrence  has  been 
seen  to  go  that  way  once  or  twice  of  an  evening — and  the  vil- 
lage gossips  say  he  goes  to  pay  his  addresses  to  the  strange 
lady,  and  the  scandal-mongers  have  greedily  seized  the  ru- 
mour, to  make  it  the  basis  of  their  own  infernal  structure." 

"  Well,  but  Gilbert,  there  must  be  something  in  her  man- 
ner to  countenance  such  reports." 

"  Did  you  see  anything  in  her  manner  ?" 

"  No,  certainly ;  but  then  you  know,  I  always  said  there 
was  something  strange  about  her." 

I  believe  it  was  on  that  very  evening  that  I  ventured  on 
another  invasion  of  Wildfell  Hall.  From  the  time  of  our 
party,  which  was  upwards  of  a  week  ago,  I  had  been  making 
daily  efforts  to  meet  its  mistress  in  her  walks ;  and  always 
disappointed  (she  must  have  managed  it  so  on  purpose), 
had  nightly  kept  revolving  in  my  mind  some  pretext  for 
another  call.  At  length,  I  concluded  that  the  separation  could 
be  endured  no  longer  (by  this  time,  you  will  see,  I  was  pretty 
lar  gone)  ;  and,  taking  from  the  book  case  an  old  volume  that  1 
thought  she  might  be  interested  in,  though,  from  its  unsightly 
and  somewhat  dilapidated  condition,  I  had  not  yet  ventured  to 
offer  it  for  perusal,  I  hastened  away, — but  hot  without  sundry 
misgivings  as  to  how  she  would  receive  me,  or  how  I  could 
Bummon  courage  to  present  inyseJf  with  BO  slight  r.n  excuse. 


OF   WILDFELL   HALL.  67 

But,  perhaps,  I  might  see  her  in  the  field  or  the  garden,  and 
then  there  would  be  no  great  difficulty :  it  was  the  lormal 
knocking  at  the  door,  with  the  prospect  of  being  gravely 
ushered  in  by  Rachel,  lo  the  presence  of  a  surprised,  uncor. 
dial  mhtress,  that  so  greatly  disturbed  me. 

My  wish,  however,  was  not  gratified.  Mrs.  Graham,  her- 
self, was  not  to  be  seen ;  but  there  was  Arthur  playing  with 
his  frolicsome  little  dog  in  the  garden.  I  looked  over  the  gate 
and  called  him  to  me.  He  wanted  me  to  come  in ;  but  I  told 
him  I  could  not  without  his  mother's  leave. 

"  I'll  go  and  ask  her,"  said  the  child. 

"No,  no,  Arthur,  you  mustn't  do  that, — but  if  she's  not  en- 
gaged, just  ask  her  to  come  here  a  minute :  tell  her  I  want 
to  speak  to  her." 

He  ran  to  perform  my  bidding,  and  quickly  returned  with 
his  mother.  How  lovely  she  looked  with  her  dark  ringlets 
streaming  in  the  light  summer  breeze,  her  lair  cheek  slightly 
flushed  and  her  countenance  radiant  with  smiles !  —  Dear 
Arthur  !  what  did  I  not  owe  to  you  for  this  and  every  other 
happy  meeting? — Through  him,  I  was  at  once  delivered  from  all 
formality,  and  terror,  and  constraint.  In  love  affairs,  there  is  no 
mediator  like  a  merry,  simple -hearted  child — ever  ready  to 
cement  divided  hearts,  to  span  the  unfriendly  gulph  of  custom, 
to  melt  the  ice  of  cold  reserve,  and  overthrow  the  separating 
walls  of  dread  formality  and  pride. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Markham,  what  is  it?"  said  the  young  mother, 
accosting  me  with  a  pleasant  smile. 

"  I  want  you  to  look  at  this  book,  and,  if  you  please,  to 
take  it,  and  peruse  it  at  your  leisure.  I  make  no  apology  for 
calling  you  out  on  such  a  lovely  evening,  though  it  be  for  a 
matter  of  no  greater  importance." 

"  Tell  him  to  come  in,  mamma,"  said  Arthur. 

"  Would  you  like  to  come  in  ?"  asked  the  lady. 

"Yes  ;  I  should  like  to  see  your  improvements  in  the  gar- 
den." 

u  And  how  your  sister's  roots  have  prospered  in  my  charge," 
added  she,  as  she  opened  the  gate. 

And  we  sauntered  through  the  garden,  and  talked  of  the 
flowers,  the  trees,  and  the  book, — and  then  of  other  things. 
The  evening  was  kind  and  genial,  and  so  was  my  companion. 
By  degrees,  I  waxed  more  warm  and  tender  than,  perhaps,  1 
had  ever  been  before  ;  but  still,  I  said  nothing  tangible,  and 
she  attempted  no  repulse ;  until,  in  passing  a  moss  rose-tree 
that  I  had  brought  her  some  weeks  since,  in  my  sister's  name, 
she  plucked  a  beautiful  half  open  bud  and  bade  me  give  it  to 
Rose. 

"May  I  not  keep  it  myself?"  I  asked. 


68  THE   TENANT 

"  No  ;  but  here  is  another  for  you." 

Instead  of  taking  it  quietly,  I  likewise  took  the  hand  that 
offered  it,  and  looked  into  her  face.  She  let  me  hold  it  for  a 
moment,  and  I  saw  a  flash  of  ecstatic  brilliance  in  her  eye,  a 
glow  of  glad  excitement  on  her  face — I  thought  my  hour  of 
victory  was  come — but  instantly,  a  painful  recollection  seemed 
to  flash  upon  her  ;  a  cloud  of  anguish  darkened  her  brow,  a 
marble  paleness  blanched  her  cheek  and  lip  ;  there  seemed  a 
moment  of  inward  conflict, — and  with  a  sudden  effort,  she 
withdrew  her  hand,  and  retreated  a  step  or  two  back. 

"  Now,  Mr.  Markham,"  said  she,  with  a  kind  of  desperate 
calmness,  "  I  must  tell  you  plainly,  that  I  cannot  do  with  this. 
1  like  your  company,  because  I  am  alone  here,  and  your  con- 
versation pleases  me  more  than  that  of  any  other  person ;  but 
if  you  cannot  be  content  to  regard  me  as  a  friend — a  plain,  cold, 
motherly,  or  sisterly  friend,  I  must  beg  you  to  leave  me  now, 
and  let  me  alone  hereafter — in  fact,  we  must  be  strangers  for 
the  future." 

"  I  will,  then — be  your  friend, — or  brother,  or  anything  you 
wish,  if  you  will  only  let  me  continue  to  see  you  ;  but  tell  me 
why  I  cannot  be  anything  more  ?  " 

There  was  a  perplexed  and  thoughtful  pause. 

"Is  it  in  consequence  of  some  rash  vow?" 

"  It  is  something  of  the  kind,"  she  answered — u  some  day  I 
may  tell  you,  but,  at  present  you  had  better  leave  me  ;  and 
never,  Gilbert,  put  me  to  the  painful  necessity  of  repeating 
what  I  have  just  now  said  to  you!" — she  earnestly  added, 
giving  me  her  hand  in  serious  kindness.  How  sweet,  how 
musical  my  own  name  sounded  in  her  mouth  ! 

"  I  will  not,"  I  replied.     "  But  you  pardon  this  oftence  ?  " 

"  On  condition  that  you  never  repeat  it." 

"  And  may  I  come  to  see  you  now  and  then  ?  " 

u  Perhaps,  —  occasionally  ;  provided  you  never  abuse  the 
privilege." 

"  I  make  no  empty  promises,  but  you  shall  see." 

41  The  moment  you  do,  our  intimacy  is  at  an  end,  that's 
all." 

"And  will  you  always  call  me  Gilbert? — it  sounds  more 
sisterly,  and  it  will  serve  to  remind  me  of  our  contract." 

She  smiled,  and  once  more  bid  me  go, — and,  at  length,  I 
judged  it  prudent  to  obey ;  and  she  re-entered  the  house,  aud 
I  went  down  the  hill.  But  as  I  went,  the  tramp  of  horses' 
hoofs  fell  on  my  ear,  and  b/oke  the  stillness  of  the  dewy 
evening ;  and,  looking  towards  the  lane,  I  saw  a  solitary 
equestrian  coming  up.  Inclining  to  dusk  as  it  was,  I  knew 
him  at  a  glance :  it  was  Mr.  Lawrence  on  his  grey  pony.  1 
flew  across  the  field — leaped  the  stone  fence — and  then  walked 


OF  WILDFELL   HALL.  69 

down  the  lane  to  meet  him.  On  seeing  me,  he  suddenly  drew 
in  his  little  steed,  and  seemed  inclined  to  turn  back,  but  on 
second  thought,  apparently  judged  it  better  to  continue  his 
course  as  before.  He  accosted  me  with  a  slight  bow,  and 
edging  close  to  the  wall,  endeavoured  to  pass  on — but  I  was 
not  so  minded  :  seizing  his  horse  by  the  bridle,  I  exclaimed, — 

u  Now  Lawrence,  I  will  have  this  mystery  explained !  Tell 
me  where  you  are  going,  and  what  you  mean  to  do  —at  once, 
and  distinctly!" 

"Will  you  take  your  hand  off  the  bridle?"  said  he,  quietly 
— "  you're  hurting  my  pony's  mouth." 

"  You  and  your  pony  be " 

"  What  makes  you  so  coarse  and  brutal,  Markham  ?  I'm 
quite  ashamed  of  you." 

"  You  answer  my  questions — before  you  leave  this  spot  1  I 
will  know  what  you  mean  by  this  perfidious  duplicity ! " 

"  I  shall  answer  no  questions  till  you  let  go  the  bridle, — if 
you  stand  till  morning." 

"  Now  then,"  said  I,  unclosing  my  hand,  but  still  standing 
before  him. 

"Ask  me  some  other  time,  when  you  can  speak  like  a  gen- 
tleman," returned  he,  and  he  made  an  effort  to  pass  me  again ; 
but  I  quickly  re-captured  the  pony,  scarce  less  astonished  than 
its  master  at  such  uncivil  usage. 

"Really  Mr.  Markham,  this  is  too  much!"  said  the  latter. 
"  Can  I  not  go  to  see  my  tenant  on  matters  of  business,  with- 
out being  assaulted  in  this  manner  by " 

"This  is  no  time  for  business,  sir! — I'll  tell  you,  now,  what 
I  think  of  your  conduct." 

"  You'd  better  defer  your  opinion  to  a  more  convenient 
season,"  interrupted  he  in  a  low  tone — "  here's  the  vicar." 

And  in  truth,  the  vicar  was  just  behind  me,  plodding  home- 
ward from  some  remote  corner  of  his  parish.  I  immediately 
released  the  squire ;  and  he  went  on  his  way,  saluting  Mr. 
Millward  as  he  passed. 

"What  quarrelling,  Markham?"  cried  the  latter,  addressing 
himself  to  me, — "  and  about  that  young  widow  I  doubt,"  he 
added,  reproachfully  shaking  his  head.  "  But  let  me  tell  you, 
young  man,"  (here  he  put  his  face  into  mine  with  an  impor- 
tant, confidential  air,)  "  she's  not  worth  it! "and  he  confirmed 
the  assertion  by  a  solemn  nod. 

"  MR.  MILLWARD,"  I  exclaimed,  in  a  tone  of  wrathful  men- 
ace that  made  the  reverend  gentleman  look  round — aghast — 
astounded  at  such  unwonted  insolence,  and  stare  me  in  the 
face,  with  a  look  that  plainly  said:  "What,  this  to  me!" 
But  I  was  too  indignant  to  apologise,  or  to  speak  another  word 


70  THE  TENANT 

to  him :  I  turned  away,  and  hastened  homewards,  descending 
with  rapid  strides  the  steep,  rough  lane,  and  leaving  him  to 
follow  as  he  pleased. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

You  must  suppose  ahout  three  weeks  past  over.  Mrs 
Graham  and  I  were  now  established  friends — or  brother  and 
sister  as  we  rather  chose  to  consider  ourselves.  She  called 
me  Gilbert,  by  my  express  desire,  and  I  called  her  Helen,  for 
I  had  seen  that  name  written  in  her  books.  I  seldom  at- 
tempted to  see  her  above  twice  a-week ;  and  still  I  made  our 
meetings  appear  the  result  of  accident  as  often  as  I  could — for 
I  found  it  necessary  to  be  extremely  careful — and,  altogether, 
I  behaved  with  such  exceeding  propriety  that  she  never  had 
occasion  to  reprove  me  once.  Yet  I  could  not  but  perceive 
that  she  was  at  times  unhappy  and  dissatisfied  with  herself 
or  her  position,  and  truly  I  myself  was  not  quite  contented 
with  the  latter :  this  assumption  of  brotherly  nonchalance  was 
very  hard  to  sustain,  and  I  often  felt  myself  a  most  confounded 
Hypocrite  with  it  all ;  I  saw  too,  or  rather  I  felt,  that,  in  spite 
of  herself,  '  I  was  not  indifferent  to  her,'  as  the  novel  heroes 
modestly  express  it,  and  while  I  thankfully  enjoyed  my  pre- 
sent good  fortune,  I  could  not  fail  to  wish  and  hope  for  some- 
thing better  in  future ;  but,  of  course,  I  kept  such  dreams 
entirely  to  myself. 

"  Where  are  you  going,  Gilbert  ?  "  said  Rose,  one  evening, 
shortly  after  tea,  when  I  had  been  busy  with  the  farm  all  day. 

"  To  take  a  walk,"  was  the  reply. 

"  Do  you  always  brush  your  hat  so  carefully,  and  do  your 
hair  so  nicely,  and  put  on  such  smart  new  gloves  when  you 
take  a  walk?" 

"  Not  always." 

"You're  going  to  Wildfell  Hall,  aren't  you?" 

"  What  makes  you  think  so  ?" 

"  Because  you  look  as  if  you  were — but  1  wish  you  wouldn't 
go  so  often." 

"  Nonsense,  child !  I  don't  go  once  in  six  weeks — what  do 
you  mean  ?  " 

"  Well,  but  if  I  were  you,  I  wouldn't  have  BO  much  to  do 
with  Mrs.  Graham." 

"  Why  Rose,  are  you,  too,  giving  in  to  the  prevailing  opi- 
nion?" 

"  No,"  returned  she,  hesitatingly — "  but  I've  heard  so  much 
about  her  lately,  both  at  the  "Wilsons  and  the  vicarage ; — and 


OF   WTLDFELL   HALL.  71 

besides,  mamma  says,  if  she  were  a  proper  person  she  would 
not  be  living  there  by  herself— and  don't  you  remember  last 
winter,  Gilbert,  all  that  about  the  false  name  to  the  picture  ; 
and  how  she  explained  it — saying  she  had  friends  or  acquaint- 
ances from  wlioni  she  wished  her  present  residence  to  be  con- 
cealed, and  that  she  was  afraid  of  their  tracing  her  out ; — and 
then,  how  suddenly  she  started  up  and  left  the  room  when 
that  person  came — whom  she  took  good  care  not  to  let  us 
catch  a  glimpse  of,  and  who  Arthur,  with  such  an  air  of  mys- 
tery, told  us  was  his  mamma's  friend  ?" 

"  Yes  Rose,  I  remember  it  all ;  and  I  can  forgive  your  un- 
charitable conclusions ;  for  perhaps,  if  I  did  not  know  her 
myself,  I  should  put  all  these  things  together,  and  believe  the 
same  as  you  do ;  but  thank  God,  I  do  know  her;  and  I  should 
be  unworthy  the  name  of  a  man,  if  I  could  believe  anything 
that  was  said  against  her,  unless  I  heard  it  from  her  own  lips. 
— I  should  as  soon  believe  such  things  of  you,  Rose." 

"Oh,  Gilbert!" 

"  Well,  do  you  think  I  could  believe  anything  of  the  kind, 
— whatever  the  Wilsons  and  Millwards  dared  to  whisper?" 

"  I  should  hope  not  indeed !" 

"And  why  not? — Because  I  know  you — Well,  and  I  know 
her  just  as  well." 

"  Oh,  no !  you  know  nothing  of  her  former  life  ;  and  last 
year  at  this  time,  you  did  not  know  that  such  a  person  ex- 
isted." 

"  No  matter.  There  is  such  a  thing  as  looking  through  a 
person's  eyes  into  the  heart,  and  learning  more  of  the  height, 
and  breadth,  and  depth  of  another's  soul  in  one  hour,  than  it 
might  take  you  a  lifetime  to  discover,  if  he  or  she  were  not  dis- 
posed to  reveal  it,  or  if  you  had  not  the  sense  to  understand  it." 

"  Then  you  are  going  to  see  her  this  evening  ?" 

"To  be  sure  I  am!" 

"  But  what  would  mamma  say,  Gilbert  ?" 

"  Mamma  needn't  know." 

"  But  she  must  know  some  time,  if  you  go  on," 

"Go  on !— there's  no  going  on  in  the  matter.  Mrs.  Gra- 
ham and  I  are  two  friends — and  will  be  ;  and  no  man  breath- 
ing shall  hinder  it, — or  has  a  right  to  interfere  between  us." 

"  But  if  you  knew  how  they  talk,  you  would  be  more  care- 
ful, for  her  sake  as  well  as  for  your  own.  Jane  Wilson  thinks 
your  visits  to  the  old  hall  but  another  proof  of  her  de- 
pravity  " 

"  Confound  Jane  Wilson !" 

"  And  Eliza  Millward  is  quite  grieved  about  you." 

"  I  hope  she  is." 

"  But  I  wouldn't,  if  I  were  you 


72  THE  TENANT 

41  Wouldn't  what  ? — How  do  they  know  that  I  go  there  ?" 

"  There's  nothing  hid  from  them :  they  spy  out  every- 
thing." 

"  Oh,  I  never  thought  of  this  ! — And  so  they  dare  to  turn 
my  friendship  into  food  for  further  scandal  against  her ! — 
That  proves  the  falsehood  of  their  other  lies,  at  all  events,  if 
any  proof  were  wanting. —  Mind  you  contradict  them,  Rose, 
whenever  you  can." 

"  But  they  don't  speak  openly  to  me  about  such  things :  it 
is  only  by  hints  and  innuendoes,  and  by  what  I  hear  others 
say,  that  I  knew  what  they  think." 

"  Well  then,  I  won't  go  to  day,  as  it's  getting  latish.  But 
oh,  deuce  take  their  cursed  envenomed  tongues  1"  I  muttered, 
in  the  bitterness  of  my  soul. 

And  just  at  that  moment  the  vicar  entered  the  room  :  we 
had  been  too  much  absorbed  in  our  conversation  to  observe 
his  knock.  After  his  customary,  cheerful,  and  fatherly  greet- 
ing of  Rose,  who  was  rather  a  favourite  with  the  old  gentle- 
man, he  turned  somewhat  sternly  to  me  : 

"Well,  sir!"  said  he,  "you're  quite  a  stranger.  It  is — 
let — me — see,"  he  continued,  slowly,  as  he  deposited  his  pon- 
derous bulk  in  the  arm  chair  that  Rose  officiously  brought 
towards  him,  "  it  is  just — six — weeks — by  my  reckoning,  since 
you  darkened — my — door!"  He  spoke  it  with  emphasis,  and 
struck  his  stick  on  the  floor. 

"  Is  it  sir  ?  "  said  I. 

"Ay  !  It  is  so !"  He  added  an  affirmatory  nod,  and  con- 
tinued to  gaze  upon  me  with  a  kind  of  irate  solemnity,  holding 
his  substantial  stick  between  his  knees,  with  his  hands  clasped 
upon  its  head. 

"  I  have  been  busy,"  I  said,  for  an  apology  was  evidently 
demanded. 

"  Busy  !"  repeated  he,  derisively. 

"  Yes,  you  know  I've  been  getting  in  my  hay  ;  and  now  the 
harvest  is  beginning." 

"  Humph !" 

Just  then  my  mother  came  in,  and  created  a  diversion  in 
my  favour,  by  her  loquacious  and  animated  welcome  of  the 
reverend  guest.  She  regretted  deeply  that  he  had  not  come 
a  little  earlier,  in  time  for  tea,  but  offered  to  have  some  im- 
mediately prepared,  if  he  would  do  her  the  favour  to  partake 
of  it. 

"  Not  any  for  me,  I  thank  you,"  replied  he  ;  "  I  shall  be  at 
home  in  a  few  minutes." 

"  Oh,  but  do  stay  and  take  a  little  !  it  will  be  ready  in  five 
minutes." 

But  he  rejected  the  offer,  with  a  majestic  wave  of  the  band. 


OF   WILDFELL  HALL.  73 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  take,  Mrs.  Markham,"  said  he :  "  111 
take  a  glass  of  your  excellent  ale." 

"  With  pleasure  !"  cried  my  mother,  proceeding  with  ala- 
crity to  pull  the  bell  and  order  the  favoured  beverage. 

u  I  thought,"  continued  he,  "  I'd  just  look  in  upon  you  as 
I  passed,  and  taste  your  home-brewed  ale.  I've  been  to  call 
on  Mrs.  Graham." 

;'  Have  you,  indeed?" 

lie  nodded  gravely,  and  added  with  awful  emphasis — 

"  I  thought  it  incumbent  upon  me  to  do  so." 

"Really!"  ejaculated  my  mother. 

"Why  so,  Mr.  Mill  ward?"  asked  I.  He  looked  at  me 
with  some  severity,  and  turning  again  to  my  mother,  re- 
peated,— 

"I  thought  it  incumbent  upon  me !"  and  struck  his  stick 
on  the  floor  again.  My  mother  sat  opposite,  an  awe-struck 
but  admiring  auditor. 

"  '  Mrs.  Graham,'  said  I,"  he  continued,  shaking  his  head 
as  he  spoke,  "'these  are  terrible  reports!'  'What,  sir?' 
says  she,  affecting  to  be  ignorant  of  my  meaning.  '  It  is  my 
— duty — as — your  pastor,'  said  I, '  to  tell  you  both  everything 
that  I  myself  see  reprehensible  in  your  conduct,  and  all  I 
have  reason  to  suspect,  and  what  others  tell  me  concerning 
3'ou.' — So  I  told  her  !" 

"You  did,  sir?"  cried  I,  starting  from  my  seat,  and  strik- 
ing my  fist  on  the  table.  He  merely  glanced  towards  me, 
and  continued — addressing  his  hostess  : — 

"It  was  a  painful  duty,  Mrs.  Markham — but  I  told  her  I" 

"  And  how  did  she  take  it  ?  "  asked  my  mother. 

"  Hardened,  I  fear — hardened  !"  he  replied,  with  a  despon- 
dent shake  of  the  head ;  "  and,  at  the  same  time,  there  was 
a  strong  display  of  unchastened,  misdirected  passions.  She 
turned  white  in  the  face,  and  drew  her  breath  through  her 
teeth  in  a  savage  sort  of  way ; — but  she  offered  no  extenua- 
tion or  defence ;  and  with  a  kind  of  shameless  calmness — 
shocking  indeed  to  witness  in  one  so  young — as  good  as  told 
me  that  my  remonstrance  was  unavailing,  and  my  pastoral 
advice  quite  thrown  away  upon  her — nay,  that  my  very  pre- 
sence was  displeasing  while  I  spoke  such  things.  And  I  with- 
drew at  length,  too  plainly  seeing  that  nothing  could  be  done 
— and  sadly  grieved  to  find  her  case  so  hopeless.  But  I  am 
fully  determined,  Mrs.  Markham,  that  my  daughters — shall 
— not — consort  with  her.  Do  you  adopt  the  same  resolution 
with  regard  to  yours  ! — As  for  your  sons — as  for  you,  young 
man,"  he  continued,  sternly  turning  to  me 

"  As  for  ME,  sir,"  I  began,  but  checked  by  some  impedi- 
ment in  my  utterance,  and  finding  that  my  whole  frame  trem- 


74  THE  TENANT 

bled  with  fury,  I  said  no  more,  but  took  the  wiser  part  ol 
snatching  up  my  hat  and  bolting  from  the  room,  slamming 
the  door  behind  me,  with  a  bang  that  shook  the  house  to  its 
foundations,  and  made  my  mother  scream,  and  gave  a  mo- 
mentary relief  to  my  excited  feelings. 

The  next  minute  saw  me  hurrying  with  rapid  strides  in  the 
direction  of  Wildfell  Hall — to  what  intent  or  purpose  I  could 
scarcely  tell,  but  I  must  be  moving  somewhere,  and  no  other 
goal  would  do — I  must  see  her  too,  and  speak  to  her — that 
was  certain  ;  but  what  to  say,  or  how  to  act,  I  had  no  definite 
idea.  Such  stormy  thoughts — so  many  different  resolutions 
crowded  in  upon  me,  that  my  mind  was  little  better  than  a 
chaos  of  conflicting  passions. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

IN  little  more  than  twenty  minutes,  the  journey  was  accom- 
plished. I  paused  at  the  gate  to  wipe  my  streaming  fore- 
head, and  recover  my  breath  and  some  degree  ot  composure. 
Already  the  rapid  walking  had  somewhat  mitigated  my  ex- 
citement ;  and  with  a  firm  and  steady  tread,  I  paced  the 
garden  walk.  In  passing  the  inhabited  wing  of  the  building, 
I  caught  a  sight  of  Mrs.  Graham,  through  the  open  window, 
slowly  pacing  up  and  down  her  lonely  room. 

She  seemed  agitated,  and  even  dismayed  at  my  arrival,  as 
if  she  thought  I  too  was  coming  to  accuse  her.  1  had  entered 
her  presence  intending  to  condole  with  her  upon  the  wicked- 
ness of  the  world,  and  help  her  to.  abuse  the  vicar  and  his  vile 
informants,  but  now  I  felt  positively  ashamed  to  mention  the 
subject,  and  determined  not  to  refer  to  it,  unless  she  led  the 
way. 

"  I  am  come  at  an  unseasonable  hour,"  said  I,  assuming  a 
cheerfulness  I  did  not  feel,  in  order  to  reassure  her ;  "  but  I 
won't  stay  many  minutes." 

She  smiled  upon  me,  faintly  it  is  true,  but  most  kindly — I 
had  almost  said  thankfully,  as  her  apprehensions  were  re- 
moved. 

11  How  dismal  you  are,  Helen!  Why  have  you  no  fire?" 
I  said,  looking  round  on  the  gloomy  apartment. 

"  It  is  summer  yet,"  she  replied. 

"  But  we  always  have  a  fire  in  the  evenings,  if  we  can  bear 
it ;  and  you  especially  require  one  in  this  cold  house  and 
dreary  room." 

"  You  should  have  come  a  little  sooner,  and  I  would  have 
had  one  lighted  for  you  ;  but  it  is  not  worth  while  now,  you 
won't  stay  many  minutes  you  say,  and  Arthur  is  gone  to  bed." 


u*    WILDFELL  HALL.  75 

"But  I  have  a  fancy  for  a  fire,  nevertheless.  Will  you 
order  one,  if  I  ring?" 

"  Why,  Gilbert,  you  don't  look  cold  !"  said  she,  smilingly 
regarding  my  face,  which  no  doubt  seemed  warm  enough. 

"  No,"  replied  I,  "  but  I  want  to  see  you  comfortable 
before  I  go." 

"Me  comfortable  !"  repeated  she,  with  a  bitter  laugh,  as  if 
there  were  something  amusingly  absurd  in  the  idea.  "  It 
suits  me  better  as  it  is,"  she  added,  in  a  tone  of  mournful  re- 
signation. 

But  determined  to  have  my  own  way,  I  pulled  the  bell. 

"There  now,  Helen!"  I  said,  as  the  approaching  steps  of 
Rachel  were  heard  in  answer  to  the  summons.  There  was 
nothing  for  it  but  to  turu  round  and  desire  the  maid  to  light 
the  fire. 

I  owe  Rachel  a  grudge  to  this  day,  for  the  look  she  cast 
upon  me  ere  she  departed  on  her  mission,  the  sour,  suspi- 
cious, inquisitorial  look  that  plainly  demanded,  "  what  are  you 
here  for,  1  wonder  ?  "  Her  mistress  did  not  fail  to  notice  it, 
and  a  shade  of  uneasiness  darkened  her  brow. 

"  You  must  not  stay  long,  Gilbert,"  said  she,  when  the 
door  was  closed  upon  us. 

"  I'm  not  going  to,"  said  I,  somewhat  testily,  though  with- 
out a  grain  of  anger  in  my  heart  against  any  one  but  the  med- 
dling old  woman.  "  But,  Helen,  I've  something  to  say  to 
you  before  I  go." 

"What  is  it?" 

"  No,  not  now — I  don't  know  yet  precisely  what  it  is,  or 
how  to  say  it,"  replied  I,  with  more  truth  than  wisdom ;  and 
then,  fearing  lest  she  should  turn  me  out  of  the  house,  I 
began  talking  about  indifferent  matters  in  order  to  gain  time. 
Meanwhile  Rachel  came  in  to  kindle  the  fire,  which  was  soon 
effected  by  thrusting  a  red-hot  poker  between  the  bars  of  the 
grate,  where  the  fuel  was  already  disposed  for  ignition.  She 
honoured  me  with  another  of  her  hard,  inhospitable  looks  in 
departing,  but,  little  moved  thereby,  I  went  on  talking  ;  and 
setting  a  chair  for  Mrs.  Graham  on  one  side  of  the  hearth, 
and  one  for  myself  on  the  other,  I  ventured  to  sit  down, 
though  half  suspecting  she  would  rather  see  me  go. 

In  a  little  while  we  both  relapsed  into  silence,  and  con- 
tinued for  several  minutes  gazing  abstractedly  into  the  fire — 
she  intent  upon  her  own  sad  thoughts,  and  I  reflecting  how 
delightful  it  would  be  to  be  seated  thus  beside  her  with  no 
other  presence  to  restrain  our  intercourse — not  even  that  of 
Arthur,  our  mutual  friend,  without  whom  we  had  never  met 
before — if  only  I  could  venture  to  speak  my  mind,  and  dis- 
burden my  full  heart  of  the  feelings  that  had  so  long  op- 


76  THE  TENANT 

pressed  it,  and  which  it  now  struggled  to  retain,  with  an 
effort  that  it  seemed  impossible  to  continue  much  longer, — 
and  revolving  the  pros  and  cons  for  opening  my  heart  to  her 
there  and  then,  and  imploring  a  return  of  affection,  the  per- 
mission to  regard  her  thenceforth  as  my  own,  and  the  right 
and  the  power  to  defend  her  from  the  calumnies  of  malicious 
tongues.  On  the  one  hand,  I  felt  a  new-born  confidence  in 
my  powers  of  persuasion — a  strong  conviction  that  my  own 
fervour  of  spirit  would  grant  me  eloquence — that  my  very 
determination — the  absolute  necessity  ior  succeeding,  that  I 
Celt  must  win  me  what  I  sought ;  while  on  the  other,  I  Isared 
to  lose  the  ground  I  had  already  gained  with  so  much  toil 
and  skill,  and  destroy  all  future  hope  by  one  rash  en'ort,  when 
time  and  patience  might  have  won  success.  It  was  like  set- 
ting my  life  upon  the  cast  of  a  die  ;  and  yet  I  was  ready  to 
resolve  upon  the  attempt.  At  any  rate,  I  would  entreat  the 
explanation  she  had  half  promised  to  give  me  before  ;  I  would 
demand  the  reason  of  this  hateial  barrier,  this  mysterious  im- 
pediment to  my  happiness,  and,  as  I  trusted,  to  her  own. 

But  while  I  considered  in  what  manner  I  could  best  frame 
my  request,  my  companion,  wakened  from  her  reverie  with  a 
scarcely  audible  sigh,  and  looking  towards  the  window  where 
the  blood-red  harvest  moon,  just  rising  over  one  of  the  grim, 
fantastic  evergreens,  was  shining  in  upon  us,  said, — 

"  Gilbert,  it  is  getting  late." 

"  I  see,"  said  I.     "  You  want  me  to  go,  I  suppose." 

"  I  think  you  ought.  If  my  kind  neighbours  get  to  know 
of  this  visit — as  no  doubt  they  will — they  will  not  turn  it 
Tnuch  to  my  advantage." 

It  was  with  what  the  vicar  would  doubtless  have  called  a 
ravage  sort  of  a  smile  that  she  said  this. 

"  Let  them  turn  it  as  they  will,"  said  I.  "  What  are  their 
thoughts  to  you  or  me,  so  long  as  we  are  satisfied  with  our- 
delves — and  each  other.  Let  them  go  to  the  deuce  with  their 
vile  constructions,  and  their  lying  inventions  ! " 

This  outburst  brought  a  flush  of  colour  to  her  face. 

"  You  have  heard,  then,  what  they  say  of  me  ?" 

"  I  heard  some  detestable  falsehoods ;  but  none  but  four, 
would  credit  them  for  a  moment,  Helen,  so  don't  let  them 
trouble  you." 

"I  did  not  think  Mr.  Mill  ward  a  fool,  and  he  believes  it 
all ;  but  however  little  you  may  value  the  opinions  of  those 
about  you — however  little  you  may  esteem  them  as  indivi- 
duals, it  is  not  pleasant  to  be  looked  upon  as  a  liar  and  a 
hypocrite,  to  be  thought  to  practise  what  you  abhor,  and  to 
encourage  the  vices  you  would  discountenance,  to  find  your 
good  intentions  frustrated,  and  your  hands  crippled  by  your 


OF  WILDFELL  HALL.  77 

supposed  unworthiness,  and  to  bring  disgrace  on  the  prin- 
ciples you  profess." 

"  True  ;  and  if  I,  by  my  thoughtlessness  and  selfish  disre- 
gard to  appearances,  have  at  all  assisted  to  expose  you  to 
these  evils,  let  me  entreat  you  not  only  to  pardon  me,  but  to 
enable  me  to  make  reparation  ;  authorise  me  to  clear  your 
name  from  every  imputation  :  give  me  the  right  to  identify 
your  honour  with  my  own,  and  to  defend  your  reputation  as 
more  precious  than  my  life  !" 

"  Are  you  hero  enough  to  unite  yourself  to  one  whom  you 
know  to  be  suspected  and  despised  by  all  around  you,  and 
identify  your  interests  and  your  honour  with  hers  ?  Think  ! 
it  is  a  serious  thing." 

•;  I  should  be  proud  to  do  it,  Helen ! — most  happy — de- 
lighted beyond  expression  ! — and  if  that  be  all  the  obstacle  to 
our  union,  it  is  demolished,  and  you  must — you  shall  be 
mine  !" 

And  starting  from  my  seat  in  a  frenzy  of  ardour,  I  seized 
her  hand  and  would  have  pressed  it  to  my  lips,  but  she  as 
suddenly  caught  it  away,  exclaiming  in  the  bitterness  of  in- 
tense affliction, — 

"  No,  no,  it  is  not  all !" 

"  What  is  it  then  ?  You  promised  I  should  know  some 
time,  and " 

"  You  shall  know  some  time — but  not  now — my  head  aches 
terribly,"  she  said,  pressing  her  hand  to  her  forehead,  "  and 
I  must  have  some  repose — and  surely,  I  have  had  misery 
enough  to-day  !"  she  added,  almost  wildly. 

"But  it  could  not  harm  you  to  tell  it,"  I  persisted  :  "it 
would  ease  your  mind  ;  and  1  should  then  know  how  to  com- 
fort you." 

She  shook  her  head  despondingly.  "  If  you  knew  all,  you, 
too,  would  blame  me — perhaps  even  more  than  I  deserve — 
though  I  have  cruelly  wronged  you,"  she  added  in  a  low 
murmur,  as  if  she  mused  aloud. 

"  You,  Helen  ?     Impossible  ! " 

"  Yes,  not  willingly  ;  for  I  did  not  know  the  strength  and 
depth  of  your  attachment.  I  thought — at  least  I  endeavoured 
to  think  your  regard  for  me  was  as  cold  and  fraternal  as  you 
professed"  it  to  be." 

"Or  as  yours?" 

"  Or  as  mine — ought  to  have  been — of  such  a  light  and 
selfish,  superficial  nature  that " 

"There,  indeed,  you  wronged  me." 

>  "  I  know  I  did  ;  and  sometimes,  I  suspected  it  then  ;  but  I 
thought,  upon  the  whole,  there  could  be  no  great  harm  in 
leaving  your  fancies  and  your  hopes  to  dream  themselves  to 


78  THE   TENANT 

nothing — 01  flutter  away  to  some  more  fitting  object,  while 
your  friendly  sympathies  remained  with  me ;  but  if  I  had 
known  the  depth  of  your  regard,  the  generous  disinterested 
affection  you  seem  to  feel " 

"Seem,  Helen?" 

"  That  you  do  feel,  then,  I  would  have  acted  differently." 

"  How  ?  You  could  not  have  given  me  less  encourage- 
ment, or  treated  me  with  greater  severity  than  you  did  !  And 
if  you  think  you  have  wronged  me  by  giving  me  your  friend- 
ship, and  occasionally  admitting  me  to  the  enjoyment  of  yoiu 
company  and  conversation,  when  all  hopes  of  closer  intimacy 
were  vain — as  indeed  you  always  gave  me  to  understand — if 
you  think  you  have  wronged  me  by  this,  you  are  mistaken  : 
for  such  favours,  in  themselves  alone,  are  not  only  delightful 
to  my  heart,  but  purifying,  exalting,  ennobling  to  my  soul ; 
and  I  would  rather  have  your  friendship  than  the  love  of  any 
other  woman  in  the  world !  " 

Little  comforted  by  this,  she  clasped  her  hands  upon  hei 
knee,  and  glancing  upward,  seemed,  in  silent  anguish,  to 
implore  divine  assistance ;  then  turning  to  me,  she  calmly 
said, — 

"  To-morrow,  if  you  meet  me  on  the  moor  about,  mid-day, 
I  will  tell  you  all  you  seek  to  know ;  and  perhaps  you  will 
then  see  the  necessity  of  discontinuing  our  intimacy — if,  in- 
deed, you  do  not  willingly  resign  me  as  one  no  longer  worthy 
of  regard." 

"  I  can  safely  answer  no,  to  that :  you  cannot  have  such 
grave  confessions  to  make — you  must  be  trying  my  faith, 
Helen." 

"  No,  no,  no,"  she  earnestly  repeated — "  I  wish  it  were  so ! 
Thank  Heaven  !"  she  added,  "  I  have  no  great  crime  to  con- 
fess ;  but  I  have  more  than  you  will  like  to  hear,  or,  perhaps, 
can  readily  excuse, — and  more  than  I  can  tell  you  now  ;  so 
let  me  entreat  you  to  leave  me  ! " 

"  I  will ;  but  answer  me  this  one  question  first ; — do  you 
love  me?" 

"I  will  not  answer  it!" 

"  Then  I  will  conclude  you  do  ;  and  so  good  night." 

She  turned  from  me  to  hide  the  emotion  she  could  not 
quite  control ;  but  I  took  her  hand  and  fervently  kissed  it. 

"  Gilbert,  do  leave  me  !"  she  cried,  in  a  tone  of  such  thrill- 
ing anguish  that  I  felt  it  would  be  cruel  to  disobey. 

But  I  gave  one  look  back  before  I  closed  the  door,  and  saw 
her  leaning  forward  on  the  table,  with  her  hands  pressed 
against  her  eyes,  (jobbing  convulsively ;  yet  I  withdrew  in 
silence.  I  felt  that  to  obtrude  my  consolations  on  her  then 
would  only  serve  to  aggravate  her  sxifferings- 


OP  WILDFELL   HALL.  79 

To  tell  you  all  the  questionings  and  conjectures — the  fears, 
and  hopes,  and  wild  emotions  that  jostled  and  chased  each 
other  through  my  mind  as  I  descended  the  hill,  would  almost 
fill  a  volume  in  itself.  But  before  I  was  half  way  down  a  sen- 
timent of  strong  sympathy  for  her  I  had  left  behind  me  had 
displaced  all  other  feelings,  and  seemed  imperatively  to  draw 
me  back  :  I  began  to  think,  "  Why  am  I  hurrying  so  fast  in 
this  direction?  Can  I  find  comfort  or  consolation — peace, 
certainty,  contentment,  all— or  anything  that  I  want  at  home? 
and  can  I  leave  all  perturbation,  sorrow,  and  anxiety  behind 
me  there?" 

And  I  turned  round  to  look  at  the  old  hall.  There  was  little 
besides  the  chimneys  visible  above  my  contracted  horizon.  I 
walked  back  to  get  a  better  view  of  it.  When  it  rose  in  sight,  I 
stood  still  a  moment  to  look,  and  then  continued  moving  towards 
the  gloomy  object  of  attraction.  Something  called  me  nearer 
— nearer  still — and  why  not,  pray  ?  Might  I  not  find  more 
benefit  in  the  contemplation  of  that  venerable  pile  with  the 
full  moon  in  the  cloudless  heaven  shining  so  calmly  above  it 
— with  that  warm  yellow  lustre  peculiar  to  an  August  night — 
and  the  mistress  of  my  soul  within,  than  in  returning  to  my 
home  where  all  comparatively  was  light,  and  life,  and  cheer- 
fulness, and  therefore  inimical  to  me  in  my  present  frame  of 
mind, — and  the  more  so  that  its  inmates  all  were  more  or 
less  imbued  with  that  detestable  belief  the  very  thought  01 
which  made  my  blood  boil  in  my  veins — and  how  could  I 
endure  to  hear  it  openly  declared — or  cautiously  insinuated — 
which  was  worse  ? — I  had  had  trouble  enough  already,  with 
some  babbling  fiend  that  would  keep  whispering  in  my  ear, 
"  It  may  be  true,"  till  I  had  shouted  aloud,  "  It  is  false !  I 
defy  you  to  make  me  suppose  it ! " 

1  could  see  the  red  fire-light  dimly  gleaming  from  her  par- 
lour window.  I  went  up  to  the  garden  wall,  and  stood  leaning 
over  it,  with  my  eyes  fixed  upon  the  lattice,  wondering  what 
she  was  doing,  thinking,  or  suffering  now,  and  wishing  I  could 
speak  to  her  but  one  word,  or  even  catch  one  glimpse  of  her, 
before  I  went. 

I  had  not  thus  looked,  and  wished,  and  wondered  long, 
before  I  vaulted  over  the  barrier,  unable  to  resist  the  temp- 
tation of  taking  one  glance  through  the  window,  just  to  see  if 
she  were  more  composed  than  when  we  parted  ; — and  if  I 
found  her  still  in  deep  distress,  perhaps  I  might  venture  to 
attempt  a  word  of  comfort — to  utter  one  of  the  many  things 
I  should  have  said  before,  instead  of  aggravating  her  sufferings 
by  my  stupid  impetuosity.  I  looked.  Her  chair  was  vacant : 
so  was  the  room.  But  at  that  moment  some  one  opened  the 
outer  door,  and  a  voice — her  voice — said, — 


80  THE  TENANT 

"  Come  out — I  want  to  see  the  moon,  and  breathe  the  even- 
ing air  :  they  will  do  me  good — if  anything  will." 

Here,  then,  were  she  and  Rachel  coming  to  take  a  walk  in 
the  garden.  I  wished  myself  safe  back  over  the  wall.  I 
stood,  however,  in  the  shadow  of  the  tall  holly  bush,  which, 
standing  between  the  window  and  the  porch,  at  present 
screened  me  from  observation,  but  did  not  prevent  me  fVom 
seeing  two  figures  come  forth  into  the  moonlight ;  Mrs.  Gra- 
ham followed  by  another — not  Rachel,  but  a  young  man, 
slender  and  rather  tall.  Oh,  heavens,  how  my  temples 
throbbed!  Intense  anxiety  darkened  my  sight;  but  I 
thought — yes,  and  the  voice  confirmed  it — it  was  Mr.  Law- 
rence. 

"You  should  not  let  it  worry  you  so  much,  Helen,"  said 
he  ;  "I  will  be  more  cautious  in  future  ;  and  in  time " 

I  did  not  hear  the  rest  of  the  sentence  ;  for  he  walked  close 
beside  her  and  spoke  so  gently  that  I  could  not  catch  the 
words.  My  heart  was  splitting  with  hatred ;  but  I  listened 
intently  for  her  reply.  1  heard  it  plainly  enough. 

"  But  I  must  leave  this  place,  Frederic,"  she  said — "  I 
never  can  be  happy  here, — nor  anywhere  else,  indeed,"  she 
added,  with  a  mirthless  laugh, — "but  I  cannot  rest  here." 

*'  But  where  could  you  find  a  better  place  ? "  replied  he, 
"  so  secluded — so  near  me,  if  you  think  anything  of  that." 

"  Yes,"  interrupted  she,  "  it  is  all  I  could  wish,  if  they 
could  only  have  left  me  alone." 

"  But  wherever  you  go,  Helen,  there  will  be  the  same 
sources  of  annoyance.  I  cannot  consent  to  lose  you  :  I  must 
go  with  you,  or  come  to  you  ;  and  there  are  meddling  fools 
elsewhere,  as  well  as  here." 

While  thus  conversing,  they  had  sauntered  slowly  past  me, 
down  the  walk,  and  I  heard  no  more  of  their  discourse  ;  but 
I  saw  him  put  his  arm  round  her  waist,  while  she  lovingly 
rested  her  hand  on  his  shoulder  ; — and  then,  a  tremulous  dark- 
ness obscured  my  sight,  my  heart  sickened  and  my  head 
burned  like  fire,  I  half  rushed,  half  staggered  from  the  spot 
where  horror  had  kept  me  rooted,  and  leaped  or  tumbled 
over  the  wall — I  hardly  know  which — but  I  know  that,  after- 
wards, like  a  passionate  child,  I  dashed  myself  on  the  ground 
and  lay  there  in  a  paroxysm  of  anger  and  despair — how  long, 
I  cannot  undertake  to  say  ;  but  it  must  have  been  a  consider- 
nble  time  ;  for  when,  having  partially  relieved  myself  by  a 
torrent  of  tears,,  and  looked  up  at  the  moon,  shining  so  calmly 
and  carelessly  on,  as  little  influenced  by  my  misery  as  1  was 
by  its  peaceful  radiance,  and  earnestly  prayed  for  death  or 
Ibrgetfulness,  I  had  risen  and  journeyed  homewards — little 
regarding  the  way,  but  carried  instinctively  by  my  feet  to  the 


OF  WILDFKLL   HALL.  81 

door,  I  found  it  bolted  against  me,  and  every  one  in  bed  ex- 
cept  my  mother,  who  hastened  to  answer  my  impatient  knock- 
ing, and  received  me  with  a  shower  of  questions  and  re- 
bukes. 

"Oh,  Gilbert,  how  could  you  do  so?  Where  have  you 
been  ?  Do  come  in  and  take  your  supper — I've  got  it  all 
ready,  though  you  don't  deserve  it,  for  keeping  me  in  such  a 
fright,  after  the  strange  manner  you  left  the  house  this  evening. 

Mr.  Millward  was  quite Bless  the  boy  !    how  ill  he  looks ! 

Oh,  gracious  !  what  is  the  matter?" 

"  Nothing,  nothing — give  me  a  candle." 

"  But  won't  you  take  some  supper  ?" 

"  No,  I  want  to  go  to  bed,"  said  I,  taking  a  candle  and 
lighting  it  at  the  one  she  held  in  her  hand. 

U0h,  Gilbert,  how  jrou  tremble!"  exclaimed  my  anxious 
parent.  "  How  white  you  look  ! — Do  tell  me  what  it  is  ?  Has 
anything  happened?" 

"  It's  nothing!"  cried  I,  ready  to  stamp  with  vexation  be- 
cause the  candle  would  not  light.  Then,  suppressing  my  irri- 
tation, I  added,  "  I've  been  walking  too  fast,  thu's  all.  Good 
night,"  and  marched  oft  to  bed,  regardless  of  the  u  Walking 
too  fast !  where  have  you  been  ? "  that  was  called  after  me 
from  below. 

My  mother  followed  me  to  the  very  door  of  my  room  with 
her  questionings  and  advice  concerning  my  health  and  my 
conduct ;  but  1  implored  her  to  let  me  alone  till  morning ; 
and  she  withdrew,  and  at  length  I  had  the  satisfaction  to  hear 
her  close  her  own  door.  There  was  no  sleep  for  me,  however, 
that  night,  as  I  thought ;  and  instead  of  attempting  to  solicit 
it,  I  employed  myself  in  rapidly  pacing  the  chamber — having 
first  removed  ir.y  boots  Jest  my  mother  should  hear  me.  But 
the  boards  creaked,  and  che  was  watchful.  I  had  not  walked 
above  a  quarter  of  an  hour  before  she  was  at  the  door  again. 

"  Gilbert,  why  arc  you  not  m  bed— you  said  you  wanted  to 
t'o?" 

"  Confound  it !  I'm  going,"  said  I. 

"  But  why  are  you  so  long  about  it  ?  you  must  have  some- 
thing on  your  mind " 

"  For  heaven's  sake,  let  me  alone,  and  get  to  bed  yourself !" 

"  Can  it  be  that  Mrs.  Graham  that  distresses  you  so?" 

"  No,  no,  I  tell  you — it's  nothing  !" 

u  I  wish  to  goodness  it  mayn't !"  murmured  she,  v.'ith  a  sigh, 
as  she  returned  to  her  own  apartment,  while  I  threw  myself 
on  the  bed,  feeling  most  undutifully  disaffected  towards  her 
tor  having  deprived  me  of  what  seemed  the  only  shadow  of  a 
consolation  that  remained,  and  chained  me  to  that  wretched 
couch  of  thorns. 

6 


82  THE   TENANT 

Never  did  I  endure  so  long,  so  miserable  a  night  as  that. 
And  yet,  it  was  not  wholly  sleepless :  towards  morning  my 
distracting  thoughts  began  to  lose  all  pretensions  to  coherency, 
and  shape  themselves  into  confused  and  feverish  dreams,  and, 
at  length,  there  followed  an  interval  of  unconscious  slumber. 
But  then  the  dawn  of  bitter  recollection  that  succeeded — the 
waking  to  find  life  a  blank,  and  worse  than  a  blank — teeming 
with  torment  and  misery — not  a  mere  barren  wilderness,  but 
full  of  thorns  and  briars — to  find  myself  deceived,  duped, 
hopeless,  my  affections  trampled  upon,  my  angel  not  an  angel, 
and  my  friend  a  fiend  incarnate — it  was  worse  than  if  I  had 
not  slept  at  all. 

It  was  a  dull,  gloomy  morning,  the  weather  had  changed 
like  my  prospects,  and  the  rain  was  pattering  against  the  win- 
dow. I  rose,  nevertheless,  and  went  out ;  not  to  look  after  the 
farm,  though  that  would  serve  as  my  excuse,  but  to  cool  my 
brain,  and  regain,  if  possible,  a  sufficient  degree  of  composure 
to  meet  the  family  at  the  morning  meal  without  exciting  in- 
convenient remarks.  If  I  got  a  wetting,  that,  in  conjunction 
with  a  pretended  over  exertion  before  breakfast,  might  excuse 
my  sudden  loss  of  appetite  ;  and  if  a  cold  ensued,  the  severer 
the  better,  it  would  help  to  account  for  the  sullen  moods  and 
moping  melancholy  likely  to  cloud  my  brow  for  long  enough. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

"Mr  dear  Gilbert!  I  wish  you  would  try  to  be  a  little  more 
amiable,"  said  my  mother,  one  morning  after  some  display  of 
unjustifiable  ill-humour  on  my  part.  u  You  say  there  is  no- 
thing the  matter  with  you,  and  nothing  has  happened  to  grieve 
you,  and  yet,  I  never  saw  any  one  so  altered  as  you  within 
these  last  few  days  :  you  haven't  a  good  word  for  anybody — 
friends  and  strangers,  equals  and  inferiors— it's  all  the  same. 
I  do  wish  you'd  try  to  check  it." 

"Check  what?" 

"  Why,  your  strange  temper.  You  don't  know  how  it  spoils 
you.  I'm  sure  a  finer  disposition  than  yours,  by  nature,  could 
not  be,  if  you'd  let  it  have  fair  play  ;  so  you've  no  excuse  that 
way." 

While  she  thus  remonstrated,  I  took  up  a  book,  and  laying 
it  open  on  the  table  before  me,  pretended  to  be  deeply  ab- 
sorbed in  its  perusal ;  for  I  was  equally  unable  to  justify  my- 
self, and  unwilling  to  acknowledge  my  errors ;  and  I  wished 
to  have  nothing  to  say  on  the  matter.  But  my  excellent  pa- 
rent went  on  lecturing,  and  then  came  to  coaxing,  and  began 
to  stroke  my  hair ;  and  I  was  getting  to  feel  quite  a  good  boy, 


OF  WILDFELL  HALL.  83 

but  my  mischievous  brother,  who  was  idling  about  the  room, 
revived  my  corruption  by  suddenly  calling  out : — 

"  Don't  touch  him,  mother !  he'll  bite !  He's  a  very  tiger 
in  human  form.  I've  given  him  up  for  my  part — fairly  dif  • 
owned  him — cast  him  off,  root  and  branch.  It's  as  much  as 
my  life  is  worth  to  come  within  six  yards  of  him.  The  other 
day  he  nearly  fractured  my  skull  for  singing  a  pretty,  inoffen- 
sive love  song,  on  purpose  to  amuse  him." 

"  Oh,  Gilbert!  how  could  you?"  exclaimed  my  mother. 

"  I  told  you  to  hold  your  noise  first,  you  know,  Fergus,'1 
said  I. 

"  Yes,  but  when  I  assured  you  it  was  no  trouble,  and  went 
on  with  the  next  verse,  thinking  you  might  like  it  better,  you 
clutched  me  by  the  shoulder  and  dashed  me  away,  right 
against  the  wall  there,  with  such  force,  that  I  thought  I  had 
bitten  my  tongue  in  two,  and  expected  to  see  the  place  plas- 
tered with  my  brains  ;  and  when  I  put  my  hand  to  my  head 
and  found  my  skull  not  broken,  I  thought  it  was  a  miracle  and 
no  mistake.  But  poor  fellow!"  added  he,  with  a  sentimental 
sigh — "his  heart's  broken — that's  the  truth  of  it — and  his 
head's " 

"  Will  you  be  silent  NOW?"  cried  I,  starting  up,  and  eyeing 
the  fellow  so  fiercely  that  my  mother,  thinking  I  meant  to  in- 
flict some  grievous  bodily  injury,  laid  her  hand  on  my  arm, 
and  besought  me  to  let  him  alone,  and  he  walked  leisurely  out, 
with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  singing  provokingly — "  Shall  I, 
because  a  woman's  fair,"  &c. 

"  I'm  not  going  to  defile  my  fingers  with  him,"  said  I,  in 
answer  to  the  maternal  intercession.  "  I  wouldn't  touch  him 
with  the  tongs." 

I  now  recollected  that  I  had  business  with  Robert  Wilson, 
concerning  the  purchase  of  a  certain  field  adjoining  my  farm 
— a  business  I  had  been  putting  off  from  day  to  day ;  for  I 
had  no  interest  in  anything  now ;  and  besides,  I  was  misan- 
thropically  inclined,  and,  moreover,  had  a  particular  objection 
to  meeting  Jane  Wilson  or  her  mother ;  for  though  I  had  too 
good  reason,  now,  to  credit  their  reports  concerning  Mrs. 
Graham,  I  did  not  like  them  a  bit  the  better  for  it — or  Eliza 
Millward  either — and  the  thought  of  meeting  them  was  the 
more  repugnant  to  me,  that  I  could  not,  now,  defy  their  seem- 
ing calumnies  and  triumph  in  my  own  convictions  as  before. 
But  to-day,  I  determined  to  make  an  effort  to  return  to  my 
duty.  Though  I  found  no  pleasure  in  it,  it  would  bs  less  irk- 
some than  idleness — at  all  events  it  would  be  more  profitable. 
If  life  promised  no  enjoyment  within  my  vocation,  at  least  it 
offered  no  allurements  out  of  it ;  and  henceforth,  I  would  put 


84  THE   TENANT 

my  shoulder  to  the  wheel  and  toil  away,  like  any  poor  drudgt 
of  a  cart-horse  that  was  fairly  broken  in  to  its  labour,  and 
plod  through  life,  not  wholly  useless  if  not  agreeable,  and  un- 
complaining if  not  contented  with  my  lot. 

Thus  resolving,  with  a  kind  of  sullen  resignation,  if  such  a 
term  may  be  allowed,  I  wended  my  way  to  Ryecote  Farm, 
scarcely  expecting  to  find  its  owner  within  at  this  time  of  day, 
but  hoping  to  learn  in  what  part  of  the  premises  he  was  most 
likely  to  be  found. 

Absent  he  was,  but  expected  home  in  a  few  minutes  ;  and  I 
was  desired  to  step  into  the  parlour  and  wait.  Mrs.  Wilson 
was  busy  in  the  kitchen,  but  the  room  was  not  empty ;  and  I 
scarcely  checked  an  involuntary  recoil  as  I  entered  it;  for 
there  sat  Miss  Wilson  chattering  with  Eliza  Millward.  How- 
ever, I  determined  to  be  cool  and  civil.  Eliza  seemed  to  have 
made  the  same  resolution  on  her  part.  We  had  not  met  since 
the  evening  of  the  tea  party;  but  there  was  no  visible  emotion 
either  ol  pleasure  or  pain,  no  attempt  at  pathos,  no  display  of 
injured  pride :  she  was  cool  in  temper,  civil  in  demeanour. 
There  was  even  an  ease  and  cheerfulness  about  her  air  and 
manner  that  I  made  no  pretension  to  ;  but  there  was  a  depth 
of  malice  in  her  too  expressive  eye,  that  plainly  told  me  I  was 
not  forgiven  ;  for,  though  she  no  longer  hoped  to  win  me  to 
herself,  she  still  hated  her  rival,  and  evidently  delighted  to 
wreak  her  spite  on  me.  On  the  other  hand,  Miss  Wilson  was 
as  affable  and  courteous  as  heart  could  wish,  and  though  I  was 
in  no  very  conversable  humour  myself,  the  two  ladies  between 
them  managed  to  keep  up  a  pretty  continuous  fire  of  small 
talk.  But  Eliza  took  advantage  of  the  first  convenient  pause 
to  ask  if  I  had  lately  seen  Mrs.  Graham,  in  a  tone  of  merely 
casual  inquiry,  but  with  a  sidelong  glance — intended  to  be 
playfully  mischievous — really,  brimful  and  running  over  with 
malice. 

"  Not  lately,"  I  replied,  in  a  careless  tone,  but  sternly  re- 
pelling her  odious  glances  with  my  eyes  ;  for  I  was  vexed  to 
feel  the  colour  mounting  to  my  forehead,  despite  my  strenuous 
efforts  to  appear  unmoved. 

"  What !  are  you  beginning  to  tire  already  ?  I  thought  so 
noble  a  creature  would  have  power  to  attach  you  for  a  year  at 
least!" 

"  I  would  rather  not  speak  of  her  now." 

"Ah!  then  you  are  convinced,  at  last,  of  your  mistake — 
you  have  at  length  discovered  that  your  divinity  is  not  quite 
the  immaculate " 

"  I  desired  you  Tiot  to  speak  of  her,  Miss  Eliza." 

'•*  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon  !  I  perceive  Cupid's  arrows  hnve 


OF   WILDFELL  HALL.  8£ 

been  too  sharp  for  you :  the  wounds,  being  more  than  skin  deep, 
are  not  yet  healed,  and  bleed  afresh  at  every  mention  of  the 
loved  one's  name." 

"  Say,  rather,"  interposed  Miss  Wilson,  "  that  Mr.  Markham 
feels  that  name  is  unworthy  to  be  mentioned  in  the  presence 
of  right-minded  females.  I  wonder,  Eliza,  you  should  think 
of  referring  to  that  unfortunate  person — you  might  know  the 
mention  of  her  would  be  anything  but  agreeable  to  any  one 
here  present." 

How  could  this  be  borne  ?  I  rose  and  was  about  to  clap  my 
hat  upon  my  head  and  burst  away,  in  wrathiul  indignation, 
from  the  house  ;  but  recollecting— just  in  time  to  save  my  dig- 
nity— the  folly  of  such  a  proceeding,  and  how  it  would  only 
give  my  fair  tormentors  a  merry  laugh  at  my  expense,  for  the 
sake  of  one  I  acknowledged  in  my  own  heart  to  be  unworthy 
of  the  slightest  sacrifice — though  tbe  ghost  of  my  former  reve- 
rence and  love  so  hung  about  me  still,  that  I  could  not  bear  to 
hear  her  name  aspersed  by  others — I  merely  walked  to  the 
window,  and  having  spent  a  few  seconds  in  vengibly  biting  my 
lips,  and  sternly  repressing  the  passionate  heavings  of  my 
chest,  I  observed  to  Miss  Wilson,  that  I  could  see  nothing  ot 
her  brother,  and  added  that,  as  my  time  was  precious,  it  would 
perhaps  be  better  to  call  again  to-morrow,  at  some  time  when 
I  should  be  sure  to  find  him  at  home. 

"  Oh,  no !"  said  she,  "  if  you  wait  a  minute,  he  will  be  sure 

to  come  ;  for  he  has  business  at  L "  (that  was  our  market 

town)  "  and  will  require  a  little  refreshment  before  he  goes." 

I  submitted  accordingly,  with  the  best  grace  I  could ;  and, 
happily,  I  had  not  long  to  wait.  Mr.  Wilson  soon  arrived, 
and,  indisposed  for  business  as  I  was  at  that  moment,  and  little 
as  I  cared  for  the  field  or  its  owner,  I  forced  my  attention  to 
the  matter  in  hand,  with  very  creditable  determination,  and 
quickly  concluded  the  bargain — perhaps  more  to  the  thrifty 
farnier's  satisfaction  than  he  cared  to  acknowledge.  Then, 
leaving  him  to  the  discussion  of  his  substantial  "  refreshment," 
I  gladly  quitted  the  house,  and  went  to  look  after  my  reapers. 

Leaving  them  busy  at  work  on  the  side  of  the  valley,  I  as- 
cended the  hill,  intending  to  visit  a  corn-field  in  the  more  ele- 
vated regions,  and  see  when  it  would  be  ripe  for  the  sickle. 
But  I  did  not  visit  it  that  day ;  for,  as  I  approached,  I  beheld 
4t  no  great  distance,  Mrs.  Graham  and  her  son  coming  down 
in  the  opposite  direction.  They  saw  me  ;  and  Arthur  already 
was  running  to  meet  me  ;  but  I  immediately  turned  back  and 
walked  steadily  homeward  ;  for  I  had  fully  determined  never 
to  encounter  his  mother  again ;  and  regardless  of  the  shrill 
voice  in  my  ear,  calling  upon  me  to  "  wait  a  moment,"  I  pur- 
sued the  even  tenor  of  my  way  ;  and  he  soon  relinquished  tbe 


86  THE   TENAXT 

pursuit  as  hopeless,  or  was  called  away  by  Iris  mother.  At  all 
events,  when  J  looked  back,  five  minutes  after,  not  a  trace  of 
either  was  to  be  seen.. 

This  incident  agitated  and  disturbed  me  most  unaccountably 
^-unless  you  would  account  for  it  by  saying  that  Cupid's  ar- 
rows not  only  had  been  too  sharp  for  me,"but  they  were  barbed 
and  deeply  rooted,  and  I  had  not  yet  been  able  to  wrench 
them  from  my  heart.  However  that  be,  I  was  rendered  doubly 
miserable  for  the  remainder  of  the  day. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

NEXT  morning,  I  bethought  me,  I,  too,  had  business  at 
L ;  so  I  mounted  my  horse  and  set  forth  on  the  expedi- 
tion, soon  after  breakfast.  It  was  a  dull,  drizzly  day ;  but 
that  was  no  matter:  it  was  all  the  more  suitable  to  my  frame 
ot  mind.  It  was  likely  to  be  a  lonely  journey  ;  for  it  was  no 
market-day,  and  the  road  I  traversed  was  little  frequented  at 
any  other  time  ;  but  that  suited  me  all  the  better  too. 

As  I  trotted  along,  however,  chewing  the  cud  of — bitter 
fancies,  I  heard  another  horse  at  no  great  distance  behind  me  ; 
but  I  never  conjectured  who  the  rider  might  be — or  troubled 
my  head  about  him,  till,  on  slackening  my  pace  to  ascend  a 
gentle  acclivity — or  rather  suffering  my  horse  to  slacken  his 
pace  into  a  lazy  walk  ;  for,  lost  in  my  own  reflections,  I  was 
letting  it  jog  on  as  leisurely  as  it  thought  proper — I  lost  ground 
and  my  fellow  traveller  overtook  me.  Pie  accosted  me  by 
name  ;  for  it  was  no  stranger — it  was  Mr.  Lawrence  !  Instinc- 
tively the  fingers  of  my  whip  hand  tingled,  and  grasped  their 
charge  with  convulsive  energy ;  but  I  restrained  the  impulse, 
and  answering  his  salutation  with  a  nod,  attempted  to  push  on  ; 
but  he  pushed  on  beside  me  and  began  to  talk  about  the 
weather  and  the  crops.  I  gave  the  briefest  possible  answers 
to  his  queries  and  observations,  and  fell  back.  He  fell  back, 
too,  and  asked  if  my  horse  was  lame.  I  replied  with  a  look 
— at  which  he  placidly  smiled. 

I  was  as  much  astonished  as  exasperated  at  this  singular 
pertinacity  and  imperturbable  assurance  on  his  part.  1  had 
thought  the  circumstances  of  our  last  meeting  would  have  left 
such  an  impression  on  his  mind  as  to  render  him  cold  and  dis- 
tant ever  after  :  instead  of  that,  he  appeared  not  only  to  have 
forgotten  all  former  offences,  but  to  be  impenetrable  to  all 
present  incivilities.  Formerly,  the  slightest  hint,  or  mere 
fancied  coldness  in  tone  or  glance,  had  sufficed  to  repulse  him  : 
now,  positive  rudeness  could  not  drive  him  away.  Had  he  heard 
of  my  disappointment ;  and  was  he  come  to  witness  the  re- 


OF  WILDFELL   HALL.  87 

suit,  and  triumph  in  my  despair?  I  grasped  my  whip  with 
more  determined  energy  than  before  —  but  still  forbore  to 
raise  it,  and  rode  on  in  silence,  waiting  for  some  more  tangi- 
ble cause  of  offence,  before  I  opened  the  floodgates  of  my  soul 
and  poured  out  the  dammed-up  fury  that  was  foaming  and 
swelling  within. 

"  Markham,"  said  he,  in  his  usual  quiet  tone,  "  why  do  yorv 
quarrel  with  your  friends,  because  you  have  been  disappointed 
in  one  quarter?  You  have  found  your  hopes  defeated;  but 
how  am  I  to  blame  for  it  ?  I  warned  jrou  beforehand,  you 
know,  but  you  would  not " 

He  said  no  more  ;  for,  impelled  by  some  fiend  at  my  elbow, 
I  had  seized  my  whip  by  the  small  end,  and — swift  and  sud- 
den as  a  flash  of  lightning — brought  the  other  down  upon  his 
head.  It  was  not  without  a  feeling  of  savage  satisfaction  that 
I  beheld  the  instant,  deadly  pallor  that  overspread  his  face, 
and  the  few  red  drops  that  trickled  down  his  forehead,  while 
he  reeled  a  moment  in  his  saddle,  and  then  fell  backward  to 
the  ground.  The  pony,  surprised  to  be  so  strangely  relieved 
of  its  burden,  started  and  capered,  and  kicked  a  little,  and 
then  made  use  of  its  freedom  to  go  and  crop  the  grass  of  the 
hedge  bank  ;  while  its  master  lay  as  still  and  silent  as  a  corpse. 
Had  I  killed  him  ? — an  icy  hand  seemed  to  grasp  my  heart 
and  check  its  pulsation,  as  I  bent  over  him,  gazing  with 
breathless  intensity  upon  the  ghastly,  upturned  face.  But  no  ; 
he  moved  his  eyelids  and  uttered  a  slight  groan.  I  breathed 
again — he  was  only  stunned  by  the  fall.  It  served  him  right 
— it  would  teach  him  better  manners  in  future.  Should  I  help 
him  to  his  horse?  No.  For  any  other  combination  of  offences 
I  would ;  but  his  were  too  unpardonable.  He  might  mount 
it  himself,  if  he  liked — in  a  while  :  already  he  was  beginning 
to  stir  and  look  about  him — and  there  it  was  for  him,  quietly 
browsing  on  the  road-side. 

So  with  a  muttered  execration  I  left  the  fellow  to  his  fate, 
and  clapping  spurs  to  my  own  horse,  galloped  away,  excited 
by  a  combination  of  feelings  it  would  not  be  easy  to  analyze  ; 
and  perhaps,  if  I  did  so,  the  result  would  not  be  very  credit- 
able to  my  disposition ;  for  I  am  not  sure  that  a  species  of  ex- 
ultation in  what  I  had  done  was  not  one  principal  concomi- 
tant. 

Shortly,  however,  the  effervescence  began  to  abate,  and  not 
many  minutes  elapsed  before  I  had  turned  and  gone  back  to 
look  after  the  fate  of  my  victim.  It  was  no  generous  impulse 
— no  kind  relentings  that  led  me  to  this — nor  even  the  fear  oi 
what  might  be  the  consequences  to  myself,  if  I  finished  my 
assault  upon  the  squire  by  leaving  him  thus  neglected,  and 
exposed  to  further  injury ;  it  was,  simply,  the  voice  of  con- 


68  THE  TKNAN1 

science ;  and  I  took  great  credit  to  myself  for  attending  so 
promptly  to  its  dictates — and  judging  the  merit  of  the  deed 
by  the  sacrifice  it  cost,  I  was  not  far  wrong. 

Mr.  Lawrence  and  his  pony  had  both  altered  their  positions 
in  some  degree.  The  pony  had  wandered  eight  or  ten  yards 
farther  away;  and  he  had  managed,  somehow,  to  remove 
himself  from  the  middle  of  the  road  :  I  found  him  seated  in 
a  recumbent  position  on  the  bank, — looking  very  white  and 
sickly  still,  and  holding  his  cambric  handkerchief  (now  more 
red  then  white)  to  his  head.  It  must  have  been  a  powerful 
blow ;  but  half  the  credit — or  the  blame  of  it  (which  you 
please)  must  be  attributed  to  the  whip,  which  was  garnished 
with  a  massive  horse's  head  of  plated  metal.  The  grass,  being 
sodden  with  rain,  afforded  the  young  gentleman  a  rather  in- 
hospitable couch  ;  his  clothes  were  considerably  bcmircd  ;  and 
his  hat  was  rolling  in  the  mud,  on  the  other  side  of  the  road. 
But  his  thoughts  seemed  chiefly  bent  upon  his  pony,  on  which 
he  was  wistfully  gazing — half  in  helpless  anxiety,  and  half  in 
hopeless  abandonment  to  his  fate. 

I  dismounted,  however,  and  having  fastened  my  own  animal 
to  the  nearest  tree,  first  picked  up  Ir.a  hat,  intending  to  clap 
it  on  his  head ;  but  either  he  considered  his  head  unfit  for 
a  hat,  or  the  hat,  in  its  present  condition,  unfit  for  his 
head  ;  for  shrinking  away  the  one,  he  took  the  other  from  my 
hand,  and  scornfully  cast  it  aside. 

"It's  good  enough  for  you,"  I  muttered. 

My  next  good  office  was  to  catch  his  pony  and  bring  it  to 
him,  which  was  soon  accomplished  ;  for  the  beast  was  quiet 
enough  in  the  main,  and  only  winced  and  flirted  a  trifle  till 
I  got  hold  of  the  bridle — but  then,  I  must  see  him  in  the 
saddle. 

"  Here,  you  fellow — scoundrel — dog — give  me  your  hand, 
and  I'll  help  you  to  mount." 

No ;  he  turned  from  me  in  disgust.  I  attempted  to  take 
him  by  the  arm.  He  shrank  away  as  if  there  had  been  con- 
tamination in  my  touch. 

"  What,  you  won't.  Well !  you  may  sit  there  till  dooms- 
day, for  what  I  care.  But  I  suppose  you  don't  want  to  lose 
all  the  blood  in  your  body — I'll  just  condescend  to  bind  that 
up  for  you." 

"  Let  me  alone,  if  you  please." 

"  Humph !  with  all  my  heart.  You  may  go  to  the  d 1, 

if  you  choose — and  say  I  sent  you." 

But  before  I  abandoned  him  to  his  fate,  I  flung  his  pony's 
bridle  over  a  stake  in  the  hedge,  and  threw  him  my  hand- 
kerchief, as  his  own  was  now  saturated  with  blood.  He  took 
it  and  cast  it  back  to  me,  in  abhorrence  and  contempt,  with 


OF  WILDFELL   HALL.  89 

all  the  strength  he  could  muster.  It  wanted  but  this  to  fill 
the  measure  of  his  offences.  With  execrations  not  loud  hut 
deep,  I  left  him  to  live  or  die  as  he  could,  well  satisfied  that 
I  had  done  my  duty  in  attempting  to  save  him — hut  forgetting 
how  I  had  erred  in  hringing  him  into  such  a  condition,  and 
how  insultingly  my  after  services  had  been  offered — and 
sullenly  prepared  to  meet  the  consequences  if  he  should 
choose  to  say  I  had  attempted  to  murder  him — which  I 
thought  not  unlikely,  as  it  seemed  probable  he  was  actuated 
by  such  spiteful  motives  in  so  perseveringly  refusing  my 
assistance. 

Having  remounted  my  horse,  I  just  looked  back  to  see  how 
he  was  getting  on,  before  I  rode  away.  He  had  risen  from 
the  ground,  and  grasping  his  pony's  mane,  was  attempting 
to  resume  his  seat  in  the  saddle  ;  but  scarcely  had  he  put 
his  foot  in  the  stirrup,  when  a  sickness  or  dizziness  seemed 
to  overpower  him  :  he  leant  forward  a  moment,  with  his  head 
drooped  on  the  animal's  back,  and  then  made  one  more 
effort,  which  proving  ineffectual,  he  sank  back  on  the  bank, 
where  I  left  him,  reposing  his  head  on  the  oozy  turf,  and,  to 
all  appearance,  as  calmly  reclining  as  if  he  had  been  taking 
his  rest  on  his  sofa  at  home. 

I  ought  to  have  helped  him  in  spite  of  himself — to  have 
bound  up  the  wound  he  was  unable  to  stanch,  and  insisted 
upon  getting  him  on  his  horse  and  seeing  him  safe  home ; 
but,  besides  my  bitter  indignation  against  himself,  there  was 
the  question  what  to  say  to  his  servants — and  what  to  my 
own  family.  Either  I  should  have  to  acknowledge  the  deed, 
which  would  set  me  down  as  a  madman,  unless  I  acknow- 
ledged the  motive  too — and  that  seemed  impossible — or  I 
must  get  up  a  lie,  which  seemed  equally  out  of  the  question 
— especially  as  Mr.  Lawrence  would  probably  reveal  the 
whole  truth,  and  thereby  bring  me  to  tenfold  disgrace — unless 
I  were  villain  enough,  presuming  on  the  absence  of  witnesses, 
to  persist  in  my  own  version  of  the  case,  and  make  him  out 
a  still  greater  scoundrel  than  he  was.  No  ;  he  had  only  re- 
ceived a  cut  above  the  temple,  and  perhaps,  a  few  bruises 
from  the  fall,  or  the  hoofs  of  his  own  pony :  that  could  not 
kill  him  if  he  lay  there  half  the  day ;  and,  if  he  could  not 
help  himself,  surely  some  one  would  be  coming  by:  it  would 
be  impossible  that  a  whole  day  should  pass  and  no  one  tra- 
verse the  road  but  ourselves.  As  for  what  he  might  choosa 
to  say  hereafter,  I  would  take  my  chance  about  it :  if  he 
told  lies,  I  would  contradict  him  ;  if  he  told  the  truth,  I  would 
bear  it  as  best  I  could.  I  was  not  obliged  to  enter  into  expla- 
nations, further  than  I  thought  proper.  Perhaps,  he  might 
choose  to  be  silent  on  the  subject,  for  fear  of  raising  inquiries 


90  THE  TENANT 

as  to  the  cause  of  the  quarrel,  and  drawing  the  public  at- 
tention to  his  connection  with  Mrs.  Graham,  Avhich,  whether 
for  her  sake  or  his  own,  he  seemed  so  very  desirous  to 
conceal. 

Thus  reasoning,  I  trotted  away  to  the  town,  where  I  duly 
transacted  my  business,  and  performed  various  little  com- 
missions for  my  mother  and  Rose,  with  very  laudable  exacti- 
tude, considering  the  different  circumstances  of  the  case.  In 
returning  home,  I  was  troubled  with  sundry  misgivings  about 
the  unfortunate  Lawrence.  The  question,  what  if  I  should 
find  him  lying,  still  on  the  damp  earth,  fairly  dying  of  cold 
and  exhaustion — or  already  stark  and  chill  ?  thrust  itself 
most  unpleasantly  upon  my  mind,  and  the  appalling  possibility 
pictured  itself  with  painful  vividness  to  my  imagination  as 
I  approached  the  spot  where  I  had  left  him.  But  no ;  thank 
Heaven,  both  man  and  horse  were  gone,  and  nothing  was 
left  to  witness  against  me  but  two  objects — unpleasant  enough 
in  themselves,  to  be  sure,  and  presenting  a  very  ugly,  not  to 
eay  murderous,  appearance — in  one  place,  the  hat  saturated 
•with  rain  and  coated  with  mud,  indented  and  broken  above 
the  brim  by  that  villanous  whip-handle ;  in  another,  the 
crimson  handkerchief,  soaking  in  a  deeply  tinctured  pool  of 
water — for  much  rain  had  fallen  in  the  interim. 

Bad  news  fly  fast :  it  was  hardly  four  o'clock  when  I  got 
home,  but  my  mother  gravely  accosted  me  with 

"  Oh,  Gilbert ! — Such  an  accident !  Rose  has  been  shopping 
in  the  village,  and  she's  heard  that  Mr.  Lawrence  has  been 
thrown  from  his  horse  and  brought  home  dying  ! " 

This  shocked  me  a  trifle,  as  you  may  suppose ;  but  I  was 
comforted  to  hear  that  he  had  frightfully  fractured  his  skull 
and  broken  a  leg ;  for,  assured  of  the  falsehood  of  this,  I 
trusted  the  rest  of  the  story  was  equally  exaggerated  ;  and 
when  I  heard  my  mother  and  sister  so  feelingly  deploring  his 
condition,  I  had  considerable  difficulty  in  preventing  myself 
from  telling  them  the  real  extent  of  the  injuries,  as  far  as  I 
knew  them. 

"  You  must  go  and  see  him  to-morrow,"  said  my  mother. 

"  Or  to-day,"  suggested  Rose :  "  there's  plenty  of  time  ; 
and  you  can  have  the  pony,  as  your  horse  is  tired.  Won't 
you,  Gilbert — as  soon  as  you've  had  something  to  eat?" 

"  No,  no — How  can  we  tell  that  it  isn't  all  a  false  report? 
It's  highly  im " 

"  Oh,  I'm  sure  it  isn't ;  for  the  village  is  all  alive  about  it ; 
and  I  saw  two  people  that  had  seen  others  that  had  seen  the 
man  that  found  him.  That  sounds  far  fetched ;  but  it  isn't  so, 
when  you  think  of  it." 

"  Well,  but  Lawrence  is  a  good  rider ;  it  is  not  likely  he 


OF  WILDFELL  HALL.  91 

would  fall  from  his  horse  at  all ;  and  if  he  did,  it  is  highly 
improbable  he  would  break  his  bones  in  that  way.  It  must 
be  a  gross  exaggeration  at  least." 

"  No,  but  the  horse  kicked  him — or  something." 

"  What,  his  quiet  little  pony?" 

"  How  do  you  know  it  was  that?" 

"  He  seldom  rides  any  other." 

"  At  any  rate,"  said  my  mother,  "  you  will  call  to-morrow. 
Whether  it  be  true  or  false,  exaggerated  or  otherwise,  we  shall 
like  to  know  how  he  is." 

"  Fergus  may  go." 

"Why  not  you?" 

44  He  has  more  time  :  I  am  busy  just  now." 

"  Oh  !  but  Gilbert,  how  can  you  be  so  composed  about  it? 
You  won't  mind  business,  for  an  hour  or  two,  in  a  case  o* 
this  sort — when  your  friend  is  at  the  point  of  death  !" 

"  He  is  not,  I  tell  you  !" 

"  For  anything  you  know,  he  may  be  :  you  can't  tell  till 
you  have  seen  him.  At  all  events,  he  must  have  met  with 
some  terrible  accident,  and  you  ought  to  see  him  :  he'll  take 
it  very  unkind  if  you  don't." 

"  Confound  it !  I  can't.  He  and  I  have  not  been  on  good 
terms,  of  late." 

"  O,  my  dear  boy !  Surely,  surely  you  are  not  so  un- 
forgiving as  to  carry  your  little  differences  to  such  a  length 

"  Little  differences,  indeed  !"  I  muttered. 

"  Well,  but  only  remember  the  occasion  !   Think  how " 

"Well,  well,  don't  bother  me  now — I'll  see  about  it,"  I 
replied. 

And  my  seeing  about  it,  was  to  send  Fergus  next  morning, 
with  my  mother's  compliments,  to  make  the  requisite  in- 
quiries ;  for,  of  course,  my  going  was  out  of  the  question — 
or  sending  a  message  either.  He  brought  back  intelligence 
that  the  young  squire  was  laid  up  with  the  complicated  evils 
of  a  broken  head  and  certain  contusions  (occasioned  by  a  fall 
—of  which  he  did  not  trouble  himself  to  relate  the  parti- 
culars— and  the  subsequent  misconduct  of  his  horse),  and  a 
severe  cold,  the  consequence  of  lying  on  the  wet  ground  in  the 
rain ;  but  there  were  no  broken  bones,  and  no  immediate 
prospects  of  dissolution. 

It  was  evident  then,  that,  for  Mrs.  Graham'a  sake,  it  was 
not  his  intention  to  criminate  me. 


92  THE  TENANT 


CHAPTER   XV. 

THAT  day  was  rainy  like  its  predecessor ;  but  towards  even- 
ing it  began  to  clear  up  a  little,  and  the  next  morning  waa 
fair  and  promising.  I  was  out  on  the  hill  with  the  reapers. 
A  light  wind  swept  over  the  corn ;  and  all  nature  laughed 
in  the  sunshine.  The  lark  was  rejoicing  among  the  silvery 
floating  clouds.  The  late  rain  had  so  sweetly  freshened  and 
cleared  the  air,  and  washed  the  sky,  and  left  such  glitter- 
ing gems  on  branch  and  blade,  that  not  even  the  farmers  could 
have  the  heart  to  blame  it.  But  no  ray  of  sunshine  could 
reach  my  heart,  no  breeze  could  freshen  it ;  nothing  could  fill 
the  void  my  faith,  and  hope,  and  joy  in  Helen  Graham  had 
left,  or  drive  away  the  keen  regrets,  and  bitter  dregs  of  lin- 
gering love  that  still  oppressed  it. 

While  I  stood,  with  folded  arms,  abstractedly  gazing  on  the 
undulating  swell  of  the  corn  not  yet  disturbed  by  the  reapers, 
something  gently  pulled  my  skirts,  and  a  small  voice,  no 
longer  welcome  to  my  ears,  aroused  me  with  the  startling 
words — 

"  Mr.  Markham,  mamma  wants  you." 

"Wants  me,  Arthur?" 

"Yes.  Why  do  you  look  so  queer?"  said  he,  half  laugh, 
ing,  half  frightened  at  the  unexpected  aspect  of  my  lace  in 
suddenly  turning  towards  him — "  and  why  have  you  kept  so 
long  away  ? — Come  ! — Won't  you  come  ?  " 

"  I'm  busy  just  now,"  I  replied,  scarce  knowing  what  to 
answer. 

lie  looked  up  in  childish  bewilderment;  but  before  I  could 
speak  again,  the  lady  herself  was  at  my  side.  • 

"  Gilbert,  I  must  speak  with  you!"  said  she,  in  a  tone  of 
suppressed  vehemence. 

I  looked  at  her  pale  cheek  and  glittering  eye,  but  answered 
nothing. 

"  Only  for  a  moment,"  pleaded  she.  "  Just  step  aside  into 
this  other  field,"  she  glanced  at  the  reapers,  some  of  whom 
were  directing  looks  of  impertinent  curiosity  towards  her — 
"  I  won't  keep  you  a  minute." 

I  accompanied  her  through  the  gap. 

"  Arthur,  darling,  run  and  gather  those  blue-bells,"  said 
she,  pointing  to  some  that  were  gleaming,  at  some  distance, 
under  the  hedge  along  which  we  walked.  The  child  hesi- 
tated, as  if  unwilling  to  quit  my  side.  "  Go,  love  !"  repeated 
she  more  urgently,  and  in  a  tone,  which,  though  not  unkind, 
demanded  prompt  obedience,  and  obtained  it. 


OF   WILDFELL  HALL.  93 

"Well,  Mrs.  Graham?"  said  I,  calmly  and  coWly;  for, 
though  I  saw  she  was  miserable,  and  pitied  her,  I  felt  glad  to 
have  it  in  my  power  to  torment  her. 

She  fixed  her  eyes  upon  me  with  a  look  that  pierced  me  to 
the  heart ;  and  yet,  it  made  me  smile. 

"  I  don't  ask  the  reason  of  this  change,  Gilbert,"  said  she, 
with  bitter  calmness.  "  I  know  it  too  well ;  but  though  I 
could  see  myself  suspected  and  condemned  by  every  one  else, 
and  bear  it  with  calmness,  I  cannot  endure  it  from  you. — Why 
did  you  not  come  to  hear  my  explanation  on  the  day  I  ap- 
pointed to  give  it?" 

"  Because  I  happened,  in  the  interim,  to  learn  all  you 
would  have  told  me — and  a  trifle  more,  I  imagine." 

"Impossible,  for  I  would  have  told  you  all!"  cried  she, 
passionately — "  but  I  won't  now,  for  I  see  you  are  not  worthy 
of  it!" 

And  her  pale  lips  quivered  with  agitation. 

"  Why  not,  may  I  ask  ?" 

She  repelled  my  mocking  smile  with  a  glance  of  scornful 
indignation. 

"Because  you  never  understood  me,  or  you  would  not 
soon  have  listened  to  my  traducers — my  confidence  would  be 
misplaced  in  you — you  are  not  ths  man  I  thought  you — Go  ! 
I  won't  care  what  you  think  of  me." 

She  turned  away,  and  I  went ;  for  I  thought  that  would 
torment  her  as  much  as  anything  ;  and  I  believe  I  was  right ; 
for,  looking  back  a  minute  after,  I  saw  her  turn  half  round, 
as  if  hoping  or  expecting  to  find  me  still  beside  her  ;  and  then 
she  stood  still,  and  cast  one  look  behind.  It  was  a  look  less 
expressive  of  anger  than  of  bitter  anguish  and  despair;  but  I 
immediately  assumed  an  aspect  of  indifference,  and  affected 
to  be  gazing  carelessly  round  me,  and  I  suppose  she  went  on ; 
for  after  lingering  awhile  to  see  if  she  would  come  back  or 
call,  I  ventured  one  more  glance,  and  saw  her  a  good  way  off', 
moving  rapidly  up  the  field  with  little  Arthur  running  by  her 
side  and  apparently  talking  as  he  went ;  but  she  kept  her  face 
averted  from  him,  as  if  to  hide  some  uncontrollable  emotion. 
And  I  returned  to  my  business. 

But  I  soon  began  to  regret  my  precipitancy  in  leaving  her 
so  soon.  It  was  evident  she  loved  me — probably,  she  was 
tired  of  Mr.  Lawrence,  and  wished  to  exchange  him  for  me  ; 
and  if  I  had  loved  and  reverenced  her  less  to  begin  with,  the 
preference  might  have  gratified  and  amused  me  ;  but  now,  the 
contrast  between  her  outward  seeming  and  her  inward  mind, 
as  I  supposed, — between  my  former  and  my  present  opinion 
of  her,  was  so  harrowing — so  distressing  to  my  feelings,  that 
it  swallowed  up  every  lighter  consideration. 


94  THE   TENANT 

But  still,  I  was  curious  to  know  what  sort  of  an  explana- 
tion she  would  have  given  me, — or  would  give  now,  if  I 
pressed  her  for  it — how  much  she  would  confess,  and  how  she 
would  endeavour  to  excuse  herself.  I  longed  to  know  what 
to  despise,  and  what  to  admire  in  her ;  how  much  to  pity,  and 
how  much  to  hate  ; — and,  what  was  more,  I  would  know.  I 
would  see  her  once  more,  and  fairly  satisfy  myself  in  what 
light  to  regard  her,  before  we  parted.  Lost  to  me  she  was, 
for  ever,  of  course  ;  but  still,  I  could  not  bear  to  think  that  we 
had  parted,  for  the  last  time,  with  so  much  unkindness  and 
misery  on  both  sides.  That  last  look  of  hers  had  sunk  into 
my  heart ;  I  could  not  forget  it.  But  what  a  fool  I  was !  Had 
she  not  deceived  me,  injured  me — blighted  my  happiness  for 
life  ?  u  Well  I'll  see  her,  however,"  was  my  concluding  resolve, 
—"  but  not  to-day :  to-day  and  to-night,  she  may  think  upon 
her  sins,  and  be  as  miserable  as  she  will :  to-morrow,  I  will 
see  her  once  again,  and  know  something  more  about  her. 
The  interview  may  be  serviceable  to  her,  or  it  may  not.  At 
any  rate,  it  will  give  a  breath  of  excitement  to  the  life  she  has 
doomed  to  stagnation,  and  may  calm  with  certainty  some  agi- 
tating thoughts." 

I  did  go  on  the  morrow ;  but  not  till  towards  evening,  after 
the  business  of  the  day  was  concluded,  that  is,  between  six 
and  seven ;  and  the  westering  sun  was  gleaming  redly  on  the  old 
hall,  and  flaming  in  the  latticed  windows,  as  I  reached  it,  im- 
parting to  the  place  a  cheerfulness  not  its  own.  I  need  not 
dilate  upon  the  feelings  with  which  I  approached  the  shrine  of 
my  former  divinity — that  spot  teeming  with  a  thousand  de- 
lightful recollections  and  glorious  dreams — all  darkened  now, 
by  one  disastrous  truth. 

Rachel  admitted  me  into  the  parlour,  and  went  to  call  her 
mistress,  for  she  was  not  there  ;  but  there  was  her  desk  left 
open  on  the  little  round  table  beside  the  high -backed  chair, 
with  a  book  laid  upon  it.  Her  limited  but  choice  collection 
of  books  was  almost  as  familiar  to  me  as  my  own ;  but  this 
volume  I  had  not  seen  before.  I  took  it  up.  It  was  Sir 
Humphry  Davy's  "  Last  Days  of  a  Philosopher,"  and  on  the 
tirst  leaf  was  written, — "  Frederick  Lawrence."  I  closed  the 
book,  but  kept  it  in  my  hand,  and  stood  facing  the  door,  with 
my  back  to  the  fire-place,  calmly  waiting  her  arrival ;  for  I 
did  not  doubt  she  would  come.  And  soon  I  heard  her  step  in 
the  hall.  My  heart  was  beginning  to  throb,  but  I  checked 
it  with  an  internal  rebuke,  and  maintained  my  com- 
posure—outwardly, at  least.  She  entered,  calm,  pale,  col- 
lected. 

"  To  what  am  I  indebted  for  this  favour,  Mr.  Markham  ?•' 
said  she,  with  such  severe  but  quiet  dignity  as  almost  discon- 


OF   WTLDFELL   HALL.  95 

certed  me ;  but  I  answered  with  a  smile,  and  impudently 
enough : — 

44  Well,  I  am  come  to  hear  your  explanation." 

44 1  told  you  I  would  not  give  it,"  said  she.  "  I  said  you 
were  unworthy  of  my  confidence." 

44  Oh,  very  well,"  replied  I,  moving  to  the  door. 

44  Stay  a  moment,"  said  she.  u  This  is  the  last  time  I  shall 
•ce  you  :  don't  go  just  yet." 

I  remained,  awaiting  her  further  commands. 

44  Tell  me,"  resumed  she,  "on  what  grounds  you  believe 
these  things  against  me ;  who  told  you ;  and  what  did  they 
say?" 

I  paused  a  moment.  She  met  my  eye  as  unflinchingly  as  if 
her  bosom  had  been  steeled  with  conscious  innocence.  She  was 
resolved  to  know  the  worst,  and  determined  to  dare  it  too. 
41 1  can  crush  that  bold  spirit,"  thought  I.  But  while  I 
secretly  exulted  in  my  power,  I  felt  disposed  to  dally  with  my 
victim  like  a  cat.  Showing  her  the  book  that  I  still  held  in 
my  hand,  and  pointing  to  the  name  on  the  fly  leaf,  but  fixing 
my  eye  upon  her  face,  I  asked, — 

44  Do  you  know  that  gentleman?" 

41  Of  course  I  do,"  replied  she  ;  and  a  sudden  flush  suffused 
her  features — whether  of  shame  or  anger  I  could  not  tell :  it 
rather  resembled  the  latter.  4l  What  next,  sir?" 

44  How  long  is  it  since  you  saw  him?" 

44  Who  gave  you  the  right  to  catechise  me,  on  this  or  any 
other  subject?" 

41  Oh,  no  one  ! — it's  quite  at  your  option  whether  to  answer 
or  not.  And  now,  let  me  ask — have  you  heard  what  has 
lately  befallen  this  friend  of  yours  ? — because,  if  you  have 
not " 

44 1  will  not  be  insulted,  Mr.  Markham!"  cried  she,  almost 
infuriated  at  my  manner.  "  So  you  had  better  leave  the 
house  at  once,  if  you  came  only  for  that." 

"  I  did  not  come  to  insult  you :  I  came  to  hear  your  expla- 
nation." 

44  And  I  tell  you  I  won't  give  it !"  retorted  she,  pacing  the 
room  in  a  state  of  strong  excitement,  with  her  hands  clasped 
tightly  together,  breathing  short,  and  flashing  fires  of  indig- 
nation from  her  eyes.  "  I  will  not  condescend  to  explain  my- 
self to  one  that  can  make  a  jest  of  such  horrible  suspicions, 
and  be  so  easily  led  to  entertain  them." 

"  I  do  not  make  a  jest  of  them,  Mrs.  Graham,"  returned  I, 
dropping  at  once  my  tone  of  taunting  sarcasm.  4t  I  heartily 
wish  I  could  find  them  a  jesting  matter  !  And  as  to  being 
easily  led  to  suspect,  God  only  knows  what  a  blind,  incredu- 
lous fool  I  have  hitherto  been,"perseveringly  shutting  my  eyes 


96  THE   TENANT 

and  stopping  my  ears  against  everything  that  threatened  to 
shake  my  confidence  in  you,  till  proof  itself  confounded  my 
infatuation !" 

"What  proof,  sir?" 

"  Well,  I'll  tell  you.  You  rememher  that  evening  when  I 
was  here  last?" 

"  I  do." 

"  Even  then,  you  dropped  some  hints  that  might  have 
opened  the  eyes  of  a  wiser  man  ;  but  they  had  no  such  effect 
upon  me :  1  went  on  trusting  and  believing,  hoping  against 
hope,  and  adoring  where  I  could  not  comprehend.  It  so  hap- 
pened, however,  that  after  I  left  you,  I  turned  back — drawn 
by  pure  depth  of  sympathy,  and  ardour  of  affection — not 
daring  to  intrude  my  presence  openly  upon  you,  but  unable 
to  resist  the  temptation  of  catching  one  glimpse  through  the 
window,  just  to  see  how  you  were  ;  for  I  had  left  you  appa- 
rently in  great  affliction,  and  I  partly  blamed  my  own  want  oi 
forbearance  and  discretion  as  the  cause  of  it.  If  I  did  wrong, 
iove  alone  was  my  incentive,  and  the  punishment  was  severe 
enough  ;  for  it  was  just  as  I  had  reached  that  tree,  that  you 
came  out  into  the  garden  with  your  friend.  Not  choosing  to 
show  myself,  under  the  circumstances,  I  stood  still,  in  the 
shadow,  till  you  had  both  passed  by." 

"And  how  much  of  our  conversation  did  you  hear?" 

"  I  heard  quite  enough,  Helen.  And  it  was  well  for  me 
that  I  did  hear  it ;  for  nothing  less  could  have  cured  my  infa- 
tuation. I  always  said  and  thought,  that  I  would  never  be- 
lieve a  word  against  you,  unless  I  heard  it  from  your  own  lips. 
All  the  hints  and  affirmations  of  others  I  treated  as  malignant, 
baseless  slanders  ;  your  own  self  accusations  I  believed  to  be 
over-strained  ;  and  all  that  seemed  unaccountable  in  your 
position,  I  trusted  that  you  could  account  for  if  you  chose." 

Mrs.  Graham  had  discontinued  her  walk.  She  leant  against 
one  end  of  the  chimney-piece,  opposite  that  near  which  1 
was  standing,  with  her  chin  resting  on  her  closed  hand,  her 
C3*es — no  longer  burning  with  anger,  but  gleaming  with  rest- 
less excitement — sometimes  glancing  at  me  while  I  spoke, 
then  coursing  the  opposite  wall,  or  fixed  upon  the  carpet. 

"  You  should  have  come  to  me,  after  all,"  said  she,  "  and 
heard  what  I  had  to  say  in  my  own  justification.  It  was  un- 
generous and  wrong  to  withdraw  yourself  so  secretly  and 
suddenly,  immediately  after  such  ardent  protestations  of  at- 
tachment, without  ever  assigning  a  reason  for  the  change. 
You  should  have  told  me  all — no  matter  how  bitterly.  It 
would  have  been  better  than  this  silence." 

"To  what  end  should  I  have  done  so?  You  could  not 
have  enlightened  me  further,  on  the  subject  which  alone  con- 


OF   WILDFELL   HALL.  97 

cerned  me ;  nor  cc-uld  you  have  made  rr.e  discredit  the  evi- 
dence of  my  senses.  1  desired  our  intimacy  to  be  discon- 
tinued at  once,  as  you  yourself  had  acknowledged  would  pro- 
bably be  the  case  if  I  knew  all ;  but  I  did  not  wish  to  upbraid 
you, — though  (as  you  also  acknowledged)  you  had  deeply 
wronged  me.  Yes ;  you  have  done  me  an  injury  you  can 
never  repair — or  any  other  cither — you  have  blighted  the 
freshness  and  promise  of  youth,  and  made  my  life  a  wilderness ! 
I  might  live  a  hundred  years,  but  I  could  never  recover  from 
the  effects  of  this  withering  blow — and  never  forget  it !  Here- 
after  You  smile,  Mrs.  Graham,"  said  I,  suddenly  stopping 

short,  checked  in  my  passionate  declamation  by  unutterable 
feelings  to  behold  her  actually  smiling  at  the  picture  of  the 
ruin  she  had  wrought. 

u  Did  I?"  replied  she,  looking  seriously  up;  "  I  was  not 
aware  of  it.  If  I  did,  it  was  not  for  pleasure  at  the  thoughts 
of  the  harm  I  had  done  you.  Heaven  knows  I  have  had  tor- 
ment enough  at  the  bare  possibility  of  that; — it  was  for  joy 
to  find  that  you  had  some  depth  of  soul  and  feeling  after  all, 
and  to  hope  that  I  had  not  been  utterly  mistaken  in  your 
worth.  But  smiles  and  tears  are  so  alike  with  me  ;  they  are 
neither  of  them  confined  to  any  particular  feelings :  I  often 
cry  when  I  am  happy,  and  smile  when  I  am  sad." 

She  looked  at  me  again,  and  seemed  to  expect  a  reply;  but 
I  continued  silent. 

"  Would  you  be  very  glad,"  resumed  she,  "  to  find  that 
you  were  mistaken  in  your  conclusions?" 

"  How  can  you  ask  it,  Helen  ?" 

"  I  don't  say  I  can  clear  myself  altogether,"  said  she, 
speaking  low  and  fast,  while  her  heart  beat  visibly  and  her 
bosom  heaved  with  excitement, — "  but  would  you  be  glad  to 
discover  I  was  better  than  you  think  me  ?" 

"  Anything,  that  could,  in  the  least  degree,  tend  to  restore 
my  former  opinion  of  you,  to  excuse  the  regard  I  still  feel  for 
you,  and  alleviate  the  pangs  of  unutterable  regret  that  ac- 
company it,  would  be  only  too  gladly — too  eagerly  received !" 

Her  cheeks  burned  and  her  whole  frame  trembled,  now, 
with  excess  of  agitation.  She  did  not  speak,  but  flew  to  her 
desk,  and  snatching  thence  what  seemed  a  thick  album  or 
manuscript  volume,  hastily  tore  away  a  few  leaves  from  the 
end,  and  thrust  the  rest  into  my  hand,  saying,  "  You  needn't 
read  it  all ;  but  take  it  home  with  you,"  and  hurried  from  the 
room.  But  when  I  had  left  the  house,  and  was  proceeding 
down  the  walk,  she  opened  the  window  and  called  me  back. 
It  was  only  to  say, — 

"  Bring1  it  back  when  you  havp  rend  it ;  and  don't  breathe 

1 


93  THE  TENANT 

a  word  of  what  it  tells  you  to  any  living  being.  I  trusfc  to 
your  honour." 

Before  I  could  answer,  she  had  closed  the  casement  and 
turned  away.  I  saw  her  cast  herself  back  in  the  old  oak 
chair,  and  cover  her  face  with  her  hands.  Her  feelings  had 
been  wrought  to  a  pitch  that  rendered  it  necessary  to  seek 
relief  in  tears. 

Panting  with  eagerness,  and  struggling  to  suppress  my 
hopes,  I  hurried  home,  and  rushed  up  stairs  to  my  room, 
having  first  provided  myself  with  a  candle,  though  it  was 
scarcely  twilight  yet— then,  shut  and  bolted  the  door,  deter- 
mined to  tolerate  no  interruption  ;  and  sitting  down  before  the 
table,  opened  out  my  prize  and  delivered  myself  up  to  its 
perusal — first,  hastily  turning  over  the  leaves  and  snatching  a 
sentence  here  and  there,  and  then,  setting  myself  steadily  to 
read  it  through. 

I  have  it  now  before  me ;  and  though  you  could  not,  of 
course,  peruse  it  with  half  the  interest  that  I  did,  I  know  you 
would  not  be  satisfied  with  an  abbreviation  of  its  contents,  and 
you  shall  have  the  whole,  save,  perhaps,  a  few  passages  here 
and  there  of  merely  temporal  interest  to  the  writer,  or  such 
as  would  serve  to  encumber  the  story  rather  than  elucidate 
it.  It  begins  somewhat  abruptly,  thus — but  we  will  reserve 
its  commencement  for  another  chapter,  and  call  it, — 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

JUNE  1st,  1821.— We  have  just  returned  to  Staningley— that 
is,  we  returned  some  days  ago,  and  I  am  not  yet  settled,  and 
feel  as  if  I  never  should  be.  We  left  town  sooner  than  was 
intended,  in  consequence  of  my  uncle's  indisposition — I  wonder 
what  would  have  been  the  result  if  we  had  stayed  the  full 
time.  I  am  quite  ashamed  of  my  new-sprung  distaste  for 
country  life.  All  my  former  occupations  seem  so  tedious 
and  dull,  my  former  amusements  so  insipid  and  unprofitable. 
I  cannot  enjoy  my  music,  because  there  is  no  one  to  hear  it. 
I  cannot  enjoy  my  walks,  because  there  is  no  one  to  meet.  I 
cannot  enjoy  my  books,  because  they  have  not  power  to  arrest 
my  attention — my  head  is  so  haunted  with  the  recollections  of 
the  last  few  weeks,  that  I  cannot  attend  to  them.  My  draw- 
ing suits  me  best,  for  I  can  draw  and  think  at  the  same  time  ; 
and  if  my  productions  cannot  now  be  seen  by  any  one  but  my- 
self and  those  who  do  not  care  about  them,  they,  possibly, 
may  be,  hereafter.  But  then,  there  is  one  face  I  am  always 
trying  to  paint  or  to  sketch,  and  always  without  success ;  and 


OF   WILDFKLL   HALL.  99 

that  vexes  me.  As  for  the  owner  of  that  face,  I  cannot  pet 
him  out  of  my  mind — and,  indeed,  I  never  try.  I  wonder 
whether  he  ever  thinks  of  me  ;  and  I  wonder  whether  I  shall 
ever  see  him  again.  And  then  might  follow  a  train  of  other 
wonderments — questions  for  time  and  fate  to  answer — conclud« 
ing  with  : — supposing  all  the  rest  be  ansv,rered  in  the  affirma- 
tive, I  wonder  whether  I  shall  ever  repent  it — as  my  aunt 
would  tell  me  I  should,  if  she  knew  what  I  was  thinking  about. 
How  distinctly  I  remember  our  conversation  that  evening  be« 
fore  our  departure  for  town,  when  we  were  sitting  together 
over  the  fire,  my  uncle  having  gone  to  bed  with  a  slight  attack 
of  the  gout. 

"  Helen,"  said  she,  after  a  thoughtful  silence,  "  do  you  ever 
think  about  marriage?" 

"  Yes,  aunt,  often." 

"And  do  you  ever  contemplate  the  possibility  ot  being 
married  j'ourself,  or  engaged,  before  the  season  is  over  ?" 

'  Sometimes  :  but  I  don't  think  it  at  all  likely  that  I  ever 
shall." 

"Why  so?" 

"  Because,  I  imagine  there  must  be  only  a  very,  very  few 
men  in  the  world,  that  I  should  like  to  marry  ;  and  of  those 
few,  it  is  ten  to  one  I  may  never  be  acquainted  with  one  ;  or 
if  I  should,  it  is  twenty  to  one,  he  may  not  happen  to  be 
single,  or  to  take  a  fancy  to  me." 

"That  is  no  argument  at  all.  It  may  be  very  true — and  I 
hope  is  true,  that  there  are  very  few  men  whom  you  would 
choose  to  marry,  of  yourself.  It  is  not,  indeed,  to  be  sup- 
posed, that  }'ou  would  wish  to  marry  any  one,  till  you  were 
asked  :  a  girl's  affections  should  never  be  won  unsought.  Bat 
when  they  are  sought — when  the  citadel  of  the  heart  is  fairly 
besieged — it  is  apt  to  surrender  sooner  than  the  owner  is 
aware  of,  and  often  against  her  better  judgment,  and  in  oppo- 
sition to  all  her  preconceived  ideas  of  what  she  could  have 
loved,  unless  she  be  extremely  careful  and  discreet.  Now,  I 
want  to  warn  you,  Helen,  of  these  things,  and  to  exhort  you 
to  be  watchful  and  circumspect  from  the  very  commencement 
of  your  career,  and  not  to  suffer  your  heart  to  be  stolen  from 
you  by  the  first  foolish  or  unprincipled  person  that  covets  the 
possession  of  it. — You  know,  my  dear,  you  are  only  just 
eighteen ;  there  is  plenty  of  time  before  you,  and  neither  your 
uncle  nor  I  are  in  any  hurry  to  get  you  off  our  hands,  and  I 
may  venture  to  say,  there  will  be  no  lack  of  suitors  ;  for  you 
can  boast  a  good  family,  a  pretty  considerable  fortune  and  ex- 
pectations, and,  I  may  as  well  tell  you  likewise — for,  if  I  don't, 
others  will — that  you  have  a  fair  share  of  beauty,  besides — 
and  I  hope  you  may  never  have  cause  to  regret  it  1" 


100  THE   TENANT 

"  I  hope  not,  aunt ;  but  why  should  you  fear  it  ?* 
"  Because,  my  dear,  beauty  is  that  quality  which,  next  to 
money,  is  generally  the  most  attractive  to  the  worst  kinds  of 
men ;  and,  therefore,  it  is  likely  to  entail  a  great  deal  of 
trouble  on  the  possessor." 

u  Have  you  been  troubled  in  that  way,  aunt?" 
"  No,  Helen,"  said  she,  with  reproachful  gravity,  "  but  1 
know  many  that  have  ;  and  some,  through  carelessness,  have 
been  the  wretched  victims  of  deceit ;  and  some,  through  weak- 
ness, have  fallen  into  snares  and  temptations,  terrible  to 
relate." 

"  Well,  I  shall  be  neither  careless  nor  weak." 
"  Remember  Peter,  Helen  !  Don't  boast,  but  watch.  Keep 
a  guard  over  your  eyes  and  ears  as  the  inlets  of  your  heart, 
and  over  your  lips  as  the  outlet,  lest  they  betray  you  in  a 
moment  of  unwariness.  Receive,  coldly  and  dispassionately, 
every  attention,  till  you  have  ascertained  and  duly  considered 
the  worth  of  the  aspirant ;  and  let  your  affections  be  conse- 
quent upon  approbation  alone.  First  study  ;  then  approve  ; 
then  love.  Let  your  eyes  be  blind  to  all  external  attractions, 
your  ears  deaf  to  all  the  fascinations  of  flattery  and  light  dis- 
course.— These  are  nothing — and  worse  than  nothing — snares 
and  wiles  of  the  tempter,  to  lure  the  thoughtless  to  their  own 
destruction.  Principle  is  the  first  thing,  after  all ;  and  next 
to  that,  good  sense,  respectability,  and  moderate  wealth,  li 
you  should  marry  the  handsomest,  and  most  accomplished  and 
superficially  agreeable  man  in  the  world,  you  little  know  the 
misery  that  would  overwhelm  you,  if,  after  all,  you  should 
find  him  to  be  a  worthless  reprobate,  or  even  an  impracticable 
fool." 

"  But  what  are  all  the  poor  fools  and  reprobates  to  do, 
aunt  ?  If  everybody  followed  your  advice,  the  world  would 
soon  come  to  an  end." 

"  Never  fear,  my  dear  !  the  male  fools  and  reprobates  will 
never  want  for  partners,  while  there  are  so  many  of  the  other 
sex  to  match  them  ;  but  do  you  follow  my  advice.  And  this 
is  no  subject  for  jesting,  Helen — I  am  sorry  to  see  you  treat 
the  matter  in  that  light  way.  Believe  me,  matrimony  is  a 
serious  thing."  And  she  spoke  it  so  seriously,  that  one  might 
have  fancied  she  had  known  it  to  her  cost ;  but  I  asked  no 
more  impertinent  questions,  and  merely  answered, — 

"  I  know  it  is  ;  and  I  know  there  is  truth  and  sense  in  what 
you  say ;  but  you  need  not  fear  me,  for  I  not  only  should 
think  it  wrong  to  marry  a  man  that  was  deficient  in  sense  or 
in  principle,  but  I  should  never  be  tempted  to  do  it ;  for  I  could 
not  like  him,  if  he  were  ever  so  handsome,  and  ever  so  charm- 
ing, in  other  respects ;  t  should  hate  him — despise  him  —pity 


OF   WILDFELL  HALL.  101 

him — anything  but  love  him.  My  affections  not  only  ought 
to  he  founded  on  approbation,  but  they  will  and  must  be  so  : 
for,  without  approving,  I  cannot  love.  It  is  needless  to  say, 
I  ought  to  be  able  to  respect  and  honour  the  man  I  marry,  as 
well  as  love  him,  for  I  cannot  love  him  without.  So  get  your 
mind  at  rest." 

"  I  hope  it  may  be  so,"  answered  she. 

"  I  know  it  is  so,"  persisted  I. 

"You  have  not  been  tried  yet,  Helen — we  can  but  hope," 
said  she,  in  her  cold,  cautious  way. 

I  was  vexed  at  her  incredulity ;  but  I  am  not  sure  her 
doubts  were  entirely  without  sagacity ;  I  fear  I  have  found  it 
much  easier  to  remember  her  advice  than  to  profit  by  it ; — in- 
deed, I  have  sometimes  been  led  to  question  the  soundness  of 
her  doctrines  on  those  subjects.  Her  counsels  may  be  good, 
as  far  as  they  go — in  the  main  points,  at  least ; — but  there  arc 
some  things  she  has  overlooked  in  her  calculations.  I  wonder 
if  she  was  ever  in  love. 

I  commenced  my  career — or  my  first  campaign,  as  my  uncle 
calls  it — kindling  with  bright  hopes  and  fancies — chiefly 
raised  by  this  conversation — and  full  of  confidence  in  my  own 
discretion.  At  first,  I  was  delighted  with  the  novelty  and  ex- 
citement of  our  London  life  ;  but  soon  I  began  to  weary  of  its 
mingled  turbulence  and  constraint,  and  sigh  for  the  freshness 
and  freedom  of  home.  My  new  acquaintances,  both  male  and 
female,  disappointed  my  expectations,  and  vexed  and  de- 
pressed me  by  turns  ;  for  I  soon  grew  tired  of  studying  their 
peculiarities,  and  laughing  at  their  foibles— particularly  as  I 
was  obliged  to  keep  my  criticisms  to  myself,  for  my  aunt 
would  not  hear  them — and  they — the  ]ad;es  especially — ap- 
peared so  provokingly  mindless,  and  heartless,  and  artificial. 
The  gentlemen  seemed  better,  but,  perhaps,  it  was  because  I 
knew  them  less — perhaps,  because  they  flattered  me ;  but  I 
did  not  fall  in  love  with  any  of  them  ;  and,  if  their  attentions 
pleased  me  one  moment,  they  provoked  me  the  next,  because 
they  put  me  out  of  humour  with  myself,  by  revealing  my 
vanity,  and  making  me  fear  I  was  becoming  like  some  of 
the  ladies  I  so  heartily  despised. 

There  was  one  elderly  gentleman  that  annoyed  me  very 
much  ;  a  rich  old  friend  of  my  uncle's,  who,  I  believe,  thought 
I  could  not  do  better  than  marry  him  ;  but,  besides  being  old, 
he  was  ugly  and  disagreeable, — and  wicked,!  am  sure,  though 
my  aunt  scolded  me  for  saying  so  ;  but  she  allowed  he  was  no 
saint.  And  there  was  another,  less  hateful,  but  still  more 
tiresome,  because  she  favoured  him,  and  was  always  thrusting 
him  upon  me,  and  sounding  his  praises  in  my  ears,  Mr.  Boar- 
ham,  by  name,  Bore'em,  as  I  prefer  spelling  it,  for  a  terrible 


102  THE  TENANT 

bore  be  was :  I  shudder  still,  at  the  remembrance  of  his 
voice,  drone,  drone,  drone,  in  my  ear,  while  he  sat  beside  me, 
prosing  away  by  the  half-hour  together,  and  beguiling  himselt 
with  the  notion  that  he  was  improving  my  mind  by  useful  in- 
formation, or  impressing  his  dogmas  upon  me,  and  reforming 
my  errors  of  judgment,  or,  perhaps,  that  he  was  talking  down 
to  my  level,  and  amusing  me  with  entertaining  discourse.  Yet 
he  was  a  decent  man  enough,  in  the  main,  I  dare  say  ;  and  if 
he  had  kept  his  distance,  I  never  would  have  hated  him.  As 
it  was,  it  was  almost  impossible  to  help  it ;  for  he  not  only 
bothered  me  with  the  infliction  of  his  own  presence,  but  he 
kept  me  from  the  enjoyment  of  more  agreeable  society. 

One  night,  however,  at  a  ball,  he  had  been  more  than  usually 
tormenting,  and  my  patience  was  quite  exhausted.  It  appeared 
as  if  the  whole  evening  was  fated  to  be  insupportable  :  I  had  just 
had  one  dance  with  an  empty-headed  coxcomb,  and  then  Mr. 
Boarham  had  come  upon  me  and  seemed  determined  to  cling 
to  me  for  the  rest  of  the  night.  He  never  danced  himself,  and 
there  he  sat,  poking  his  head  in  my  face,  and  impressing  all  be- 
holders with  the  idea  that  he  was  a  confirmed,  acknowledged 
lover ;  my  aunt  looking  complacently  on,  all  the  time,  and 
wishing  him  God-speed.  In  vain  I  attempted  to  drive  him  away 
by  giving  a  loose  to  my  exasperated  feelings,  even  to  positive 
rudeness  :  nothing  could  convince  him  that  his  presence  was 
disagreeable.  Sullen  silence  was  taken  for  rapt  attention,  and 
gave  him  greater  room  to  talk  ;  sharp  answers  were  received  as 
smart  sallies  of  girlish  vivacity,  that  only  required  an  indulgent 
rebuke  ;  and  flat  contradictions  were  but  as  oil  to  the  flames, 
calling  forth  new  strains  of  argument  to  support  his  dogmas, 
and  bringing  down  upon  me  endless  floods  of  reasoning  to 
overwhelm  me  with  conviction. 

But  there  was  one  present  who  seemed  to  have  a  better  ap- 
preciation of  my  frame  of  mind.  A  gentleman  stood  by,  who 
had  been  watching  our  conference  for  some  time,  evidently 
much  amused  at  my  companion's  remorseless  pertinacity  and 
my  manifest  annoyance,  and  laughing  to  himself  at  the  as- 
perity and  uncompromising  spirit  of  my  replies.  At  length, 
however,  he  withdrew,  and  went  to  the  lady  of  the  house, 
apparently  for  the  purpose  of  asking  an  introduction  to  me, 
for,  shortly  after,  they  both  came  up,  and  she  introduced 
him  as  Mr.  Huntingdon,  the  son  of  a  late  friend  of  my 
uncle's.  He  asked  me  to  dance.  I  gladly  consented,  of 
course ;  and  he  was  my  companion  during  the  remainder  of 
my  stay,  which  was  not  long,  for  my  aunt,  as  usual,  insisted 
upon  an  early  departure. 

I  was  sorry  to  go,  lor  I  had  found  my  new  acquaintance  a 
Tery  lively  and  entertaining  companion.  There  was  a  certain 


OF   WILDFELL  HALL.  108 

graceful  case  and  freedom  about  all  he  said  and  did,  that  gave 
a  sense  of  repose  and  expansion  to  the  mind,  after  so  mucb 
constraint  and  formality  as  I  had  been  doomed  to  suft'er. 
There  might  be,  it  is  true,  a  little  too  much  careless  boldness 
in  his  manner  and  address,  but  I  was  in  so  good  a  humour, 
and  so  grateful  for  my  late  deliverance  from  Mr.  Boarham, 
that  it  did  not  anger  me. 

"Well,  Helen,  how  do  you  like  Mr.  Boarham  now?"  said 
my  aunt,  as  we  took  our  seats  in  the  carriage  and  drove  away. 

"  Worse  than  ever,"  I  replied. 

She  looked  displeased,  but  said  no  more  on  that  subject. 

"  Who  was  the  gentleman  you  danced  with  last,"  resumed 
she,  after  a  pause — "  that  was  so  officious  in  helping  you  on 
with  your  shawl  ?  " 

"He  was  not  officious  at  all,  aunt:  he  never  attempted  to 
help  me,  till  he  saw  Mr.  Boarham  coming  to  do  so  ;  and  then 
he  stepped  laughingly  forward  and  said,  '  Come,  I'll  preserve 
you  from  that  infliction.'  " 

"  Who  was  it,  I  ask?"  said  she,  with  frigid  gravity. 

"  It  was  Mr.  Huntingdon,  the  son  of  uncle's  old  friend." 

"  I  have  heard  your  uncle  speak  of  young  Mr.  Huntingdon. 
I've  heard  him  say,  '  He's  a  fine  lad,  that  young  Huntingdon, 
but  a  bit  wildish,  I  fancy.'  So  I'd  have  you  beware." 

"  What  does  '  a  bit  wildish'  mean  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"  It  means  destitute  of  principle,  and  prone  to  every  vice 
that  is  common  to  youth." 

"  But  I've  heard  uncle  say  he  was  a  sad  wild  fellow  him- 
self, when  he  was  young." 

She  sternly  shook  her  head. 

"  He  was  jesting  then,  I  suppose,"  said  I,  "  and  here  he 
was  speaking  at  random — at  least,  I  cannot  believe  there  is 
any  harm  in  those  laughing  blue  eyes." 

"  False  reasoning,  Helen  !"  said  she,  with  a  sigh. 

"  Well,  we  ought  to  be  charitable,  you  know,  aunt — be- 
sides, I  don't  think  it  is  false :  I  am  an  excellent  physiog- 
nomist, and  I  always  judge  of  people's  characters  by  their 
looks — not  by  whether  they  are  handsome  or  ugly,  but  by 
the  general  cast  of  the  countenance.  For  instance,  I  should 
know  by  your  countenance  that  you  were  not  of  a  cheerful, 
sanguine  disposition ;  and  I  should  know  by  Mr.  Wilmot'a 
that  he  was  a  worthless  old  reprobate,  and  by  Mr.  Boar- 
ham's  that  he  was  not  an  agreeable  companion,  and  by  Mr. 
Huntingdon's  that  he  was  neither  a  fool  nor  a  knave,  though, 
possibly,  neither  a  sage  nor  a  saint — but  that  is  no  matter  to 
me,  as  I  am  not  likely  to  meet  him  again — unless  as  an  occa- 
sional partner  in  the  ball-room." 

It  was  not  so,  however,  for  I  met  him  again  nest  mom- 


104  THE  TENANT 

ing.  He  came  to  call  upon  my  uncle,  apologising  for 
not  having  done  so  before,  by  saying  he  was  only  lately  re- 
turned from  the  continent,  and  had  not  heard,  till  the  pre- 
vious night,  of  my  uncle's  arrival  in  town  ;  and  after  that, 
1  often  met  him ;  sometimes  in  public,  sometimes  at  home  ; 
for  he  was  very  assiduous  in  paying  his  respects  to  his  old 
friend,  who  did  not,  however,  consider  himself  greatly  obliged 
by  the  attention. 

"  I  wonder  what  the  deuce  the  lad  means  by  coming  so 
often,"  he  would  say, — "can  you  tell,  Helen? — Hey?  He 
wants  none  o'my  company,  nor  I  his — that's  certain." 

"  I  wish  you'd  tell  him  so,  then,"  said  my  aunt. 

"  Why,  what  for  ?  If  I  don't  want  him,  somebody  does 
mayhap  (winking  at  me).  Besides,  he's  a  pretty  tidy  for- 
tune, Peggy,  you  know — not  such  a  catch  as  Wilmot,  but 
then  Helen  won't  hear  of  that  match ;  for,  somehow,  these 
old  chaps  don't  go  down  with  the  girls — with  all  their  money 
• — and  their  experience  to  boot.  I'll  bet  anything  she'd  rather 
have  this  young  fellow  without  a  penny,  than  Wilmot  with 
his  house  full  of  gold — Wouldn't  you,  Nell?" 

"  Yes,  uncle  ;  but  that's  Hot  saying  much  for  Mr.  Hunt- 
ingdon, for  I'd  rather  be  an  old  maid  and  a  pauper,  than 
Mrs.  Wilmot." 

"  And  Mrs.  Huntingdon?  What  would  you  rather  be  than 
Mrs.  Huntingdon?  eh?" 

"  I'll  tell  you  when  I've  considered  the  matter." 

"Ah  !  it  needs  consideration  then.  But  come,  now — would 
you  rather  be  an  old  maid — let  alone  the  pauper?" 

"  I  can't  tell  till  I'm  asked." 

And  I  left  the  room  immediately,  to  escape  further  exami- 
nation. But  five  minutes  after,  in  looking  from  my  window, 
I  beheld  Mr.  Boarham  coming  up  to  the  door.  I  waited 
nearly  half-an-hour  in  uncomfortable  suspense,  expecting 
every  minute  to  be  called,  and  vainly  longing  to  hear  him  go. 
Then,  footsteps  were  heard  on  the  stairs,  and  my  aunt  entered 
the  room  with  a  solemn  countenance,  and  closed  the  door  be- 
hind her. 

"  Here  is  Mr.  Boarham,  Helen,"  said  she.  "  He  wishes  to 
see  you." 

"  Oh,  aunt !  Can't  you  tell  him  I'm  indisposed  ? — I'm 
sure  I  am — to  see  him." 

"  Nonsense,  my  dear !  this  is  no  trifling  matter.  He  is 
come  on  a  very  important  errand — to  ask  your  hand  in  mar- 
riage, of  your  uncle  and  me." 

"I  hope  my  uncle  and  you  told  him  it  was  not  in  your 
power  to  give  it.  What  right  had  he  to  ask  any  one  before 
me?" 


OF  WILDFELL  HALL.  105 

"Helen!" 

"  What  did  my  uncle  say  ?" 

"  He  said  he  would  not  interfere  in  the  matter ;  if  you 
liked  to  accept  Mr.  Boarham's  obliging  offer,  you " 

"Did  he  say  obliging  offer?" 

"  No  ;  he  said  if  you  liked  to  take  him  you  might ;  and  if 
not,  you  might  please  yourself." 

"  lie  said  right ;  and  what  did  you  say?" 

"  It  is  no  matter  what  I  said.  What  will  you  say  ? — that 
is  the  question.  He  is  now  waiting  to  ask  you  himself;  but 
consider  well  before  you  go  ;  and  if  you  intend  to  refuse  him, 
give  me  your  reasons." 

"  I  shall  refuse  him,  of  course,  but  you  must  tell  me  how, 
for  I  want  to  be  civil  and  yet  decided — and  when  I've  got  rid 
of  him,  I'll  give  you  my  reasons  afterwards." 

"  But  stay,  He'len  ;  sit  down  a  little,  and  compose  yourself. 
Mr.  Boarham  is  in  no  particular  hurry,  for  he  has  little  doubt 
of  your  acceptance  ;  and  I  want  to  speak  with  you.  Tell  me, 
my  dear,  what  are  your  objections  to  him  ?  Do  you  deny  that 
he  is  an  upright,  honourable  man?" 

"  No." 

"  Do  you  deny  that  he  is  a  sensible,  sober,  respectable  ?  " 

"  No  ;  he  may  be  all  this,  but " 

"  But,  Helen  !  How  many  such  men  do  you  expect  to  meet 
with  in  the  world  ?  Upright,  honourable,  sensible,  sober, 
respectable  ! — Is  this  such  an  every-day  character,  that  you 
should  reject  the  possessor  of  such  noble  qualities,  without  a 
moment's  hesitation  ? — Yes,  noble,  I  may  call  them  ;  for, 
think  of  the  full  meaning  of  each,  and  how  many  inestimable 
virtues  they  include  (and  I  might  add  many  more  to  the  list), 
and  consider  that  all  this  is  laid  at  your  feet ;  it  is  in  your  power 
to  secure  this  inestimable  blessing  for  life — a  worthy  and  ex- 
cellent husband,  who  loves  you  tenderly,  but  not  too  fondly 
so  as  to  blind  him  to  your  faults,  and  will  be  your  guide 
throughout  life's  pilgrimage,  and  your  partner  in  eternal  bliss ! 
Think  how " 

"  But  I  hate  him,  aunt,  said  I,"  interrupting  this  unusual 
flow  of  eloquence. 

"Hate  him,  Helen!  Is  this  a  Christian  spirit? — you  hate 
him? — and  he  so  good  a  man  !" 

"  I  don't  hate  him  as  a  man,  but  as  a  husband.  As  a  man, 
I  love  him  so  much,  that  I  wish  him  a  better  wife  than  I 
— one  as  good  as  himself,  or  better — if  you  think  that  pos- 
sible— provided,  she  could  like  him ;  but  I  never  could,  and 
therefore " 

11  But  why  not  ?     What  objection  do  you  find  ?" 

"  Firstly,  he  is,  at  least,  forty  years  old — considerably  more 


106  THE  TENAN'I 

I  should  think,  and  I  am  but  eighteen  :  secondly,  he  is  nar- 
row-minded and  bigoted  in  the  extreme ;  thirdly,  his  tastes 
and  feelings  are  wholly  dissimilar  to  mine ;  fourthly,  his 
looks,  voice,  and  manner  are  particularly  displeasing  to  me  ; 
and  finally,  I  have  an  aversion  to  his  whole  person  that  I 
never  can  surmount." 

"  Then  you  ought  to  surmount  it !  And  please  to  compare 
him  for  a  moment  with  Mr.  Huntingdon,  and,  good  looks 
apart  (which  contribute  nothing  to  the  merit  of  the  man,  or 
to  the  happiness  of  married  life,  and  which  you  have  so  often 
professed  to  hold  in  light  esteem),  tell  me  which  is  the  better 
man." 

"  I  have  no  doubt  Mr.  Huntingdon  is  a  much  better  man 
than  you  think  him — but  we  are  not  talking  about  him,  now, 
but  about  Mr.  Boarham ;  and  as  I  would  rather  grow,  live 
and  die  in  single  blessedness  than  be  his  wife,  it  is  but  right 
that  I  should  tell  him  so  at  once,  and  put  him  out  of  suspense 
• — so  let  me  go." 

"  But  don't  give  him  a  flat  denial ;  he  has  no  idea  of  such 
a  thing,  and  it  would  offend  him  greatly :  say  you  have  no 
thoughts  of  matrimony,  at  present " 

"  But  I  have  thoughts  of  it." 

"  Or  that  you  desire  a  further  acquaintance." 

"  But  I  don't  desire  a  further  acquaintance — quite  the  con- 
trary." 

And  without  waiting  for  further  admonitions,  I  left  the 
room,  and  went  to  seek  Mr.  Boarham.  He  was  walking  up 
and  down  the  drawing-room,  humming  snatches  of  tunes,  and 
nibbling  the  end  of  his  cane.' 

41  My  dear  young  lady,"  said  he,  bowing  and  smirking  with 
great  complacency,  "I  have  your  kind  guardian's  permis- 
sion  " 

"  I  know,  sir,"  said  I,  wishing  to  shorten  the  scene  as 
much  as  possible,  "  and  I  am  greatly  obliged  for  your  pre- 
ference, but  must  beg  to  decline  the  honour  you  wish  to 
confer ;  for,  I  think,  we  were  not  made  for  each  other — as 
you  yourself  would  shortly  discover  if  the  experiment  were 
tried." 

My  aunt  was  right :  it  was  quite  evident  he  had  had  little 
doubt  of  my  acceptance,  and  no  idea  of  a  positive  denial,  lie 
was  amazed — astounded  at  such  an  answer,  but  too  incre- 
dulous to  be  much  offended  ;  and  after  a  little  humming  and 
hawing,  he  returned  to  the  attack. 

"  I  know,  my  dear,  that  there  exists  a  considerable  dispa- 
rity between  us  in  years,  in  temperament,  and  perhaps  some 
other  things ;  but  let  me  assure  you,  I  shall  not  be  severe  to 
mark  the  faults  and  foibles  of  a  young  and  ardent  nature  such 


OP  WILDFELL  HALL.  10? 

<io  yours,  and  while  I  acknowledge  them  to  myself,  and  even  re- 
buke them  with  all  a  father's  care,  believe  me,  no  youthful 
lover  could  be  more  tenderly  indulgent  towards  the  object  of 
his  affections,  than  I  to  you  ;  and,  on  the  other  hand,  let  me 
hope  that  my  more  experienced  years  and  graver  habits  of 
reflection  will  be  no  disparagement  in  your  eyes,  as  I  shall 
endeavour  to  make  them  all  conducive  to  your  happiness. 
Come  now !  What  do  you  say  ? — Let  us  have  no  young  lady'a 
affectations  and  caprices,  but  speak  out  at  once  !" 

"  I  will,  but  only  to  repeat  what  I  said  before,  that  I  am 
certain  we  were  not  made  for  each  other." 

"  You  really  think  so  ?" 

"  I  do." 

"  But  you  don't  know  me— you  wish  for  a  further  acquaint- 
ance— a  longer  time  to " 

"  No,  I  don't.  I  know  you  as  well  as  I  ever  shall,  and 
better  than  you  know  me,  or  you  would  never  dream  of 
uniting  yourself  to  one  so  incongruous — so  utterly  unsuitable 
to  you  in  every  way." 

"But  my  dear  young  lady,  I  don't  look  for  perfection,  I 
can  excuse " 

"  Thank  you,  Mr.  Boarham,  but  I  won't  trespass  upon 
your  goodness.  You  may  save  your  indulgence  and  considera- 
tion for  some  more  worthy  object,  that  won't  tax  them  so 
heavily." 

"  But  let  me  beg  you  to  consult  your  aunt ;  that  excellent 
lady,  I  am  sure,  will " 

"  I  have  consulted  her ;  and  I  know  her  wishes  coincide 
with  yours  ;  but  in  such  important  matters,  I  take  the  liberty 
of  judging  for  myself;  and  no  persuasion  can  alter  my  incli- 
nations, or  induce  me  to  believe  that  such  a  step  would  be 
conducive  to  my  happiness,  or  yours — and  I  wonder  that  a 
man  of  your  experience  and  discretion  should  think  of  choos- 
ing such  a  wife." 

"  Ah,  well !"  said  he,  "  I  have  sometimes  wondered  at  that 
myself.  I  have  sometimes  said  to  myself,  '  Now,  Boarham, 
what  is  this  you're  after  ?  Take  care,  man — look  before  you 
leap  !  This  is  a  sweet,  bewitching  creature,  but  remember, 
the  brightest  attractions  to  the  lover,  too  often  prove  the  hus- 
band's greatest  torments!'  I  assure  you  my  choice  has  not 
been  made  without  much  reasoning  and  reflection.  The  seem- 
ing imprudence  of  the  match  has  cost  me  many  an  anxious 
thought  by  day,  and  many  a  sleepless  hour  by  night ;  but  at 
length,  I  satisfied  myself,  that  it  was  not,  in  very  deed,  im- 
prudent. I  saw  my  sweet  girl  was  not  without  her  faults,  but 
of  these,  her  youth,  I  trusted,  was  not  one,  but  rather  an 
earnest  of  virtues  yet  unblown — a  strong  ground  of  presump- 


108  THE  TENAOT 

tion  that  her  little  defects  of  temper,  and  errors  of  judgment, 
opinion,  or  manner  were  not  irremediable,  but  might  easily 
be  removed  or  mitigated  by  the  patient  efforts  of  a  watchful 
and  judicious  adviser,  and  where  I  failed  to  enlighten  and 
control,  I  thought  I  might  safely  undertake  to  pardon,  for 
the  sake  of  her  many  excellences.  Therefore,  my  dearest 
girl,  since  I  am  satisfied,  why  should  you  object — on  my  ac- 
count, at  least?" 

u  But  to  tell  you  the  truth,  Mr.  Boarham,  it  is  on  my  own 

account  I  principally  object ;  so  let  us drop  the  subject," 

I  would  have  said,  "  for  it  is  worse  than  useless  to  pursue  it 
any  further,"  but  he  pertinaciously  interrupted  me  with, — 

"  But  why  so  ?  I  would  love  you,  cherish  you,  protect  you, 
&c.,  &c." 

I  shall  not  trouble  myself  to  put  down  all  that  passed  be- 
tween us.  Suffice  it  to  say,  that  I  found  him  very  trouble- 
some, and  very  hard  to  convince  that  I  really  meant  what  I 
said,  and  really  was  so  obstinate  and  blind  to  my  own  in- 
terests, that  there  was  no  shadow  of  a  chance  that  either  he 
or  my  aunt  would  ever  be  able  to  overcome  my  objections. 
Indeed,  I  am  not  sure  that  I  succeeded  after  all,  though 
wearied  with  his  so  pertinaciously  returning  to  the  same 
point  and  repeating  the  same  arguments  over  and  over  again, 
forcing  me  to  reiterate  the  same  replies,  I  at  length  turned 
short  and  sharp  upon  him,  and  my  last  words  were, — 

"  I  tell  you  plainly,  that  it  cannot  be.  No  consideration 
can  induce  me  to  marry  against  my  inclinations.  I  respect 
you — at  least,  I  would  respect  you,  if  you  would  behave  like 
a  sensible  man — but  I  cannot  love  you,  and  never  could — and 
the  more  you  talk  the  further  you  repel  me  ;  so  pray  don't 
say  any  more  about  it." 

Whereupon,  he  wished  me  a  good  morning  and  withdrew, 
disconcerted  and  offended,  no  doubt ;  but  surely  it  was  not 
my  fault. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

THE  next  day,  I  accompanied  my  uncle  and  aunt  to  a  dinner 
party  at  Mr.  Wilmot's.  He  had  two  ladies  staying  with  him, 
his  niece  Annabella,  a  fine  dashing  girl,  or  rather  young 
woman,  of  some  five  and  twenty,  too  great  a  flirt  to  be  mar- 
ried, according  to  her  own  assertion,  but  greatly  admired  by 
the  gentlemen,  who  universally  pronounced  her  a  splendid 
woman, — and  her  gentle  cousin  Milicent  Hargrave,  who  had 
taken  a  violent  fancy  to  me,  mistaking  me  for  something 
Vastly  better  than  I  was.  And  I,  in  return,  was  very  fond  of 


OF   WILDFELL  HALL.  10& 

her.  I  should  entirely  exclude  poor  Milicent  in  my  general 
animadversions  against  the  ladies  of  my  acquaintance.  But 
it  was  not  on  her  account,  or  her  cousin's,  that  I  have  men- 
tioned the  party  :  it  was  for  the  sake  of  another  of  Mr.  Wil- 
mot's  guests,  to  wit  Mr.  Huntingdon.  I  have  good  reason  to 
remember  his  presence  there,  for  this  was  the  last  time  I  saw 
him. 

He  did  not  sit  near  me  at  dinner ;  for  it  was  his  fate  to 
hand  in  a  capacious  old  dowager,  and  mine  to  be  handed  in 
by  Mr.  Grimsbj',  a  friend  oi'  his,  but  a  man  I  very  greatly 
disliked  :  there  was  a  sinister  cast  in  his  countenance,  and  a 
mixture  of  lurking  ferocity  and  fulsome  insincerity  in  his  de- 
meanour, that  I  could  not  away  with.  What  a  tiresome  cus- 
tom that  is,  by-the-bye — one  among  the  many  sources  of  facti- 
tious annoyance  of  this  ultra-civilised  life.  If  the  gentlemen 
must  lead  the  ladies  into  the  dining-room,  why  cannot  they 
take  those  they  like  best  ? 

I  am  not  sure,  however,  that  Mr.  Huntingdon  would  have 
taken  me,  if  he  had  been  at  liberty  to  make  his  own  selec- 
tion. It  is  quite  possible  he  might  have  chosen  Miss  Wil- 
mot ;  for  she  seemed  bent  upon  engrossing  his  attention  to 
herself,  and  he  seemed  nothing  loath  to  pay  the  homage  she 
demanded.  I  thought  so,  at  least,  when  I  saw  how  they 
talked  and  laughed,  and  glanced  across  the  table,  to  the  neg- 
lect and  evident  umbrage  of  their  respective  neighbours — and 
afterwards,  as  the  gentlemen  joined  us  in  the  drawing-room, 
when  she,  immediately  upon  his  entrance,  loudly  called  upon 
him  to  be  the  arbiter  of  a  dispute  between  herself  and  an- 
other lady,  and  he  answered  the  summons  with  alacrity,  and 
decided  the  question  without  a  moment's  hesitation  in  her  fa- 
vour— though,  to  my  thinking,  she  was  obviously  in  the  wrong 
— and  then  stood  chatting  familiarly  with  her  and  a  group  of 
other  ladies  ;  while  I  sat  with  Milicent  Hargrave,  at  the  op- 
posite end  of  the  room,  looking  over  the  latter's  drawings,  and 
aiding  her  with  my  critical  observations  and  advice,  at  her 
particular  desire.  But  in  spite  of  my  efforts  to  remain  com- 
posed, my  attention  wandered  from  the  drawings  to  the  merry 
group,  and  against  my  better  judgment  my  wrath  rose,  and 
doubtless  my  countenance  lowered ;  for  Milicent,  observing 
that  I  must  be  tired  of  her  daubs  and  scratches,  begged  I 
would  join  the  company  now,  and  defer  the  examination  of 
the  remainder  to  another  opportunity.  But  while  I  was  as- 
suring her  that  I  had  no  wish  to  join  them,  and  was  not  tired, 
Mr.  Huntingdon  himself  came  up  to  the  little  round  table  at 
which  we  sat. 

"  Are  these  yours?"  said  he,  carelessly  taking  up  one  of 
the  drawings. 


110  THE  TENANT 

"  No,  they  are  Miss  Hargrave's." 

"  Oh  !  well,  let's  have  a  look  at  them." 

And,  regardless  of  Miss  Hargrave's  protestations  that  they 
were  not  worth  looking  at,  he  drew  a  chair  to  my  side,  and 
receiving  the  drawings,  one  by  one  from  iny  hand,  suc- 
cessively scanned  them  over,  and  threw  them  on  the  table, 
but  said  not  a  word  about  them,  though  he  was  talking  all  the 
time.  I  don't  know  what  Milicent  Hargrave  thought  of  such 
conduct,  but  I  found  his  conversation  extremely  interesting, 
though  as  I  afterwards  discovered,  when  I  came  to  analyse  it, 
it  was  chiefly  confined  to  quizzing  the  different  members  of 
the  company  present ;  and  albeit'  he  made  some  clever  re- 
marks, and  some  excessively  droll  ones,  I  do  not  think  the 
whole  would  appear  anything  very  particular,  if  written  here, 
without  the  adventitious  aids  of  look,  and  tone,  and  gesture, 
and  that  ineffable  but  indefinite  charm,  which  cast  a  halo  over 
all  he  did  and  said,  and  which  would  have  made  it  a  delight 
to  look  in  his  face,  and  hear  the  music  of  his  voice,  if  he  had 
been  talking  positive  nonsense — and  which,  moreover,  made 
me  feel  so  bitter  against  my  aunt  when  she  put  a  stop  to  this 
enjoyment,  by  coming  composedly  forward,  under  pretence  of 
wishing  to  see  the  drawings,  that  she  cared  and  knew  nothing 
about,  and  while  making  believe  to  examine  them,  addressing 
herself  to  Mr.  Huntingdon,  with  one  of  her  coldest  and  most 
repellent  aspects,  and  beginning  a  scries  of  the  most  common 
place  and  formidably  formal  questions  and  observations,  on 
purpose  to  wrest  his  attention  from  me — on  purpose  to  vex 
me,  as  I  thought :  and  having  now  looked  through  the  port- 
folio, I  left  them  to  their  tete-4-te"te,  and  seated  myself  on  a 
sofa,  quite  apart  from  the  company — never  thinking  how 
strange  such  conduct  would  appear,  but  merely  to  indulge,  at 
first,  the  vexation  of  the  moment,  and  subsequently  to  enjoy 
my  private  thoughts. 

But  I  was  not  left  long  alone,  for  Mr.  Wilmot,  of  all  men 
the  least  welcome,  took  advantage  of  my  isolated  position  to 
come  and  plant  himself  beside  me.  I  had  flattered  myself 
that  I  had  so  effectually  repulsed  his  advances  on  all  former 
occasions,  that  I  had  nothing  more  to  apprehend  from  his  un- 
fortunate predilection  ;  but  it  seems  I  was  mistaken  :  so  great 
was  his  confidence,  either  in  his  wealth  or  his  remaining 
powers  of  attraction,  and  so  firm  his  conviction  of  feminine 
weakness,  that  he  thought  himself  warranted  to  return  to  the 
siege,  which  he  did  with  renovated  ardour,  enkindled  by  the 
quantity  of  wine  he  had  drunk— a  circumstance  that  rendered 
him  infinitely  the  more  disgusting ;  but  greatly  as  I  abhorred 
him  at  that  moment,  I  did  not  like  to  treat  him  with  rudeness, 
as  I  was  now  his  guest  and  had  just  been  enjoying  his  hospi- 


G*   WIL15FELL  II ALL.  Ill 

tality ;  and  I  was  no  hand  at  a  polite  bat  determined  rejec- 
tion, nor  would  it  have  greatly  availed  me  if  I  had  ;  for  he 
was  loo  coarse -minded  to  take  any  repulse  that  was  not  as 
plain  and  positive  as  his  own  effrontery.  The  consequence 
•was,  that  he  waxed  more  fulsomely  tender,  and  more  repul- 
sively warm,  and  I  was  driven  to  the  very  verge  of  despera- 
tion, and  about  to  say,  I  know  not  what,  when  I  felt  my  hand, 
that  hung  over  the  arm  of  the  sofa,  suddenly  taken  by  an- 
other and  gently  but  fervently  pressed.  Instinctively,  I 
guessed  who  it  was,  and,  on  looking  up,  was  less  surprised 
than  delighted  to  see  Mr.  Huntingdon  smiling  upon  me.  It 
was  like  turning  from  some  purgatorial  fiend  to  an  angel  of 
light,  come  to  announce  that  the  season  of  torment  was  past. 

"  Helen,"  said  he  (he  frequently  called  me  Helen,  and  I 
never  resented  the  freedom),  "  I  want  you  to  look  at  this  pic- 
ture :  Mr.  Wilmot  will  excuse  you  a  raoment,  I'm  sure." 

I  rose  with  alacrity.  He  drew  my  arm  within  his,  and  led 
me  across  the  room  to  a  splendid  painting  of  Vandyke's  that 
I  had  noticed  before,  but  not  sufficiently  examined.  After  a 
moment  of  silent  contemplation,  I  was  beginning  to  comment 
on  its  beauties  and  peculiarities,  when,  playfully  pressing  the 
hand  he  still  retained  within  his  arm,  he  interrupted  me 
with, — 

"  Never  mind  the  picture,  it  was  not  for  that  I  brought  you 
here  ;  it  was  to  get  you  away  from  that  scoundrelly  old  pro- 
fligate yonder,  who  is  looking  as  if  he  would  like  to  challenge 
me  for  the  affront." 

"  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you,"  said  I.  "  This  is  twice 
you  have  delivered  me  from  such  unpleasant  companionship." 

"  Don't  be  too  thankful,"  he  answered  :  "  it  is  not  all  kind- 
ness to  you  ;  it  is  partly  from  a  feeling  of  spite  to  your  tor- 
mentors that  makes  me  delighted  to  do  the  old  fellows  a  bad 
turn,  though  I  don't  think  I  have  any  great  reason  to  dread 
them  as  rivals.  Have  I,  Helen?" 

"  You  know  I  detest  them  both," 

"And  me?" 

"  I  have  no  reason  to  detest  you." 

"But  what  are  your  sentiments  towards  me?  Helen — 
Speak !  How  do  you  regard  me  ?  " 

And  again  he  pressed  my  hand ;  but  I  feared  there  was 
more  of  conscious  power  than  tenderness  in  his  demeanour, 
and  I  felt  he  had  no  right  to  extort  a  confession  of  attachment 
from  me  when  he  had  made  no  correspondent  avowal  himself, 
and  knew  not  what  to  answer.  At  last  I  said, — 

"  How  do  you  regard  me  ?" 

"  Sweet  angel,  I  adore  you  !  I " 

"  Helen,  I  want  you  a  moment,"  eaid  the  distinct,  low  voice 


112  THE   TENAXT 

of  my  aunt,  close  beside  us.  And  I  left  him,  muttering  male« 
dictions  against  his  evil  angel. 

"Well,  aunt,  what  is  it?  "What  do  you  want?"  said  I, 
following  her  to  the  embrasure  of  the  window. 

"  I  want  you  to  join  the  company,  when  you  are  fit  to  bft 
seen,"  returned  she,  severely  regarding  me  ;  "  but  please  to 
etay  here  a  little  till  that  shocking  colour  is  somewhat  abated, 
and  your  eyes  have  recovered  something  of  their  natural  ex- 
pression. I  should  be  ashamed  for  any  one  to  see  you  in  your 
present  state." 

Of  course,  such  a  remark  had  no  effect  in  reducing  the 
"  shocking  colour  ;"  on  the  contrary,  I  felt  my  face  glow  with 
redoubled  fires  kindled  by  a  complication  of  emotions,  of 
which  indignant,  swelling  anger  was  the  chief.  I  offered  na 
reply,  however,  but  pushed  aside  the  curtain  and  looked  into 
the  night — or  rather,  into  the  lamp-lit  square. 

"Was  Mr.  Huntingdon  proposing  to  you,  Helen?"  in- 
quired my  too  watchful  relative. 

"No." 

"What  was  he  saying  then?  I  heard  something  very 
like  it." 

"  I  don't  know  what  he  would  have  said,  if  you  hadn't  in- 
terrupted him." 

"And  would  you  have  accepted  him,  Helen,  if  he  had  pro- 
posed?" 

"  Of  course  not — without  consulting  uncle  and  you." 

"  Oh  !  I'm  glad,  my  dear,  you  have  so  much  prudence  left. 
Well,  now,"  she  added,  after  a  moment's  pause,  "you  have 
made  yourself  conspicuous  enough  for  one  evening.  The 
ladies  are  directing  inquiring  glances  towards  us  at  this  mo- 
ment I  see.  I  shall  join  them.  Do  you  come  too,  when  you 
are  sufficiently  composed  to  appear  as  usual." 

"  I  am  so  now." 

"  Speak  gently  then ;  and  don't  look  so  malicious,"  said  my 
calm,  but  provoking  aunt.  "We  shall  return  home  shortly, 
and  then,"  she  added  with  solemn  significance,  "  I  have  much 
to  say  to  you." 

So  1  went  home  prepared  for  a  formidable  lecture.  Little 
was  said  by  either  party  in  the  carriage  during  our  short 
transit  homewards ;  but  when  I  had  entered  my  room  and 
thrown  myself  into  an  easy  chair  to  reflect  on  the  events  of 
the  day,  my  aunt  followed  me  thither,  and  having  dismissed 
Rachel,  who  was  carefully  stowing  away  my  ornaments, 
closed  the  door ;  and  placing  a  chair  beside  me,  or  rather  at 
right  angles  with  mine,  sat  down.  With  due  deference  I 
offered  her  my  more  commodious  seat.  She  declined  it,  and 
thus  opened  the  conference  l 


OF  WILDFELL   HALL.  118 

"  Do  you  remember,  Helen,  our  conversation  the  night  but 
one  before  we  left  Staningley?" 

"Yes,  aunt." 

"  And  do  you  remember  how  I  warned  you  against  letting 
your  heart  be  stolen  from  you  by  those  unworthy  of  its  pos- 
session ;  and  fixing  your  affections  where  approbation  did  not 
go  before,  and  where  reason  and  judgment  withheld  their 
sanction?" 

u  Yes,  but  my  reason " 

"  Pardon  me — and  do  you  remember  assuring  me  that 
there  was  no  occasion  for  uneasiness  on  your  account ;  for 
you  should  never  be  tempted  to  marry  a  man  who  was  defi- 
cient in  sense  or  principle,  however  handsome  or  charming  in 
other  respects  he  might  be,  for  you  could  not  love  him,  you 
should  hate — despise — pity — anything  but  love  him — wore 
not  those  your  words?" 

"  Yes,  but " 

"  And  did  you  not  say  that  your  affection  must  be  founded 
on  approbation  ;  and  that  unless  you  could  approve  and 
honour  and  respect,  you  could  not  love?" 

"  Yes,  but  I  do  approve,  and  honour,  and  respect " 

"  How  so,  my  dear?  is  Mr.  Huntingdon  a  good  man?" 

"  He  is  a  much  better  man  than  you  think  him." 

"  That  is  nothing  to  the  purpose.     Is  he  a  good  man  ?" 

"  Yes — in  some  respects.     He  has  a  good  disposition." 

"  Is  he  a  man  of  principle  ?" 

"  Perhaps  not,  exactly  ;  but  it  is  only  for  want  of  thought : 
if  he  had  some  one  to  advise  him,  and  remind  him  of  what  ia 
right " 

"  He  would  soon  learn,  you  think — and  you  yourself  would 
willingly  undertake  to  be  his  teacher?  But,  my  dear,  he  is, 
'  believe,  full  ten  years  older  than  you — how  is  it  that  you 
are  so  before-hand  in  moral  acquirements?" 

"  Thanks  to  you,  aunt,  I  have  been  well  brought  up,  and 
had  good  examples  always  before  me,  which  he,  most  likely, 
has  not ;  and  besides,  he  is  of  a  sanguine  temperament,  and 
a  gay,  thoughtless  temper,  and  I  am  naturally  inclined  to  re- 
flection." 

"  Well,  now  you  have  made  him  out  to  be  deficient  in  both 
sense  and  principle,  by  your  own  confession " 

"  Then,  my  sense  and  my  principle  are  at  his  service  !" 

"That  sounds  presumptuous,  Helen !  Do  you  think  you 
have  enough  for  both ;  and  do  you  imagine  your  merry, 
thoughtless  profligate  would  allow  himself  to  be  guided  by  u 
young  girl  like  you?" 

"  No  ;  I  should  not  wish  to  guide  him  ;  but  I  think  I  might 
have  influence  sufficient  to  save  him  from  some  errors,  aud.  I 


114  THE   TENANT 

should  think  my  life  well  spent  in  the  effort  to  preserve  so 
noble  a  nature  from  destruction.  He  always  listens  atten- 
tively now,  when  I  speak  seriously  to  him  (and  I  often  ven- 
ture to  reprove  his  random  way  of  talking),  and  sometimes  he 
says  that  if  he  had  me  always  by  his  side  he  should  never  do 
or  say  a  wicked  thing,  and  that  a  little  daily  talk  with  me 
would  make  him  quite  a  saint.  It  may  be  partly  jest  and 
partly  flattery,  but  still " 

"But  still  you  think  it  may  be  truth?" 

"  If  I  do  think  there  is  any  mixture  of  truth  in  it,  it  is  not 
from  confidence  in  my  own  powers,  but  in  his  natural  good- 
ness. And  you  have  no  right  to  call  him  a  profligate,  aunt ; 
he  is  nothing  of  the  kind." 

"  Who  told  you  so,  my  dear  ?  What  was  that  story  about 
his  intrigue  with  a  married  lady — Lady  who  was  it — Miss 
Wilmot  herself  was  telling  you  the  other  day  ? " 

"It  was  false — false!"  I  cried.  "I  don't  believe  a  word 
of  it." 

"  You  think,  then,  that  he  is  a  virtuous,  wTell-conducted 
young  man?" 

"  I  know  nothing  positive  respecting  his  character.  I 
only  know  that  I  have  heard  nothing  definitive  against  it — 
nothing  that  could  be  proved,  at  least ;  and  till  people  can 
prove  their  slanderous  accusations,  I  will  not  believe  them. 
And  I  know  this,  that  if  he  has  committed  errors,  they  are 
only  such  as  are  common  to  youth,  and  such  as  nobody  thinks 
anything  about ;  for  1  see  that  everybody  likes  him,  and  all 
the  mammas  smile  upon  him,  and  their  daughters — and  Miss 
Wilmot  herself— are  only  too  glad  to  attract  his  attention." 

"  Helen,  the  world  may  look  upon  such  offences  as  venial ; 
a  few  unprincipled  mothers  may  be  anxious  to  catch  a  young 
man  of  fortune  without  reference  to  his  character ;  *nd 
thoughtless  girls  may  be  glad  to  win  the  smiles  of  so  hand- 
some a  gentleman,  without  seeking  to  penetrate  beyond  the 
surface  ;  but  you,  I  trusted,  were  better  informed  than  to  see 
with  their  eyes,  and  judge  with  their  perverted  judgment. 
I  did  not  think  you  would  call  these  venial  errors !" 

"  Nor  do  I,  aunt ;  but  if  I  hate  the  sins  I  love  the  sinner, 
and  would  do  much  for  his  salvation,  even  supposing  your 
suspicions  to  be  mainly  true — which  I  do  not  and  will  not 
believe." 

"  AVell,  my  dear,  ask  your  uncle  what  sort  of  company  he 
keeps,  and  if  he  is  not  banded  with  a  set  of  loose,  profligate 
young  men,  whom  he  calls  his  friends — his  jolly  companions, 
and  whose  chief  delight  ia  to  wallow  in  vice,  and  vie  with  each 
other  who  can  run  fastest  and  furthest  down  the  headlong 
road,  to  the  place  prepared  for  the  devil  and  his  angels." 


OF  WILDFELL  HALL.  115 

"  Then,  I  will  save  him  from  them/' 

"  Oh,  Helen,  Helen !  you  little  know  the  misery  of  uniting 
your  fortunes  to  such  a  man  !" 

"  I  have  such  confidence  in  him,  aunt,  notwithstanding  all 
you  say,  that  I  would  willingly  risk  my  happiness  for  the 
chance  of  securing  his.  I  will  leave  better  men  to  those  who 
only  consider  their  own  advantage.  It'  he  has  done  amiss,  I 
shall  consider  my  life  well  spent  in  saving  him  from  the  con- 
sequences of  his  early  errors,  and  striving  to  recall  him  to  the 
path  of  virtue.  God  grant  me  success  !" 

Here  the  conversation  ended,  for  at  this  juncture  my  uncle's 
voice  was  heard,  from  his  chamber,  loudly  calling  upon  my 
aunt  to  come  to  bed.  He  was  in  a  bad  humour  that  night ; 
for  his  gout  was  worse.  It  had  been  gradually  increasing 
upon  him  ever  since  we  came  to  town ;  and  my  aunt  took  ad- 
vantage of  the  circumstance,  next  morning,  to  persuade  him 
to  return  to  the  country  immediately,  without  waiting  for  the 
close  of  the  season.  His  physician  supported  and  enforced 
her  arguments ;  and  contrary  to  her  usual  habits,  she  so  hur- 
ried the  preparations  for  removal  (as  much  for  my  sake  as  my 
uncle's,  I  think),  that  in  a  very  few  days  we  departed  ;  and  I 
saw  no  more  of  Mr.  Huntingdon.  My  aunt  natters  herself  I 
shall  soon  forget  him — perhaps,  she  thinks  I  have  forgotten 
him,  already,  for  I  never  mention  his  name  ;  and  she  may 
continue  to  think  so,  till  we  meet  again — if  ever  that  should 
be.  I  wonder  if  it  will. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

AUGUST  25th. — I  am  now  quite  settled  down  to  my  usual 
routine  of  steady  occupations  and  quiet  amusements — toler- 
ably contented  and  cheerful,  but  still  looking  forward  to 
spring  with  the  hope  of  returning  to  town,  not  for  its  gaieties 
and  dissipations,  but  for  the  chance  of  meeting  Mr.  Hunting- 
don once  again  ;  for  still,  he  is  alwaj^s  in  my  thoughts  and  in 
tny  dreams.  In  all  my  employments,  whatever  I  do,  or  see, 
or  hear,  has  an  ultimate  reference  to  him  ;  whatever  skill  or 
knowledge  I  acquire  is  some  day  to  be  turned  to  his  advan- 
tage or  amusement ;  whatever  new  beauties  in  nature  or  art  I 
discover,  are  to  be  depicted  to  meet  his  eye,  or  stored  in  my 
memory  to  be  told  him  at  some  future  period.  This,  at  least, 
is  the  hope  that  I  cherish,  the  fancy  that  lights  me  on  my 
lonely  way.  It  may  be  only  an  ignis  fatuus,  after  all,  but  it 
can  do  no  harm  to  Ibllow  it  with  my  eyes  and  rejoice  in  its 
lustre,  as  long  as  it  does  not  lure  me  from  the  path  I  ought 
to  keep  ;  and  I  think  it  will  not,  for  I  have  thought  deeply 


116  THE  TENANT 

on  my  aunt's  advice,  and  I  see  clearly,  now,  the  folly  cl 
throwing  myself  away  on  one  that  is  unworthy  of  all  the  love 
I  have  to  give,  and  incapable  of  responding  to  the  best  and 
deepest  feelings  of  my  inmost  heart — so  clearly,  that  even  if  I 
should  see  him  again,  and  if  he  should  remember  me  and 
love  me  still  (which,  alas !  is  too  little  probable,  considering 
how  he  is  situated,  and  by  whom  surrounded),  and  if  he 
should  ask  me  to  marry  him — I  am  determined  not  to  consent 
until  I  know  for  certain  whether  my  aunt's  opinion  of  him  or 
mine  is  nearest  the  truth  ;  for  if  mine  is  altogether  wrong,  it 
is  not  he  that  I  love  ;  it  is  a  creature  of  my  own  imagination. 
But  I  think  it  is  not  wrong — no,  no — there  is  a  secret  some- 
thing— an  inward  instinct  that  assures  me  I  am  right.  There 
is  essential  goodness  in  him  ; — and  what  delight  to  unfold  it ! 
If  he  has  wandered,  what  bliss  to  recall  him !  If  he  is  now 
exposed  to  the  baneful  influence  of  corrupting  and  wicked 
companions,  what  glory  to  deliver  him  from  them  !  Oh  !  if  I 
could  but  believe  that  Heaven  has  designed  me  for  this  ! 
****** 

To-day  is  the  first  of  September ;  but  my  uncle  has 
ordered  the  gamekeeper  to  spare  the  partridges  till  the 
gentlemen  come.  "What  gentlemen?"  I  asked  when  I 
heard  it — a  small  party  he  had  invited  to  shoot.  His  friend 
Mr.  Wilmot  was  one,  and  my  aunt's  friend  Mr.  Boarham  an- 
other. This  struck  me  as  terrible  news,  at  the  moment,  but 
all  regret  and  apprehension  vanished  like  a  dream  when  I 
heard  that  Mr.  Huntingdon  was  actually  to  be  a  third  I  My 
aunt  is  greatly  against  his  coming,  of  course :  she  earnestly 
endeavoured  to  dissuade  my  uncle  from  asking  him  ;  but  he, 
laughing  at  her  objections,  told  her  it  was  no  use  talking,  for 
the  mischief  was  already  done :  he  had  invited  Huntingdon 
and  his  friend  Lord  Lowborough  before  we  left  London,  and 
nothing  now  remained  but  to  fix  the  day  for  their  coming.  So 
he  is  safe,  and  I  am  sure  of  seeing  him.  I  cannot  express  my 
joy.  I  find  it  very  difficult  to  conceal  it  from  my  aunt ;  but 
I  don't  wish  to  trouble  her  with  my  feelings  till  I  know 
whether  I  ought  to  indulge  them  or  not.  If  I  find  it  my  ab- 
solute duty  to  suppress  them,  they  shall  trouble  no  one  but 
myself;  and  if  I  can  really  feel  myself  justified  in  indulging 
this  attachment,  I  can  dare  anything,  even  the  anger  and 
grief  of  my  best  friend,  for  its  object — surely,  I  shall  soon 
know.  But  they  are  not  coming  till  about  the  middle  of  the 
month. 

We  are  to  have  two  lady  visitors  also  :  Mr.  Wilmot  is  to 
bring  his  niece  and  her  cousin  Miliccnt.  I  suppose,  my  aunt 
thinks  the  latter  will  benefit  me  by  her  society  and  the  salu- 
tary example  of  her  gentle  deportment,  and  lowly  and  tract- 


OF   VV1M;KKLL   HALL.  117 

able  spirit ;  and  the  former,  I  suspect  she  intends  as  a  speciea 
of  counter-attraction  to  win  Mr.  Huntingdon's  attention  from 
me.  I  don't  thank  her  for  this  ;  but  I  shall  be  glad  of  Mili- 
cent's  company :  she  is  a  sweet,  good  girl,  and  I  wish  I  were 
like  her — more  like  her,  at  least,  than  I  am. 

****** 

19th. — They  are  come.  They  came  the  day  before  yester- 
day. The  gentlemen  are  all  gone  out  to  shoot,  and  the  ladies 
are  with  my  aunt,  at  work,  in  the  drawing-room.  I  have  re- 
tired to  the  library,  for  I  am  very  unhappy,  and  I  want  to  be 
alone.  Books  cannot  divert  me  ;  so  having  opened  my  desk, 
I  will  try  what  may  be  done  by  detailing  the  cause  of  my  un- 
easiness. This  paper  will  serve  instead  of  a  confidential 
friend  into  whose  ear  I  might  pour  forth  the  overflowings  of 
my  heart.  It  will  not  sympathise  with  my  distresses,  but 
then,  it  will  not  laugh  at  them,  and,  if  I  keep  it  close,  it 
cannot  tell  again  ;  so  it  is,  perhaps,  the  best  friend  I  could 
have  for  the  purpose. 

First,  let  me  speak  of  his  arrival — how  I  sat  at  my  window, 
and  watched  for  nearly  two  hours,  before  his  carnage  entered 
the  park  gates — for  they  all  came  before  him, — and  how 
deeply  I  was  disappointed  at  every  arrival,  because  it  was  not 
his.  First  came  Mr.  Wilmot  and  the  ladies.  When  Milicent 
had  got  into  her  room,  I  quitted  my  post  a  few  minutes,  to 
look  in  upon  her,  and  have  a  little  private  conversation,  for 
she  was  now  my  intimate  friend,  several  long  epistles  having 
passed  between  us  since  our  parting.  On  returning  to  my 
window,  I  beheld  another  carriage  at  the  door.  Was  it  his  ? 
No ;  it  was  Mr.  Boarham's  plain,  dark  chariot ;  and  there 
stood  he  upon  the  steps,  carefully  superintending  the  dislodg- 
ing of  his  various  boxes  and  packages.  What  a  collection  ! 
one  would  have  thought  he  projected  a  visit  of  six  months  at 
least.  A  considerable  time  after,  came  Lord  Lowborough  in 
his  barouche.  Is  he  one  of  the  profligate  friends,  I  wonder  ? 
I  should  think  not ;  for  no  one  could  call  him  a  jolly  compa- 
nion, I'm  sure, — and  besides,  he  appears  too  sober  and  gen- 
tlemanly in  his  demeanour,  to  merit  such  suspicions.  He  is 
a  tall,  thin,  gloomy-looking  man,  apparently  between  thirty 
and  forty,  and  of  a  somewhat  sickly,  careworn  aspect. 

At  last,  Mr.  Huntingdon's  light  phaeton  came  bowling  mer- 
rily up  the  lawn.  I  had  but  a  transient  glimpse  of  him,  for  the 
moment  it  stopped,  he  sprang  out  over  the  side  on  to  the  por- 
tico steps,  and  disappeared  into  the  house. 

I  now  submitted  to  be  dressed  for  dinner — a  duty  which 
Rachel  had  been  urging  upon  me  for  the  last  twenty  minutes; 
and  when  that  important  business  was  completed,  I  repaired 
to  the  drawing-room,  where  I  found  Mr.  and  Misa  Wilmot, 


118  THE  TENANT 

and  Milicent  Hargrave,  already  assembled.  Shortly  after, 
Lord  Lowborough  entered,  and  then  Mr.  Boarham,  Avho 
seemed  quite  willing  to  forget  and  forgive  my  former  conduct, 
and  to  hope  that  a  liftle  conciliation  and  steady  perseverance 
on  his  part  might  yet  succeed  in  bringing  me  to  reason. 
While  I  stood  at  the  window,  conversing  with  Milicent,  he 
came  up  to  me,  and  was  beginning  to  talk  in  nearly  his  usual 
strain,  when  Mr.  Huntingdon  entered  the  room. 

"How  will  he  greet  me,  I  wonder?"  said  my  bounding 
heart ;  and,  instead  of  advancing  to  meet  him,  I  turned  to  the 
window  to  hide  or  subdue  my  emotion.  But  having  saluted 
his  host  and  hostess,  and  the  rest  of  the  company,  he  came  to 
me,  ardently  squeezed  my  hand,  and  murmured  he  was  glad 
to  see  me  once  again.  At  that  moment  dinner  was  announced, 
my  aunt  desired  him  to  take  Miss  Hargrave  into  the  dining- 
room,  and  odious  Mr.  Wilmot,  with  unspeakable  grimaces, 
offered  his  arm  to  me  ;  and  I  was  condemned  to  sit  between 
himself  and  Mr.  Boarham.  But,  afterwards,  when  we  were 
all  again  assembled  in  the  drawing-room,  I  was  indemnified 
for  so  much  suffering  by  a  few  delightful  minutes  of  conversa- 
tion with  Mr.  Huntingdon. 

In  the  course  of  the  evening,  Miss  Wilmot  was  called  upon 
to  sing  and  play  for  the  amusement  of  the  company,  and  I  to 
exhibit  my  drawings,  and,  though  he  likes  music,  and  she  is 
an  accomplished  musician,  I  think  I  am  right  in  affirming,  that 
he  paid  more  attention  to  my  drawings  than  to  her  music. 

So  far,  so  good  ; — but,  hearing  him  pronounce,  sotto  voce, 
but,  with  peculiar  emphasis,  concerning  one  of  the  pieces, 
"  This  is  better  than  all !" — I  looked  up,  curious  to  see  which 
it  was,  and,  to  my  horror,  beheld  him  complacently  gazing  at 
the  back  of  the  picture  : — it  was  his  own  face  that  I  had 
sketched  there,  and  forgotten  to  rub  out  I  To  make  matters 
worse,  in  the  agony  of  the  moment,  I  attempted  to  snatch  it 
from  his  hand  ;  but  he  prevented  me,  and  exclaiming,  "  No— 
by  George,  I'll  keep  it ! "  placed  it  against  his  waistcoat,  and 
buttoned  his  coat  upon  it  with  a  delighted  chuckle. 

Then,  drawing  a  candle  close  to  his  elbow,  he  gathered  all 
the  drawings  to  himself,  as  well  what  ^he  had  seen  as  the 
others,  and  muttering,  "I  must  look  at' both  sides  now,"  he 
eagerly  commenced  an  examination,  which  I  watched,  at  first, 
with  tolerable  composure,  in  the  confidence  that  his  vanity 
would  not  be  gratified  by  any  further  discoveries;  for,  though 
I  must  plead  guilty  to  having  disfigured  the  backs  of  several 
with  abortive  attempts  to  delineate  that  too  fascinating  physiog- 
nomy, I  was  sure  that,  with  that  one  unfortunate  exception,  I 
had  carefully  obliterated  all  such  witnesses  of  my  infatuation. 
But  the  pencil  frequently  leaves  an  impression  upon  card- 


OF    W1LDFEIO.  HALL.  119 

board,  that  no  amount  of  rubbing  can  efface.  Such,  it  seems, 
was  the  case  with  most  of  these  ;  and,  I  confess,  I  trembled, 
when  I  saw  him  holding  them  so  close  to  the  candle,  and  poring 
so  intently  over  the  seeming  blanks;  but  still,  I  trusted, 
he  would  not  be  able  to  make  out  these  dim  traces  to  his  own 
satisfaction.  I  was  mistaken,  however — having  ended  his 
scrutiny,  he  quietly  remarked, — 

"  I  perceive  the  backs  of  young  ladies'  drawings,  like  the 
postscripts  of  their  letters,  are  the  most  important  and  inter- 
esting part  of  the  concern." 

Then,  leaning  back  in  his  chair,  he  reflected  a  few  minutes 
in  silence,  complacently  smiling  to  himself,  and,  while  I  was 
concocting  some  cutting  speech  wherewith  to  check  his  grati- 
fication, he  rose,  and  passing  over  to  where  Annabella  Wilmot 
sat  vehemently  coquetting  with  Lord  Lowborough,  seated 
himself  on  the  sofa  beside  her,  and  attached  himself  to  her 
for  the  rest  of  the  evening. 

"  So  then  !"  thought  I — uhe  despises  me,  because  he  knows 
I  love  him." 

And  the  reflection  made  me  so  miserable — I  knew  not  what 
to  do.  Milicent  came  and  began  to  admire  my  drawings,  and 
make  remarks  upon  them ;  but  I  could  not  talk  to  her — I 
could  talk  to  no  one ;  and,  upon  the  introduction  of  tea,  I 
took  advantage  of  the  open  door  and  the  slight  diversion  caused 
by  its  entrance,  to  slip  out— for  I  was  sure  I  could  not  take 
any — and  take  refuge  in  the  library.  My  aunt  sent  Thomas 
in  quest  of  me,  to  ask  if  I  were  not  coming  to  tea ;  but  I  bade 
him  say,  I  should  not  take  any  to-night ;  and,  happily,  she 
was  too  much  occupied  with  her  guests,  to  make  any  further 
inquiries  at  the  time. 

As  most  of  the  company  had  travelled  far  that  day,  they  re- 
tired early  to  rest ;  and  having  heard  them  all,  as  I  thought, 
go  up  stairs,  I  ventured  out,  to  get  my  candlestick  from  the 
drawing-room  side-board.  But  Mr.  Huntingdon  had  lin- 
gered behind  the  rest :  he  was  just  at  the  loot  of  the  stairs, 
when  I  opened  the  door  ;  and,  hearing  my  step  in  the  hall — • 
though  I  could  hardly  hear  it  myself— he  instantly  turned  back. 

"  Helen,  is  that  you  ?  "  said  he  ;  "  why  did  you  run  away 
from  us?" 

"  Good  night,  Mr.  Huntingdon,"  said  I,  coldly,  not  choos- 
ing to  answer  the  question.  And  I  turned  away  to  enter  the 
drawing-room. 

"But  you'll  shake  hands,  won't  you  ?"  said  he,  placing  him- 
self in  the  doorway  before  me.  And  he  seized  my  hand,  and 
held  it  much  against  my  will. 

"  Let  me  go,  Mr.  Huntingdon !"  said  I— "I  want  to  get  a 
candle." 


120  THE   TENANT 

"The  candle  will  keep,"  returned  he. 

I  made  a  desperate  effort  to  free  my  hand  from  his  grasp. 

"Why  are  you  in  such  a  hurry  to  leave  me,  Helen?"  hf> 
said,  with  a  smile  of  the  most  provoking  sell-sufficiency — "  you 
don't  hate  me,  you  know." 

"  Yes,  I  do — at  this  moment." 

"  Not  you  !     It  is  Annabella  Wilmot  jxm  hate,  not  me.'' 

"  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  Annabella  Wilmot,"  said  I, 
burning  with  indignation. 

"But  I  have,  you  know,"  returned  he,  with  peculiar 
emphasis. 

"  That  is  nothing  to  me,  sir  !"  I  retorted. 

"  Is  it  nothing  to  you,  Helen  ? — Will  you  swear  it  ? — Will 
you?" 

"  No,  I  won't,  Mr.  Huntingdon  !  and  I  will  go  !"  cried  I, 
not  knowing  whether  to  laugh,  or  to  cry,  or  to  break  out  into 
a  tempest  of  fury. 

"  Go,  then,  you  vixen  !"  he  said  ;  but  the  instant  he  released 
my  hand,  he  had  the  audacity  to  put  his  arm  round  my  neck, 
and  kiss  me. 

Trembling  with  anger  and  agitation — and  I  don't  know  what 
besides,  I  broke  away,  and  got  my  candle,  and  rushed  up  stairs 
to  my  room.  lie  would  not  have  done  so,  but  for  that  hateful 
picture  !  And  there  he  had  it  still  in  his  possession,  an  eter- 
nal monument  to  his  pride  and  my  humiliation ! 

It  was  but  little  sleep  I  got  that  night ;  and,  in  the  morn- 
ing, I  rose  perplexed  and  troubled  with  the  thoughts  of  meet- 
ing him  at  breakfast.  I  knew  not  how  it  was  to  be  done — an 
assumption  of  dignified,  cold  indifference,  would  hardly  do, 
after  what  he  knew  of  my  devotion— to  his  face,  at  least.  Yet 
something  must  be  done  to  check  his  presumption — I  would 
not  submit  to  be  tyrannised  over  by  those  bright,  laughing 
eyes.  And,  according!}',  I  received  his  cheerful  morning  salu- 
tation as  calmly  and  coldly  as  my  aunt  could  have  wished,  and 
defeated  with  brief  answers  his  one  or  two  attempts  to  draw 
me  into  conversation ;  while  I  comported  myself,  with  unusual 
cheerfulness  and  complaisance  towards  every  other  member 
of  the  party,  especially  Annabella  Wilmot,  and  even  her  uncle 
and  Mr.  Boarham  were  treated  with  an  extra  amount  of  civi- 
lity on  the  occasion,  not  from  any  motives  of  coquetry,  but 
just  to  show  him  that  my  particular  coolness  and  reserve  arose 
from  no  general  ill-humour  or  depression  of  spirits. 

He  was  not,  however,  to  be  repelled  by  such  acting  as  this. 
He  did  not  talk  much  to  me,  but  when  he  did  speak  it  wag 
with  a  degree  of  freedom  and  openness — and  kindliness  too — 
that  plainly  seemed  to  intimate  he  knew  his  words  were 
music  to  my  ears ;  and  when  his  looks  met  mine  it  was  with 


OF    WILDFKLL   HALL.  121 

a  Bmile — presumptuous  it  might  be  —  but  oh,  so  sweet,  so 
bright,  so  genial,  that  I  could  not  possibly  retain  my  anger ; 
every  vestige  of  displeasure  soon  melted  away  beneath  it 
like  morning  clouds  before  the  summer  sun. 

Soon  after  breakfast  all  the  gentlemen  save  one,  with 
boyish  eagerness,  set  out  on  their  expedition  against  the  hap- 
less partridges  ;  my  uncle  and  Mr.  Wilmot  on  their  shooting 
ponies,  Mr.  Huntingdon  and  Lord  Lowborough  on  their  legs : 
the  one  exception  being  Mr.  Boarham,  who,  in  considera- 
tion of  the  rain  that  had  fallen  during  the  night,  thought  it 
prudent  to  remain  behind  a  little  and  join  them  in  a  while 
when  the  sun  had  dried  the  grass.  And  he  favoured  us  all 
with  a  long  and  minute  disquisition  upon  the  evils  and  dan- 
gers attendant  upon  damp  feet,  delivered  with  the  most  im- 
perturbable gravity,  amid  the  jeers  and  laughter  of  Mr. 
Huntingdon  and  my  uncle,  who,  leaving  the  prudent  sports- 
man to  entertain  the  ladies  with  his  medical  discussions,  sal- 
lied forth  with  their  guns,  bending  their  steps  to  the  stables 
first  to  have  a  look  at  the  horses  and  let  out  the  dogs. 

Not  desirous  of  sharing  Mr.  Boarham's  company  for  the 
whole  of  the  morning  I  betook  myself  to  the  library,  and 
there  brought  forth  my  easel  and  began  to  paint.  The  easel 
and  the  painting  apparatus  would  serve  as  an  excuse  for  aban- 
doning the  drawing-room  if  my  aunt  should  come  to  complain 
of  the  desertion,  and  besides  I  wanted  to  finish  the  picture. 
It  Avas  one  I  had  taken  great  pains  with,  and  I  intended  it  to 
be  my  masterpiece,  though  it  was  somewhat  presumptuous 
in  the  design.  By  the  bright  azure  of  the  sky,  and  by  the 
warm  and  brilliant  lights  and  deep  long  shadows,  I  had  en- 
deavoured to  convey  the  idea  of  a  sunny  morning.  I  had 
ventured  to  give  more  of  the  bright  verdure  of  spring  or 
early  summer  to  the  grass  and  foliage  than  is  commonly  at- 
tempted in  painting.  The  scene  represented  was  an  open 
glade  in  a  wood.  A  group  of  dark  Scotch  firs  was  introduced 
in  the  middle  distance  to  relieve  the  prevailing  freshness  of 
the  rest ;  but  in  the  foreground  were  part  of  the  gnarled 
trunk  and  of  the  spreading  boughs  of  a  large  forest  tree, 
whose  foliage  was  of  a  brilliant  golden  green — net  golden 
from  autumnal  mellowness,  but  from  the  sunshine  and  the 
very  immaturity  of  the  scarce  expanded  leaves.  Upon  this 
bough,  that  stood  out  in  bold  relief  against  the  sombre  firs, 
were  seated  an  amorous  pair  of  turtle  doves,  whose  soft  sad 
coloured  plumage  afforded  a  contrast  of  another  nature  ;  and 
beneath  it  a  young  girl  was  kneeling  on  the  daisy-spangled 
turf  with  head  thrown  back  and  masses  of  fair  hair  falling  on 
her  shoulders,  her  hands  clasped,  lips  parted,  and  eyes  in- 
tently gazing  upward  in  pleased  yet  earnest  contemplation  of 


122  THE  TENANT 

those  feathered  lovers — too  deeply  absorbed  in  each  other  to 
notice  her. 

I  had  scarcely  settled  to  my  work,  which,  however,  wanted 
but  a  few  touches  to  the  finishing,  when  the  sportsmen  passed 
the  window  on  their  return  from  the  stables.  It  was  partly 
open,  and  Mr.  Huntingdon  must  have  seen  me  as  he  went  by, 
for  in  half  a  minute  he  came  back,  and  setting  hi  j  gun  against 
the  wall  threw  up  the  sash  and  sprang  in  and  set  himself  be- 
fore my  picture.' 

"Very  pretty,  i'faith  ;"  said  he,  after  attentively  regarding 
it  for  a  few  seconds ;  "  and  a  very  fitting  study  for  a  young 
lady.  Spring  just  opening  into  summer — morning  just  ap- 
proaching noon — girlhood  just  ripening  into  womanhood,  and 
nope  just  verging  on  fruition.  She's  a  sweet  creature !  but 
why  didn't  you  make  her  black  hair  ?  " 

"I  thought  light  hair  would  suit  her  better.  You  see  I 
have  made  her  blue-eyed  and  plump,  and  fair  and  rosy." 

"  Upon  my  word — a  very  Hebe  !  I  should  fall  in  love 
with  her  if  I  hadn't  the  artist  before  me.  Sweet  innocent ! 
she's  thinking  there  will  come  a  time  when  she  will  be  wooed 
and  won  like  that  pretty  hen-dove  by  as  fond  and  fervent  a 
lover ;  and  she's  thinking  how  pleasant  it  will  be,  and  how 
tender  and  faithful  he  will  find  her." 

"  And,  perhaps,"  suggested  I,  "  how  tender  and  faithful 
she  shall  find  him." 

"  Perhaps,  for  there  is  no  limit  to  the  wild  extravagance  of 
Hope's  imaginings  at  such  an  age." 

"  Do  you  call  that,  then,  one  of  her  wild,  extravagant  de- 
lusions ?  " 

"  No  ;  my  heart  tells  me  it  is  not.  I  might  have  thought 
so  once,  but  now,  I  say,  give  me  the  girl  I  love,  and  I  will 
swear  eternal  constancy  to  her  and  her  alone,  through  sum- 
mer and  winter,  through  youth  and  age,  and  life  and  death  !  il 
age  and  death  must  come." 

He  spoke  this  in  such  serious  earnest  that  my  heart 
bounded  with  delight ;  but  the  minute  after  he  changed  his 
tone,  and  asked,  with  a  significant  smile,  if  I  had  "  any 
more  portraits." 

"  No,"  replied  I,  reddening  with  confusion  and  wrath.  But 
my  portfolio  was  on  the  table  :  he  took  it  up,  and  coolly  sat 
down  to  examine  its  contents. 

"  Mr.  Huntingdon,  those  are  my  unfinished  sketches,"  cried 
I,  "  and  I  never  let  any  one  see  them." 

And  I  placed  my  hand  on  the  portfolio  to  wrest  it  from 
him,  but  he  maintained  his  hold,  assuring  me  that  he  "  liked 
unfinished  sketches  of  all  things." 

"  But  I  hate  them  to  be  seen,"  returned  I.  "  I  can't  let 
you  have  it,  indeed !" 


OF   WILDFELL  HALL.  123 

"  Let  me  have  its  bowels  then,"  said  he ;  and  just  as  I 
wrenched  the  portfolio  from  his  hand  he  deftly  abstracted  the 
greater  part  of  its  contents,  and  after  turning  them  over  a 
moment  he  cried  out, — 

"  Bless  my  stars, here's  another!"  and  slipped  a  small  oval 
of  ivory  paper  into  his  waistcoat  pocket — a  complete  minia- 
ture portrait  that  I  had  sketched  with  such  tolerable  success 
as  to  be  induced  to  colour  it  with  great  pains  and  care.  But  I 
was  determined  he  should  not  keep  it. 

"  Mr.  Huntingdon,"  cried  I,  "  I  insist  upon  having  that 
back  !  It  is  mine,  and  you  have  no  right  to  take  it.  Give  it 
me,  directly — I'll  never  forgive  you  if  you  don't  1 " 

But  the  more  vehemently  I  insisted,  the  more  he  aggravated 
my  distress  by  his  insulting  gleeful  laugh.  At  length,  how- 
ever, he  restored  it  to  me,  saying, — 

41  Well,  well,  since  you  value  it  so  much,  I'll  not  deprive 
you  of  it." 

To  show  him  how  I  valued  it  I  tore  it  in  two  and  threw  it  into 
the  fire.  He  was  not  prepared  for  this.  His  merriment  sud- 
denly ceasing,  he  stared  in  mute  amazement  at  the  consuming 
treasure ;  and  then,  with  a  careless  "  Humph !  I'll  go  and 
shoot  now,"  he  turned  on  his  heel,  and  vacated  the  apart- 
ment by  the  window  as  he  came,  and  setting  on  his  hat  with 
an  air,  took  up  his  gun  and  walked  away,  whistling  as  he 
went — and  leaving  me  not  too  much  agitated  to  finish  my 

Sicture,  for  I  was  glad,  at  the  moment,  that  I  had  vexed 
im. 

When  I  returned  to  the  drawing-room,  I  found  Mr.  Boar- 
ham  had  ventured  to  follow  his  comrades  to  the  field ;  and 
shortly  after  lunch,  to  which  they  did  not  think  of  returning,  I 
volunteered  to  accompany  the  ladies  in  a  walk,  and  show  An- 
nabella  and  Milicent  the  beauties  of  the  country.  We  took  a 
long  ramble  and  re-entered  the  park  just  as  the  sportsmen 
were  returning  from  their  expedition.  Toil-spent  and  travel- 
stained,  the  main  body  of  them  crossed  over  the  grass  to 
avoid  us,  but  Mr.  Huntingdon,  all  spattered  and  splashed  as 
he  was,  and  stained  with  the  blood  of  his  prey — to  the  no 
small  offence  of  my  aunt's  strict  sense  of  propriety — came  ouf 
of  his  way  to  meet  us  with  cheerful  smiles  and  words  for  all 
but  me,  and  placing  himself  between  Annabella  Wilmot  and 
myself  walked  up  the  road  and  began  to  relate  the  various 
exploits  and  disasters  of  the  day,  in  a  manner  that  would 
have  convulsed  me  with  laughter  if  I  had  been  on  good  terms 
with  him ;  but  he  addressed  himself  entirely  to  Annabella, 
and  I,  of  course,  left  all  the  laughter  and  all  the  badinage  to 
her,  and  affecting  the  utmost  indifference  to  whatever  passed 
between  them,  walked  along  a  few  paces  apart,  and  looking 


124  THE  TENANT 

every  way  but  theirs,  while  my  aunt  and  Milicent  went  be- 
fore, linked  arm  in  arm,  and  gravely  discoursing  together. 
At  length,  Mr.  Huntingdon  turned  to  me,  and  addressing  me 
in  a  confidential  whisper,  said, — 

"  Helen,  why  did  you  burn  my  picture  ?" 

"Because  I  wished  to  destroy  it,"  I  answered,  with  an 
asperity  it  is  useless  now  to  lament. 

"  Oh,  very  good !"  was  the  reply,  "  if  you  don't  value  me, 
I  must  turn  to  somebody  that  will." 

I  thought  it  was  partly  in  jest — a  half-playful  mixture  of 
mock  resignation  and  pretended  indifference  :  but  immedi- 
ately he  resumed  his  place  beside  Miss  Wilmot,  and  from  that 
hour  to  this — during  all  that  evening,  and  all  the  next  day, 
and  the  next,  and  the  next,  and  all  this  morning  (the  22nd*), 
he  has  never  given  me  one  kind  word  or  one  pleasant  look — 
never  spoken  to  me,  but  from  pure  necessity — never  glanced 
towards  me  but  with  a  cold  unfriendly  look  I  thought  him 


My  aunt  observes  the  change,  and  though  she  has  not  in- 
quired the  cause  or  made  any  remark  to  me  on  the  subject,  I 
see  it  gives  her  pleasure.  Miss  Wilmot  observes  it,  too,  and 
triumphantly  ascribes  it  to  her  own  superior  charms  and 
blandishments ;  but  I  am  truly  miserable — more  so  than  I 
like  to  acknowledge  to  myself.  Pride  refuses  to  aid  me.  It 
has  brought  me  into  the  scrape,  and  will  not  help  me  out 
of  it. 

He  meant  no  harm — it  was  only  his  joyous,  playful  spirit ; 
and  I,  by  my  acrimonious  resentment — so  serious,  so  dispro- 
portioned  to  the  offence — have  so  wounded  his  feelings — so 
deeply  offended  him,  that  I  fear  he  will  never  forgive  me — 
and  all  for  a  mere  jest !  He  thinks  I  dislike  him,  and  he 
must  continue  to  think  so.  I  must  lose  him  for  ever,  and 
Annabella  may  win  him,  and  triumph  as  she  will. 

But  it  is  not  my  loss  nor  her  triumph  that  I  deplore  so 
greatly  as  the  wreck  of  my  fond  hopes  for  his  advantage, 
and  her  unworthiness  of  his  affection,  and  the  injury  he  will 
do  himself  by  trusting  his  happiness  to  her.  She  does  not 
love  him  :  she  thinks  only  of  herself.  She  cannot  appreciate 
the  good  that  is  in  him  :  she  will  neither  see  it,  nor  value  it, 
nor  cherish  it.  She  will  neither  deplore  his  faults  nor  at- 
tempt their  amendment,  but  rather  aggravate  them  by  her 
own.  And  I  doubt  whether  she  will  not  deceive  him  after 
all.  I  see  she  is  playing  double  between  him  and  Lord  Low- 
borough,  and  while  she  amuses  herself  with  the  lively  Hunt- 
ingdon she  tries  her  utmost  to  enslave  his  moody  friend ;  and 
should  she  succeed  in  bringing  both  to  her  feet,  the  fasci- 
nating commoner  will  have  but  little  chance  against  the 


OF  W1LDFELL  HALL.  125 

lordly  peer.  If  he  observes  her  artful  by-play  it  gives  him 
no  uneasiness,  but  rather  adds  new  zest  to  his  diversion  by 
opposing  a  stimulating  check  to  his  otherwise  too  easy 
conquest. 

Messrs.  Wilmot  and  Boarham  have  severally  taken  occa- 
sion by  his  neglect  of  me  to  renew  their  advances  ;  and  if  I 
were  like  Annabella  and  some  others  I  should  take  advantage 
of  their  perseverance  to  endeavour  to  pique  him  into  a  revival 
of  affection ;  but,  justice  and  honesty  apart,  I  could  not  bear 
to  do  it ;  I  am  annoyed  enough  by  their  present  persecutions 
without  encouraging  them  further  ;  and  even  if  I  did  it  would 
have  precious  little  effect  upon  him.  He  sees  me  suffering 
under  the  condescending  attentions  and  prosaic  discourses  of 
the  one,  and  the  repulsive  obtrusions  of  the  other,  without  so 
much  as  a  shadow  of  commiseration  for  me,  or  resentment 
against  my  tormentors.  lie  never  could  have  loved  me,  or 
he  would  not  have  resigned  me  so  willingly,  and  he  would  not 
go  on  talking  to  everybody  else  so  cheerfully  as  he  does — 
laughing  and  jesting  with  Lord  Lowborough  and  my  uncle, 
teasing  Milicent  Hargrave,  and  flirting  with  Annabella  Wil- 
mot— as  if  nothing  were  on  his  mind.  Oh,  why  can't  I  hate 
him  ?  I  must  be  infatuated,  or  I  should  scorn  to  regret  him 
as  I  do !  But  I  must  rally  all  the  powers  I  have  remaining, 
and  try  to  tear  him  from  my  heart.  There  goes  the  dinner 
bell,  and  here  comes  my  aunt  to  scold  me  for  sitting  here  at 
my  desk  all  day  instead  of  staying  with  the  company  :  wish 
the  company  were — gone. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

TWENTY- SECOXD.  Night — What  have  I  done  ?  and  what 
will  be  the  end  of  it?  I  cannot  calmly  reflect  upon  it;  I 
cannot  sleep.  I  must  have  recourse  to  my  diary  again ;  I 
will  commit  it  to  paper  to-night,  and  see  what  I  shall  think 
of  it  to-morrow. 

I  went  down  to  dinner  resolving  to  be  cheerful  and  well- 
conducted,  and  kept  my  resolution  very  creditably,  consider- 
ing how  my  head  ached,  and  how  internally  wretched  I  felt 
— I  don't  know  what  is  come  over  me  of  late  ;  my  very 
energies,  both  mental  and  physical,  must  be  strangely  im- 
paired, or  I  should  not  have  acted  so  weakly  in  many  re- 
spects as  I  have  done  ; — but  I  have  not  been  well  this  last  day 
or  two  :  I  suppose  it  is  with  sleeping  and  eating  so  little,  and 
thinking  so  much,  and  being  so  continually  out  of  humour. 
l>ut  to  return:  I  was  exerting  myself  to  sing  and  play  for  the 
amusement,  and  at  the  request,  of  my  aunt  and  Milicent, 


126  THE   TENANT 

before  the  gentlemen  came  into  the  drawing-room  (Miss  Wil- 
mot  never  likes  to  waste  her  musical  efforts  on  ladies'  ears 
alone)  :  Milicent  had  asked  for  a  little  Scotch  song,  and  I  was 
just  in  the  middle  of  it  when  they  entered.  The  first  thing 
Mr.  Huntingdon  did,  was  to  walk  up  to  Annahella. 

"  Now,  Miss  Wilmot,  won't  you  give  us  some  music  to- 
hight?"  said  he.  u  Do  now!  1  know  you  will,  when  I  tell 
you  that  I  have  been  hungering  and  thirsting  all  day  for  the 
sound  of  your  voice.  Come  !  the  piano's  vacant." 

It  was  ;  for  I  had  quitted  it  immediately  upon  hearing  his 
petition.  Had  I  been  endowed  Avith  a  proper  degree  of  self- 
possession,  I  should  have  turned  to  the  lady  myself,  and 
cheerfully  joined  my  entreaties  to  his ;  whereby  I  should 
have  disappointed  his  expectations,  if  the  affront  had  been 
purposely  given,  or  made  him  sensible  of  the  wrong,  if  it  had 
only  arisen  from  thoughtlessness  ;  but  I  felt  it  too  deeply  to 
do  anything  but  rise  from  the  music-stool,  and  throw  myself 
back  on  the  sofa,  suppressing  with  difficulty  the  audible  ex- 
pression of  the  bitterness  I  felt  within.  I  knew  Annabella's 
musical  talents  were  superior  to  mine,  but  that  was  no  reason 
why  I  should  be  treated  as  a  perfect  nonentity.  The  time 
and  the  manner  of  his  asking  her,  appeared  like  a  gratuitous 
insult  to  me  ;  and  I  could  have  wept  with  pure  vexation. 

Meantime,  she  exultingly  seated  herself  at  the  piano,  and 
favoured  him  with  two  of  his  favourite  songs,  in  such  supe- 
rior style  that  even  I  soon  lost  my  anger  in  admiration,  and 
listened  with  a  sort  of  gloomy  pleasure  to  the  skilful  modula- 
tions of  her  full-toned  and  powerful  voice,  so  judiciously 
aided  by  her  rounded  and  spirited  touch  ;  and  while  my  ears 
drank  in  the  sound,  my  eyes  rested  on  the  face  of  her  prin- 
cipal auditor,  and  derived  an  equal  or  superior  delight  from 
the  contemplation  of  his  speaking  countenance,  as  he  stood 
beside  her — that  eye  and  brow  lighted  up  with  keen  enthu- 
siasm, and  that  sweet  smile  passing  and  appearing  like  gleams 
of  sunshine  on  an  April  day.  No  wonder  he  should  hunger 
and  thirst  to  hear  her  sing.  I  now  forgave  him,  from  my 
heart,  his  reckless  slight  of  me,  and  I  felt  ashamed  at  my 
pettish  resentment  of  such  a  trifle — ashamed  too  of  those 
bitter  envious  pangs  that  gnawed  my  inmost  heart,  in  spite 
of  all  this  admiration  and  delight. 

"There  now!"  s;\id  she,  playfully  running  her  fingers 
over  the  keys,  when  she  had  concluded  the  second  song. 
"  What  shall  I  give  you  next?" 

But  in  sajing  this,  she  looked  back  at  Lord  Lowborough, 
who  was  standing  a  little  behind,  leaning  against  the  back 
of  a  chair,  an  attentive  listener,  too,  experiencing,  to  judge 
by  his  countenance,  much  the  same  feelings  of  mingled  plea- 


OF  WILDFELL  HALL.  127 

jure  and  sadness  as  I  did.  But  the  look  she  gave  him 
plainly  said,  "  Do  you  choose  for  me  now :  I  have  done 
enough  for  him,  and  will  gladly  exert  myself  to  gratify  you  ;" 
and  thus  encouraged,  his  lordship  came  forward,  and  turning 
over  the  music,  presently  set  before  her  a  little  song  that  I 
had  noticed  before,  and  read  more  than  once,  with  an  interest 
arising  from  the  circumstance  of  my  connecting  it  in  my  mind 
with  the  reigning  tyrant  of  my  thoughts.  And  now  with  my 
nerves  already  excited  and  half  unstrung,  I  could  not  hear  those 
words  so  sweetly  warbled  forth,  without  some  symptoms  ot 
emotion  I  was  not  able  to  suppress.  Tears  rose  unbidden  to 
my  eyes,  and  I  buried  my  face  in  the  sofa-pillow  that  they 
might  flow  unseen  while  I  listened.  The  air  was  simple, 
sweet,  and  sad,  it  is  still  running  in  my  head, — and  so  are 
the  words : — 

"  Farewell  to  thee. !  but  not  farewell 

To  all  my  fondest  thoughts  of  thee  : 

Within  my  heart  they  still  shall  dwell; 

And  they  shall  cheer  and  comfort  ine 

O,  beautiful,  and  full  of  grace  I 

If  thou  hadst  never  met  mine  eye,' 
I  had  not  dreamed  a  living  face 

Could  fancied  charms  so  far  outvie. 

If  I  may  ne'er  behold  again 

That  form  and  face  so  dear  to  me, 
Nor  hear  thy  voice,  still  would  I  fain 

Preserve,  for  aye,  their  memory. 

That  voice,  the  magic  of  whose  tone 

Can  wake  an  echo  in  my  breast, 
Creating  feelings  that,  alone, 

Can  make  iny  tranced  spirit  blest. 

That  laughing  eye,  whose  sunny  beam 
My  memory  would  not  cherish  less ; — 

And  oh,  that  smile !  whose  joyous  gleam 
No  mortal  languish  can  express. 

Adieu  !  but  let  me  cherish,  still, 

The  hope  with  which  I  cannot  part. 
Contempt  may  wound,  and  coldness  chill, 

But  still  it  lingers  in  my  heart. 

And  who  can  tell  but  Heaven,  at  last, 
May  answer  all  my  thousand  prayers, 

And  bid  the  future  pay  the  past 

With  joy  for  anguish,  smiles  for  tears  t" 

When  it  ceased,  I  longed  for  nothing  so  muoh  as  to  be  out 
of  the  room.  The  sofa  was  not  far  from  the  door,  but  I  did 
not  dare  to  raise  my  head,  for  I  knew  Mr.  Huntingdon  was 
standing  near  me,  and  I  knew  by  the  sound  of  his  voice,  as 


128  THE  TENANT 

he  spoke  in  answer  to  some  remark  of  Lord  Lowborough'a, 
that  his  face  was  turned  towards  me.  Perhaps,  a  hall  sup- 
pressed sob  had  caught  his  ear,  and  caused  him  to  look  round 
— Heaven  forbid !  But,  with  a  violent  effort,  I  checked  all 
farther  signs  of  weakness,  dried  my  tears,  and,  when  I  thought 
he  had  turned  away  again,  rose,  and  instantly  left  the  apart- 
ment, taking  refuge  in  my  favourite  resort,  the  library. 

There  was  no  light  there  but  the  faint  red  glow  of  the 
neglected  fire ; — but  I  did  not  want  a  light ;  I  only  wanted 
to  indulge  my  thoughts,  unnoticed  and  undisturbed ;  and 
sitting  down  on  a  low  stool  before  the  easy  chair,  I  sunk  my 
head  upon  its  cushioned  seat,  and  thought,  and  thought,  until 
the  tears  gushed  out  again,  and  I  wept  like  any  child.  Pre- 
sently, however,  the  door  was  gently  opened  and  some  one 
entered  the  room.  I  trusted  it  was  only  a  servant,  and  did 
not  stir.  The  door  was  closed  again — but  I  was  not  alone  ;  a 
hand  gently  touched  my  shoulder,  and  a  voice  said,  softly, — 

"  Helen,  what  is  the  matter  ?" 

I  could  not  answer  at  the  moment. 

"You  must,  and  shall  tell  me,"  was  added,  more  vehe- 
mently, and  the  speaker  threw  himself  on  his  knees  beside 
me  on  the  rug,  and  forcibly  possessed  himself  of  my  hand  ; 
but  I  hastily  caught  it  away,  and  replied, — 

"  It  is  nothing  to  you,  Mr.  Huntingdon." 

"Are  you  sure  it  is  nothing  to  me?"  he  returned ;  "can 
you  swear  that  you  were  not  thinking  of  me  while  you  wept  ?  " 

This  was  unendurable.  I  made  an  effort  to  rise,  but  he 
was  kneeling  on  my  dress. 

"  Tell  me,"  continued  he — "  I  want  to  know, — because,  if 
you  were,  I  have  something  to  say  to  you,— and  if  not, 
I'll  go." 

"  Go  then  !"  I  cried  ;  but,  fearing  he  would  obey  too  well, 
and  never  come  again,  I  hastily  added — "  Or  say  what  you 
have  to  say,  and  have  done  with  it ! " 

"But  which?"  said  he — "for  I  shall  only  say  it  if  you 
really  were  thinking  of  me.  So  tell  me,  Helen." 

"  You're  excessively  impertinent,  Mr.  Huntingdon  !" 

"  Not  at  all — too  pertinent,  you  mean — so  you  won't  tell 
me? — Well,  I'll  spare  your  woman's  pride,  and,  construing 
your  silence  into  '  Yes,'  I'll  take  it  for  granted  that  I  was  the 
subject  of  your  thoughts,  and  the  cause  of  your  affliction " 

"  Indeed,  sir " 

"  If  you  deny  it,  I  won't  tell  you  my  secret,"  threatened 
fie ;  and  I  did  not  interrupt  him  again — or  even  attempt  to 
repulse  him,  though  he  had  taken  my  hand  once  more,  and 
half  embraced  me  with  his  other  arm — I  was  scarcely  con- 
Bcioua  of  it  at  the  time. 


OF  WILDFELL   HALL.  129 

"  It  is  this,"  resumed  he :  "  that  Annabella  Wilmot,  in 
comparison  with  you,  is  like  a  flaunting  peony  compared  wilh 
a  sweet,  wild  rosebud  gemmed  with  dew — and  I  love  you  to 
distraction  ! — Now,  tell  me  if  that  intelligence  gives  you  any 
pleasure.  Silence  again?  That  means  yes — Then  let  me 
add,  that  I  cannot  live  without  you,  and  if  you  answer,  No, 
Lo  this  last  question,  you  will  drive  me  mad. — Will  you 
bestow  yourself  upon  me? — you  will!"  he  cried,  nearly 
squeezing  me  to  death  in  his  arms. 

"  No,  no ! "  I  exclaimed,  struggling  to  free  myself  from 
him — "  you  must  ask  my  uncle  and  aunt." 

44  They  won't  refuse  me,  if  you  don't." 

"  I'm  not  so  sure  of  that — my  aunt  dislikes  you." 

"  But  you  don't,  Helen — say  you  love  me,  and  I'll  go." 

11 1  wish  you  would  go !"  I  replied. 

"  I  will,  this  instant, — if  you'll  only  say  you  love  me." 

"  You  know  I  do,"  I  answered.  And  again  he  caught  me 
in  his  arms,  and  smothered  me  with  kisses. 

At  that  moment,  my  aunt  opened  wide  the  door,  and  stood 
before  us,  candle  in  hand,  in  shocked  and  horrified  amaze- 
ment, gazing  alternately  at  Mr.  Huntingdon  and  me, — for  we 
had  both  started  up,  and  now  stood  wide  enough  asunder. 
But  his  confusion  was  only  for  a  moment.  Rallying  in  an 
instant,  with  the  most  enviable  assurance,  he  began, — 

"  I  beg  ten  thousand  pardons,  Mrs.  Maxwell !  Don't  be 
too  severe  upon  me.  I've  been  asking  your  sweet  niece  to 
take  me  for  better,  for  worse  ;  and  she,  like  a  good  girl, 
informs  me  she  cannot  think  of  it  without  her  uncle's  and 
aunt's  consent.  So  let  me  implore  you  not  to  condemn  me 
to  eternal  wretchedness  :  if  you  favour  my  cause,  I  am  safe  ; 
for  Mr.  Maxwell,  I  am  certain,  can  refuse  you  nothing." 

"  We  will  talk  of  this  to-morrow,  sir,"  said  my  aunt,  coldly. 
"It  is  a  subject  that  demands  mature  and  serious  delibera- 
tion. At  present,  you  had  better  return  to  the  drawing- 
room." 

"  But  meantime,"  pleaded  he,  "  let  me  commend  my  cause 
to  your  most  indulgent " 

"  No  indulgence  for  you,  Mr.  Huntingdon,  must  come 
between  me  and  the  consideration  of  my  niece's  happiness." 

"  Ah,  true  !  I  know  she  is  an  angel,  and  I  am  a  pre- 
sumptuous dog  to  dream  of  possessing  such  a  treasure  ;  but, 
nevertheless,  I  would  sooner  die  than  relinquish  her  in  favour 
of  the  best  mai:  that  ever  went  to  heaven — and  as  for  her 
happiness,  I  would  sacrifice  my  body  and  soul " 

44  Body  and  soul,  Mr.  Huntingdon — sacrifice  your  soul?" 

e*  Well,  I  would  lay  down  life " 

44  You  would  not  be  required  to  lay  it  down." 


180  THE   TENANT 

"  I  would  spend  it,  then— devote  my  life — and  all  its  powen 
to  the  promotion  and  preservation — 

"Another  time,  sir,  we  will  talk  of  this — and  I  should  have 
lelt  disposed  to  judge  more  favourably  of  your  pretensions,  if 
you  too  had  chosen  another  time  and  place,  and  let  me  add — 
another  manner  for  your  declaration." 

"  Why,  you  see,  Mrs  Maxwell,"  he  began 

"Pardon  me,  sir,"  said  she,  with  dignity — "The  company 
are  inquiring  for  you  in  the  other  room."  And  she  turned 
to  me. 

"  Then  you  must  plead  for  me,  Helen,"  said  he,  and  at 
length  withdrew. 

"  You  had  better  retire  to  your  room,  Helen,"  said  my 
aunt,  gravely.  "I  will  discuss  this  matter  with  you,  too, 
to-morrow." 

"  Don't  be  angry,  aunt,"  said  T. 

"  My  dear,  I  am  not  angry,"  she  replied :  "  I  am  surprised. 
If  it  is  true  that  you  told  him  you  could  not  accept  hia  offer 
without  our  consent ' 

"  It  is  true,"  interrupted  I. 

"  Then  how  could  you  permit " 

"  I  couldn't  help  it,  aunt,"  I  cried,  bursting  into  tears. 
They  were  not  altogether  the  tears  of  sorrow,  or  of  fear  for 
her  displeasure,  but  rather  the  outbreak  of  the  general  tu- 
multuous excitement  of  my  feelings.  But  my  good  aunt  was 
touched  at  my  agitation.  In  a  softer  tone,  she  repeated 
her  recommendation  to  retire,  and,  gently  kissing  my  fore- 
head, bade  me  good  night,  and  put  her  candle  in  my  hand  ; 
and  I  went ;  but  my  brain  worked  so,  I  could  not  think  of 
sleeping.  I  feel  calmer  now  that  I  have  written  all  this  ; 
and  I  will  go  to  bed,  and  try  to  win  tired  nature's  sweet 
restorer. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

SEPTEMBER  24th. — In  the  morning  I  rose,  light  and  cheerful, 
nay,  intensely  happy.  The  hovering  cloud  cast  over  me  by 
my  aunt's  views,  and  by  the  fear  of  not  obtaining  her  con- 
sent, was  lost  in  the  bright  effulgence  of  my  own  hopes,  and 
the  too  delightful  consciousness  of  requited  love.  It  was  a 
splendid  morning;  and  I  went  out  to  enjoy  it,  in  a  quiet 
ramble  in  company  with  my  own  blissful  thoughts.  The  dew 
was  on  the  grass,  and  ten  thousand  gossamers  were  waving 
in  the  breeze  ;  the  happy  red-breast  was  pouring  out  its  little 
soul  in  song,  and  my  heart  overflowed  with  silent  hymus  cf 
gratitude  and  praise  to  Heaven. 


OF   WILDFEL1,  HAIX.  l31 

But  I  had  not  wandered  far  before  my  solitude  was  inter- 
rupted by  the  only  person  that  could  have  disturbed  my 
musings,  at  that  moment,  without  being  looked  upon  as  an 
unwelcome  intruder :  Mr.  Huntingdon  came  suddenly  upon 
me.  So  unexpected  was  the  apparition,  that  I  might  have 
thought  it  the  creation  of  an  over-excited  imagination,  had 
the  sense  of  sight  alone  borne  witness  to  his  presence ;  but 
immediately  I  felt  his  strong  arm  round  my  waist  and  his 
warm  kiss  on  my  cheek,  while  his  keen  and  gleeful  salutation, 
"  My  own  Helen  !"  was  ringing  in  my  ear. 

"  Not  yours  yet,"  said  I,  hastily  swerving  aside  from  this 
too  presumptuous  greeting — "  remember  my  guardians.  You 
will  not  easily  obtain  my  aunt's  consent.  Don't  you  see  she 
is  prejudiced  against  you  ?" 

u  I  do,  dearest ;  and  you  must  tell  me  why,  that  I  may 
best  know  how  to  combat  her  objections.  I  suppose  she 
thinks  I  am  a  prodigal,"  pursued  he,  observing  that  I  was 
unwilling  to  reply,  "  and  concludes  that  I  shall  have  but 
"little  worldly  goods  wherewith  to  endow  my  better  half?  If 
BO,  you  must  tell  her  that  my  property  is  mostly  entailed, 
and  I  cannot  get  rid  of  it.  There  may  be  a  few  mortgages 
on  the  rest— a  few  trifling  debts  and  incumbrances  here  and 
there,  but  nothing  to  speak  of;  and  though  I  acknowledge 
I  am  not  so  rich  as  I  might  be — or  have  been — still,  I  think, 
we  could  manage  pretty  comfortably  on  what's  left.  My 
father,  you  know,  was  something  of  a  miser,  and  in  his  latter 
days  especially,  saw  no  pleasure  in  life  but  to  amass  riches ; 
and  so  it  is  no  wonder  that  his  son  should  make  it  his  chief 
delight  to  spend  them,  which  was  accordingly  the  case,  until 
my  acquaintance  with  you,  dear  Helen,  taught  me  other 
views  and  nobler  aims.  And  the  very  idea  of  having  you  to 
care  for  under  my  roof,  would  force  me  to  moderate  my  ex- 
penses and  live  like  a  Christian — not  to  speak  of  all  the  pru- 
dence and  virtue  you  would  instil  into  my  mind  by  your  wise 
counsels  and  sweet,  attractive  goodness." 

"  But  it  is  not  that,"  said  I,  "  it  is  not  money  my  aunt 
thinks  about.  She  knows  better  than  to  value  worldly  wealth 
above  its  price." 

"What  is  it  then?" 

"  She  wishes  me  to — to  marry  none  but  a  really  good 
man." 

44  What,  a  man  of  4  decided  piety?' — ahem  ! — Well,  come, 
I'll  manage  that  too  !  It's  Sunday  to-day,  isn't  it?  I'll  go  to 
dmrch  morning,  afternoon,  and  evening,  and  comport  myself 
in  such  a  godly  sort  that  she  shall  regard  me  with  admiration 
and  sisterly  love,  as  a  brand  plucked  from  the  burning.  I'll 


182  THE  TENANT 

come  home  sighing  like  a  furnace,  and  full  of  the  savour  and 
unction  of  dear  Mr.  Blatant's  discourse " 

"  Mr.  Leighton,"  said  I,  dryly. 

"  Is  Mr.  Leighton  a  '  sweet  preacher,'  Helen — a  '  dear, 
delightful,  heavenly-minded  man?'" 

"  He  is  a  good  man,  Mr.  Huntingdon.  I  wish  I  could  say 
half  as  much  for  you." 

"  Oh,  I  forgot,  you  are  a  saint,  too.  I  crave  your  pardon, 
dearest — but  don't  call  me  Mr.  Huntingdon,  my  name  is 
Arthur." 

"I'll  call  you  nothing — for  I'll  have  nothing  at  all  to  do 
with  you  if  you  talk  in  that  way  any  more.  If  you  really 
mean  to  deceive  my  aunt  as  you  say,  you  are  very  wicked ; 
and  if  not,  you  are  very  wrong  to  jest  on  such  a  subject." 

"  I  stand  corrected,"  said  he,  concluding  his  laugh  with  a 
sorrowful  sigh.  "Now,"  resumed  he,  after  a  momentary 
pause,  "  let  us  talk  about  something  else.  And  come  nearer 
to  me,  Helen,  and  take  my  arm  ;  and  then  I'll  let  you  alone. 
I  can't  be  quiet  while  I  see  you  walking  there." 

I  complied  ;  but  said  we  must  soon  return  to  the  house. 

"  No  one  will  be  down  to  breakfast  yet,  for  long  enough," 
he  answered.  "  You  spoke  of  your  guardians  just  now, 
Helen,  but  is  not  your  father  still  living  ?  " 

"  Yes,  but  I  always  look  upon  my  uncle  and  aunt  as  my 
guardians,  for  they  are  so,  in  deed,  though  not  in  name.  My 
father  has  entirely  given  me  up  to  their  care.  I  have  never 
seen  him  since  dear  mamma  died  when  I  was  a  very  little 
girl,  and  my  aunt,  at  her  request,  offered  to  take  charge  of 
me,  and  took  me  away  to  Staningley,  where  I  have  remained 
ever  since ;  and  I  don't  think  he  would  object  to  anything  for 
me,  that  she  thought  proper  to  sanction." 

'*  But  would  he  sanction  anything  to  which  she  thought 
proper  to  object?" 

"  No,  I  don't  think  he  cares  enough  about  me." 

"  He  is  very  much  to  blame — but  he  doesn't  know  what  an 
angel  he  has  for  his  daughter — which  is  all  the  better  for  me, 
as,  if  he  'did,  he  would  not  be  willing  to  part  with  such  a 
treasure." 

"And  Mr.  Huntingdon/'  said  I.  "  I  suppose  you  know  I 
am  not  an  heiress  ?  " 

He  protested  he  had  never  given  it  a  thought,  and  begged 
I  would  not  disturb  his  present  enjoyment  by  the  mention  of 
Pttch  uninteresting  subjects.  I  was  glad  of  this  proof  of  dis- 
interested affection ;  for  Annabclla  Wilmot  is  the  probable 
heiress  to  all  her  uncle's  wealth,  in  addition  to  her  Jftte 
father's  property,  which  she  has  already  in  possession. 


OF   WILDFELL   HALL.  133 

I  now  insisted  upon  retracing  our  steps  to  the  house  ;  but 
we  walked  slowly,  and  went  on  talking  as  we  proceeded.  I 
need  not  repeat  all  we  said  :  let  me  rather  refer  to  what 
passed  between  my  aunt  and  me,  after  breakfast,  when  Mr. 
Huntingdon  called  my  uncle  aside,  no  doubt  to  make  his 
proposals,  and  she  beckoned  me  into  another  room,  where 
she  once  more  commenced  a  solemn  remonstrance,  which, 
however,  entirely  failed  to  convince  me  that  her  view  of  the 
case  was  preferable  to  my  own. 

"You  judge  him  uncharitably,  aunt,  I  know,"  said  I 
u  His  very  friends  are  not  half  so  bad  as  you  represent  them. 
There  is  Walter  Hargrave,  Milicent's  brother,  for  one  :  he  is 
but  a  little  lower  than  the  angels,  if  half  she  says  of  him  is 
true.  She  is  continually  talking  to  me  about  him,  and  lauding 
his  many  virtues  to  the  skies." 

"  You  will  form  a  very  inadequate  estimate  of  a  man's 
character,"  replied  she,  "if  you  judge  by  what  a  fond  sister 
says  of  him.  The  worst  of  them  generally  know  how  to 
hide  their  misdeeds  from  their  sisters'  eyes,  and  their  mothers' 
too." 

"  And  there  is  Lord  Lowborough,"  continued  I,  "  quite  a 
decent  man." 

"Who  told  you  so?  Lord  Lowborough  is  a  desperate 
man.  He  has  dissipated  his  fortune  in  gambling  and  other 
things,  and  is  now  seeking  an  heiress  to  retrieve  it.  I  told 
Miss  Wilmot  so  ;  but  you're  all  alike  :  she  haughtily  answered 
she  was  very  much  obliged  to  me,  but  she  believed  she  knew 
when  a  man  was  seeking  her  for  her  fortune,  and  when  for 
herself;  she  flattered  herself  she  had  had  experience  enough 
in  those  matters,  to  be  justified  in  trusting  to  her  own  judg- 
ment— and  as  for  his  lordship's  lack  of  fortune,  she  cared 
nothing  about  that,  as  she  hoped  her  own  would  suffice  for 
both  ;  and  as  for  his  wildness,  she  supposed  he  was  no  worse 
than  others — besides,  he  was  reformed  now.  Yes,  they  can 
all  play  the  hypocrite  when  they  want  to  take  in  a  fond,  mis- 
guided woman ! " 

"  Well,  I  think  he's  about  as  good  as  she  is,"  said  I.  "  But 
when  Mr.  Huntingdon  is  married,  he  won't  have  many  op- 
portunities of  consorting  with  his  bachelor  friends  ; — and  the 
worse  they  are,  the  more  I  long  to  deliver  him  from  them." 

"To  be  sure,  my  dear  ;  and  the  worse  he  is,  I  suppose,  the 
more  you  long  to  deliver  him  from  himself." 

"  Yes,  provided  he  is  not  incorrigible — that  is,  the  more  I 
long  to  deliver  him  from  his  faults — to  give  him  an  opportu- 
nity of  shaking  off  the  adventitious  evil  got  from  contact 
with  others  worse  than  himself,  and  shining  out  in  the  un- 
clouded light  of  his  own  genuine  goodness — to  do  my  utmost 


134  THE    TENANT 

to  help  his  better  eelf  against  his  worse,  and  make  him  what 
he  would  have  been  if  he  had  not,  from  the  beginning,  had 
a  bad,  selfish,  miserly  father,  who,  to  gratify  his  own  sordid 
passions,  restricted  him  in  the  most  innocent  enjoyments  of 
childhood  and  youth,  and  so  disgusted  him  with  every  kind 
of  restraint ; — and  a  foolish  mother  who  indulged  him  to  the 
top  of  his  bent,  deceiving  her  husband  for  him,  and  doing  her 
utmost  to  encourage  those  germs  of  folly  and  vice  it  was  her 
duty  to  suppress, — and  then,  such  a  set  of  companions  as  you 
represent  his  friends  to  be " 

"  Poor  man  ! "  said  she,  sarcastically,  "  his  kind  have  greatly 
•wronged  him ! " 

"They  have!"  cried  I — "and  they  shall  wrong  him  no 
more — his  wife  shall  undo  what  his  mother  did !  " 

"  Well,"  said  she,  after  a  short  pause,  "  I  must  say,  Helen, 
I  thought  better  of  your  judgment  than  this — and  your  taste 
too.  How  you  can  love  such  a  man  I  cannot  tell,  or  what 
pleasure  you  can  find  in  his  company;  for  'What  fellowship 
hath  light  with  darkness  ;  or  he  that  believeth  with  an  in- 
fidel?'" 

"  He  is  not  an  infidel ; — and  I  am  not  light,  and  he  is  not 
darkness ;  his  worst  and  only  vice  is  thoughtlessness." 

"  And  thoughtlessness, "  pursued  my  aunt,  "  may  lead  to 
every  crime,  and  will  but  poorly  excuse  our  errors  in  the 
sight  of  God.  Mr.  Huntingdon,  I  suppose,  is  not  without  the 
common  faculties  of  men  :  he  is  not  so  light-headed  as  to  be 
irresponsible  :  his  Maker  has  endowed  him  with  reason  and 
conscience  as  well  as  the  rest  of  us  ;  the  Scriptures  are  open 
to  him  as  well  as  to  others; — and  'Jf  he  hear  not  them,  neither 
will  he  hear  though  one  rose  from  the  dead.'  And,  remem- 
ber, Helen,"  continued  she,  solemnly,  '"The  wicked  shall  be 
turned  into  hell,  and  they  that  forget  God  ! '  And  suppose, 
even,  that  he  should  continue  to  love  you,  and  you  him,  and 
that  you  should  pass  through  life  together  with  tolerable  com- 
fort,— how  will  it  be  in  the  end,  when  you  see  yourselves 
parted  for  ever  ;  you,  perhaps,  taken  into  eternal  bliss,  and  he 
cast  into  the  lake  that  burneth  with  unquenchable  fire — there 
for  ever  to " 

"Not  for  ever,"  I  exclaimed,  "'only  till  he  has  paid  the 
uttermost  farthing;'  for  'If  any  man's  work  abide  not  the 
fire,  he  shall  suffer  loss,  yet  himself  shall  be  saved,  but  so  as 
by  fire;'  and  He  that  'is  able  to  subdue  all  things  to  himself 
will  have  all  men  to  be  saved,'  and  '  will  in  the  fulness  of 
time,  gather  together  in  one  all  things  in  Christ  Jesus,  who 
tasted  death  for  every  man,  and  in  whom  God  will  reconcile 
all  tilings  to  himseltj  whether  they  be  things  in  earth  or 
things  in  heaven.'" 


OF   WILDFELL   HALL.  135 

"  Oh,  Helen !  where  did  you  learn  all  this  ?  " 

11  In  the  Bible,  aunt.  I  have  searched  it  through,  and  found 
nearly  thirty  passages,  all  tending  to  support  the  same 
theory." 

"  And  is  that  the  use  you  make  of  your  Bible  ?  And  did 
you  find  no  passages  tending  to  prove  the  danger  and  the  fal- 
sity oi  such  a  belief?  " 

"  No  :  I  found,  indeed,  some  passages  that,  taken  by  them- 
selves, might  seem  to  contradict  that  opinion  ;  but  they  will 
all  bear  a  different  construction  to  that  which  is  commonly 
given,  and  in  most  the  only  difficulty  is  in  the  word  which  we 
translate  '  everlasting'  or  '  eternal. '  I  don't  know  the  Greek, 
but  I  believe  it  strictly  means  for  ages,  and  might  signify 
either  endless  or  long-enduring.  And  as  for  the  danger  ot  the 
belief,  I  would  not  publish  it  abroad,  it  I  thought  any  poor 
wretch  would  be  likely  to  presume  upon  it  to  his  own  destruc- 
tion, but  it  is  a  glorious  thought  to  cherish  in  one's  own  heart, 
and  I  would  not  part  with  it  for  all  the  world  can  give  !" 

Here  our  conference  ended,  for  it  was  now  high  time  to 
prepare  for  church.  Every  one  attended  the  morning  service, 
except  my  uncle,  who  hardly  ever  goes,  and  Mr.  Wilmot, 
who  stayed  at  home  with  him  to  enjoy  a  quiet  game  of  crib- 
bage.  In  the  afternoon  Miss  Wilmot  and  Lord  Lowborough 
likewise  excused  themselves  from  attending  ;  but  Mr.  Hunt- 
ingdon vouchsafed  to  accompany  us  again.  Whether  it  was 
to  ingratiate  himself  with  my  aunt  I  cannot  tell,  but,  if  so,  he 
certainly  should  have  behaved  better.  I  must  confess,  I  did 
not  like  his  conduct  during  service  at  all.  Holding  his 
prayer-book  upside  down,  or  open  at  any  place  but  the  rignt, 
he  did  nothing  but  stare  about  him,  unless  he  happened  to 
catch  my  aunt's  eye  or  mine,  and  then  he  would  drop  his  own 
on  his  book,  with  a  puritanical  air  of  mock  solemnity  that 
would  have  been  ludicrous,  ii  it  had  not  been  too  provoking. 
Once,  during  the  sermon,  after  attentively  regarding  Mr. 
Leighton  for  a  few  minutes,  he  suddenly  produced  his  gold 
pencil  case  and  snatched  up  a  Bible.  Perceiving  that  I  ob- 
served the  movement,  he  whispered  that  he  was  going  to  make 
a  note  of  the  sermon  ;  but  instead  of  that — as  I  sat  next  him 
I  could  not  help  seeing  that  he  was  making  a  caricature  ol  the 
preacher,  giving  to  the  respectable,  pious,  elderly  gentleman, 
the  air  and  aspect  of  a  most  absurd  old  hypocrite.  And  yet, 
upon  his  return,  he  talked  to  my  aunt  about  the  sermon  with 
a  degree  ol  modest,  serious  discrimination  that  tempted  me  to 
believe  he  had  really  attended  and  profited  by  the  discourse. 

Just  before  dinner  my  uncle  called  me  into  the  library  lor 
the  discusfion  of  a  very  important  matter,  which  was  dismissed 
in  few  words. 


LS6  THE  TENANT 

"  Now  Nel,"  said  he,  "  this  young  Huntingdon  has  been 
asking  for  you :  what  must  I  say  about  it  ?  Your  aunt  would 
answer  '  No' — but  what  say  you  ?  " 

"  I  say  yes,  uncle,"  replied  I,  without  a  moment's  hesita- 
tion ;  for  I  had  thoroughly  made  up  my  mind  on  the  subject. 

"  Very  good  !"  cried  he.  "  Now  that's  a  good  honest  an- 
swer— wonderful  for  a  girl ! — Well,  I'll  write  to  your  father 
to-morrow.  He's  sure  to  give  his  consent ;  so  you  may  look 
on  the  matter  as  settled.  You'd  have  done  a  deal  better  if 
you'd  taken  Wilmot,  I  can  tell  you  ;  but  that  you  won't  be- 
lieve. At  your  time  of  life,  it's  love  that  rules  the  roast :  at 
mine,  it's  solid,  serviceable  gold.  I  suppose  now,  you'd 
never  dream  of  looking  into  the  state  of  your  husband's 
finances,  or  troubling  your  head  about  settlements,  or  any- 
thing of  that  sort?" 

"  I  don't  think  1  should." 

"  Well,  be  thankful,  then,  that  you've  wiser  heads  to  think 
lor  you.  I  haven't  had  time,  yet,  to  examine  thoroughly  into 
this  young  rascal's  aifairs,  but  I  see  that  a  great  part  of  his 
father's  fine  property  has  been  squandered  away  ; — but  still,  I 
think  there's  a  pretty  fair  share  of  it  left,  and  a  little  careful 
nursing  may  make  a  handsome  thing  of  it  yet ;  and  then  we 
must  persuade  your  father  to  give  you  a  decent  fortune,  as  he 
has  only  one  besides  yourself  to  care  for  ; — and,  if  you  behave 
well,  who  knows  but  what  I  may  be  induced  to  remember 
you  in  my  will?"  continued  he,  putting  his  fingers  to  his 
nose,  with  a  knowing  wink. 

"  Thanks,  uncle,  for  that  and  all  your  kindness,"  replied  I. 

"  Well,  and  I  questioned  this  young  spark  on  the  matter  of 
settlements,"  continued  he ;  "  and  he  seemed  disposed  to  be 
generous  enough  on  that  point " 

"  I  knew  he  would ! "  said  I.  "  But  pray  don't  trouble  your 
head — or  his,  or  mine  about  that ;  for  all  I  have  will  be  his, 
and  all  he  has  will  be  mine  ;  and  what  more  could  either  of 
us  require?"  And  I  was  about  to  make  my  exit,  but  he  called 
me  hack. 

"Stop,  stop!"  cried  he — "We  haven't  mentioned  the  time 
3t.  When  must  it  be?  Your  aunt  would  put  it  off  till  the 
ord  knows  when,  but  he  is  anxious  to  be  bound  as  soon  as 
may  be :  he  won't  hear  of  waiting  beyond  next  month  ;  and 
you,  I  guess,  will  be  of  the  same  mind,  so " 

"Not  at  all,  uncle ;  on  the  contrary,  I  should  like  to  wait 
till  after  Christmas,  at  least." 

"  Oh  !  pooh,  pooh  !  never  tell  me  that  tale — I  know  better," 
cried  he  ;  and  he  persisted  in  his  incredulity.  Nevertheless, 
it  is  quite  true.  I  am  in  no  hurry  at  all.  How  can  I  be, 
when  I  think  of  the  momentous  change  that  awaits  me,  and 


Lord 


OF  WILDFELL  HALL.  137 

of  all  I  have  to  leave  ?  It  is  happiness  enough,  to  know  that 
we  are  to  be  united  ;  and  that  he  really  loves  me,  and  I  may 
love  him  as  devotedly,  and  think  of  him  as  often  as  I  please. 
However,  I  insisted  upon  consulting  my  aunt  about  the  time 
of  the  wedding,  for  I  determined  her  counsels  should  not  be 
utterly  disregarded;  and  no  conclusions  on  that  particular 
are  come  to  yet. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

OCTOBER  1st. — All  is  settled  now.  My  father  has  given  his 
consent,  and  the  time  is  fixed  for  Christmas,  by  a  sort  of  com- 
promise between  the  respective  advocates  for  hurry  and  delay. 
Milicent  Hargrave  is  to  be  one  bridesmaid,  and  Annabella 
Wilmot  the  other — not  that  I  am  particularly  fond  of  the 
latter,  but  she  is  an  intimate  of  the  family,  and  I  have  not 
another  friend. 

When  I  told  Milicent  of  my  engagement,  she  rather  pro- 
voked me  by  her  manner  of  taking  it.  After  staring  a  moment 
in  mute  surprise,  she  said, — 

"  Well,  Helen,  I  suppose  I  ought  to  congratulate  you — and 
I  am  glad  to  see  you  so  happy  ;  but  I  did  not  think  you  would 
take  him  ;  and  I  can't  help  feeling  surprised  that  you  should 
like  him  so  much." 

"Why  so?" 

"Because  you  are  so  superior  to  him  in  every  way,  and 
there's  something  so  bold — and  reckless  about  him — so,  I 
don't  know  how — but  I  always  feel  a  wish  to  get  out  of  his 
way,  when  I  see  him  approach." 

"You  are  timid,  Milicent,  but  that's  no  fault  of  his." 

"And  then  his  look,"  continued  she.  "People  say  he's 
handsome,  and  of  course  he  is,  but  I  don't  like  that  kind  of 
beauty  ;  and  I  wonder  that  you  should." 

"Why  so,  pray?" 

"  Well,  you  know,  I  think  there's  nothing  noble  or  lofty  in 
his  appearance." 

"  In  fact,  you  wonder  that  I  can  like  any  one  so  unlike  the 
stilted  heroes  of  romance  !  AVell !  give  me  my  flesh  and  blood 
lover,  and  I'll  leave  all  the  Sir  Herberts  and  Valentines  to 
you — if  you  can  find  them." 

"  I  don't  want  them,"  said  she.  "  I'll  be  satisfied  with  flesh 
and  blood  too — only  the  spirit  must  shine  through  and  pre- 
dominate. But  don't  you  think  Mr.  Huntingdon's  face  is  too 
red?" 

"No !"  cried  I,  indignantly.  "  It  is  not  red  at  all.  There 
is  just  a  pleasant  glow — a  healthy  freshness  in  his  complexion, 


138  THE   TENANT 

the  warm,  pinky  tint  of  the  whole  harmonizing  with  the  deeper 
colour  of  the  cheeks,  exactly  as  it  ought  to  do.  1  hate  a  man 
to  be  red  and  white,  like  a  painted  doll — or  all  sickly  white, 
or  smoky  black,  or  cadaverous  yellow ! " 

"  Well,  tastes  differ — but  I  like  pale  or  dark,"  replied  she. 
"  But,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  Helen,  I  had  been  deluding  myself 
with  the  hope  that  you  would  one  day  be  my  sister.  I  ex- 
pected Walter  would  be  introduced  to  you  next  season  ;  and  I 
thought  you  would  like  him,  and  was  certain  he  would  like 
you ;  and  I  flattered  myself  I  should  tlms  have  the  felicity  of 
seeing  the  two  persons  I  like  best  in  the  world — except 
mamma — united  in  one.  He  mayn't  be  exactly  what  you 
would  call  handsome,  but  he's  far  more  distinguished-looking, 
and  nicer  and  better  than  Mr.  Huntingdon ; — and  I'm  sure 
you  would  say  so,  if  you  knew  him." 

"  Impossible,  Milicent !  You  think  so,  because  you're  his 
sister ;  and,  on  that  account,  I'll  forgive  you ;  but  nobody  else 
should  so  disparage  Arthur  Huntingdon  to  me,  with  im- 
punity." 

Miss  Wilmot  expressed  her  feelings  on  the  subject,  almost 


•  And  so,  Helen,"  said  she,  coming  up  to  me  with  a  smile 
of  no  amiable  import,  "  you  are  to  be  Mrs.  Huntingdon,  I  sup- 
pose?" 

"  Yes,"  replied  I.     "  Don't  you  envy  me  ?  " 

"  Oh,  dear,  no!"  she  exclaimed.  "I  shall  probably  be 
Lady  Lowborough  some  day,  and  then  you  know,  dear,  I  shall 
be  in  a  capacity  to  inquire,  '  Don't  you  envy  me  ? ' " 

"  Henceforth,  I  shall  envy  no  one,"  returned  I. 

"  Indeed !  Are  you  so  happy  then  ?  "  said  she  thoughtfully ; 
and  something  very  like  a  cloud  oi'  disappointment  shadowed 
her  face.  "  And  does  he  love  you — I  mean,  does  he  idolize 
you  as  much  as  you  do  him  ?  "  she  added,  fixing  her  eyes  upon 
me  with  ill-disguised  anxiety  for  the  reply. 

"  I  don't  want  to  be  idolized,"  I  answered,  "  but  I  am  well 
assured  that  he  loves  me  more  than  anybody  else  in  the  world 
— as  I  do  him." 

"  Exactly,"  said  she  with  a  nod.     *'  I  wish — "  she  paused. 

"What  do  you  wish?"  asked  I,  annoyed  at  the  vindictive 
expression  of  her  countenance. 

"  I  wish,"  returned  she,  with  a  short  laugh,  "  that  all  the 
attractive  points  and  desirable  qualifications  of  the  two  gentle- 
men were  united  in  one— that  Lord  Lowborough  had  Hunt- 
ingdon's handsome  face  and  good  temper,  and  all  his  wit,  and 
mirth  and  charm,  or  else  that  Huntingdon  had  Lowborough'a 
pedigree,  and  title,  and  delightful  old  family  seat,  and  I  had 
him ;  an  I  you  might  have  the  other  and  welcome." 


OF    WILDFKLL    MALI..  139 

"Thank  you,  dear  Annabella,  I  am  better  satisfied  with 
things  as  they  are,  for  my  own  part ;  and  for  you,  I  wish  you 
were  as  well  content  with  your  intended,  as  I  am  with  mine," 
said  I ;  and  it  was  true  enough  ;  for,  though  vexed  at  first  at 
her  unamiable  spirit,  her  frankness  touched  me,  and  the  con- 
trast between  our  situations  was  such,  that  I  could  well  afford 
to  pity  her  and  wish  her  well. 

Mr.  Huntingdon's  acquaintances  appear  to  be  no  better 
pleased  with  our  approaching  union  than  mine.  This  morn- 
ing's post  brought  him  letters  from  several  of  his  friends, 
during  the  perusal  of  which,  at  the  breakfast-table,  he  excited 
the  attention  of  the  company,  by  the  singular  variety  of  his 
grimaces.  But  he  crushed  them  all  into  his  pocket,  with  a 
private  laugh,  and  said  nothing  till  the  meal  was  concluded. 
Then,  while  the  company  were  hanging  over  the  fire  or  loiter- 
ing through  the  room,  previous  to  settling  to  their  various 
morning's  avocations,  he  came  and  leant  over  the  back  of  my 
chair,  with  his  lace  in  contact  with  my  curls,  and  commencing 
with  a  quiet  little  kiss,  poured  forth  the  following  complaints 
into  my  ear 

"  Helen,  you  witch,  do  you  know  that  you've  entailed  upon 
me  the  curses  of  all  my  friends  ?  I  wrote  to  them  the  other 
day,  to  tell  them  of  my  happy  prospects,  and  now,  instead  o( 
a  bundle  of  congratulations,  I've  got  a  pocket-full  of  bitter 
execrations  and  reproaches.  There's  not  one  kind  wish  for 
me,  or  one  good  word  for  you,  among  them  all.  They  say 
there'll  be  no  more  fun  now,  no  more  merry  days  and  glorious 
nights — and  all  my  fault — I  am  the  first  to  break  up  the  jovial 
band,  and  others,  in  pure  despair,  will  follow  my  example.  I 
was  the  very  life  and  prop  of  the  community,  they  do  me  the 
honour  to  say,  and  I  have  shamefully  betrayed  my  trust " 

"You  may  join  them  again,  if  you  like,"  said  I,  somewhat 
piqued  at  the  sorrowful  tone  of  his  discourse.  "  I  should  be 
sorry  to  stand  between  any  man — or  body  of  men,  and  so  much 
happiness ;  and  perhaps  I  can  manage  to  do  without  you,  as 
well  as  your  poor  deserted  friends." 

"  Bless  you ;  no,"  murmured  he.  "  It's  '  all  for  love  or  the 
world  well  lost,'  with  me.  Let  them  go  to — where  they  be- 
long, to  speak  politely.  But  if  you  saw  how  they  abuse  me, 
Helen,  you  would  love  me  all  the  more,  for  having  ventured 
BO  much  for  your  sake." 

He  pulled  out  his  crumpled  letters.  I  thought  he  was  going 
to  show  them  to  me,  and  told  him  I  did  not  wish  to  see  them. 

"  I'm  not  going  to  show  them  to  you,  love,"  said  he. 
"  They're  hardly  fit  for  a  lady's  eyes — the  most  part  of  them. 
But  look  here.  This  is  Grimsby's  scrawl— only  three  lines, 
the  sulky  dog  I  He  doesn't  say  much,  to  be  sure,  but  his  very 


140  THE  TENANT 

silence  implies  more  than  all  the  others'  words,  and  the  les& 
he  says,  the  more  he  thinks — and  this  is  Hargrave's  missive. 
He  is  particularly  grieved  at  me,  because,  forsooth,  he  had 
fallen  in  love  with  you  from  his  sister's  reports,  and  meant  to 
Lave  married  you  himself,  as  soon  as  he  had  sown  his  wild  oats." 

"  I'm  vastly  obliged  to  him,"  observed  I. 

"And  so  am  I,"  said  he.  "And  look  at  this.  This  is 
Hattersley's — every  page  stuffed  full  of  railing  accusations, 
bitter  curses,  and  lamentable  complaints,  ending  up  with 
swearing  that  he'll  get  married  himself  in  revenge :  he'll 
throw  himself  away  on  the  first  old  maid  that  chooses  to  set 
her  cap  at  him, — as  if  I  cared  what  he  did  with  himself." 

"  Well,"  said  I,  "  if  you  do  give  up  your  intimacy  with 
these  men,  I  don't  think  you  will  have  much  cause  to  regret 
the  loss  of  their  society ;  for  it's  my  belief  they  never  did 
you  much  good." 

"Maybe  not;  but  we'd  a  merry  time  of  it,  too,  though 
mingled  with  sorrow  and  pain,  as  Lowborough  knows  to  his 
cost — Ha,  ha!"  and  while  he  was  laughing  at  the  recollection 
of  Low  borough's  troubles,  my  uncle  came  and  slapped  him 
on  the  shoulder. 

"Come,  my  lad!"  said  he.  "  Are  you  too  busy  making 
love  to  my  niece,  to  make  war  with  the  pheasants  ! — First  of 
October  remember  ! — Sun  shines  out — rain  ceased — even 
Boarham's  not  afraid  to  venture  in  his  waterproof  boots  ;  and 
Wilmot  and  I  are  going  to  beat  you  all.  I  declare,  we  old 
'uns  are  »he  keenest  sportsmen  of  the  lot ! " 

"  I'll  show  you  what  I  can  do  to-day,  however,"  said  my 
companion.  "  I'll  murder  your  birds  by  wholesale,  just  for 
keeping  me  away  from  better  company  than  either  you  or 
them." 

And  so  saying  he  departed ;  and  I  saw  no  more  of  him  till 
dinner.  It  seemed  a  weary  time ;  I  wonder  what  I  shall  do 
without  him. 

It  is  very  true  that  the  three  elder  gentlemen  have  proved 
themselves  much  keener  sportsmen  than  the  two  younger  ones ; 
for  both  Lord  Lowborough  and  Arthur  Huntingdon  have  of 
late  almost  daily  neglected  the  shooting  excursions,  to  accom- 
pany us  in  our  various  rides  and  rambles.  But  these  merry 
times  are  fast  drawing  to  a  close.  In  less  than  a  fortnight  the 
party  break  up,  much  to  my  sorrow,  for  every  day  I  enjoy  it 
more  and  more — now  that  Messrs.  Boarham  and  Wilmot  have 
ceased  to  teaze  me,  and  my  aunt  has  ceased  to  lecture  me,  and 
I  have  ceased  to  be  jealous  of  Annabella — and  even  to  dislike 
her — and  now  that  Mr.  Huntingdon  is  become  my  Arthur,  and 
I  may  enjoy  his  society  without  restraint — What  shall  I  do 
without  him,  I  repeat? 


OF   WILDFELL  HALL.  141 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

OCTOBEK  5 th. — My  cup  of  sweets  is  not  unmingled :  it  is 
dashed  with  a  bitterness  that  I  cannot  hide  from  mj'self,  dis- 
guise it  as  I  will.  I  may  try  to  persuade  myself  that  the 
sweetness  overpowers  it ;  I  may  call  it  a  pleasant  aromatic 
flavour  ;  but  say  what  I  will,  it  is  still  there,  and  I  cannot  but 
taste  it.  I  cannot  shut  my  eyes  to  Arthur's  faults ;  and  the 
more  I  love  him  the  more  they  trouble  me.  His  very  heart, 
that  I  trusted  so,  is,  I  fear,  less  warm  and  generous  than  I 
thought  it.  At  least,  he  gave  me  a  specimen  of  his  character 
to-day,  that  seemed  to  merit  a  harder  name  than  thoughtless- 
ness. He  and  Lord  Lowborough  were  accompanying  Anna- 
bell  a  and  me  in  a  long,  delightful  ride  ;  he  was  riding  by  my 
side,  as  usual,  and  Annabella  and  Lord  Lowborough  were  a 
little  before  us,  the  latter  bending  towards  his  companion  as  if 
in  tender  and  confidential  discourse. 

"  Those  two  will  get  the  start  of  us,  Helen,  if  we  don't  look 
sharp,"  observed  Huntingdon.  "  They'll  make  a  match  of  it, 
as  sure  as  can  be.  That  Lowborough's  fairly  besotted.  But 
he'll  find  himself  in  a  fix  when  he's  got  her,  I  doubt." 

"  And  she'll  find  herself  in  a  fix  when  she's  got  him,"  said 
I,  "  if  what  I  have  heard  of  him  is  true." 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it.  She  knows  what  she's  about ;  but  he, 
poor  fool,  deludes  himself  with  the  notion  that  she'll  make  him 
a  good  wife,  and  because  she  has  amused  him  with  some  rodo- 
montade about  despising  rank  and  wealth  in  matters  of  love 
and  marriage,  he  flatters  himself  that  she's  devotedly  attached 
to  him  ;  that  she  will  not  refuse  him  for  his  poverty,  and  does 
not  court  him  for  his  rank,  but  loves  him  for  himself  alone." 

"  But  is  not  he  courting  her  for  her  fortune?" 

"  No,  not  he.  That  was  the  first  attraction,  certainly;  but  now 
he  has  quite  lost  sight  of  it:  it  never  enters  his  calculations, 
except  merely  as  an  essential  without  which,  for  the  lady's  own 
sake,  he  could  not  think  of  marrying  her.  No  ;  he's  fairly  in 
love.  He  thought  he  never  could  be  again,  but  he's  in  for  it 
once  more.  He  was  to  have  been  married  before,  some  two 
or  three  years  ago  ;  but  he  lost  his  bride  by  losing  his  fortune, 
lie  got  into  a  bad  way  among  us  in  London  :  he  had  an  unfor- 
tunate taste  for  gambling  ;  and  surely  the  fellow  was  born 
under  an  unlucky  star,  for  he  always  lost  thrice  where  he 
gained  once.  That's  a  mode  of  self-torment  I  never  was 
much  addicted  to.  AVhcn  I  spend  my  money  I  like  to  enjoy  the 
full  value  of  it :  I  see  no  fun  in  wasting  it  on  thieves  and  black- 


J42  THE  TKNANT 

legs ;  and  as  for  gaining  money,  hitherto  1  have  always  had 
sufficient ;  it's  time  enough  to  be  clutching  for  more,  I  think, 
when  you  begin  to  see  the  end  of  what  you  have.  But  I 
have  sometimes  frequented  the  gaming-houses  just  to  watch 
the  on-goings  of  those  mad  votaries  of  chance — a  very  in- 
teresting study,  I  assure  you,  Ellen,  and  sometimes  very 
diverting  :  I've  had  many  a  laugh  at  the  boobies  and  bedlam- 
ites. Lowborough  was  quite  infatuated — not  willingly,  but  of 
necessity, — he  was  always  resolving  to  give  it  up,  and  always 
breaking  his  resolutions.  Every  venture  was  the  'just  once 
more  :'  if  he  gained  a  little,  he  hoped  to  gain  a  little  more 
next  time,  and  if  he  lost,  it  would  not  do  to  leave  off  at  that 
juncture  ;  he  must  go  on  till  he  had  retrieved  that  last  mis- 
fortune, at  least :  bad  luck  could  not  last  for  ever  ;  and  every 
lucky  hit  was  looked  upon  as  the  dawn  of  better  times,  till 
experience  proved  the  contrary.  At  length  he  grew  desperate, 
and  we  were  daily  on  the  look  out  for  a  case  of  felo-de-se — 
no  great  matter,  some  of  us  whispered,  as  his  existence  had 
ceased  to  be  an  acquisition  to  our  club.  At  last,  however,  he 
came  to  a  check.  lie  made  a  large  stake  which  he  determined 
should  be  the  last,  whether  he  lost  or  won.  He  had  often  so 
determined  betore,  to  be  sure,  and  as  often  broken  his  deter- 
mination ;  and  so  it  was  this  time.  He  lost;  and  while  his 
antagonist  smilingly  swept  away  the  stakes,  he  turned  chalky 
white,  drew  back  in  silence,  and  wiped  his  forehead.  I  was 
present  at  the  time  ;  and  while  he  stood  with  folded  arms  and 
eyes  fixed  on  the  ground,  I  knew  well  enough  what  was  pass- 
ing in  his  mind. 

"  '  Is  it  to  be  the  last,  Lowborough  ? '  said  I,  stepping  up  to 
him. 

"  'The  last  but  one,'  he  answered,  with  a  grim  smile ;  and 
then,  rushing-  back  to  the  table,  he  struck  his  hand  upon  it, 
and,  raising  his  voice  high  above  all  the  confusion  of  jingling 
coins  and  muttered  oaths  and  curses  in  the  room,  he  swore  a 
deep  and  solemn  oath,  that,  come  what  would,  this  trial  should 
be  the  last,  and  imprecated  unspeakable  curses  on  his  head,  if 
ever  he  should  shuffle  a  card,  or  rattle  a  dice-box  again.  He 
then  doubled  his  former  stake,  and  challenged  any  one  pre- 
sent to  play  against  him.  Grimsby  instantly  presented  him- 
self. Lowborough  glared  fiercely  at  him,  for  Grimsby  was 
almost  as  celebrated  Tor  his  luck  as  he  was  for  his  ill-fortune. 
However,  they  fell  to  work.  But  Grimsby  had  much  skill 
and  little  scruple,  and  whether  he  took  advantage  of  the 
other's  trembling,  blinded  eagerness  to  deal  unfairly  by  him, 
I  cannot  undertake  to  say ;  but  Lowborough  lost  again,  and 
(ell  dead  sick. 


OK   WILDFKLL   HALL.  143 

" '  You'd  better  try  once  more,'  said  Grimsby,  leaning  across 
the  table.  And  then  he  winked  at  me. 

"  '  I've  nothing  to  try  with,'  said  the  poor  devil,  with  a 
ghastly  smile. 

44 '  Oh,  Huntingdon  will  lend  you  what  you  want,'  said  the 
other. 

"  '  No ;  you  heard  my  oath,'  answered  Lowborough,  turn- 
ing away  in  quiet  despair.  And  I  took  him  by  the  arm,  and 
led  him  out. 

'"Is  it  to  be  the  last,  Lowborough?'  I  asked,  when  I  got 
him  into  the  street. 

44  4  The  last,'  he  answered,  somewhat  against  my  expectation. 
And  I  took  him  home — that  is,  to  our  club — tor  he  was  as 
submissive  as  a  child,  and  plied  him  with  brandy-and-water 
till  he  began  to  look  rather  brighter — rather  more  alive,  at 
least. 

44  '  Huntingdon,  I'm  ruined  !'  said  he,  taking  the  third  glass 
from  my  hand — he  had  drunk  the  other  in  dead  silence. 

"  4Not  you!'  said  I.  4  You'll  find  a  man  can  live  without 
his  money  as  merrily  as  a  tortoise  without  its  head,  or  a  wasp 
without  its  body.' 

14  4  But  I'm  in  debt,'  said  he — 4  deep  in  debt  I  And  I  can 
never,  never  get  out  of  it!' 

44  '  Well,  what  of  that?  many  a  better  man  than  you  has; 
lived  and  died  in  debt,  and  they  can't  put  you  in  prison,  you 
know,  because  you're  a  peer.'  And  1  handed  him  his  fourth 
tumbler. 

44  4  But  I  hate  to  be  in  debt  1 '  he  shouted.  '  I  wasn't  born 
for  it,  and  I  cannot  bear  it ! ' 

44  4  What  can't  be  cured  must  be  endured,' said  I,  beginning 
to  mix  the  fifth. 

44  4  And  then,  I've  lost  my  Caroline.'  And  he  began  to 
snivel  then,  for  the  brandy  had  softened  his  heart. 

"  '  No  matter,'  I  answered, 4  there  are  more  Carolines  in  the 
world  than  one.' 

44 '  There's  only  one  for  me,'  he  replied,  with  a  dolorous 
sigh.  4And  if  there  were  fifty  more,  who's  to  get  them,  I 
wonder,  without  money  ? ' 

41 4  Oh,  somebody  will  take  you  for  your  title  ;  and  then 
you've  your  family  estate  yet ;  that's  entailed,  you  know.' 

411 1  wish  to  God  I  could  sell  it  to  pay  my  debts,'  he 
muttered. 

44  4  And  then,'  said  Grimsby,  who  had  just  come  in,  4  you 
can  try  again,  you  know.  I  would  have  more  than  one  chance, 
if  I  were  you.  I'd  never  stop  here.' 

44  4 1  won't,  I  tell  you !'  shouted  he.  And  he  started  up,  and 
left  the  room — walking  rather  unsteadily,  for  the  liquor 


Ul  THE   TENANT 

had  got  into  his  bead.  He  was  not  so  much  used  to  it  then, 
but  after  that,  he  took  to  it  kindly  to  solace  his  cares. 

u  He  kept  his  oath  about  gambling  (not  a  little  to  the  sur- 
prise of  us  all),  though  Grimsby  did  his  utmost  to  tempt  him 
to  break  it ;  but  now  he  had  got  hold  of  another  habit  that 
bothered  him  nearly  as  much,  for  he  soon  discovered  that  the 
demon  of  drink  was  as  black  as  the  demon  of  play,  and  nearly 
as  hard  to  get  rid  of — especially  as  his  kind  friends  did  all 
they  could  to  second  the  promptings  of  his  own  insatiable 
cravings. " 

"  Then,  they  were  demons  themselves,"  cried  I,  unable  to 
contain  my  indignation.  "And  you,  Mr.  Huntingdon,  it 
seems,  were  the  first  to  tempt  him." 

"  Well,  what  could  we  do  ?  "  replied  he,  deprecatingly. — 
"  We  meant  it  in  kindness — we  couldn't  bear  to  see  the  poor 
fellow  so  miserable: — and  besides,  he  was  such  a  damper 
upon  us,  sitting  there,  silent  and  glum,  when  he  was  under 
the  threefold  influence  of  the  loss  of  his  sweetheart,  the  loss 
of  his  fortune,  and  the  reaction  of  the  last  night's  debauch  ; 
whereas,  when  he  had  something  in  him,  if  he  was  not  merry 
himself,  he  was  an  unfailing  source  of  merriment  to  us. 
Even  Grimsby  could  chuckle  over  his  odd  sayings  :  they  de- 
lighted him  far  more  than  my  merry  jests,  or  Hattersley's 
riotous  mirth.  But,  one  evening,  when  we  were  sitting  over 
our  wine,  after  one  of  our  club  dinners,  and  all  had  been 
hearty  together, — Lowborough  giving  us  mad  toasts,  and  hear- 
ing our  wild  songs,  and  bearing  a  hand  in  the  applause,  if  he  did 
not  help  us  to  sing  them  himself, — he  suddenly  relapsed  into 
silence,  sinking  his  head  on  his  hand,  and  never  lifting  his 
glass  to  his  lips  ; — but  this  was  nothing  new  ;  so  we  let  him 
alone,  and  went  on  with  our  jollification,  till,  suddenly  raising 
his  head,  he  interrupted  us  in  the  middle  of  a  roar  of  laughter, 
by  exclaiming, — 

"  '  Gentlemen,  where  is  all  this  to  end  ?— Will  you  just  tell 
me  that  now? — Where  is  it  all  to  end  ? '  He  rose. 

"  '  A  speech,  a  speech !'  shouted  AVC.  '  Hear,  hear !  Low- 
borough's  going  to  give  us  a  speech  ! ' 

"He  waited  calmly  till  the  thunders  of  applause  and 
jingling  of  glasses  had  ceased,  and  then  proceeded, — 

"  '  It's  only  this,  gentlemen, — that  I  think  we'd  better  go 
no  further.  We'd  better  stop  while  we  can.7 

"  '  Just  so !'  cried  Hattersley— 


"Stop,  poor  sinner,  stop  and  think 

Before  you  further  go, 
No  longev  sport  upon  the  brink 
Of  everlasting  woo." 


OF   WTLDFELL  HALL.  145 

"  '  Exactly  !'  replied  his  lordship,  with  the  utmost  gravity. 
1  And  if  you  choose  to  visit  the  bottomless  pit,  I  won't  go  with 
you — we  must  part  company,  for  I  swear  I'll  not  move  another 
step  towards  it ! — What's  this  ? '  he  said,  taking  up  his  glass  of 
wine. 

"  '  Taste  it,'  suggested  I. 

"  'This  is  hell  broth!'  he  exclaimed.  'I  renounce  it  for 
ever !'  And  he  threw  it  out  into  the  middle  of  the  table. 

"  '  Fill  again !'  said  I,  handing  him  the  bottle — '  and  let  us 
drink  to  your  renunciation.' 

"  '  It's  rank  poison,'  said  he,  grasping  the  bottle  by  the  neck, 
4  and  I  forswear  it  1  I've  given  up  gambling,  and  I'll  give  up 
this  too.'  He  was  on  the  point  of  deliberately  pouring  the 
whole  contents  of  the  bottle  on  to  the  table,  but  Hargrave 
wrested  it  from  him.  '  On  you  be  the  curse,  then  !'  said  he. 
And,  backing  from  the  room,  he  shouted,  '  Farewell,  ye 
tempters !' and  vanished  amid  shouts  of  laughter  and  applause. 

"  We  expected  him  back  among  us  the  next  day ;  but,  to 
our  surprise,  the  place  remained  vacant :  we  saw  nothing  of 
him  for  a  whole  week  ;  and  we  really  began  to  think  he  was 
going  to  keep  his  word.  At  last,  one  evening,  when  we  were 
most  of  us  assembled  together  again,  he  entered,  silent  and 
grim  as  a  ghost,  and  would  have  quietly  slipped  into  his  usual 
seat  at  my  elbow,  but  we  all  rose  to  welcome  him,  and  seve- 
ral voices  were  raised  to  ask  what  he  would  have,  and  several 
hands  were  busy  with  bottle  and  glass  to  serve  him ;  but  I 
knew  a  smoking  tumbler  of  brandy  and  water  would  comfort 
him  best,  and  had  nearly  prepared  it,  when  he  peevishly 
pushed  it  away,  saying, — 

"  'Do  let  me  alone,  Huntingdon  !  Do  be  quiet,  all  of  you  ! 
I'm  not  come  to  join  you :  I'm  only  come  to  be  with  you 
awhile,  because  I  can't  bear  my  own  thoughts.'  And  he  folded 
his  arms,  and  leant  back  in  his  chair  ;  so  we  let  him  be.  But 
I  left  the  glass  by  him  ;  and,  after  a  while,  Grimsby  directed 
my  attention  towards  it,  by  a  significant  wink  ;  and,  on  turn- 
ing my  head,  I  saw  it  was  drained  to  the  bottom.  He  made 
me  a  sign  to  replenish,  and  quietly  pushed  up  the  bottle.  I 
willingly  complied ;  but  Lowborough  detected  the  pantomime, 
and,  nettled  at  the  intelligent  grins  that  were  passing  between 
us,  snatched  the  glass  from  my  hand,  dashed  the  contents  of 
it  in  Grimsby's  face,  threw  the  empty  tumbler  at  me,  and 
then  bolted  from  the  room." 

'I  hope  he  broke  your  head,"  said  I. 

"  No,  love,"  replied  he,  laughing  immoderately  at  the  re- 
collection of  the  whole  affair,  "  he  would  have  done  so, — and, 
perhaps,  spoilt  my  face,  too,  but,  providentially,  this  forest  of 
curls"  (taking  oil' his  hat,  and  showing  his  luxuriant  chestnut 


146  THE  TENANT 

locks)  "  saved  my  skull,  and  prevented  the  glass  from  break- 
ing, till  it  reached  the  table." 

"  After  that,"  he  continued,  "  Lowborough  kept  aloof  from 
us  a  week  or  two  longer.  I  used  to  meet  him  occasionally  in 
the  town ;  and  then,  as  I  was  too  good-natured  to  resent  his 
unmannerly  conduct,  and  he  bore  no  malice  against  me, — 
he  was  never  unwilling  to  talk  to  me  ;  on  the  contrary,  he 
would  cling  to  me,  and  follow  me  anywhere, — but  to  the  club, 
and  the  gaming-houses,  and  such  like  dangerous  places  of  re- 
sort— he  was  so  weary  of  his  own  moping,  melancholy  mind. 
At  last,  I  got  him  to  come  in  with  me  to  the  club,  on  condition 
that  I  would  not  tempt  him  to  drink  ;  and,  for  some  time,  he 
continued  to  look  in  upon  us  pretty  regularly  of  an  evening, — 
still  abstaining,  with  wonderful  perseverance,  from  the  '  rank 
poison'  he  had  so  bravely  forsworn.  But  some  of  our  mem- 
bers protested  against  this  conduct.  They  did  not  like  to  have 
him  sitting  there  like  a  skeleton  at  a  feast,  instead  of  contri- 
buting his  quota  to  the  general  amusement,  casting  a  cloud 
over  all,  and  watching,  with  greedy  eyes,  every  drop  they 
carried  to  their  lips — they  vowed  it  was  not  fair  ;  and  some  of 
them  maintained,  that  he  should  either  be  compelled  to  do  as 
others  did,  or  expelled  from  the  society  ;  and  swore  that,  next 
time  he  showed  himself,  they  would  tell  him  as  much,  and,  if 
he  did  not  take  the  warning,  proceed  to  active  measures. 
However,  I  befriended  him  on  this  occasion,  and  recommended 
them  to  let  him  be  for  a  while,  intimating  that,  with  a  little 
patience  on  our  parts,  he  would  soon  come  round  again.  But, 
to  be  sure,  it  was  rather  provoking  ;  for,  though  he  refused  to 
drink  like  an  honest  Christian,  it  was  well  known  to  me  that 
he  kept  a  private  bottle  of  laudanum  about  him,  which  he  was 
continually  soaking  at — or  rather,  holding  off  and  on  with, 
abstaining  one  day,  and  exceeding  the  next— just  like  the 
spirits. 

"One  night,  however,  during  one  of  our  orgies — one  of 
our  high  festivals,  I  mean — he  glided  in,  like  the  ghost  in 
Macbeth,  and  seated  himself,  as  usual,  a  little  back  from 
the  table,  in  the  chair  we  always  placed  for  '  the  spectre,' 
whether  it  chose  to  fill  it  or  not.  I  saw  by  his  face  that 
he  waa  suffering  from  the  effects  of  an  overdose  of  his  in- 
sidious comforter  ;  but  nobody  spoke  to  him,  and  he  spoke  to 
nobody.  A  few  sidelong  glances,  and  a  whispered  observa- 
tion, that '  tlie  ghost  was  come,'  was  all  the  notice  he  drew  by 
his  appearance,  and  we  went  on  with  our  merry  carousals  as 
before,  till  he  started  us  all,  by  suddenly  drawing  in  his  chair, 
and  leaning  forward  with  his  elbows  on  the  table,  and  exclaim- 
ing with  portentous  solemnity, — 

" '  Well !  it  puzzles  me  what  you  can  find  to  be  so  merry 


OK    WII.DFKLL    IJALI-.  147 

about.  What  you  see  in  life  I  don't  know — 1  see  only  the 
blackness  of  darkness,  and  a  fearful  looking  for  ol  judgment 
and  fiery  indignation ! ' 

"  All  the  company  simultaneously  pushed  up  their  glasses 
to  him,  and  I  set  them  before  him  in  a  semicircle,  and,  tenderly 
patting  him  on  the  back,  bid  him  drink,  and  he  would  soon  see 
as  bright  a  prospect  as  any  of  us  ;  but  he  pushed  them  back, 
muttering, — 

"  '  Take  them  away !  I  won't  taste  it,  I  tell  you.  I  won't — 
I  won't !'  So  I  handed  them  down  again  to  the  owners  ;  but 
I  saw  that  he  followed  them  with  a  glare  of  hungry  regret  as 
they  departed.  Then,  he  clasped  his  hands  before  his  eyes 
to  shut  out  the  sight,  and  two  minutes  after,  lifted  his  head 
again,  and  said,  in  a  hoarse  but  vehement  whisper, — 

"  '  And  yet  I  must !     Huntingdon,  get  me  a  glass ! ' 

"  '  Take  the  bottle,  man  ! '  said  I,  thrusting  the  brandy- 
bottle  int*  his  hand — but  stop,  I'm  telling  too  much,"  mut  • 
tered  the  narrator,  startled  at  the  look  I  turned  upon  him. 
""But  no  matter,"  he  recklessly  added,  and  thus  continued 
his  relation.  "  In  his  desperate  eagerness,  he  seized  the 
bottle  and  sucked  away,  till  he  suddenly  dropped  from  his 
chair,  disappearing  under  the  table  amid  a  tempest  of  ap- 
plause. The  consequence  of  this  imprudence  was  something 
like  an  apoplectic  fit,  followed  by  a  rather  severe  brain 
fever " 

"And  what  did  you  think  of  yourself,  sir?"  said  I, 
quickly. 

"  Of  course,  I  was  very  penitent,"  he  replied.  "  I  went 
to  see  him  once  or  twice — nay,  twice  or  thrice — or,  by*r  lady, 
some  four  times — and  when  he  got  better,  I  tenderly  brought 
him  back  to  the  fold." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"  I  mean,  I  restored  him  to  the  bosom  of  the  club,  and 
compassionating  the  feebleness  of  his  health  and  extreme 
lowness  of  his  spirits,  I  recommended  him  to  '  take  a  little 
wine  for  his  stomach's  sake,'  and,  when  he  was  sufficiently  re- 
established, to  embrace  the  media -via,  ni-jamais-ni-toujours 
plan — not  to  kill  himself  like  a  fool,  and  not  to  abstain  like  a 
ninny — in  a  word,  to  enjoy  himself  like  a  rational  creature, 
and  do  as  I  did  ;  for  don't  think,  Helen,  that  I'm  a  tippler ; 
I'm  nothing  at  all  of  the  kind,  and  never  was,  and  never  shall 
be.  I  value  my  comfort  far  too  much.  I  see  that  a  man  can- 
not give  himself  up  to  drinking  without  bein«  miserable  one 
half  his  days  and  mad  the  other  ;  besides,  I  like  to  enjoy  my 
life  at  all  aides  and  eitdS,  which  cannot  be  done  by  one  that 
suffers  himself  to  be  the  slave  of  a  single  propensity — and, 
moreover,  drinking  spoils  one's  good  looks,"  he  concluded 


148  THE   TENANT 

with  a  most  conceited  smile  that  ought  to  have  provoked  me 
more  than  it  did. 

"And  did  Lord  Lowborough  profit  by  your  advice?"  1 
asked. 

"  Why,  yes,  in  a  manner.  For  a  while,  he  managed  very 
well ;  indeed,  he  was  a  model  of  moderation  and  prudence — 
something  too  much  so  for  the  tastes  of  our  wild  community ; 
but,  somehow,  Lowborough  had  not  the  gift  of  moderation : 
if  he  stumbled  a  little  to  one  side,  he  must  go  down  before  he 
could  right  himself:  if  he  overshot  the  mark  one  night,  the 
effects  of  it  rendered  him  so  miserable  the  next  day  that  he 
must  repeat  the  offence  to  mend  it ;  and  so  on  from  day  to 
day,  till  his  clamorous  conscience  brought  him  to  a  stand. 
And  then,  in  his  sober  moments,  he  so  bothered  his  friends 
with  his  remorse,  and  his  terrors  and  woes,  that  they  were 
obliged,  in  self-defence,  to  get  him  to  drown  his  sorrows  in 
wine,  or  any  more  potent  beverage  that  came  to  hand ;  and 
when  his  first  scruples  of  conscience  were  overcome,  he 
would  need  no  more  persuading,  he  would  often  grow  despe- 
rate, and  be  as  great  a  blackguard  as  any  of  them  could 
desire — but  only  to  lament  his  own  unutterable  wickedness 
and  degradation  the  more  when  the  fit  was  over. 

"  At  last,  one  day  when  he  and  I  were  alone  together,  after 
pondering  awhile  in  one  of  his  gloomy,  abstracted  moods, 
with  his  arms  folded  and  his  head  sunk  on  his  breast,  he  sud- 
denly woke  up,  and  vehemently  grasping  my  arm,  said, — 

"  '  Huntingdon,  this  won't  do  !  I'm  resolved  to  have  done 
with  it.' 

u  '  What,  are  yon  going  to  shoot  yourself?'  said  I. 

"  '  No  ;  I'm  going  to  reform.' 

"  '  Oh,  that's  nothing  new !  You've  been  going  to  reform 
these  twelve  months  and  more.' 

"  'Yes,  but  you  wouldn't  let  r-.p  ;  and  I  was  such  a  fool  I 
couldn't  live  without  you.  BtT  'iow  I  see  what  it  is  that 
keeps  me  back,  and  what's  wantc.!  to  save  me  ;  and  I'd  com 
pass  sea  and  land  to  get  it — only  I'm  afraid  there's  no  chance. 
And  he  sighed  as  if  his  heart  would  break. 

"  'What  is  it,  Lowborough  ?'  said  I,  thinking  he  was  fairly 
cracked  at  last. 

"  '  A  wife,'  he  answered  ;  '  for  I  can't  live  alone,  because 
my  own  mind  distracts  me,  and  I  can't  live  with  you,  because 
you  take  the  devil's  part  against  me.' 

"'Who 1?' 

"  '  Yes — all  of  you  do — and  you  more  than  any  of  them, 
you  know.  But  if  I  could  get  a  wife,  with  fortune  enough  to 
pay  off  my  debts  and  set  me  straight  in  the  world ' 

"  'To  be  sure,'  said  I. 


OF  WILDFKLL   HALL.  149 

"'And  sweetness  and  goodness  enough,'  he  continued,  'to 
make  home  tolerable,  and  to  reconcile  me  to  myself,  I  think 
I  should  do,  yet.  I  shall  never  be  in  love  again  that's  cer- 
tain ;  but  perhaps  that  would  be  no  great  matter,  it  would 
enable  me  to  choose  with  my  eyes  open — and  I  should  make 
a  good  husband  in  spite  of  it ;  but  could  any  one  be  in  love 
with  me  ? — that's  the  question.  With  your  good  looks  and 
powers  of  fascination,'  (he  was  pleased  to  say,)  '  I  might 
hope  ;  but  as  it  is,  Huntingdon,  do  you  think  anybody  would 
take  me — ruined  and  wretched  as  I  am  ?' 

" '  Yes,  certainly.' 

"'Who?' 

;' '  Why,  any  neglected  old  maid,  fast  sinking  in  despair, 
would  be  delighted  to ' 

"  '  No,  no,'  said  he — '  it  must  be  somebody  that  I  can 
love.' 

kl '  Why,  you  just  said  you  never  could  be  in  love  again  !' 

"  'Well,  love  is  not  the  word — but  somebody  that  I  can 
like.  I'll  search  all  England  through,  at  all  events!'  he 
cried,  with  a  sudden  burst  of  hope,  or  desperation.  '  Succeed 
or  fail,  it  will  be  better  than  rushing  headlong  to  destruction 

at  that  d d  club  :  so  farewell  to  it  and  you.  Whenever  I 

meet  you  on  honest  ground  or  under  a  Christian  roof,  I  shall 
be  glad  to  see  you ;  but  never  more  shall  you  entice  me  to 
that  devil's  den!' 

"  This  was  shameful  language,  but  I  shook  hands  with  him, 
and  we  parted.  He  kept  his  word  ;  and  from  that  time  for- 
ward, he  has  been  a  pattern  of  propriety,  as  far  as  I  can  tell ; 
but,  till  lately,  I  have  not  had  very  much  to  do  with  him. 
He  occasionally  sought  my  company,  but  as  frequently 
shrunk  from  it,  fearing  lest  I  should  wile  him  back  to  destruc- 
tion, and  I  found  his  not  very  entertaining,  especially,  as  he 
sometimes  attempted  to  awaken  my  conscience  and  draw  me 
from  the  perdition  he  considered  himself  to  have  escaped  ; 
but  when  I  did  happen  to  meet  him,  I  seldom  failed  to  ask 
after  the  progress  of  his  matrimonial  efforts  and  researches, 
and,  in  general,  he  could  give  me  but  a  poor  account.  The 
mothers  were  repelled  by  his  empty  coffers  and  his  reputa- 
tion for  gambling,  and  the  daughters  by  his  cloudy  brow  and 
melancholy  temper — besides,  he  didn't  understand  them  ;  he 
wanted  the  spirit  and  assurance  to  carry  his  point. 

"I  left  him  at  it  when  I  went  to  the  continent ;  and  on  my 
return,  at  the  year's  end,  I  found  him  still  a  disconsolate 
bachelor — though,  certainly,  looking  somewhat  less  like  an 
unblest  exile  from  the  tomb  than  before.  The  young  ladiea 
had  ceased  to  be  afraid  of  him,  and  were  beginning  to  think 
him  quite  interesting  ;  but  the  mammas  were  still  unrelenting. 


160  THE   TKXANT 

It  was  about  this  time,  Helen,  that  my  good  angel  brought  me 
into  conjunction  with  you ;  and  then  I  had  eyes  and  ears  for 
nobody  else.  But,  meantime,  Lowborough  became  acquainted 
with  our  charming  friend,  Miss  Wilmot — through  the  inter- 
vention of  his  good  angel,  no  doubt  he  would  tell  you,  though 
he  did  not  dare  to  fix  his  hopes  on  one  so  courted  and  ad- 
mired, till  after  they  were  brought  into  closer  contact  here  at 
Staningley,  and  she,  in  the  absence  of  her  other  admirers,  in- 
dubitably courted  his  notice  and  held  out  every  encourage- 
ment to  his  timid  advances.  Then,  indeed,  he  began  to  hope 
for  a  dawn  of  brighter  days  ;  and  if,  for  a  while,  I  darkened 
his  prospects  by  standing  between  him  and  his  sun — and  so, 
nearly  plunged  him  again  into  the  abyss  of  despair — it  only 
intensified  his  ardour  and  strengthened  his  hopes  when  1 
chose  to  abandon  the  field  in  the  pursuit  of  a  brighter  trea- 
sure. In  a  word,  as  I  told  you,  he  is  fairly  besotted.  At  first, 
he  could  dimly  perceive  her  faults,  and  they  gave  him  con- 
siderable uneasiness ;  but  now  his  passion  and  her  art  to- 
gether have  blinded  him  to  everything  but  her  perfections 
and  his  amazing  good  fortune.  Last  night,  he  came  to  me 
brim-full  of  his  new-found  felicity : 

"  '  Huntingdon,  I  am  not  a  cast-away !'  said  he,  seizing  my 
hand  and  squeezing  it  like  a  vice.  '  There  is  happiness  in 
store  for  me,  yet — even  in  this  life — she  loves  me  ! ' 

"  '  Indeed  ! '  said  I.     '  Has  she  told  you  so  ?' 

"  '  No,  but  I  can  no  longer  doubt  it.  Do  you  not  see  how 
pointedly  kind  and  affectionate  she  is  ?  And  she  knows  the 
utmost  extent  of  my  poverty,  and  cares  nothing  about  it !  She 
knows  all  the  folly  and  all  the  wickedness  of  my  former  life, 
and  is  not  afraid  to  trust  me — and  my  rank  and  title  are  no 
allurements  to  her  ;  for  them  she  utterly  disregards.  She  is 
the  most  generous,  high-minded  being  that  can  be  conceived 
of.  She  will  save  me,  body  and  soul,  from  destruction.  Al- 
ready, she  has  ennobled  me  in  my  own  estimation,  and  made 
me  three  times  better,  wiser,  greater  than  I  was.  Oh !  if  I 
had  but  known  her  before,  how  much  degradation  and  misery 
I  should  have  been  spared  !  But  what  have  I  done  to  deserve 
so  magnificent  a  creature  ?' 

"  And  the  cream  of  the  jest,"  continued  Mr.  Huntingdon, 
laughing,  "  is,  that  the  artful  minx  loves  nothing  about  him 
but  his  title  and  pedigree,  and  'that  delightful  old  family 
seat.' " 

"  How  <lo  you  know  ?  "  said  I. 

"  She  told  me  so  herself;  she  said,  'as  for  the  man  himself, 
I  thoroughly  despise  him  ;  but  then,  I  suppose,  it  is  time  to 
he  making  my  choice,  and  if  I  waited  for  some  one  capable  of 
eliciting  my  esteem  and  affection,  I  should  have  to  pass  my 


OP   WILDFELL  HALL.  151 

life  in  single  blessedness,  for  I  detest  you  all ! '  Ha,  ha  I  I 
suspect  she  was  wrong  there  ;  but,  however,  it  is  evident  she 
has  no  love  for  him,  poor  fellow." 

"  Then  you  ought  to  tell  him  so." 

"  What !  and  spoil  all  her  plans  and  prospects,  poor  girl  ? 
No,  no  :  that  would  be  a  breach  of  confidence,  wouldn't  it, 
Helen  ?  Ha,  ha !  Besides,  it  would  break  his  heart."  And 
he  laughed  again. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Huntingdon,  I  don't  know  what  you  see  so 
amazingly  diverting  in  the  matter;  I  see  nothing  to  laugh 
at." 

"  I'm  laughing  at  you,  just  now,  love,"  said  he,  redoubling 
his  machinations. 

And  leaving  him  to  enjoy  his  merriment  alone,  I  touched 
Ruby  with  the  whip,  and  cantered  on  to  rejoin  our  com- 
panions ;  for  we  had  been  walking  our  horses  all  this  time, 
and  were  consequently  a  long  way  behind.  Arthur  was  soon 
at  my  side  again ;  but  not  disposed  to  talk  to  him,  I  broke 
into  a  gallop.  He  did  the  same  ;  and  we  did  not  slacken  our 
pace  till  we  came  up  with  Miss  Wilmot  and  Lord  Lowbo- 
rough,  which  was  within  half  a  mile  of  the  park  gates.  I 
avoided  all  further  conversation  with  him,  till  we  came  to  the 
end  of  our  ride,  when  I  meant  to  jump  off  my  horse  and 
vanish  into  the  house,  before  he  could  offer  his  assistance ; 
but  while  I  was  disengaging  my  habit  from  the  crutch,  he 
lifted  me  off,  and  held  me  by  both  hands,  asserting  that  he 
would  not  let  me  go  till  I  had  forgiven  him. 

"  I  have  nothing  to  forgive,"  said  I.  "  You  have  not  in- 
jured me." 

"No,  darling— God  forbid  that  I  should!  but  you  are 
angry,  because  it  was  to  me  that  Annabella  confessed  her  lack 
of  esteem  for  her  lover." 

"  No,  Arthur,  it  is  not  that  that  displeases  me :  it  is  the 
whole  system  of  your  conduct  towards  your  friend ;  and  if 
you  wish  me  to  forget  it,  go,  now,  and  tell  him  what  sort  of  a 
woman  it  is  that  he  adores  so  madly,  and  on  whom  he  has 
hung  his  hopes  of  future  happiness." 

44 1  tell  you,  Helen,  it  would  break  his  heart — it  would  be 
the  death  of  him — besides  being  a  scandalous  trick  to  poor 
Annabella.  There  is  no  help  for  him  now ;  he  is  past  pray- 
ing for.  Besides,  she  may  keep  up  the  deception  to  the  end 
of  the  chapter  ;  and  then  he  will  be  just  as  happy  in  the  illu- 
sion as  if  it  were  reality  ;  or  perhaps,  he  will  only  discover 
his  mistake  when  he  has  ceased  to  love  her  ;  and  if  not,  it  is 
much  better  that  the  truth  should  dawn  gradually  upon  him. 
So  now,  my  angel,  I  hope  I  have  made  out  a  clear  case,  and 
fully  convinced  you  that  I  cannot  make  the  atonement  you  re- 


152  THE  TENANT 

quire.  What  other  requisition  have  you  to  make?  Speak, 
and  I  will  gladly  obey." 

"  I  have  none  but  this,"  said  I,  as  gravely  as  before;  "  that, 
in  future,  you  will  never  make  a  jest  of  the  sufferings  of 
others,  and  always  use  your  influence  with  your  Iriends  for 
their  own  advantage  against  their  evil  propensities,  instead  of 
seconding  their  evil  propensities  against  themselves." 

"I  will  do  my  utmost,"  said  he,  "to  remember  and  perform 
the  injunctions  of  my  angel  monitress;"  and  after  kissing  both 
my  gloved  hands,  he  let  me  go. 

When  I  entered  my  room,  I  was  surprised  to  see  Annabella 
Wilmot  standing  before  my  toilet-table,  composedly  survey- 
ing her  features  in  the  glass,  with  one  hand  flirting  her  gold- 
mounted  whip,  and  the  other  holding  up  her  long  habit. 

"  She  certainly  is  a  magnificent  creature  !"  thought  I,  as  I 
beheld  that  tall,  finely-developed  figure,  and  the  reflection  of 
the  handsome  face  in  the  mirror  before  me,  with  the  glossy 
dark  hair,  slightly  and  not  ungracefully  disordered  by  the 
breezy  ride,  the  rich  brown  complexion  glowing  with  exercise, 
and  the  black  eyes  sparkling  with  unwonted  brilliance.  On 
perceiving  me,  she  turned  round,  exclaiming,  with  a  laugh 
that  savoured  more  of  malice  than  of  mirth, — 

"  Why,  Helen !  what  have  you  been  doing  so  long  ?  I 
came  to  tell  you  my  good  fortune,"  she  continued,  regardless 
of  Rachel's  presence.  "  Lord  Lowborough  has  proposed,  and 
I  have  been  graciously  pleased  to  accept  him.  Don't  you  envy 
me,  dear?" 

"No,  love,"  said  I — "or  him  either,"  I  mentally  added. 
"And  do  you  like  him,  Annabella?" 

"  Like  him  !  yes,  to  be  sure — over  head  and  ears  in  love  !" 

"  Well,  I  hope  you'll  make  him  a  good  wife." 

"  Thank  you,  my  dear  J  And  what  besides  do  you  hope  ?  " 
I  hope  you  will  both  love  each  other,  and  both  be 


Thanks  ;  and  I  hope  you  will  make  a  very  good  wife  to 
Mr.  Huntingdon!"  said  she,  with  a  queenly  bow,  and  re- 
tired. 

"  Oh,  miss  !   how  could  you  say  so  to  her  !"  cried  Rachel. 

"Say  what?"  replied  I. 

"  Why,  that  you  hoped  she  would  make  him  a  good  wife. 
I  never  heard  such  a  thing  I" 

"  Because,  I  do  hope  it  —  or  rather,  I  wish  it  —  she's  almost 
past  hope." 

"  Well  !"  said  she,  "  I'm  sure  I  hope  he'll  make  her  a  good 
husband.  They  tell  queer  things  about  him  down  stairs. 
They  were  saying  -  " 


I  know 


sayng  - 
,  Rachel.    I've  heard  all  about  him  ;  but  he's  re- 


OP   WJLDFELI,   HALL.  153 

formed  now.     And  they  have  no  business  to  tell  tales  about 
their  masters." 

"  No,  mum — or  else,  they  have  said  some  things  about  Mr. 
Huntingdon  too." 

"  I  won't  hear  them,  Rachel ;  they  tell  lies." 

"  Yes,  mum,"  said  she,  quietly,  as  she  went  on  arranging 
my  hair. 

"Do  you  believe  them,  Rachel?"  I  asked,  after  a  short 
pause. 

"  No,  miss,  not  all.  You  know  when  a  lot  of  servants  geta 
together  they  like  to  talk  about  their  betters  ;  and  some,  for  a 
bit  of  swagger,  likes  to  make  it  appear  as  though  they  knew 
more  than  they  do,  and  to  throw  out  hints  and  things  just  to 
astonish  the  others.  But  I  think  if  I  was  you,  Miss  Helen,  I'd 
look  very  well  before  I  leaped.  I  do  believe  a  young  lady 
can't  be  too  careful  who  she  marries." 

"  Of  course  not,"  said  I ;  "  but  be  quick,  will  you,  Rachel ; 
I  want  to  be  dressed." 

And,  indeed,  I  was  anxious  to  be  rid  of  the  good  woman, 
for  I  was  in  such  a  melancholy  frame  I  could  hardly  keep  the 
tears  out  of  my  eyes  while  she  dressed  me.  It  was  not  for 
Lord  Lowborough — it  was  not  for  Annabella — it  was  not 
4pr  myself — it  was  for  Arthur  Huntingdon  that  they  rose. 
^^^  *  *  #  *  #  * 

13th. — They  are  gone— and  he  is  gone.     We   are  to  be 

Earted  for  more  than  two  months — above  ten  weeks  !  a  long, 
jng  time  to  live  and  not  to  see  him.     But  he  has  promised 
to  write  often,    and  made  me  promise  to  write  still  oftener, 
because  he  will  be  busy  settling  his  affairs,  and  I  shall  have 
nothing  better  to  do.     Well,  I  think  I   shall  always  have 
plenty  to  say.     But  O  !  for  the  time  when  we  shall  be  always 
together,  and  can  exchange  our  thoughts  without  the  inter- 
vention of  these  cold  go-betweens,  pen,  ink,  and  paper ! 
#  *     "     #  *  *  * 

22nd. — I  have  had  several  letters  from  Arthur,  already. 
They  are  not  long,  but  passing  sweet,  and  just  like  himself — 
full  of  ardent  affection,  and  playful  lively  humour ;  but — 
there  is  always  a  '  but'  in  this  imperfect  world — and  I  do  wish 
he  would  sometimes  be  serious.  I  cannot  get  him  to  write  or 
speak  in  real,  solid  earnest.  I  don't  much  mind  it  now,  but 
if  it  be  always  so,  what  shall  I  do  with  the  serious  part  o£ 
myself  ? 


154  THE   TENANT 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

FEB.  18th,  1822. — Early  this  morning,  Arthur  mounted  his 

hunter  and  set  off  in  high  glee  to  meet  the hounds.  He 

will  be  away  all  day,  and  so  I  will  amuse  myself  with  my 
neglected  diary,  if  I  can  give  that  name  to  such  an  irregular 
composition.  It  is  exactly  four  months  since  I  opened  it  last 

I  am  married  now,  and  settled  down  as  Mrs.  Huntingdon 
of  Grassdale  Manor.  I  have  had  eight  weeks'  experience  of 
matrimony.  And  do  I  regret  the  step  I  have  taken?  No, 
though  I  must  confess,  in  my  secret  heart,  that  Arthur  is 
not  what  I  thought  him  at  first,  and  if  I  had  known  him  in 
the  beginning  as  thoroughly  as  I  do  now,  I  probably  never 
should  have  loved  him,  and  if  I  loved  him  first,  and  then 
made  the  discovery,  I  fear  I  should  have  thought  it  my 
duty  not  to  have  married  him.  To  be  sure  I  might  have 
known  him,  for  every  one  was  willing  enough  to  tell  me  about 
him,  and  he  himself  was  no  accomplished  hypocrite,  but  I 
was  wilfully  blind,  and  now,  instead  of  regretting  that  I  did 
not  discern  his  full  character  before  I  was  indissolubly  bound 
to  him,  I  am  glad,  for  it  has  saved  me  a  great  deal  of  battling 
with  my  conscience,  and  a  great  deal  of  consequent  trouble 
and  pain ;  and,  whatever  I  ought  to  have  done,  my  duty  now 
is  plainly  to  love  him  and  to  cleave  to  him,  and  this  just  tal- 
lies with  my  inclination. 

He  is  very  fond  of  me— almost  too  fond.  I  could  do  with 
less  caressing  and  more  rationality.  I  should  like  to  be  less 
of  a  pet  and  more  of  a  friend  if  I  might  choose,  but  I  won't 
complain  of  that :  I  am  only  afraid  his  affection  loses  in  depth 
where  it  gains  in  ardour.  I  sometimes  liken  it  to  a,  fire  of 
dry  twigs  and  branches  compared  with  one  of  solid  coal — 
very  bright  and  hot ;  but  if  it  should  burn  itself  out  and  leave 
nothing  but  ashes  behind,  what  shall  I  do  ?  But  it  won't — it 
shan't,  I  am  determined — and  surely  I  have  power  to  keep  it 
alive.  So  let  me  dismiss  that  thought  at  once.  But  Arthur 
is  selfish ;  I  am  constrained  to  acknowledge  that ;  and,  in- 
deed, the  admission  gives  me  less  pain  than  might  be  ex- 
pected, for,  since  I  love  him  so  much,  I  can  easily  forgive 
him  for  loving  himself:  he  likes  to  be  pleased,  and  it  is  my 
delight  to  please  him,  and  when  I  regret  this  tendency  of  hia 
it  is  for  his  own  sake  not  for  mine. 

The  first  instance  he  gave  was  on  the  occasion  of  our  bridal 
tour.  He  wanted  to  hurry  it  over,  for  all  the  continental 
scenes  were  already  familiar  to  him :  many  had  lost  their 
interest  in  his  eyes,  and  others  had  never  had  anything  to 


OF   WILDFKIL   HALL.  155 

lose.  The  consequence  was,  that  after  a  flying  transit,  through 
part  of  France  and  part  of  Italy,  I  came  back  nearly  as  igno- 
rant as  I  went,  having  made  no  acquaintance  with  persons 
and  manners,  and  very  little  with  things,  my  head  swarming 
with  a  motley  confusion  of  objects  and  scenes — some,  it  is 
true,  leaving  a  deeper  and  more  pleasing  impression  than 
others,  but  these  embittered  by  the  recollection  that  my  emo- 
tions had  not  been  shared  by  my  companion,  but  that,  on 
the  contrary,  when  I  had  expressed  a  particular  interest  in 
anything  that  I  saw  or  desired  to  see,  it  had  been  displeasing 
to  him,  inasmuch  as  it  proved  that  I  could  take  delight  in 
anything  disconnected  with  himself. 

As  for  Paris,  we  only  just  touched  at  that,  and  he  would  not 
give  me  time  to  see  one-tenth  of  the  beauties  and  interesting 
objects  of  Rome.  He  wanted  to  get  me  home,  he  said,  to 
have  me  all  to  himself,  and  to  see  me  safely  installed  as  the 
mistress  of  Grassdale  Manor,  just  as  single-minded,  as  na'ive, 
and  piquant  as  I  was  ;  and,  as  if  I  had  been  some  frail  but- 
terfly, he  expressed  himself  fearful  of  rubbing  the  silver  off 
my  wings  by  bringing  me  into  contact  with  society,  especially 
that  of  Paris  and  Rome  ;  and,  moreover,  he  did  not  scruple 
to  tell  me  that  there  were  ladies  in  both  places  that  would 
tear  his  eyes  out  if  they  happened  to  meet  him  with  me. 

Of  course  I  was  vexed  at  all  this  ;  but,  still,  it  was  less  the 
disappointment  to  myself  that  annoyed  me,  than  the  disap- 
pointment in  him,  and  the  trouble  I  was  at  to  frame  excuses 
to  my  friends  for  having  seen  and  observed  so  little,  without 
imputing  one  particle  of  blame  to  my  companion.  But  when 
we  got  home — to  my  new,  delightful  home — I  was  so  happy 
and  he  was  so  kind  that  I  freely  forgave  him  all ;  and  I  was 
beginning  to  think  my  lot  too  happy,  and  my  husband  ac- 
tually too  good  for  me,  if  not  too  good  for  this  world,  when, 
on  the  second  Sunday  after  our  arrival,  he  shocked  and  hor- 
rified me  by  another  instance  of  his  unreasonable  exaction. 
We  were  walking  home  from  the  morning  service,  for  it  was 
a  fine  frosty  day,  and,  as  we  are  so  near  the  church,  I  had 
requested  the  carriage  should  not  be  used. 

"  Helen,"  said  he,  with  unusual  gravity,  "  I  am  not  quite 
satisfied  with  you." 

I  desired  to  know  what  was  wrong. 

"  But  will  you  promise  to  reform  if  I  tell  you  ?" 

"  Yes,  if  I  can,  and  without  offending  a  higher  au- 
thority." 

"  Ah  !  there  it  is,  you  see,  you  don't  love  me  with  all  your 
heart." 

u  I  don't  understand  you,  Arthur  (at  least  I  hope  I  don't  V 
pray  tell  me  what  I  have  done  or  said  amiss?" 


156  THE  TENANT 

"  It  is  nothiug  you  have  done  or  said  ;  it  is  something  that 
you  are — you  are  too  religious.  Now  I  like  a  woman  to  be 
religious,  and  I  think  your  piety  one  of  your  greatest  charms, 
but  then,  like  all  other  good  things,  may  be  carried  too  far. 
To  my  thinking,  a  woman's  religion  ought  not  to  lessen  her 
devotion  to  her  earthly  lord.  She  should  have  enough  to 
purity  and  etherealize  her  soul,  but  not  enough  to  refine  away 
her  heart,  and  raise  her  above  all  human  sympathies." 

"  And  am  I  above  all  human  sympathies  ?"  said  I. 

"  No,  darling  ;  but  you  are  making  more  progress  towards 
that  saintly  condition  than  I  like ;  for  all  these  two  hours  I 
have  been  thinking  of  you  and  wanting  to  catch  your  eye, 
and  you  were  so  absorbed  in  your  devotions  that  you  had  not 
even  a  glance  to  spare  for  me — I  declare  it  is  enough  to 
make  one  jealous  of  one's  Maker — which  is  very  wrong,  you 
know ;  so  don't  excite  such  wicked  passions  again  for  my 
soul's  sake." 

"  I  will  give  my  while  heart  and  soul  to  my  Maker  if  I 
can,"  I  answered,  "  and  not  on«  atom  more  of  it  to  you  than 
he  allows.  What  are  you,  sir,  that  you  should  set  yourself 
up  as  a  god,  and  presume  to  dispute  possession  of  my  heart 
with  Him  to  whom  I  owe  all  I  have  and  all  I  am,  every  bless- 
ing I  ever  did  or  ever  can  enjoy — and  yourself  among  the 
rest — if  you  are  a  blessing,  which  I  am  half  inclined  to 
doubt." 

"  Don't  be  so  hard  upon  me,  Helen ;  and  don't  pinch  my 
arm  so,  you're  squeezing  your  fingers  into  the  bone." 

"  Arthur,"  continued  I,  relaxing  my  hold  of  his  arm,  "  you 
don't  love  me  half  as  much  as  I  do  you ;  and  yet,  if  you 
loved  me  far  less  than  you  do  I  would  not  complain,  provided 
you  loved  your  Maker  more.  I  should  rejoice  to  see  you  at 
any  time  so  deeply  absorbed  in  your  devotions  that  you  had 
not  a  single  thought  to  spare  for  me.  But,  indeed,  I  should 
lose  nothing  by  the  change,  for  the  more  you  loved  your  God 
the  more  deep  and  pure  and  true  would  be  your  love 
to  me." 

At  this  he  only  laughed  and  kissed  my  hand,  calling  me  a 
sweet  enthusiast.  Then  taking  off  his  hat,  he  added, — 

"  But  look  here,  Helen — what  can  a  man  do  with  such  a 
head  as  this  ?  " 

The  head  looked  right  enough,  but  when  he  placed  my 
hand  on  the  top  of  it,  it  sunk  in  a  bed  of  curls,  rather  alarm- 
ingly low,  especially  in  the  middle. 

"  You  see  1  was  not  made  to  be  a  saint,"  said  he,  laughing. 
"  If  God  meant  me  to  be  religious,  why  didn't  he  give  me  a 
proper  organ  of  veneration  V  " 

"  You  are  like  the  servant,"  I  replied,  "  who,  instead  of 


O*-  WILDFKLL  HALL.  157 

employing  his  one  talent  in  his  master's  service,  restored  it 
to  him  unimproved,  alleging,  as  an  excuse,  that  he  knew  him 
'  to  be  a  hard  man,  reaping  where  he  had  not  sown,  and  ga- 
thering where  he  had  not  strawed.'  Of  him  to  whom  less  is 
given,  less  will  be  required,  but  our  utmost  exertions  are  re- 
quired of  us  all.  You  are  not  without  the  capacity  of  vene- 
ration, and  faith  and  hope,  and  conscience  and  reason,  and 
every  other  requisite  to  a  Christian's  character  if  you  choose 
to  employ  them ;  but  all  our  talents  increase  in  the  using, 
and  every  faculty,  both  good  and  bad,  strengthens  by  exer- 
cise :  therefore,  if  you  choose  to  use  the  bad,  or  those  which 
tend  to  evil  till  they  become  your  masters,  and  neglect  the 
good  till  they  dwindle  away,  you  have  only  yourself  to  blame. 
But  you  have  talents,  Arthur,  natural  endowments  both  oi 
heart  and  mind  and  temper,  such  as  many  a  better  Christian 
would  be  glad  to  possess,  if  you  would  only  employ  them  in 
God's  service.  I  should  never  expect  to  see  you  a  devotee, 
but  it  is  quite  possible  to  be  a  good  Christian  without  ceasing 
to  be  a  happy,  merry-hearted  man." 

"  You  speak  like  an  oracle,  Helen,  and  all  you  say  is  indis- 
putably true  ;  but  listen  here  :  I  am  hungry,  and  I  see  before 
me  a  good  substantial  dinner ;  I  am  told  that  if  I  abstain  from 
this  to-day  I  shall  have  a  sumptuous  feast  to-morrow,  consist- 
ing of  all  manner  of  dainties  and  delicacies.  Now  in  the 
first  place,  I  should  be  loath  to  wait  till  to-morrow  when  I 
have  the  means  of  appeasing  my  hunger  already  before  me  ; 
in  the  second  place,  the  solid  viands  of  to-day  are  more  to  my 
taste  than  the  dainties  that  are  promised  me  ;  in  the  third 
place,  I  don't  see  to-morrow's  banquet,  and  how  can  I  tell 
that  it  is  not  all  a  fable,  got  up  by  the  greasy-faced  fellow  that 
is  advising  me  to  abstain  in  order  that  he  may  have  all  the 
good  victuals  to  himself?  in  the  fourth  place,  this  table  must 
be  spread  for  somebody,  and,  as  Solomon  says,  '  Who  can  eat, 
or  who  else  can  hasten  hereunto  more  than  I  ?'  and  finally, 
with  your  leave,  I'll  sit  down  and  satisfy  my  cravings  of  to- 
day, and  leave  to-morrow  to  shift  for  itself — who  knows  but 
what  I  may  secure  both  this  and  that  ?  " 

"  But  you  are  not  required  to  abstain  from  the  substantial 
dinner  of  to-day :  you  are  only  advised  to  partake  of  these 
coarser  viands  in  such  moderation  as  not  to  incapacitate  you 
from  enjoying  the  choicer  banquet  of  to-morrow.  If,  regard- 
less of  that  counsel,  you  choose  to  make  a  beast  of  yourself 
now,  and  over-eat  and  over-drink  yourself  till  you  turn  the 
good  victuals  into  poison,  who  is  to  blame  if,  hereafter,  while 
you  are  suifering  the  torments  of  yesterday's  gluttony  and 
drunkenness,  you  see  more  temperate  men  sitting  down  to 


158  THE   TENANT 

enjoy  themselves  at  that  splendid  entertainment  which  you  are 
unable  to  taste  ?" 

"Most  true,  my  patron  saint;  but  again,  our  friend  Solo- 
mon says,  '  There  is  nothing  better  for  a  man  than  to  eat  and 
to  drink,  and  to  be  merry.' " 

"And  again,"  returned  I,  "he  says,  'Rejoice,  O  young 
man,  in  thy  youth  ;  and  walk  in  the  ways  of  thine  heart,  and 
in  the  sight  of  thine  eyes :  but  know  them,  that  for  all  these 
things,  God  will  bring  thee  into  judgment.'  " 

"  Well  but,  Helen,  I'm  sure  I've  been  very  good  these  last 
few  weeks.  What  have  you  seen  amiss  in  me,  and  what 
would  you  have  me  to  do  ?  " 

"  Nothing  more  than  you  do,  Arthur :  your  actions  are  all 
right  so  far ;  but  J  would  have  your  thoughts  changed ;  I 
would  have  you  to  fortify  yourself  against  temptation,  and 
not  to  call  evil  good,  and  good  evil ;  I  should  wish  you  to 
think  more  deeply,  to  look  further,  and  aim  higher  than 
you  do." 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

MARCH  25th. — Arthur  is  getting  tired — not  of  me,  I  trust,  but 
of  the  idle,  quiet  life  he  leads — and  no  wonder,  for  he  has 
so  few  sources  of  amusement :  he  never  reads  anything  but 
newspapers  and  sporting  magazines ;  and  when  he  sees  me 
occupied  with  a  book  he  won't  let  me  rest  till  I  close  it.  In 
fine  weather  he  generally  manages  to  get  through  the  time 
pretty  well,  but  on  rainy  days,  of  which  we  have  had  a  good 
many  of  late,  it  is  quite  painful  to  witness  his  ennui.  I  do  all 
I  can  to  amuse  him,  but  it  is  impossible  to  get  him  to  feel  inte- 
rested in  what  I  mgst  like  to  talk  about,  while,  on  the  other 
hand,  he  likes  to  talk  about  things  that  cannot  interest 
me — or  even  that  annoy  me — and  these  please  him  the 
most  of  all ;  for  his  favourite  amusement  is  to  sit  or  loll 
beside  me  on  the  sofa,  and  tell  me  stories  of  his  former 
amours,  always  turning  upon  the  ruin  of  some  confiding  girl 
or  the  cozening  of  some  unsuspecting  husband ;  and  when  I 
express  my  horror  and  indignation  he  lays  it  all  to  the  charge 
of  jealousy,  and  laughs  till  the  tears  run  down  his  cheeks.  I 
used  to  fly  into  passions  or  melt  into  tears  at  first,  but  seeing 
that  his  delight  increased  in  proportion  to  my  anger  and  agita- 
tion, I  have  since  endeavoured  to  suppress  my  feelings  and 
receive  his  revelations  in  the  silence  of  calm  contempt ;  but 
still  he  reads  the  inward  struggle  in  my  face,  and  miscon- 
atruea  my  bitterness  of  soul  for  his  unworthiness  into  the 
pangs  of  wounded  jealousy ;  and  when  he  has  sufficiently  di- 


OF   WILDFELL   HALL.  159 

verted  himself  with  that,  or  fears  my  displeasure  will  become 
too  serious  for  his  comfort,  he  tries  to  kiss  and  soothe  me  into 
smiles  again — never  were  his  caresses  so  little  welcome  aa 
then !  This  is  double  selfishness  displayed  to  me  and  to  the 
victims  of  his  former  love.  There  are  times  when,  with  a 
momentary  pang — a  flash  of  wild  dismay,  I  ask  myself, 
"Helen,  what  have  you  done?"  But  I  rebuke  the  inward 
questioner,  and  repel  the  obtrusive  thoughts  that  crowd  upon 
me  ;  for  were  he  ten  times  as  sensual  and  impenetrable  to 
good  and  lofty  thoughts,  I  well  know  I  have  no  right  to  com- 
plain. And  I  don't  and  won't  complain.  I  do  and  will  love 
him  still ;  and  I  do  not  and  will  not  regret  that  I  have  linked 
my  fate  with  his. 

April  4th. — We  have  had  a  downright  quarrel.  The  parti- 
culars are  as  follows : — Arthur  had  told  me,  at  different  inter- 
vals, the  whole  story  of  his  intrigue  with  Lady  F ,  which 

I  would  not  believe  before.  It  was  some  consolation,  how- 
ever, to  find  that  in  this  instance  the  lady  had  been  more  to 
blame  than  he,  for  he  was  very  young  at  the  time,  and  she  had 
decidedly  made  the  first  advances,  if  what  he  said  was  true.  I 
hated  her  for  it,  for  it  seemed  as  if  she  had  chiefly  contributed 
to  his  corruption,  and  when  he  was  beginning  to  talk  about 
her  the  other  day,  I  begged  he  would  not  mention  her,  for  I 
detested  the  very  sound  of  her  name. 

"  Not  because  you  loved  her,  Arthur,  mind,  but  because 
she  injured  you  and  deceived  her  husband,  and  was  altogether 
a  very  abominable  woman,  whom  you  ought  to  be  ashamed 
to  mention." 

But  he  defended  her  by  saying  that  she  had  a  doting  old 
husband,  Avhom  it  was  impossible  to  love. 

"  Then  why  did  she  marry  him?"  said  I. 

"For  his  money,"  was  the  reply. 

"  Then  that  was  another  crime,  and  her  solemn  promise  to 
love  and  honour  him  was  another,  that  only  increased  the 
enormity  of  the  last." 

"  You  are  too  severe  upon  the  poor  lady,"  laughed  he. 
"  But  never  mind,  Helen,  I  don't  care  for  her  now ;  and  I 
never  loved  any  of  them  half  as  much  as  I  do  you,  so  you 
needn't  fear  to  be  forsaken  like  them." 

u  If  you  had  told  me  these  things  before,  Arthur,  I  never 
should  have  given  you  the  chance." 

"  Wouldn't  you,  my  darling?" 

"  Most  certainly  not ! " 

He  laughed  incredulously. 

"  I  wish  I  could  convince  you  of  it  now !"  cried  I,  starting 
np  from  beside  him  ;  and  for  the  first  time  in  my  life,  and  I 
hope  the  last,  I  wished  I  had  not  married  him. 


180  THE   TENANT 

**  Helen,"  said  he,  more  gravely,  u  do  you  know  that  it  I 
believed  you  now  1  should  be  very  angry  ?  but  thank  Heaven 
I  don't.  Though  you  stand  there  with  your  white  face  and 
flashing  eyes,  looking  at  me  like  a  very  tigress,  I  know  the 
heart  within  you  perhaps  a  trifle  better  than  you  know  it 
yourself." 

Without  another  word  I  left  the  room  and  locked  myself  up 
in  my  own  chamber.  In  about  half  an  hour  he  came  to  the 
door,  and  first  he  tried  the  handle,  then  he  knocked. 

"  Won't  you  let  me  in,  Helen  ?"  said  he. 

"No;  you  have  displeased  me,"  I  replied,  "and  I  don't 
want  to  see  your  face  or  hear  your  voice  again  till  the 
morning." 

He  paused  a  moment  as  if  dumbfoundered  or  uncertain 
how  to  answer  such  a  speech,  and  then  turned  and  walked 
away.  This  was  only  an  hour  after  dinner  :  I  knew  he  would 
find  it  very  dull  to  sit  alone  all  the  evening  ;  and  this  consi- 
derably softened  my  resentment  though  it  did  not  make  me 
relent.  I  was  determined  to  show  him  that  my  heart  was  not 
his  slave,  and  I  could  live  without  him  if  I  chose  ;  and  I  sat 
down  and  wrote  a  long  letter  to  my  aunt — of  course  telling 
her  nothing  of  all  this.  Soon  after  ten  o'clock  I  heard 
him  come  up  again,  but  he  passed  my  door  and  went  straight 
to  his  own  dressing-room,  where  he  shut  himself  in  for  the 
night. 

I  was  rather  anxious  to  see  how  he  would  meet  me  in  the 
morning,  and  not  a  little  disappointed  to  behold  him  enter  the 
breakfast-room  with  a  careless  smile. 

"Are  you  cross  still,  Helen?"  said  he,  approaching  as  if 
to  salute  me.  I  coldly  turned  to  the  table,  and  began  to  pour 
out  the  coffee,  observing  that  he  was  rather  late. 

He  uttered  a  low  whistle  and  sauntered  away  to  the  win- 
dow, where  he  stood  for  some  minutes  looking  out  upon  the 
pleasing  prospect  of  sullen,  grey  clouds,  streaming  rain,  soak- 
ing lawn,  and  dripping,  leafless  trees,  and  muttering  execra- 
tions on  the  weather,  and  then  sat  down  to  breakfast.  While 
taking  his  coffee  he  muttered  it  was  "  d — d  cold." 

"  You  should  not  have  left  it  so  long,"  said  I. 

He  made  no  answer,  and  the  meal  was  concluded  in  si- 
lence. It  was  a  relief  to  both  when  the  letter-bag  was 
brought  in.  It  contained  upon  examination  a  newspaper  and 
one  or  two  letters  for  him,  and  a  couple  of  letters  for  me, 
which  he  tossed  across  the  table  without  a  remark.  One  was 
from  my  brother,  the  other  from  Milicent  Hargrave,  who  is 
now  in  London  with  her  mother.  His,  I  think,  were  business 
letters,  and  apparently  not  much  to  his  mind,  for  he  crushed 
them  into  his  pocket  with  some  mutt;red  expletives  that  I 


OF   WILDFKLL  HALL.  161 

should  have  reproved  him  for  at  any  other  time.  The  paper, 
he  set  before  him,  and  pretended  to  be  deeply  absorbed  in  its 
contents  during  the  remainder  of  breakfast,  and  a  consider- 
able time  after. 


bed-time  I  read.  Meanwhile,  poor  Arthur  was  sadly  at  a  loss 
for  something  to  amuse  him  or  to  occupy  his  time.  He  wanted 
to  appear  as  busy  and  as  unconcerned  as  I  did :  had  the 
weather  at  all  permitted  he  would  doubtless  have  ordered 
his  horse  and  set  off  to  some  distant  region — no  matter  where 
— immediately  after  breakfast,  and  not  returned  till  night : 
had  there  been  a  lady  anywhere  within  reach,  of  any  age 
between  fifteen  and  forty-five,  he  would  have  sought  revenge 
and  found  employment  in  getting  up,  or  trying  to  get  up,  a 
desperate  flirtation  with  her ;  but  being,  to  my  private  satis- 
faction, entirely  cut  off  from  both  these  sources  of  diversion, 
his  sufferings  were  truly  deplorable.  When  he  had  done 
yawning  over  his  paper  and  scribbling  short  answers  to  his 
shorter  letters,  he  spent  the  remainder  of  the  morning  and  the 
whole  of  the  afternoon  in  fidgeting  about  from  room  to  room, 
watching  the  clouds,  cursing  the  rain,  alternately  petting  and 
teazing  and  abusing  his  dogs,  sometimes  lounging  on  the  sofa 
with  a  book  that  he  could  not  force  himself  to  read,  and  very 
often  fixedly  gazing  at  me  when  he  thought  I  did  not  perceive 
it,  with  the  vain  hope  of  detecting  some  traces  of  tears,  or 
some  tokens  of  remorseful  anguish  in  my  face.  But  I  ma- 
naged to  preserve  an  undisturbed  though  grave  serenity 
throughout  the  day.  I  was  not  really  angry  :  I  felt  for  him 
all  the  time,  and  longed  to  be  reconciled ;  but  I  determined 
he  should  make  the  first  advances,  or  at  least  show  some  signs 
of  an  humble  and  contrite  spirit  first ;  for,  if  I  began,  it  would 
only  minister  to  his  self-conceit,  increase  his  arrogance,  and 
quite  destroy  the  lesson  1  wanted  to  give  him. 

He  made  a  long  stay  in  the  dining-room  after  dinner,  and,  I 
fear,  took  an  unusual  quantity  of  wine,  but  not  enough  to 
loosen  his  tongue,  for  when  be  came  in  and  found  me  quietly 
occupied  with  my  book,  too  busy  to  lift  my  head  on  his  en- 
trance, he  merely  murmured  an  expression  of  suppressed  dis- 
approbation, and,  shutting  the  door  with  a  bang,  went  and 
stretched  himself  at  full  length  on  the  sofa,  and  composed  him- 
self to  sleep.  But  his  favourite  cocker,  Dash,  that  had  been 
lying  at  my  feet,  took  the  liberty  of  jumping  upon  him  and 
beginning  to  lick  his  face.  He  struck  it  off  with  a  smart 
blow,  and  the  poor  dog  squeaked,  and  ran  cowering  back  to 
pie.  When  he  woke  up,  about  half  an  hour  after,  he  called  it 


162  THE  TENANT 

to  him  again,  but  Dash  only  looked  sheepish  and  wagged  the 
tip  of  his  tail.  He  called  again  more  sharply,  but  Dash  only 
clung  the  closer  to  me,  and  licked  my  hand  as  if  imploring 
protection.  Enraged  at  this,  his  master  snatched  up  a  heavy 
book  and  hurled  it  at  his  head.  The  poor  dog  set  up  a 
piteous  outcry  and  ran  to  the  door.  I  let  him  out,  and  then 
quietly  took  up  the  hook. 

"  Give  that  book  to  me,"  said  Arthur,  hi  no  very  courteous 
tone.  I  gave  it  to  him. 

"Why  did  you  let  the  dog  out ?"  he  asked.  ""  You  knew 
I  wanted  him." 

"By  what  token?"!  replied;  "by  your  throwing  the 
book  at  him  ?  but,  perhaps,  it  was  intended  for  me  ?" 

"  No  ;  but  I  see  you've  got  a  taste  of  it,"  said  he,  looking 
at  my  hand,  that  had  also  been  struck,  and  was  rather  severely 
grazed. 

I  returned  to  my  reading,  and  he  endeavoured  to  occupy 
himself  hi  the  same  manner ;  but,  in  a  little  while,  after 
several  portentous  yawns,  he  pronounced  his  book  to  be 
"  cursed  trash,"  and  threw  it  on  the  table.  Then  followed 
eight  or  ten  minutes  of  silence,  during  the  greater  part  of 
which,  I  believe,  he  was  staring  at  me.  At  last  his  patience 
was  tired  out. 

"What  is  that  book,  Helen?"  he  exclaimed. 

I  told  him. 

" Is  it  interesting?" 

"Yes,  very." 

I  went  on  reading,  or  pretending  to  read,  at  least — I  cannot 
eay  there  was  much  communication  between  my  eyes  and  my 
brain ;  for,  while  the  former  ran  over  the  pages,  the  latter 
was  earnestly  wondering  when  Arthur  would  speak  next,  and 
what  he  would  say,  and  what  1  should  answer.  But  he  did 
not  speak  again  till  I  rose  to  make  the  tea,  and  then  it  was 
only  to  say  he  should  not  take  any.  He  continued  lounging 
on  the  sofa,  and  alternately  closing  his  eyes  and  looking  at 
his  watch  and  at  me,  till  bed-time,  when  I  rose,  and  took  my 
candle  and  retired. 

"Helen!"  cried  he,  the  moment  I  had  left  the  room.  I 
turned  back,  and  stood  awaiting  his  commands. 

"  What  do  you  want,  Arthur  ?  "    I  said  at  length. 

"  Nothing,"  replied  he.     "  Go  ! " 

I  went,  but  hearing  him  mutter  something  as  I  was  closing 
the  door,  I  turned  again.  It  sounded  very  like  "  confounded 
slut,"  but  I  was  quite  willing  it  should  be  something  else. 

"  Were  you  speaking,  Arthur  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  No,"  was  the  answer,  and  I  shut  the  door  and  departed.  I 
saw  nothing  more  of  him  till  the  following  morning  at 


OF   WILDFELL   HALL.  1C3 

Breakfast,  when  he  came  down  a  full  hour  after  the  usual 
time. 

"  You're  very  late,"  was  my  morning's  salutation. 

"  You  needn't  have  waited  for  me,"  was  his  ;  and  he  walked 
up  to  the  window  again.  It  was  just  such  weather  as 
yesterday. 

"  Oh,  this  confounded  rain !"  he  muttered.  But,  after  stu- 
diously regarding  it  for  a  minute  or  two,  a  bright  idea  seemed 
to  strike  him,  for  he  suddenly  exclaimed,  "  But  I  know  what 
I'll  do ! "  and  then  returned  and  took  his  seat  at  the  table. 
The  letter-bag  was  already  there,  waiting  to  be  opened 
lie  unlocked  it  and  examined  the  contents,  but  said  nothing 
about  them. 

"  Is  there  anything  for  me?"  I  asked. 

"No." 

He  opened  the  newspaper  and  began  to  read. 

"  You'd  better  take  your  coifee,"  suggested  I ;  "it  will  be 
cold  again." 

"  You  may  go,"  said  he,  "  if  you've  done.  I  don't  want  you." 

I  rose  and  withdrew  to  the  next  room,  wondering  if  we 
were  to  have  another  such  miserable  day  as  yesterday,  and 
wishing  intensely  for  an  end  of  these  mutually  inflicted  tor- 
ments. Shortly  after  I  heard  him  ring  the  bell  and  give 
some  orders  about  his  wardrobe  that  sounded  as  if  he  medi- 
tated a  long  journey.  He  then  sent  for  the  coachman,  and  I 
heard  something  about  the  carriage  and  the  horses,  and  Lon- 
don, and  seven  o'clock  to-morrow  morning,  that  startled  and 
disturbed  me  not  a  little. 

"  I  must  not  let  him  go  to  London,  whatever  comes  of  it," 
said  I  to  myself:  u  he  will  run  into  all  kinds  of  mischief,  and 
I  shall  be  the  cause  of  it.  But  the  question  is,  how  am  I  to 
alter  his  purpose  ? — Well,  I  will  wait  awhile,  and  see  if  he 
mentions  it." 

I  waited  most  anxiously,  from  hour  to  hour ;  but  not  a 
word  was  spoken,  on  that  or  any  other  subject,  to  me.  He 
whistled  and  talked  to  his  dogs,  and  wandered  from  room  to 
room,  much  the  same  as  on  the  previous  day.  At  last  I  began 
to  think  I  must  introduce  the  subject  myself,  and  was  ponder- 
ing how  to  bring  it  about,  when  John  unwittingly  came  to 
my  relief  with  the  following  message  from  the  coachman  : 

"Please,  sir,  Richard  says  one  of  the  horses  has  got  a  very 
bad  cold,  and  he  thinks,  sir,  if  you  could  make  it  convenient 
to  go  the  day  after  to-morrow,  instead  of  to-morrow,  he  could 
physic  it  to-day  so  as " 

u  Confound  his  impudence  !"  interjected  the  master. 

"  Please,  sir,  he  says  it  would  be  a  deal  better  if  you  could," 
persisted  John,  "for  he  hopes  there'll  be  a  change  10  the 


164  THE   TENANT 

weather  shortly,  and  he  says  it's  not  likely,  wh&n  a  horse  is 
so  bad  with  a  cold,  and  physicked  and  all — 

"Devil  take  the  horse!"  cried  the  gentleman — "Well, 
tell  him  I'll  think  about  it,"  he  added,  after  a  moment's  re- 
flection. He  cast  a  searching  glance  at  me,  as  the  servant 
withdrew,  expecting  to  see  some  token  of  deep  astonishment 
and  alarm  ;  but,  being  previously  prepared,  I  preserved  an 
aspect  of  stoical  indifference.  His  countenance  fell  as  he  met 
my  steady  gaze,  and  he  turned  away  in  very  obvious  disap- 
pointment, and  walked  up  to  the  fire-place,  where  he  stood 
in  an  attitude  of  undisguised  dejection,  leaning  against  the 
chimney-piece  with  his  forehead  sunk  upon  his  arm. 

'  Where  do  you  want  to  go,  Arthur  ?  "  said  I. 
'  To  London,"  replied  he,  gravely. 
'What  for?"  Tasked. 
'  Because  I  cannot  be  happy  here." 
4  Why  not?" 

'  Because  my  wife  doesn't  love  me." 
'  She   would  love  you  with   all  her  heart,   if  you  At 
served  it." 

"What  must  I  do  to  deserve  it?" 

This  seemed  humble  and  earnest  enough  ;  and  I  was  so 
much  affected,  between  sorrow  and  joy,  that  I  was  obliged  to 
pause  a  few  seconds  before  I  could  steady  my  voice  to  reply. 

"If  she  gives  you  her  heart,"  said  I,  "you  must  take  it 
thankfully,  and  use  it  well,  and  not  pull  it  in  pieces,  and 
laugh  in  her  face,  because  she  cannot  snatch  it  away." 

He  now  turned  round  and  stood  facing  me,  with  his  back 
to  the  fire. 

"Come  then,  Helen,  are  you  going  to  be  a  good  girl?" 
said  he. 

This  sounded  rather  too  arrogant,  and  the  smile  that  ac- 
companied it  did  not  please  me.  I  therefore  hesitated  to 
reply.  Perhaps,  my  former  answer  had  implied  too  much  : 
he  had  heard  my  voice  falter,  and  might  have  seen  me  brush 
away  a  tear. 

"Are  you  going  to  forgive  me,  Helen?"  he  resumed,  more 
humbly. 

"Are  you  penitent!"  I  replied,  stepping  up  to  him  and 
smiling  in  his  face. 

"  Heart-broken!"  he  answered,  with  a  rueful  countenance, 
yet  with  a  merry  smile  just  lurking  within  his  eyes  and  about 
the  corners  of  his  mouth  ;  but  this  could  not  repulse  me,  and 
I  flew  into  his  arms.  He  fervently  embraced  me,  and  though 
I  shed  a  torrent  of  tears,  I  think  I  never  was  happier  in  my 
life  than  at  that  moment. 

"Then  you  won't  go  to  London,  Arthur?"  I  said,  when 
the  first  transport  of  tears  and  kisses  had  subsided. 


OF   WILDFELL   HAIi,.  185 

**  No,  love,- —unless  you  will  go  with  me." 

"  I  will,  gladly,"  I  answered,  "  if  you  think  the  change 
will  amuse  you,  and  if  you  will  put  off  the  journey  till  next 
week." 

He  readily  consented,  but  said  there  was  no  need  of  much 
preparation,  as  he  should  not  be  for  staying  long,  for  he  did 
not  wish  me  to  be  Londonized,  and  to  lose  my  country  fresh- 
ness and  originality  by  too  much  intercourse  with  the  ladies 
of  the  world.  I  thought  this  lolly ;  but  I  did  not  wish  to 
contradict  him  now  :  I  merely  said  that  I  was  ol  very  domestic 
habits,  as  he  well  knew,  and  had  no  particular  wish  to  mingle 
with  the  world. 

So  we  are  to  go  to  London  on  Monday,  the  day  after  to- 
morrow. It  is  now  four  days  since  the  termination  of  our 
quarrel,  and  I'm  sure  it  has  done  us  both  good :  it  has  made 
me  like  Arthur  a  great  deal  better,  and  made  him  behave  a 
great  deal  better  to  me.  He  has  never  once  attempted  to 

annoy  me  since,  by  the  most  distant  allusion  to  Lady  F , 

or  any  of  those  disagreeable  reminiscences  of  his  former  life 
— 1  wish  I  could  blot  them  from  my  memory,  or  else  get  him 
to  regard  such  matters  in  the  same  light  as  I  do.  Well !  it 
is  something,  however,  to  have  made  him  see  that  they  are 
not  fit  subjects  for  a  conjugal  jest.  He  may  see  further  some 
time — I  will  put  no  limits  to  my  hopes  ;  and,  in  spite  of  my 
aunt's  forebodings  and  my  own  unspoken  fears,  I  trust  we 
shall  be  happy  yet. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

ON  the  eighth  of  April,  we  went  to  London  ;  on  the  eighth  of 
May  I  returned,  in  obedience  to  Arthur's  wish ;  very  much 
against  my  own,  because  I  left  him  behind.  If  he  had  come 
with  me,  I  should  have  been  very  glad  to  get  home  again,  for 
he  led  me  such  a  round  of  restless  dissipation,  while  there, 
that,  in  that  short  space  of  time,  I  was  quite  tired  out.  He 
seemed  bent  upon  displaying  me  to  his  friends  and  acquaint- 
ances in  particular,  and  the  public  in  general,  on  every  possi- 
ble occasion,  and  to  the  greatest  possible  advantage.  It  was 
something  to  feel  that  he  considered  me  a  worthy  object  of 
pride ;  but  I  paid  dear  for  the  gratification,  for  in  the  first 
place,  to  please  him,  I  had  to  violate  my  cherished  predilec- 
tions— my  almost  rooted  principles  in  favour  of  a  plain,  dark, 
sober  style  of  dress ;  I  must  sparkle  in  costly  jewels,  and 
deck  myself  out  like  a  painted  butterfly,  just  as  I  had,  long 
since,  determined  I  would  never  do — and  this  was  no  trifling 
sacrifice  ; — in  the  second  place,  I  was  continually  straining  to 


166  THE  TENANT 

satisfy  his  sanguine  expectations  and  do  honour  to  his  choice, 
by  my  general  conduct  and  deportment,  and  fearing  to  dis- 
appoint him  by  some  awkward  misdemeanor,  or  some  trait 
of  inexperienced  ignorance  about  the  customs  of  society,  espe- 
cially when  I  acted  the  part  of  hostess,  which  I  was  not  un- 
frequently  called  upon  to  do  ;  and  in  the  third  place,  as  I  in- 
timated before,  I  was  wearied  of  the  throng  and  bustle,  the 
restless  hurry  and  ceaseless  change  of  a  life  so  alien  to  all  my 
previous  habits.  At  last,  he  suddenly  discovered  that  the 
London  air  did  not  agree  with  me,  and  I  was  languishing  for 
my  country  home,  and  must  immediately  return  to  Grass- 
dale. 

I  laughingly  assured  him  that  the  case  was  not  so  urgent 
as  he  appeared  to  think  it,  but  I  was  quite  willing  to  go  home 
if  he  was.  He  replied  that  he  should  be  obliged  to  remain  a 
week  or  two  longer,  as  he  had  business  that  required  his  pre- 
sence. 

u  Then  I  will  stay  with  you,"  said  I. 

"  But  I  can't  do  with  you,  Helen,"  was  his  answer :  "  as 
long  as  you  stay,  I  shall  attend  to  you  and  neglect  my  busi- 
ness." 

"  But  I  won't  let  you,"  I  returned  :  "  now  that  I  know  you 
have  business  to  attend  to,  I  shall  insist  upon  your  attending 
to  it,  and  letting  me  alone— and,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  shall  be 
glad  of  a  little  rest.  I  can  take  my  rides  and  walks  in  the 
park  as  usual ;  and  your  business  cannot  occupy  all  your 
time  ;  I  shall  see  you  at  meal-times  and  in  the  evenings,  at 
least,  and  that  will  be  better  than  being  leagues  away  and 
never  seeing  yoxi  at  all." 

"  But,  my  love,  I  cannot  let  you  stay.  How  can  I  settle 
my  affairs  when  I  know  that  you  are  here,  neglected " 

"  I  shall  not  feel  myself  neglected :  while  you  are  doing 
your  duty,  Arthur,  I  shall  never  complain  of  neglect.  If  you 
had  told  me  before,  that  you  had  anything  to  do,  it  would 
have  been  half  done  before  this  ;  and  now  you  must  make 
up  for  lost  time  by  redoubled  exertions.  Tell  me  what  it 
is ;  and  I  will  be  your  taskmaster,  instead  of  being  a  hin- 
drance." 

"  No,  no,"  persisted  the  impracticable  creature  ;  "  you 
must  go  home,  Helen ;  I  must  have  the  satisfaction  of  know- 
ing that  you  are  safe  and  well,  though  far  away.  Your  bright 
eyes  are  faded,  and  that  tender,  delicate  bloom  has  quite  de- 
serted your  cheek." 

"  That  is  only  with  too  much  gaiety  and  fatigue." 

"  It  is  not,  I  tell  you  ;  it  is  the  London  air:  you  are  pining 
for  the  fresh  breezes  of  your  country  home — and  you  shall 
feel  them,  before  you  are  two  days  older.  And  remember 


OF   WILDFKLL   HALL.  167 

your  situation,  dearest  Helen  ;  on  your  health,  you  know, 
depends  the  health,  if  not  the  life,  of  our  future  hope." 

"  T'Vuan  frrm   -r^alltr  TP1«V|   in  nrpf  rirl   nf  mp  9" 


"  Then  you  really  wish  to  get  rid  of  me  ?' 
"  Positively,  I  do  ; 


and  I  will  take  you  down  myself  to 

Grassdale,  and  then  return.  I  shall  not  be  absent  above  a 
week — or  fortnight  at  most." 

"  But  if  I  must  go,  I  will  go  alone  :  if  you  must  stay,  it  is 
needless  to  waste  your  time  in  the  journey  there  and  back." 

But  he  did  not  like  the  idea  of  sending  me  alone. 

"  Why,  what  helpless  creature  do  you  take  me  for,"  I 
replied,  "  that  you  cannot  trust  me  to  go  a  hundred  miles  in 
our  own  carriage  with  our  own  footman  and  a  maid  to  attend 
me  ?  If  you  come  with  me  I  shall  assuredly  keep  you.  But 
tell  me,  Arthur,  what  is  this  tiresome  business  ;  and  why  did 
you  never  mention  it  before  ?" 

"  It  is  only  a  little  business  with  my  lawyer,"  said  he  ;  and 
he  told  me  something  about  a  piece  of  property  he  wanted  to 
sell  in  order  to  pay  off  a  part  of  the  incumbrances  on  his 
estate  ;  but  either  the  account  was  a  little  confused,  or  I  was 
rather  dull  of  comprehension,  for  I  could  not  clearly  under- 
stand how  that  should  keep  him  in  town  a  fortnight  after  me. 
Still  less  can  I  now  comprehend  how  it  should  keep  him  a 
month — for  it  is  nearly  that  time  since  I  left  him,  and  no 
signs  of  his  return  as  yet.  In  every  letter  he  promises  to  be 
with  me  in  a  few  days,  and  every  time  deceives  me— or  de- 
ceives himself.  His  excuses  are  vague  and  insufficient.  I 
cannot  doubt  that  he  is  got  among  his  former  companions 
again — Oh,  why  did  I  leave  him  !  I  wish — I  do  intensely 
wish  he  would  return ! 

June  29th. — No  Arthur  yet ;  and  for  many  days  I  have 
been  looking  and  longing  in  vain  for  a  letter.  His  letters, 
when  they  come,  are  kind — if  fair  words  and  endearing  epi- 
thets can  give  them  a  claim  to  the  title — but  very  short,  and 
full  of  trivial  excuses  and  promises  that  I  cannot  trust ;  and 
yet  how  anxiously  I  look  forward  to  them !  how  eagerly  I 
open  and  devour  one  of  those  little,  hastily-scribbled  returns 
for  the  three  or  four  long  letters,  hitherto  unanswered,  he 
has  had  from  me  ! 

Oh,  it  is  cruel  to  leave  me  so  long  alone !  He  knows  I 
have  no  one  but  Rachel  to  speak  to,  for  we  have  no  neigh- 
bours here,  except  the  Hargraves,  whose  residence  I  can 
dimly  descry  from  these  upper  windows  imbosomed  among 
those  low,  woody  hills  beyond  the  Dale.  I  was  glad  when  I 
learnt  that  Milicent  was  so  near  us  ;  and  her  company  would 
be  a  soothing  solace  to  me  now,  but  she  is  still  in  town  with 
her  mother:  there  is  no  one  at  the  Grove  but  little  Esther  and 
her  French  governess,  for  Walter  is  always  away.  I  saw 


168  fHE   TENANT 

that  paragon  of  manly  perfections  in  London :  he  seemed 
scarcely  to  merit  the  eulogiums  of  his  mother  and  sister, 
though  he  certainly  appeared  more  conversable  and  agreeable 
than  Lord  Lowborough,  more  candid  and  high-minded  than 
Mr.  Grimsby,  and  more  polished  and  gentlemanly  than  Mr. 
Hattersley,  Arthur's  only  other  friend  whom  he  judged  fit  to 
introduce  to  me. — Oh,  Arthur,  why  won't  you  come  !  why 
won't  you  write  to  me  at  least !  You  talked  about  my  health 
— how  can  you  expect  me  to  gather  bloom  and  vigour  here  ; 
pining  in  solitude  and  restless  anxiety  from  day  to  day  ? — It 
would  serve  you  right  to  come  back  and  find  my  good  looks 
entirely  wasted  away.  I  would  beg  my  uncle  and  aunt,  or 
my  brother,  to  come  and  see  me,  but  I  do  not  like  to  complain 
of  my  loneliness  to  them, — and  indeed,  loneliness  is  the  least 
of  my  sufferings  ;  but  what  is  he  doing — what  is  it  that  keeps 
him  away  ?  It  is  this  ever-recurring  question  and  the  horri- 
ble suggestions  it  raises  that  distract  me. 

July  3rd. — My  last  bitter  letter  has  wrung  from  him  an 
answer  at  last, — and  a  rather  longer  one  than  usual;  but 
still  I  don't  know  what  to  make  of  it.  He  playfully  abuses 
me  for  the  gall  and  vinegar  of  my  latest  effusion,  tells  me  I 
can  have  no  conception  of  the  multitudinous  engagements 
that  keep  him  away,  but  avers  that,  in  spite  of  them  all,  he 
will  assuredly  be  with  me  before  the  close  of  next  week ; 
though  it  is  impossible  for  a  man,  so  circumstanced  as  he  is, 
to  fix  the  precise  day  of  his  return  :  meantime,  he  exhorts  me 
to  the  exercise  of  patience,  "  that  first  of  woman's  virtues," 
and  desires  me  to  remember  the  saying,  "  Absence  makes  the 
heart  grow  fonder,"  and  comfort  myself  with  the  assurance 
lhat  the  longer  he  stays  away,  the  better  he  shall  love  me 
when  he  returns  ;  and  till  he  does  return,  he  begs  I  will  con- 
tinue to  write  to  him  constantly,  for,  though  he  is  sometimes 
too  idle  and  often  too  busy  to  answer  my  letters  as  they 
come,  he  likes  to  receive  them  daily,  and  if  I  fulfil  my  threat 
of  punishing  his  seeming  neglect  by  ceasing  to  write,  he  shall 
be  so  angry  that  he  will  do  his  utmost  to  forget  me.  He 
adds  this  piece  of  intelligence  respecting  poor  Milicent  Har- 
grave : 

"  Your  little  friend  Milicent  is  likely,  before  long,  to 
follow  your  example,  and  take  upon  her  the  yoke  of  matri- 
mony in  conjunction  with  a  friend  of  mine.  Hattersley,  you 
know,  has  not  yet  fulfilled  his  direful  threat  of  throwing  his 
precious  person  away  on  the  first  old  maid  that  chose  to 
evince  a  tenderness  for  him  ;  but  he  still  preserves  a  resolute 
determination  to  see  himself  a  married  man  before  the  year 
is  out :  '  Only,'  said  he  to  me,  '  I  must  have  somebody  that 
will  let  me  have  my  own  way  in  everything— not  like  your 


OF   WILDFELL   HALL.  169 

wife,  Huntingdon;  she  is  a  charming  creature,  but  she  looka 
as  if  she  had  a  will  of  her  own,  and  could  play  the  vixen 
upon  occasion '  (I  thought, '  you're  right  there,  man,'  but  I 
didn't  say  so).  '  I  must  have  some  good,  quiet  soul  that  will 
let  me  just  do  what  I  like  and  go  where  1  like,  keep  at  home 
or  stay  away,  without  a  word  of  reproach  or  complaint ;  for 
I  can't  do  with  being  bothered.'  '  Well,'  said  I,  '  I  know 
somebody  that  will  suit  you  to  a  tee,  if  you  don't  care  for 
money,  and  that's  Hargrave's  sister,  Milicent.'  He  desired 
to  be  introduced  to  her  forthwith,  for  he  said  he  had  plenty 
of  the  needful  himself — or  should  have,  when  his  old  go- 
vernor chose  to  quit  the  stage.  So  you  see,  Helen,  I  have 
managed  pretty  well,  both  for  your  friend  and  mine." 

Poor  Milicent !  But  I  cannot  imagine  she  will  ever  be  led 
to  accept  such  a  suitor — one  so  repugnant  to  all  her  ideas  of  a 
man  to  be  honoured  and  loved. 

5th. — Alas  !  I  was  mistaken.  I  have  got  a  long  letter  from 
her  this  morning,  telling  me  she  is  already  engaged,  and  ex- 
pects to  be  married  before  the  close  of  the  month. 

"  I  hardly  know  what  to  say  about  it,"  she  writes,  "  or 
what  to  think.  To  tell  you  the  truth,  Helen,  I  don't  like  the 
thoughts  of  it  at  all.  If  I  am  to  be  Mr.  Hattersley's  wife,  I 
must  try  to  love  him ;  and  I  do  try  with  all  my  might ;  but  I 
have  made  very  little  progress  yet ;  and  the  worst  symptom 
of  the  case  is,  that  the  further  he  is  from  me  the  better  I  like 
him :  he  frightens  me  with  his  abrupt  manners  and  strange 
hectoring  ways,  and  I  dread  the  thoughts  of  marrying  him. 
'  Then  why  have  you  accepted  him,'  you  will  ask ;  and  I  didn't 
know  I  had  accepted  him ;  but  mamma  tells  me  I  have,  and 
he  seems  to  think  so  too.  I  certainly  didn't  mean  to  do  so ; 
but  I  did  not  like  to  give  him  a  flat  refusal  for  fear  mamma 
should  be  grieved  and  angry  (for  I  knew  she  wished  me  to 
marry  him),  and  I  wanted  to  talk  to  her  first  about  it,  so  I 
gave  him  what  I  thought  was  an  evasive,  half  negative  an- 
swer ;  but  she  says  it  was  as  good  as  an  acceptance,  and  he 
would  think  me  very  capricious  if  I  were  to  attempt  to  draw 
back — and  indeed,  I  was  so  confused  and  frightened  at  the 
moment,  I  can  hardly  tell  what  I  said.  And  next  time  I  saw 
him,  he  accosted  me  in  all  confidence  as  his  affianced  bride, 
and  immediately  began  to  settle  matters  with  mamma.  I  had 
not  courage  to  contradict  them  then,  and  how  can  I  do  it 
now  ?  I  cannot .  they  would  think  me  mad.  Besides, 
mamma  is  so  delighted  with  the  idea  of  the  match ;  she 
thinks  she  has  managed  so  well  for  me  ;  and  I  cannot  bear 
to  disappoint  her.  I  do  object  sometimes,  and  tell  her  what 
I  feel,  but  you  don't  know  how  she  talks.  Mr.  Hattersley, 
you  know,  is  the  son  of  a  rich  banker,  and  as  Esther  and  I 


170  THE  TENANT 

have  no  fortunes,  and  Walter  very  little,  our  dear  mamma  is 
very  anxious  to  see  us  all  well  married,  that  is,  united  to  rich 
partners — it  is  not  my  idea  of  being  well  married,  but  she 
means  it  all  for  the  best.  She  says  when  i  am  safe  off  her 
hands  it  will  be  such  a  relief  to  her  mind ;  and  she  assures 
me  it  will  be  a  good  thing  for  the  family  as  well  as  for  me. 
Even  Walter  is  pleased  at  the  prospect,  and  when  I  confessed 
my  reluctance  to  him,  he  said  it  was  all  childish  nonsense. 
Do  you  think  it  nonsense,  Helen  ?  I  should  not  care  if  1 
could  see  any  prospect  of  being  able  to  love  and  admire  him, 
but  I  can't.  There  is  nothing  about  him  to  hang  one's  esteem 
and  affection  upon :  he  is  so  diametrically  opposite  to  what  I 
imagined  my  husband  should  be.  Do  write  to  me,  and  say 
all  you  can  to  encourage  me.  Don't  attempt  to  dissuade  me, 
for  my  fate  is  fixed :  preparations  for  the  important  event  are 
already  going  on  around  me  ;  and  don't  say  a  word  against 
Mr.  Hattersley,  for  I  want  to  think  well  of  him  ;  and  though 
I  have  spoken  against  him  myself,  it  is  for  the  last  time : 
hereafter,  I  shall  never  permit  myself  to  utter  a  word  in  his 
dispraise,  however  he  may  seem  to  deserve  it ;  and  whoever 
ventures  to  speak  slightingly  of  the  man  I  have  promised  to 
love,  to  honour,  and  obey,  must  expect  my  serious  displeasure. 
After  all,  I  think  he  is  quite  as  good  as  Mr.  Huntingdon,  if 
not  better ;  and  yet,  you  love  him,  and  seem  to  be  happy  and 
contented ;  and  perhaps  I  may  manage  as  well.  You  must 
tell  me,  if  you  can,  that  Mr.  Hattersley  is  better  than  he 
seems— that  he  is  upright,  honourable,  and  open-hearted — in 
fact,  a  perfect  diamond  in  the  rough.  He  may  be  all  this,  but 
I  don't  know  him.  I  know  only  the  exterior  and  what  I  trust 
is  the  worst  part  of  him." 

She  concludes  with  "  Good-bye,  dear  Helen,  I  am  waiting 
anxiously  for  your  advice — but  mind  you  let  it  be  all  on  the 
right  side." 

Alas !  poor  Milicent,  M'hat  encouragement  can  I  give  you  ? 
or  what  advice — except  that  it  is  better  to  make  a  bold 
stand  now,  though  at  the  expense  of  disappointing  and  anger- 
ing both  mother  and  brother,  and  lover,  than  to  devote 
your  whole  life,  hereafter,  to  misery  and  vain  regret? 

Saturday,  13th.— The  week  is  over,  and  he  is  not  come.  All 
the  sweet  summer  is  passing  away  without  one  breath  of  plea- 
sure to  me  or  benefit  to  him.  And  I  had  all  along  been  look- 
ing forward  to  this  season  with  the  fond,  delusive  hope  that 
we  should  enjoy  it  so  sweetly  together  ;  and  that,  with  God's 
help  and  my  exertions,  it  would  be  the  means  of  elevating  hia 
mind,  and  refining  his  taste  to  a  due  appreciation  of  the  salu- 
tary and  pure  delights  of  nature,  and  peace,  and  holy  love. 
But  now — at  evening,  when  I  see  the  round,  red  sun  sink 


OF   WILDFELL  HALL.  171 

quietly  down  behind  those  woody  hills,  leaving  them  sleeping 
in  a  warm,  red,  golden  haze,  I  only  think  another  lovely  day 
is  lost  to  him  and  me  ;  and  at  morning,  when  roused  by  the 
flutter  and  chirp  of  the  sparrows,  and  the  gleeful  twitter  of 
the  swallows — all  intent  upon  feeding  their  young,  and  full  of 
life  and  joy  in  their  own  little  frames— I  open  the  window  to 
inhale  the  balmy,  soul-reviving  air,  and  look  out  upon  the 
lovely  landscape,  laughing  in  dew  and  sunshine — I  too  often 
shame  that  glorious  scene  with  tears  of  thankless  misery,  be- 
cause he  cannot  feel  its  freshening  influence  ;  and  when  I 
wander  in  the  ancient  woods,  and  meet  the  little  wild-flowers 
smiling  in  my  path,  or  sit  in  the  shadow  of  our  noble  ash- 
trees  by  the  water-side,  with  their  branches  gently  swaying 
in  the  light  summer  breeze  that  murmurs  through  their 
leathery  foliage— my  ears  full  of  that  low  music  mingled  with 
the  dreamy  hum  of  insects,  my  eyes  abstractedly  gazing  on 
the  glassy  surface  of  the  little  lake  before  me,  with  the  trees 
that  crowd  about  its  bank,  some  gracefully  bending  to  kiss  its 
waters,  some  rearing  their  stately  heads  high  above,  but 
stretching  their  wide  arms  over  its  margin,  all  faithfully  mir- 
rored far,  far  down  in  its  glassy  depth — though  sometimes  the 
images  are  partially  broken  by  the  sport  of  aquatic  insects, 
and  sometimes,  for  a  moment,  the  whole  is  shivered  into 
trembling  fragments  by  a  transient  breeze  that  swept  the  sur- 
face too  roughly — still  I  have  no  pleasure  ;  for  the  greater 
the  happiness  that  nature  sets  before  me,  the  more  I  lament 
that  he  is  not  here  to  taste  it :  the  greater  the  bliss  we  might 
enjoy  together,  the  more  I  feel  our  present  wretchedness 
apart  (yes,  ours  ;  he  must  be  wretched,  though  he  may  not 
know  it)  ;  and  the  more  my  senses  are  pleased,  the  more  my 
heart  is  oppressed ;  for  he  keeps  it  with  him  confined  amid 
the  dust  and  smoke  of  London — perhaps,  shut  up  within  the 
walls  of  his  own  abominable  club. 

But  most  of  all,  at  night,  when  I  enter  my  lonely  chamber, 
and  look  out  upon  the  summer  moon,  '  sweet  regent  of  the 
sky,'  floating  above  me  in  the  '  black  blue  vault  of  heaven,' 
shedding  a  flood  of  silver  radiance  over  park,  and  wood,  and 
water,  so  pure,  so  peaceful,  so  divine — and  think,  Where  is  he 
now? — what  is  he  doing  at  this  moment?  wholly  unconscious 
of  this  heavenly  scene— perhaps,  revelling  with  his  boon 
companions,  perhaps — God  help  me,  it  is  too — too  much ! 

23rd.— Thank  Heaven,  he  is  come  at  last !  But  how  altered ! 
flushed  and  feverish,  listless  und  languid,  his  beauty  strangely 
diminished,  his  vigour  and  vivacity  quite  departed.  I  have 
not  upbraided  him  by  word  or  look ;  I  have  not  even  asked 
him  what  he  has  been  doing.  I  have  not  the  heart  to  do  it, 
for  I  think  he  is  ashamed  of  himself— he  must  be  so  indeed, 


172  THE  TEKANT 

and  such  inquiries  could  not  fail  to  be  painful  to  both.  Mj 
forbearance  pleases  him — touches  him  even,  I  am  inclined  to 
think.  He  says  he  is  glad  to  be  home  again,  and  God  know? 
how  glad  I  am  to  get  him  back,  even  as  he  is.  He  lies  on  the 
sofa  nearly  all  day  long  ;  and  I  play  and  sing  to  him  for  hours 
together.  I  write  his  letters  for  him,  and  get  him  everything 
he  wants  ;  and  sometimes  I  read  to  him,  and  sometimes  I  talk, 
and  sometimes  only  sit  by  him  and  soothe  him  with  silent 
caresses.  I  know  he  does  not  deserve  it ;  and  I  fear  I  am 
spoiling  him ;  but  this  once,  I  will  forgive  him,  freely  and  en- 
tirely. I  will  shame  him  into  virtue  if  I  can,  and  I  will  never 
let  him  leave  me  again. 

He  is  pleased  with  my  attentions — it  may  be,  grateful  for 
them.  He  likes  to  have  me  near  him ;  and  though  he  is 
peevish  and  testy  with  his  servants  and  his  dogs,  he  is  gentle 
and  kind  to  me.  What  he  would  be,  if  I  did  not  so  watch- 
fully anticipate  his  wants,  and  so  carefully  avoid,  or  imme- 
diately desist  from  doing  anything  that  has  a  tendency  to  irri- 
tate or  disturb  him,  with  however  little  reason,  I  cannot  tell. 
How  intensely  I  wish  he  were  worthy  of  all  this  care  !  Last 
night  as  I  sat  beside  him,  with  his  head  in  my  lap,  passing  my 
fingers  through  his  beautiful  curls,  this  thought  made  my  eyes 
overflow  with  sorrowful  tears — as  it  oftens  does;  but  this 
time,  a  tear  fell  on  his  face  and  made  him  look  up.  He 
smiled,  but  not  insultingly. 

"Dear  Helen!"  he  said — "  why  do  you  cry?  you  know 
that  I  love  you"  (and  he  pressed  my  hand  to  his  feverish 
lips),  "and  what  more  could  you  desire?" 

"  Only,  Arthur,  that  you  would  love  yourself,  as  truly  and 
as  faithfully  as  you  are  loved  by  me." 

"That  would  be  hard,  indeed!"  he  replied,  tenderly 
squeezing  my  hand. 

August  24th. — Arthur  is  himself  again,  as  lusty  and  reckless, 
as  light  of  heart  and  head  as  ever,  and  as  restless  and  hard 
to  amuse  as  a  spoilt  child,  and  almost  as  full  of  mischief  too, 
especially  when  wet  weather  keeps  him  within  doors.  I  wish 
he  had  something  to  do,  some  useful  trade,  or  profession,  or 
employment — anything  to  occupy  his  head  or  his  hands  for  a 
few  hours  a-day,  and  give  him  something  besides  his  own 
pleasure  to  think  about.  If  he  would  play  the  country  gen- 
tleman, and  attend  to  the  farm — but  that  he  knows  nothing 
about,  and  won't  give  his  mind  to  consider, — or  if  he  would 
take  up  with  some  literary  study,  or  learn  to  draw  or  to  play 
— as  he  is  so  fond  of  music,  I  often  try  to  persuade  him  to 
learn  the  piano,  but  he  is  far  too  idle  for  such  an  undertaking: 
he  has  no  more  idea  of  exerting  himself  to  overcome  obstacles 
than  he  has  of  restraining  his  natural  appetites;  and  these 


OF    WILDFELL   HALL.  173 

two  things  are  the  ruin  of  him.  I  lay  them  both  to  the  charge 
of  his  harsh  yet  careless  father,  and  his  madly  indulgent 
mother.  If  ever  I  am  a  mother  I  will  zealously  strive  against 
this  crime  of  over  indulgence.  I  can  hardly  give  it  a  milder 
name  when  I  think  of  the  evils  it  brings. 

Happily,  it  will  soon  be  the  shooting  season,  and  then,  H 
the  weather  permit,  he  will  find  occupation  enough  in  the 
pursuit  and  destruction  of  the  partridges  and  pheasants :  we 
have  no  grouse,  or  he  might  have  been  similarly  occupied  at 
this  moment,  instead  of  lying  under  the  acacia  tree  pulling 
poor  Dash's  ears.  But  he  says  it  is  dull  work  shooting  alone  ; 
he  must  have  a  friend  or  two  to  help  him. 

"  Let  them  be  tolerably  decent  then,  Arthur,"  said  I.  The 
word  "  friend,"  in  his  mouth,  makes  me  shudder:  I  know  it 
was  some  of  his  "  friends  "  that  induced  him  to  stay  behind 
me  in  London,  and  kept  him  away  so  long — indeed,  from 
what  he  has  unguardedly  told  me,  or  hinted  from  time  to 
time,  I  cannot  doubt  that  he  frequently  showed  them  my 
letters,  to  let  them  see  how  fondly  his  wife  watched  over  his 
interests,  and  how  keenly  she  regretted  his  absence  ;  and  that 
they  induced  him  to  remain  week  after  week,  and  to  plunge 
into  all  manner  of  excesses  to  avoid  being  laughed  at  for  a 
wife-ridden  fool,  and,  perhaps,  to  show  how  far  he  could  ven- 
ture to  go  without  danger  of  shaking  the  fond  creature's 
devoted  attachment.  It  is  a  hateful  idea,  but  I  cannot  be- 
lieve it  is  a  false  one. 

"  Well,"  replied  he,  "  I  thought  of  Lord  Lowborough  for 
one ;  but  there  is  no  possibility  of  getting  him  without  his 
better  half,  our  mutual  friend,  Annabella ;  so  we  must  ask 
them  both.  You're  not  afraid  of  her,  are  you,  Helen?"  he 
asked,  with  a  mischievous  twinkle  in  his  eyes. 

"  Of  course  not,"  I  answered  :  "why  should  I? — And  who 
besides?" 

"  Hargrave  for  one — he  will  be  glad  to  come,  though  his 
own  place  is  so  near,  for  he  has  little  enough  land  of  his  own 
to  shoot  over,  and  we  can  extend  our  depredations  into  it,  if 
we  like  ; — and  he  is  thoroughly  respectable,  you  know,  Helen, 
quite  a  lady's  man : — and  1  think,  Grimsby  for  another  :  he's 
a  decent,  quiet  fellow  enough — you'll  not  object  to  Grimsby?" 

u  I  hate  him  :  but,  however,  if  you  wish  it,  I'll  try  to  en- 
dure his  presence  for  a  while." 

"All  a  prejudice,  Helen — a  mere  woman's  antipathy." 

"  No  ;  I  have  solid  grounds  for  my  dislike.  And  ia  that 
all?" 

"  Why,  yes,  I  think  so.  Hattersley  will  be  too  busy  billing 
and  cooing  with  his  bride  to  have  much  time  to  spare  for  guns 
and  dogs,  at  present."  be  replied.  And  that  reminds  me, 


174  THE   TENANT 

that  I  have  had  several  letters  from  Milicent  since  her  mar- 
riage, and  that  she  either  is,  or  pretends  to  be,  quite  recon- 
ciled to  her  lot.  She  professes  to  have  discovered  numberless 
virtues  and  perfections  in  her  husband,  some  of  which,  I  fear, 
less  partial  eyes  would  fail  to  distinguish,  though  they  sought 
them  carefully  with  tears ;  and  now  that  she  is  accustomed  to 
his  loud  voice,  and  abrupt,  uncourteous  manners,  she  affirms 
she  finds  no  difficulty  in  loving  him  as  a  wife  should  do,  and 
begs  I  will  burn  that  letter  wherein  she  spoke  so  unadvisedly 
against  him.  So  that  I  trust  she  may  yet  be  happy  ;  but,  if 
she  is,  it  will  be  entirely  the  reward  of  her  own  goodness  of 
heart ;  for  had  she  chosen  to  consider  herself  the  victim  of 
fate,  or  of  her  mother's  worldly  wisdom,  she  might  have  been 
thoroughly  miserable ;  and  if,  for  duty's  sake,  she  had  not 
made  every  effort  to  love  her  husband,  she  would,  doubtless, 
have  hated  him  to  the  end  of  her  days. 

CHAPTER  XXVI. 

SEPT.  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  hus- 
band 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  com- 
plains 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  blan- 
dishments 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  fel- 
low-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  ma- 
noeuvres. It  is  obviously,  therefore,  my  interest  to  disappoint 
them  both,  as  far  as  I  am  concerned,  by  preserving  a  cheerful, 


OF  WILDFELL   HALL.  175 

undisturbed  serenity  throughout ;  and,  accordingly,  I  endea- 
vour 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  laugh- 
ing at  Lord  Lowborough's  depressed  and  anxious  countenance 
one  evening,  when  they  had  both  been  particularly  provok- 
ing ;  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  any  one  that  is  unjustly  treated,"  I  replied, 
u  and  I  can  feel  for  those  that  injure  them  too." 

"Why,  Helen,  you  are  as  jealous  as  he  is !"  cried  he,  laugh- 
ing 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  Low- 
borough  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  ap- 
pear 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  fer- 
vour. 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 
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  com- 
fortably, 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  dependants,  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  gentleman  in  the  laud,"  This  same 


176  THE   TENANT 

eon,  I  imagine,  is  a  man  of  expensive  habits — no  reckless 
ependthrift,  and  no  abandoned  sensualist,  but  one  who  likes  to 
have  "  everything  handsome  about  him,''  and  to  go  to  a  cer- 
tain 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  com- 
forts 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  judg- 
ment to  form  of  "  dear,  noble-minded,  generous-hearted  Wal- 
ter," 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  manoeuvrings  of  this  mis- 
taken mother,  who  congratulates  herself  on  having  so  satis- 
factorily 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. 

CHAPTER  XXVII. 

OCTOBER  9th.— It  was  on  the  night  of  the  4th,alittle  after  tea, 
that  Annabella  had  been  singing  and  playing,  with  Arthur  aa 
usual  at  her  side  :  she  had  ended  her  song,  but  still  she  sat  at 
the  instrument ;  and  he  stood  leaning  on  the  back  of  her  chair, 
conversing  in  scarcely  audible  tones,  with  his  face  in  very 
close  proximity  with  hers.  I  looked  at  Lord  Lowborough. 
He  was  at  the  other  end  of  the  room,  talking  with  Messrs. 
Hargrave  and  Grimsby  ;  but  I  saw  him  dart  towards  his  lady 
and  his  host,  a  quick,  impatient  glance,  expressive  of  intense 
disquietude,  at  which  Grimsby  smiled.  Determined  to  inter- 
rupt the  tete-a-tete,  1  rose,  and,  selecting  a  piece  of  music  from 
the  music-stand,  stepped  up  to  the  piano,  intending  to  ask  the 
lady  to  play  it ;  but  I  stood  transfixed  and  speechless  on  see- 
ing her  seated  there,  listening,  with  what  seemed  an  exultant 


OF   WILDFELL   ttAIX.  177 

smile  on  her  flushed  face,  to  his  soft  murraurings,  with  her 
hand  quietly  surrendered  to  his  clasp.  The  blood  rushed  first 
to  my  heart,  and  then  to  my  head ;  for  there  was  more  than 
this  ;  almost  at  the  moment  of  my  approach,  he  cast  a  hurried 
glance  over  his  shoulder  towards  the  other  occupants  of  the 
room,  and  then  ardently  pressed  the  unresisting  hand  to  his 
lips.  On  raising  his  eyes,  he  beheld  me,  and  dropped  them 
again,  confounded  and  dismayed.  She  saw  me  too,  and  con- 
fronted me  with  a  look  of  hard  defiance.  I  laid  the  music  on 
the  piano,  and  retired.  I  felt  ill ;  but  I  did  not  leave  the 
room  :  happily,  it  was  getting  late,  and  could  not  be  long  be- 
fore the  company  dispersed.  I  went  to  the  fire,  and  leant  my 
head  against  the  chimney-piece.  In  a  minute  or  two,  some  one 
asked  me  if  I  felt  unwell.  I  did  not  answer  ;  indeed,  at  the 
time,  I  knew  not  what  was  said  ;  but  I  mechanically  looked  up, 
and  saw  Mr.  Hargrave  standing  beside  me  on  the  rug. 

"  Shall  I  get  you  a  glass  of  wine  ?  "    said  he. 

"  No,  thank  you,"  I  replied ;  and,  turning  from  him,  I 
looked  round.  Lady  Lowborough  was  beside  her  husband, 
bending  over  him  as  he  sat,  with  her  hand  on  his  shoulder, 
softly  talking  and  smiling  in  his  face;  and  Arthur  was  at  the 
table,  turning  over  a  book  of  engravings.  I  seated  myself 
in  the  nearest  chair;  and  Mr.  Hargrave,  finding  his  services 
were  not  desired,  judiciously  withdrew.  Shortly  after,  the 
company  broke  up,  and,  as  the  guests  were  retiring  to  their 
rooms,  Arthur  approached  me,  smiling  with  the  utmost  as- 
surance. 

"Are  you  very  angry,  Helen?"  murmured  he. 

"This  is  no  jest,  Arthur,"  said  I,  seriously,  but  as  calmly 
as  I  could — "  unless  you  think  it  a  jest  to  lose  my  affection 
for  ever." 

"What!  so  bitter?"  he  exclaimed,  laughingly,  clasping  my 
hand  between  both  his  ;  but  I  snatched  it  away,  in  indigna- 
tion— almost  in  disgust,  for  he  was  obviously  affected  with 
wine. 

"  Then  I  must  go  down  on  my  knees,"  said  he  ;  and  kneel- 
ing before  me,  with  clasped  hands,  uplifted  in  mock  humilia- 
tion, he  continued  imploringly — "  Forgive  me,  Helen ! — dear 
Helen,  forgive  me,  and  I'll  never  do  it  again!"  and,  burying 
his  face  in  his  handkerchief,  he  affected  to  sob  aloud. 

Leaving  him  thus  employed,  I  took  my  candle,  and,  slip- 
ping quietly  from  the  room,  hastened  up  stairs  as  fast  as  I 
could.  But  he  soon  discovered  that  1  had  left  him,  and,  rush- 
ing up  after  me,  caught  me  in  his  arms,  just  as  I  had  entered 
the  chamber,  and  was  about  to  shut  the  door  in  his  face. 

""No,  no,  by  heaven,  you  shan't  escape  me  so!"  he  cried. 
Then,- alarmed  at  my  agitation,  he  begged  me  not  to  put  my- 


178  THE  TF.XAXT 

self  in  such  a  passion,  telling  me  I  was  white  in  the  face,  and 
should  kill  myself  if  I  did  so. 

"  Let  me  go,  then,"  I  murmured  ;  and  immediately  he  re- 
leased me — and  it  was  well  he  did,  for  I  was  really  in  a  pas- 
sion. I  sank  into  the  easy-chair  and  endeavoured  to  compose 
myself,  for  I  wanted  to  speak  to  him  calmly.  He  stood 
beside  me,  but  did  not  venture  to  touch  me  or  to  speak,  for  a 
few  seconds  ;  then  approaching  a  little  nearer,  he  dropped  on 
one  knee — not  in  mock  humility,  but  to  bring  himself  nearer 
my  level,  and  leaning  his  hand  on  the  arm  of  the  chair,  he 
began  in  a  low  voice, — 

"  It  is  all  nonsense,  Helen — a  jest,  a  mere  nothing — not 
worth  a  thought.  Will  you  never  learn?"  he  continued 
more  boldly,  u  that  you  have  nothing  to  fear  from  me?  that 
I  love  you  wholly  and  entirely  ?— or  if,"  he  added  with  a 
lurking  smile,  "  I  ever  give  a  thought  to  another  you  may 
well  spare  it,  for  those  fancies  are  here  and  gone  like  a  flash 
of  lightning,  while  my  love  for  you  burns  on  steadily,  and 
for  ever  like  the  sun.  You  little  exorbitant  tyrant,  will  not 
that " 

"  Be  quiet  a  moment,  will  you,  Arthur,"  said  I,  "  and 
listen  to  me — and  don't  think  I'm  in  a  jealous  fury:  I  am 
perfectly  calm.  Feel  my  hand."  And  I  gravely  extended  it 
towards  him — but  closed  it  upon  his  with  an  energy  that 
seemed  to  disprove  the  assertion,  and  made  him  smile.  "  You 
needn't  smile,  sir,"  said  I,  still  tightening  my  grasp,  and  look- 
ing steadfastly  on  him  till  he  almost  quailed  before  me.  "You 
may  think  it  all  very  fine,  Mr.  Huntingdon,  to  amuse  your- 
selt  with  rousing  my  jealousy  ;  but  take  care  you  don't  rouse 
my  hate  instead.  And  when  JTOU  have  once  extinguished  my 
love,  j'ou  will  find  it  no  easy  matter  to  kindle  it  again." 

"Well,  Helen,  I  won't  repeat  the  offence.  But  I  meant 
nothing  by  it,  I  assure  you.  I  had  taken  too  much  wine,  and 
I  was  scarcely  myself,  at  the  time." 

"  You  often  take  too  much  ;  and  that  is  another  practice  I 
detest."  He  looked  up  astonished  at  my  warmth.  "  Yes,"  I 
continued.  "  I  never  mentioned  it  before,  because  I  was 
ashamed  to  do  so ;  but  now  I'll  tell  you  that  it  distresses  me, 
and  may  disgust  me,  if  you  go  on  and  suffer  the  habit  to 
grow  upon  you,  as  it  will  if  you  don't  check  it  in  time.  But 
the  whole  system  of  your  conduct  to  Lady  Lowborough  is 
not  referable  to  wine  ;  and  this  night  you  knew  perfectly  well 
what  you  were  doing." 

"Well,  I'm  sorry  for  it,"  replied  he,  with  more  of  sulki- 
ness  than  contrition  :  "what  more  would  you  have?" 

"You  are  sorry  that  I  saw  you,  no  doubt,"  I  answered 
coldly. 


OP  WILDFELL  HALL.  179 

"  If  you  had  not  seen  me,"  he  muttered,  fixing  his  eyes  on 
the  carpet,  "  it  would  have  done  no  harm." 

My  heart  felt  ready  to  burst ;  but  I  resolutely  swallowed 
back  my  emotion,  and  answered  calmly,  "  You  think  not?" 

"  No,"  replied  he,  boldly.  "  After  all,  what  have  I  done  ? 
It's  nothing — except  as  you  choose  to  make  it  a  subject  of 
accusation  and  distress." 

"  What  would  Lord  Lowborough,  your  friend,  think,  if  he 
knew  all  ?  or  what  would  you  yourself  think,  if  he  or  any 
other  had  acted  the  same  part  to  me,  throughout,  as  you 
have  to  Annabella?" 

"  I  would  blow  his  brains  out." 

"  Well,  then,  Arthur,  how  can  you  call  it  nothing — an 
offence  for  which  you  would  think  yourself  justified  in  blow- 
ing another  man's  brains  out  ?  Is  it  nothing  to  trifle  with 
your  friend's  feelings  and  mine — to  endeavour  to  steal  a 
woman's  affections  from  her  husband — what  he  values  more 
than  his  gold,  and  therefore  what  it  is  more  dijhonest  to  take? 
Are  the  marriage  vows  a  jest ;  and  is  it  nothing  to  make  it 
your  sport  to  break  them,  and  to  tempt  another  to  do  the 
same  ?  Can  I  love  a  man  that  does  such  things,  and  coolly 
maintains  it  is  nothing?" 

"  You  are  breaking  your  marriage  vows  yourself,"  said  he, 
indignantly  rising  and  pacing  to  and  fro.  "  You  promised  to 
honour  and  obey  me,  and  now  you  attempt  to  hector  over  me, 
and  threaten  and  accuse  me  and  call  me  worse  than  a  high- 
wayman. If  it  were  not  for  your  situation,  Helen,  I  would 
not  submit  to  it  so  tamely.  I  won't  be  dictated  to  by  a  woman, 
though  she  be  my  wife." 

"  What  will  you  do  then  ?  Will  you  go  on  till  I  hate  you ; 
and  then  accuse  me  of  breaking  my  vows?" 

He  was  silent  a  moment,  and  then  replied, — 

"  You  never  will  hate  me."  Returning  and  resuming  his 
former  position  at  my  feet,  he  repeated  more  vehemently — 
"  You  cannot  hate  me,  as  long  as  I  love  you." 

"  But  how  can  I  believe  that  you  love  me,  if  you  continue 
to  act  in  this  way  ?  Just  imagine  yourself  in  my  place : 
would  you  think  I  loved  you,  if  I  did  so  ?  Would  you  be- 
lieve my  protestations,  and  honour  and  trust  me  under  such 
circumstances?" 

"  The  cases  are  different,"  he  replied.  "  It  is  a  woman's 
nature  to  be  constant — to  love  one  and  one  only,  blindly,  ten- 
derly, arid  for  ever — bless  them,  dear  creatures  !  and  you 
above  them  all — but  you  must  have  some  commiseration  for 
us,  Helen ;  you  must  give  us  a  little  more  licence,  for  as 
Shakespeare  has  it — 


180  THfc  fENANt 

'  However  we  do  praise  ourselves, 
Our  fancies  are  more  giddy  aud  unfirm, 
More  longing,  wavering,  sooner  lost  aud  won 
Than  women's  are.' " 

"  Do  you  mean  by  that,  that  your  fancies  are  lost  to  me, 
and  won  by  Lady  Lowborough  ?  " 

"  No ;  Heaven  is  my  witness  that  I  think  her  mere  dust 
and  ashes  in  comparison  with  you, — and  shall  continue  to 
think  so,  unless  you  drive  me  from  you  by  too  much  severity. 
She  is  a  daughter  of  earth  ;  you  are  an  angel  of  heaven  ;  only 
be  not  too  austere  in  your  divinity,  and  remember  that  I  am  a 
poor,  fallible  mortal.  Come  now,  Helen  ;  won't  you  forgive 
me?"  he  said,  gently  taking  my  hand,  and  looking  up  with 
an  innocent  smile. 

"  If  I  do,  you  will  repeat  the  offence." 

"  I  swear  by " 

"  Don't  swear ;  I'll  believe  your  word  as  well  as  your  oath. 
I  wish  I  could  have  confidence  in  either." 

"  Try  me,  then,  Helen :  only  trust  and  pardon  me  this 
once,  and  you  shall  see  1  Come,  I  am  in  hell's  torments  till 
you  speak  the  word." 

I  did  not  speak  it,  but  I  put  my  hand  on  his  shoulder  and 
kissed  his  forehead,  and  then  burst  into  tears.  He  embraced 
me  tenderly ;  and  we  have  been  good  friends  ever  since.  He 
has  been  decently  temperate  at  table,  and  well-conducted  to- 
wards Lady  Lowborough.  The  first  day,  he  held  himself 
aloof  from  her,  as  far  as  he  could  without  any  flagrant  breach 
of  hospitality :  since  that,  he  has  been  friendly  and  civil,  but 
nothing  more — in  my  presence,  at  least,  nor,  I  think,  at  any 
other  time  ;  for  she  seems  haughty  and  displeased,  and  Lord 
Lowborough  is  manifestly  more  cheerful,  and  more  cordial  to- 
wards his  host  than  before.  But  I  shall  be  glad  when  they 
are  gone,  for  I  have  so  little  love  for  Annabella  that  it  is  quite 
a  task  to  be  civil  to  her,  and  as  she  is  the  only  woman  here 
besides  myself,  we  are  necessarily  thrown  so  much  together. 
Next  time  Mrs.  Hargrave  calls,  I  shall  hail  her  advent  as 
quite  a  relief.  I  have  a  good  mind  to  ask  Arthur's  leave  to 
invite  the  old  lady  to  stay  with  us  till  our  guests  depart.  I 
think  I  will.  She  will  take  it  as  a  kind  attention,  and,  though 
I  have  little  relish  for  her  society,  she  will  be  truly  welcome 
as  a  third  to  stand  between  Lady  Lowborough  and  me. 

The  first  time  the  latter  and  I  were  alone  together,  after 
that  unhappy  evening,  was  an  hour  or  two  after  breakfast  on 
the  following  day,  when  the  gentlemen  were  gone  out  after 
the  usual  time  spent  in  the  writing  of  letters,  the  reading  ol 
newspapers,  and  desultory  conversation.  We  sat  silent  for 


OK   V.'ILDl'ELL   HALL.  181 

two  or  three  minutes.  She  was  busy  with  her  work,  and  I  was 
running  over  the  columns  of  a  paper  from  which  I  had  ex- 
tracted all  the  pith  some  twenty  minutes  before.  It  was  a 
moment  of  painful  embarrassment  to  me,  and  I  thought  it 
must  be  infinitely  more  so  to  her ;  but  it  seems  I  was  mis- 
taken. She  was  the  first  to  speak  ;  and,  smiling  with  tho 
coolest  assurance,  she  began, — 

"  Your  husband  was  merry  last  night,  Helen:  is  he  often 
so?" 

My  blood  boiled  in  my  lace  ;  but  it  was  better  she  should 
seem  to  attribute  his  conduct  to  this  than  to  anything  else. 

"  No,"  replied  I,  u  and  never  will  be  so  again,  I  trust." 

"  You  gave  him  a  curtain  lecture,  did  you?" 

"  No  ;  but  I  told  him  I  disliked  such  conduct,  and  he  pro- 
mised me  not  to  repeat  it." 

"  I  thought  he  looked  rather  subdued  this  morning,"  she 
continued  ;  "  and  you,  Helen  ;  you've  been  weeping  1  see — 
that's  our  grand  resource,  you  know — but  doesn't  it  make 
your  eyes  smart? — and  do  you  always  find  it  to  answer?" 

"  I  never  cry  ior  etiect ;  nor  can  I  conceive  how  any  one 
can." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know :  I  never  had  occasion  to  try  it ;  but 
I  think  if  Lowborough  were  to  commit  such  improprieties, 
I'd  make  him  cry.  I  don't  wonder  at  your  being  angry,  for 
I'm  sure  I'd  give  my  husband  a  lesson  he  would  not  soon 
forget  for  a  lighter  oftence  than  that.  But  then  he  never  will 
do  anything  of  the  kind ;  lor  I  keep  him  in  too  good  order 
for  that." 

"  Are  you  sure  you  don't  arrogate  too  much  of  the  credit 
to  yourselt  ?  Lord  Lowborough  was  quite  as  remarkable  for 
his  abstemiousness  for  some  time  before  you  married  him,  as 
he  is  now,  I  have  heard." 

"  Oh,  about  the  wine  you  mean — yes,  he's  safe  enough  for 
that.  And  as  to  looking  askance  to  another  woman — he's 
safe  enough  for  that  too,  while  I  live,  for  he  worships  the  very 
ground  I  tread  on." 

"  Indeed !  and  are  you  sure  you  deserve  it  ?" 

"  Why,  as  to  that,  I  can't  say  :  you  know  we're  all  fallible 
creatures,  Helen ;  we  none  of  us  deserve  to  be  worshipped. 
But  are  you  sure  your  darling  Huntingdon  deserves  all  the 
love  you  give  to  him  ?" 

I  knew  not  what  to  answer  to  this.  I  was  burning  with 
anger  ;  but  I  suppressed  all  outward  manifestations  of  it,  and 
only  bit  my  lip  and  pretended  to  arrange  my  work. 

"At  any  rate,"  resumed  she,  pursuing  her  advantage, 
"  you  can  console  yourself  with  the  assurance  that  you  we 
worthy  of  all  the  love  he  gives  to  you." 


THE   TENANT 


"You  flatter  me,"  said  I  ;  "  but,  at  least,  I  can  try  to  be 
worthy  of  it."    And  then  I  turned  the  conversation. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

DECRMBER  25th. — Last  Christmas  I  was  a  bride,  with  a  heart 
overflowing  with  present  bliss,  and  lull  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 
\m  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  weak- 
ness 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  be- 
tween 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 


OK   WILD1-KLL   HALL.  183 

or  lofty  aspirations — a  lover  of  pleasure,  given  up  to  animal 
enjoyments  :  he  is  not  a  bad  husband,  but  his  notions  of  ma- 
trimonial 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  ab- 
sent, 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  cer- 
tain to  disagree  with  him,  and  with  me  as  a  nurse ;  the  late 
hours  and  London  habits  would  not  suit  me  under  such  cir- 
cumstances ;  and  altogether  he  assured  me  that  it  would  be 
excessively  troublesome,  injurious,  and  unsafe^  I  overruled 
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  bun- 
self  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. 


184  THE   TENANT 

"  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,  hence- 
forth, 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,  espe- 
cially 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. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

THOSE  were  four  miserable  months,  alternating  between  in- 
tense anxiety,  despair,  and  indignation ;  pity  for  him,  and 
pity  for  myself.  And  yet,  through  all,  I  was  not  wholly  com- 
fortless ;  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  here- 
after 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 


Ot    WILDFELL  HALL.  185 

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  com- 
pany 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  Ar- 
thur's affairs,  I  have  learnt  to  regard  that  as  no  trifling  recom- 
mendation ;  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  squan- 
der 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  wil- 
low 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  de- 
livered withal,  which  he  had  doubtless  concocted  as  he  rode 
along.  He  told  me  he  had  brought  a  message  from  his  mo- 
ther, 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  com- 
pany 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  com- 
plain of  solitude." 

"  Will  you  not  come  to-morrow,  then?  $he  will  be  sadly 
disappointed  if  you  refuse," 


186  THE   TENANT 

I  did  not  relish  being  thus  compassionated  for  my  loneli- 
ness ;  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,  sympathi- 
sing 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  hia 
coming  longer  than  I  expected ;  and  if,  at  present,  he  prefers 
the  society  of  his  friends  to  that  of  his  wife,  and  the  dissipa- 
tions 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 


OF   WILDFELL   HALl.  187 

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 
Jon'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  pur- 
pose ;  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  nattered  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,  1  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. 


188  THE   TENANT 

"  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  gen- 
tleman. 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  hap- 
pened to  be  at  home,  and,  when  they  called  on  me,  it  was  al- 
ways 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  sud- 
denly 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  inter- 
rupt 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  sad- 
ness 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 


OF   WILDFELL  HAI.L.  180 

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  trans- 
gression 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  sup- 
pose, 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  I"  he 
passionately  murmured. 

I  took  up  my  baby,  and,  wishing  him  good  morning,  de- 
parted, to  indulge  my  thoughts  unscrutinised,  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. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

ON  the  following  morning,  I  received  a  few  lines  from  him 
myself,  confirming  Hargrave's  intimations  respecting  his 
approaching  return.  And  he  did  come  next  week,  but  in 
a  condition  of  body  and  mind  even  worse  than  before.  I 
did  not,  however,  intend  to  pass  over  his  derelictions  this 
time  without  a  remark ; — I  found  it  would  not  do.  But  the 
first  day  he  was  weary  with  his  journey,  and  I  was  glad 
to  get  him  ba,ck:  I  would  not  upbraid  him  then;  I  would 
wait  till  to-morrow.  Next  morning  he  was  weary  still : 
I  would  wait  a  little  longer.  But  at  dinner,  when,  after 
breakfasting  at  twelve  o'clock  on  a  bottle  of  soda-water 
and  a  cup  of  strong  coffee,  and  lunching  at  two  on  another 
bottle  of  soda-water  mingled  with  brandy,  he  was  finding 
fault  with  everything  on  the  table,  and  declaring  we  must 
change  our  cook — I  thought  the  time  was  come. 

"  It  is  the  same  cook  as  we  had  before  you  went,  Arthur," 
said  I.  "  You  were  gencrallypretty  well  satisfied  with  her  then." 


190  THE   TENANT 

"  You  must  have  been  letting  her  get  into  slovenly  habits 
Jhen,  while  I  was  away.  It  is  enough  to  poison  one,  eating 
such  a  disgusting  mess ! "  And  he  pettishly  pushed  away 
his  plate,  and  leant  back  despairingly  in  his  chair. 

"I  think  it  is  you  that  are  changed,  not  she,"  said  I,  but 
with  the  utmost  gentleness,  for  I  did  not  wish  to  irritate  him. 

"  It  may  be  so,"  he  replied  carelessly,  as  he  seized  a  tum- 
bler of  wine  and  water,  adding,  when  he  had  tossed  it  off, 
"  for  I  have  an  infernal  fire  in  my  veins,  that  all  the  waters  of 
the  ocean  cannot  quench  !" 

"  What  kindled  it?"  I  was  about  to  ask,  but  at  that  moment 
the  butler  entered  and  began  to  take  away  the  things. 

"  Be  quick,  Benson ;  do  have  done  with  that  infernal 
clatter!"  cried  his  master.  "And  don't  bring  the  cheese, 
unless  you  want  to  make  me  sick  outright!" 

Benson,  in  some  surprise,  removed  the  cheese,  and  did  his 
best  to  effect  a  quiet  and  speedy  clearance  of  the  rest,  but, 
unfortunately,  there  was  a  rumple  in  the  carpet,  caused  by 
the  hasty  pushing  back  of  his  master's  chair,  at  which  he 
tripped  and  stumbled,  causing  a  rather  alarming  concussion 
with  the  trayful  of  crockery  in  his  hands,  but  no  positive 
damage,  save  the  fall  and  breaking  of  a  sauce  tureen  ;  but,  to 
my  unspeakable  shame  and  dismay,  Arthur  turned  furiously 
around  upon  him,  and  swore  at  him  with  savage  coarseness. 
The  poor  man  turned  pale,  and  visibly  trembled  as  he  stooped 
to  pick  up  the  fragments. 

"  He  couldn't  help  it,  Arthur,"  said  I ;  "  the  carpet  caught 
his  foot,  and  there's  no  great  harm  done.  Never  mind  the 
pieces  now,  Benson,  you  can  clear  them  away  afterwards." 

Glad  to  be  released,  Benson  expeditiously  set  out  the 
dessert  and  withdrew. 

"  What  could  you  mean,  Helen,  bj  taking  the  servant's 
part  against  me,"  said  Arthur,  as  soon  as  the  door  was  closed.; 
"when  you  knew  I  was  distracted?" 

"  I  did  not  know  you  were  distracted,  Arthur,  and  the  poor 
man  was  quite  frightened  and  hurt  at  your  sudden  ex- 
plosion." 

"  Poor  man,  indeed  !  and  do  you  think  I  could  stop  to  con- 
sider the  feelings  of  an  insensate  brute  like  that,  when  my 
own  nerves  were  racked  and  torn  to  pieces  by  his  confounded 
blunders?" 

"  I  never  heard  you  complain  of  your  nerves  before." 

"And  why  shouldn't  I  have  nerves  as  well  as  you?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  dispute  your  claim  to  their  possession,  but  I 
never  complain  of  mine.*" 

"  No — how  should  vou,  when  you  never  do  anything  to  try 
them?" 


OF   YVILDFELL   IIAI.L.  191 

"Then  why  do  you  try  yours,  Arthur?" 
.  "  Do  you  think  I  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  stay  at  home 
and  take  care  of  myself  like  a  woman?" 

"  Is  it  impossible,  then,  to  take  care  of  yourself  like  a  man 
when  you  go  abroad  ?  Yon  told  me  that  you  could — and 
would  too;  and  you  promised " 

"  Come,  come,  Helen,  don't  begin  with  that  nonsense  now ; 
I  can't  bear  it." 

"  Can't  bear  what? — to  be  reminded  of  the  promises  you 
have  broken?" 

"  Helen,  you  are  cruel.  If  you  knew  how  my  heart 
throbbed,  and  how  every  nerve  thrilled  through  me  while 
you  spoke,  you  would  spare  me.  You  can  pity  a  dolt  of  a 
servant  for  breaking  a  dish  ;  but  you  have  no  compassion  for 
me,  when  my  head  is  split  in  two  and  all  on  fire  with  this 
consuming  lever." 

He  leant  his  head  on  his  hand,  and  sighed.  I  went  to  him 
and  put  my  hand  on  his  forehead.  It  was  burning  indeed. 

"  Then  come  with  me  into  the  drawing-room,  Arthur;  and 
don't  take  any  more  wine ;  you  have  taken  several  glasses 
since  dinner,  and  eaten  next  to  nothing  all  the  day.  How 
can  that  make  you  better?" 

With  some  coaxing  and  persuasion,  I  got  him  to  leave  the 
table.  When  the  baby  was  brought  I  tried  to  amuse  him 
with  that ;  but  poor  little  Arthur  was  cutting  his  teeth,  and 
his  father  could  not  bear  his  complaints  ;  sentence  of  imme- 
diate banishment  was  passed  upon  him  on  the  first  indication 
of  fretfulness ;  and  because,  in  the  course  of  the  evening,  I 
went  to  share  his  exile  for  a  little  while,  I  was  reproached,  on 
my  return,  for  preferring  my  child  to  my  husband.  I  found 
the  latter  reclining  on  the  sofa  just  as  I  had  left  him. 

"Well !"  exclaimed  the  injured  man,  in  a  tone  of  pseudo- 
resignation.  "  I  thought  I  wouldn't  send  for  you  ;  I  thought 
I'd  just  see — how  long  it  would  please  you  to  leave  me 
aione." 

"  I  have  not  been  very  long,  have  I,  Arthur?  I  have  not 
been  an  hoiir,  I'm  sure." 

"  Oh,  of  course,  an  hour  is  nothing  to  you,  so  pleasantly 
employed  :  but  to  me " 

"  It  has  not  been  pleasantly  employed,"  interrupted  I.  "  I 
have  been  nursing  our  poor  little  baby,  who  is  very  far  from 
well,  and  I  could  not  leave  him  till  I  got  him  to  sleep." 

"Oh,  to  be  sure,  you're  overflowing  with  kindness  and 
pity  lor  everything  but  me." 

"And  why  should  I  pity  you?  what  is  the  matter  with 
you?" 

"'Well !  that  passes  everything !    After  all  the  wear  and 


192  THE   TEX  ANT 

tear  that  I've  had,  when  I  come  home  sick  and  weary,  long, 
ing  for  comfort,  and  expecting  to  find  attention  and  kindness, 
at  least,  from  my  wife, — she  calmly  asks  what  is  the  matter 
with  me!" 

"  There  is  nothing  the  matter  with  you,"  returned  I,  "  ex- 
cept what  you  have  wilfully  brought  upon  yourself  against 
my  earnest  exhortation  and  entreaty." 

"  Now,  Helen,"  said  he,  emphatically,  half  rising  from  his 
recumbent  posture,  "  if  you  bother  me  with  another  word, 
I'll  ring  the  bell  and  order  six  bottles  of  wine — and,  by 
Heaven,  I'll  drink  them  dry  before  I  stir  from  this  place !" 

I  said  no  more,  but  sat  down  before  the  table  and  drew  a 
book  towards  me. 

"Do  let  me  have  quietness  at  least!"  continued  he,  "if 
you  deny  me  every  other  comfort,"  and  sinking  back  into  his 
former  position,  with  an  impatient  expiration  between  a  sigh 
and  a  groan,  he  languidly  closed  his  eyes  as  if  to  sleep. 

What  the  book  was,  that  lay  npen  on  the  table  before  me, 
I  cannot  tell,  for  I  never  looked  at  it.  With  an  elbow  on  each 
side  of  it,  and  my  hands  clasped  before  my  eyes,  I  delivered 
myself  up  to  silent  weeping.  But  Arthur  was  not  asleep  : 
at  the  first  slight  sob,  he  raised  his  head  and  looked  round, 
impatiently  exclaiming, — 

"  What  are  you  crying  for,  Helen  ?  What  the  deuce  is  the 
matter  now?" 

"  I'm  crying  for  you,  Arthur,"  I  replied,  speedily  drying  my 
tears ;  and  starting  up,  I  threw  myself  on  my  knees  before 
him,  and,  clasping  his  nerveless  hand  between  my  own,  con- 
tinued: "  Don't  you  know  that  you  are  a  part  of  myself? 
And  do  you  think  you  can  injure  and  degrade  yourself,  and.  I 
not  feel  it?" 

"  Degrade  myself,  Helen?" 

"  Yes,  degrade  !  What  have  you  been  doing  all  this  time?" 

"  You'd  better  not  ask,"  said  he,  with  a  faint  smile. 

"And  you  had  better  not  tell;  but  you  cannot  deny  that 
you  have  degraded  yourself  miserably.  You  have  shame- 
fully wronged  yourself,  body  and  soul,  and  me  too ;  and 
I  can't  endure  it  quietly — and  I  won't ! " 

"Well,  don't  squeeze  my  hand  so  frantically,  and  don't 
agitate  me  so,  for  Heaven's  sake!  Oh,  Hattersley!  you  were 
right ;  this  woman  will  be  the  death  of  me,  with  her  keen 
feelings  and  her  interesting  force  of  character.  There,  there, 
do  spare  me  a  little." 

"  Arthur,  you  must  repent !"  cried  I,  in  a  frenzy  of  despe- 
ration, throwing  my  arms  around  him  and  burying  my  face 
in  his  bosom.  "You  shall  say  you  are  sorry  for  what  you 
toave  done!" 


OF   WlLDFELL   HALL.  193 

«  Well,  well,  I  am." 

"  You  are  not !  you'll  do  it  again." 

"  I  shall  never  live  to  do  it  again,  if  you  treat  ine  so 
savagely,"  replied  he,  pushing  me  from  him.  "  You've  nearly 
squeezed  the  breath  out  of  my  body."  He  pressed  his  hand 
to  his  heart,  and  looked  really  agitated  and  ill. 

"  Now  get  me  a  glass  of  wine,"  said  he,  "  to  remedy  what 
you've  done,  you  she  tiger!  I'm  almost  ready  to  faint." 

I  flew  to  get  the  required  remedy.  It  seemed  to  revive 
him  considerably. 

"  What  a  shame  it  is,"  said  I,  as  I  took  the  empty  glass 
from  his  hand,  "for  a  strong  young  man  like  you  to  reduce 
yourself  to  such  a  state  !" 

"  If  you  knew  all,  my  girl,  you'd  say  rather,  '  What  a 
wonder  it  is  you  can  bear  it  so  well  as  you  do!'  I've  lived 
more  in  these  four  months,  Helen,  than  you  have  in  the  whole 
course  of  your  existence,  or  will  to  the  end  of  your  clays,  if 
they  numbered  a  hundred  years;  so  I  must  expect  to  pay 
for  it  in  some  shape." 

"  You  will  have  to  pay  a  higher  price  than  you  anticipate, 
if  you  don't  take  care  :  there  will  be  the  total  loss  of  your 
own  health,  and  of  my  affection  too,  if  that  is  of  any  value 
to  you." 

"  What,  you're  at  that  game  of  threatening  me  with  the 
lo?s  of  your  affection  again,  are  you?  I  think  it  couldn't 
have  been  very  genuine  stuff  to  begin  with,  if  it's  so  easily 
demolished.  If  you  don't  mind,  my  pretty  tyrant,  you'll 
make  me  regret  my  choice  in  good  earnest,  and  envy  my 
friend  Hattersley  his  meek  little  wife  ;  she's  quite  a  pattern 
to  her  sex,  Helen.  He  had  her  with  him  in  London  all  the 
season,  and  she  was  no  trouble  at  all.  He  might  amuse  him- 
self just  as  he  pleased,  in  regular  bachelor  style,  and  she 
never  complained  of  neglect ;  he  might  come  home  at  any 
hour  of  the  night  or  morning,  or  not  come  home  at  all ; 
be  sullen,  sober,  or  glorious  drunk ;  and  play  the  fool  or  the 
madman  to  his  own  heart's  desire  without  any  fear  or  bother- 
ation. She  never  gives  him  a  word  of  reproach  or  complaint, 
do  what  he  will.  He  says  there's  not  such  a  jewel  in  all 
England,  and  swears  he  wouldn't  take  a  kingdom  for  her." 

"  But  he  makes  her  life  a  curse  to  her." 

"  Not  he  !  She  has  no  will  but  his,  and  is  always  contented 
and  happy  as  long  as  he  is  enjoying  himself." 

"  In  that  case  she  is  as  great  a  fool  as  he  is ;  but  it  is  not 
so.  I  have  several  letters  from  her,  expressing  the  greatest 
anxiety  about  his  proceedings,  and  complaining  that  you  in- 
cite him  to  commit  those  extravagances — one  especially,  in 

13 


194  THE   TENANT 

which  she  implores  me  to  use  my  influence  with  you  to  get 
you  away  from  London,  and  affirms  that  her  husband  never 
did  such  things  before  you  came,  and  would  certainly  dis- 
continue them  as  soon  as  you  departed  and  left  him  to  the 
guidance  of  his  own  good  sense." 

"  The  detestable  little  traitor !  Give  me  the  letter,  and  he 
shall  see  it  as  sure  as  I'm  a  living  man." 

"  No,  he  shall  not  see  it  without  her  consent ;  but  if  he  did, 
there  is  nothing  there  to  anger  him — nor  in  any  of  the  others. 
She  never  speaks  a  word  against  him ;  it  is  only  anxiety  for 
him  that  she  expresses.  She  only  alludes  to  his  conduct  in 
the  most  delicate  terms,  and  makes  every  excuse  for  him  that 
she  can  possibly  think  of — and  as  for  her  own  misery,  I 
rather  feel  it  than  see  it  expressed  in  her  letters." 

"  But  she  abuses  me  ;  and  no  doubt  you  helped  her." 

"  No ;  I  told  her  she  over-rated  my  influence  with  you, 
that  I  would  gladly  draw  you  away  from  the  temptations  of 
the  town  if  I  could,  but  had  little  hope  of  success,  and  that  I 
thought  she  was  wrong  in  supposing  that  you  enticed  Mr. 
Hattersley  or  any  one  else  into  error.  I  had  myself  held  the 
contrary  opinion  at  one  time,  but  I  now  believed  that  you 
mutually  corrupted  each  other ;  and,  perhaps,  if  she  used  a 
little  gentle  but  serious  remonstrance  with  her  husband,  it 
might  be  of  some  service  ;  as  though  he  was  more  rough-hewn 
than  mine,  I  believed  he  was  of  a  less  impenetrable  mate- 
rial." 

"  And  so  that  is  the  way  you  go  on — heartening  each 
other  up  to  mutiny,  and  abusing  each  other's  partners,  and 
throwing  out  implications  against  your  own,  to  the  mutual 
gratification  of  both ! " 

"  According  to  your  own  account,"  said  I,  "  my  evil  coun- 
sel has  had  but  little  effect  upon  her.  And  as  to  abuse  and  as- 
persions, we  are  both  of  us  far  too  deeply  ashamed  of  the  errors 
and  vices  of  our  other  halves,  to  make  them  the  common  sub- 
ject of  our  correspondence.  Friends  as  we  are,  we  would 
willingly  keep  your  failings  to  ourselves — even  from  ourselves 
if  we  could,  unless  by  knowing  them  we  could  deliver  you 
from  them." 

"  Well,  well !  don't  worry  me  about  them  :  you'll  never 
effect  any  good  by  that.  Have  patience  with  me,  and  bear 
with  my  languor  and  crossness  a  little  while,  till  I  get  this 
cursed  low  fever  out  of  my  veins,  and  then  you'll  find  me 
cheerful  and  kind  as  ever.  Why  can't  you  be  gentle  and 
good  as  you  were  last  time  ? — I'm  sure  1  was  very  grateful 
lor  it." 

41  And  what  good  did  your  gratitude  do  ?    I  deluded  myself 


OF  WILDFELL  HALL.  195 

With  the  idea  that  you  were  ashamed  of  your  transgressions, 
and  hoped  you  would  never  repeat  them  again ;  but  now,  you 
have  left  me  nothing  to  hope  !" 

"  My  case  is  quite  desperate,  is  it  ?  A  very  hlessed  con- 
sideration, if  it  will  only  secure  me  from  the  pain  and  worry 
of  my  dear  anxious  wife's  efforts  to  convert  me,  and  her  from 
the  toil  and  trouble  of  such  exertions,  and  her  sweet  face  and 
silver  accents  irom  the  ruinous  effects  of  the  same.  A  burst 
of  passion  is  a  fine  rousing  thing  upon  occasion,  Helen,  and  a 
flood  of  tears  is  marvellously  affecting,  but,  when  indulged 
too  often,  they  are  both  deuced  plaguy  things  for  spoiling 
one's  beauty  and  tiring  out  one's  friends." 

Thenceforth,  I  restrained  my  tears  and  passions  as  much  as 
I  could.  I  spared  him  my  exhortations  and  fruitless  efforts 
at  conversion  too,  for  I  saw  it  was  all  in  vain :  God  might 
awaken  that  heart,  supine  and  stupified  with  self-indulgence, 
and  remove  the  film  of  sensual  darkness  from  his  eyes,  but  I 
could  not.  His  injustice  and  ill-humour  towards  his  inferiors, 
who  could  not  defend  themselves,  I  still  resented  and  with- 
stood ;  but  when  I  alone  was  their  object,  as  was  frequently 
the  case,  I  endured  it  with  calm  forbearance,  except  at  times 
when  my  temper,  worn  out  by  repeated  annoyances,  or  stung 
to  distraction  by  some  new  instance  of  irrationality,  gave  way 
in  spite  of  myself,  and  exposed  me  to  the  imputations  of 
fierceness,  cruelty,  and  impatience.  I  attended  carefully  to 
his  wants  and  amusements,  but  not,  I  own,  with  the  same 
devoted  fondness  as  before,  because  I  could  not  feel  it ;  be- 
sides, I  had  now  another  claimant  on  my  time  and  care — my 
ailing  infant,  for  whose  sake  I  frequently  braved  and  suffered 
the  reproaches  and  complaints  of  his  unreasonably  exacting 
father. 

But  Arthur  is  not  naturally  a  peevish  or  irritable  man — so 
far  from  it,  that  there  was  something  almost  ludicrous  in  the 
incongruity  of  this  adventitious  fretfulness  and  nervous  irri- 
tability, rather  calculated  to  excite  laughter  than  anger,  if  it 
were  not  for  the  intensely  painful  considerations  attendant 
upon  those  symptoms  of  a  disordered  frame, — and  his  temper 
gradually  improved  as  his  bodily  health  was  restored,  which 
was  much  sooner  than  would  have  been  the  case,  but  for  my 
strenuous  exertions  ;  for  there  was  still  one  thing  about  him 
that  I  did  not  give  up  in  despair,  and  one  effort  for  his  pre- 
servation that  I  would  not  remit.  His  appetite  for  the  sti- 
mulus of  wine  had  increased  upon  him,  as  I  had  too  well 
foreseen.  It  was  now  something  more  to  him  than  an  acces- 
sary to  social  enjoyment :  it  was  an  important  source  of  en- 
joyment in  itself.  In  this  time  of  weakness  and  depression 
;ie  would  have  made  it  his  medicine  and  support,  his  com- 


196  THE  TfeNANf 

forter,  his  recreation,  and  his  friend, — and  thereby  sunk 
deeper  and  deeper — and  bound  himself  down  for  ever  in  the 
bathos  whereinto  he  had  fallen.  But  I  determined  this  should 
never  be,  as  long  as  I  had  any  influence  left ;  and  though  1 
could  not  prevent  him  from  taking  more  than  was  good  for 
him,  still,  by  incessant  perseverance,  by  kindness,  and  firm- 
ness, and  vigilance,  by  coaxing,  and  daring,  and  determina- 
tion,— I  succeeded  in  preserving  him  from  absolute  bondage 
to  that  detestable  propensity,  so  insidious  in  its  advances,  so 
inexorable  in  its  tyranny,  so  disastrous  in  its  effects. 

And  here,  I  must  not  forget  that  I  am  not  a  little  indebted 
to  his  friend,  Mr.  Hargrave.  About  that  time  he  frequently 
called  at  Grassdale,  and  often  dined  with  us,  on  which  occa- 
sions, I  fear,  Arthur  would  willingly  have  cast  prudence  and 
decorum  to  the  winds,  and  made  "  a  night  of  it,"  as  often  as 
his  friend  would  have  consented  to  join  him  in  that  exalted 
pastime  ;  and  if  the  latter  had  chosen  to  comply,  he  might,  in 
anight  or  two,  have  ruined  the  labour  of  weeks,  and  over- 
thrown with  a  touch  the  frail  bulwark  it  had  cost  me  such 
trouble  and  toil  to  construct.  I  was  so  fearful  of  this  at  first, 
that  I  humbled  myself  to  intimate  to  him  in  private,  my  ap- 
prehensions of  Arthur's  proneness  to  these  excesses,  and  to 
express  a  hope  that  he  would  not  encourage  it.  He  was 
pleased  with  this  mark  of  confidence,  and  certainly  did  not 
betray  it.  On  that  and  every  subsequent  occasion,  his  pre- 
sence served  rather  as  a  check  upon  his  host,  than  an  incite- 
ment to  further  acts  of  intemperance;  and  he  always  suc- 
ceeded in  bringing  him  from  the  dining-room  in  good  time, 
and  in  tolerably  good  condition  ;  for  it'  Arthur  disregarded 
such  intimations,  as  "  Well,  I  must  not  detain  you  from  your 
lady,"  or,  "  We  must  not  forget  that  Mrs.  Huntingdon  is 
alone,"  he  would  insist  upon  leaving  the  table  himself,  to  join 
me,  and  his  host,  however  unwillingly,  was  obliged  to  follow. 

Hence,  I  learned  to  welcome  Mr.  Hargrave  as  a  real  friend 
to  the  family,  a  harmless  companion  for  Arthur,  to  cheer  his 
spirits  and  preserve  him  from  the  tedium  of  absolute  idleness, 
and  a  total  isolation  from  all  society  but  mine,  and  a  useful 
ally  to  me.  I  could  not  but  feel  grateful  to  him  under  such 
circumstances;  and  I  did  not  scruple  to  acknowledge  my  obli- 
gation on  the  first  convenient  opportunity ;  yet,  as  I  did  so, 
my  heart  whispered  all  was  not  right,  and  brought  a  glow  to 
my  face,  which  he  heightened  by  his  steady,  serious  gaze, 
while,  by  his  manner  of  receiving  those  acknowledgments,  he 
more  than  doubled  my  misgivings.  His  high  delight  at  being 
able  to  serve  me,  was  chastened  by  sympathy  for  me  and  com- 
miseration for  himself— about,  I  know  not  what,  for  I  would 
not  stay  to  inquire,  or  suffer  him  to  unbv-rdcn  his  sorrows  to 


OF    WILDFELL  HALL.  197 

me.  His  sighs  and  intimations  of  suppressed  affliction  seemed 
to  come  from  a  full  heart ;  but  either  he  must  contrive  to  re- 
tain them  within  it,  or  breathe  them  forth  in  other  ears  than 
mine :  there  was  enough  of  confidence  between  us  already. 
It  seemed  wrong  that  there  should  exist  a  secret  understand- 
ing between  my  husband's  friend  and  me,  unknown  to  him,  of 
which  he  was  the  object.  But  my  afterthought  was,  "  If  it 
is  wrong,  surely  Arthur's  is  the  fault,  not  mine." 

And  indeed,  I  know  not  whether,  at  the  time,  it  was  not  for 
him  rather  than  myself  that  I  blushed ;  for,  since  he  and  I 
are  one,  I  so  identify  myself  with  him,  that  I  feel  his  degra- 
dation, his  failings,  and  transgressions  as  my  own ;  I  blush 
for  him,  I  fear  for  him ;  I  repent  for  him,  weep,  pray,  and 
feel  for  him  as  for  myself ;  but  I  cannot  act  for  him  ;  and 
hence,  I  must  be,  and  I  am,  debased,  contaminated  by  the 
union,  both  in  my  own  eyes,  and  in  the  actual  truth.  I  am 
so  determined  to  love  him — so  intensely  anxious  to  excuse  his 
errors,  that  I  am  continually  dwelling  upon  them,  and  labour- 
ing to  extenuate  the  loosest  of  his  principles,  and  the  worst  ot 
his  practices,  till  I  am  familiarised  with  vice,  and  almost  a 
partaker  in  his  sins.  Things  that  formerly  shocked  and  dis- 
gusted me,  now  seem  only  natural.  I  know  them  to  be  wrong, 
because  reason  and  God's  word  declare  them  to  be  so ;  but  I 
am  gradually  losing  that  instinctive  horror  and  repulsion 
which  were  given  me  by  nature,  or  instilled  into  me  by  the 
precepts  and  example  of  my  aunt.  Perhaps,  then,  I  was  too 
severe  in  my  judgments,  for  I  abhorred  the  sinner  as  well  as 
the  sin ;  now,  I  flatter  myself  I  am  more  charitable  and  con- 
siderate ;  but  am  I  not  becoming  more  indifferent  and  insen- 
sate too  ?  Fool  that  I  was,  to  dream  that  I  had  strength  and 
purity  enough  to  save  myself  and  him  !  Such  vain  presump- 
tion would  be  rightly  served,  if  I  should  perish  with  him  in 
the  gulf  from  which  I  sought  to  save  him ! — Yet,  God  pre- 
serve me  from  it ! — and  him  too.  Yes,  poor  Arthur,  I  will 
still  hope  and  pray  for  you  ;  and  though  I  write  as  if  you 
were  some  abandoned  wretch,  past  hope,  and  past  reprieve, 
it  is  only  my  anxious  fears — my  strong  desires  that  make  me 
do  so  ;  one  who  loved  you  less  would  be  less  bitter — less  dis- 
satisfied. 

His  conduct  has,  of  late,  been  what  the  world  calls  irre- 
proachable ;  but  then  I  know  his  heart  is  still  unchanged  ;~- 
and  I  know  that  spring  is  approaching,  and  deeply  dread  the 
consequences. 

As  he  began  to  recover  the  tone  and  vigour  of  his  ex- 
hausted frame,  and  with  it  something  of  his  former  impatience 
of  retirement  and  repose,  I  suggested  a  short  residence  by 
\he  sea-side,  for  his  recreation  and  further  restoration,  and 


198  THE   TENANT 

for  the  benefit  of  our  little  one  as  well.  But  no  ;  •watering" 
places  were  so  intolerably  dull — besides,  he  had  been  invited 
by  one  of  his  friends  to  spend  a  month  or  two  in  Scotland  for 
the  better  recreation  of  grouse-shooting  and  deer- stalking, 
and  had  promised  to  go. 

"  Then  you  will  leave  me  again,  Arthur?"  said  I. 

"  Yes,  dearest,  but  only  to  love  you  the  better  when  I 
come  back,  and  make  up  for  all  past  offences  and  short- 
comings ;  and  you  needn't  fear  me  this  time ;  there  are  no  temp- 
tations on  the  mountains.  And  during  my  absence  you  may 
pay  a  visit  to  Staningley,  if  you  like :  your  uncle  and  aunt 
have  long  been  wanting  us  to  go  there,  you  know  ;  but  some- 
how, there's  such  a  repulsion  between  the  good  lady  and  me, 
that  I  never  could  bring  myself  up  to  the  scratch." 

About  the  third  week  in  August,  Arthur  set  out  for  Scot- 
land, and  Mr.  Hargrave  accompanied  him  thither,  to  my 
private  satisfaction.  Shortly  after,  1,  with  little  Arthur  and 
Rachel,  went  to  Staningley,  my  dear  old  home,  which,  as  well 
as  my  dear  old  friends  its  inhabitants,  I  saw  again  with  min- 
gled feelings  of  pleasure  and  pain  so  intimately  blended  that 
I  could  scarcely  distinguish  the  one  from  the  other,  or  tell 
to  which  to  attribute  the  various  tears,  and  smiles,  and  sighs 
awakened  by  those  old  familiar  scenes,  and  tones,  and  faces. 

Arthur  did  not  come  home  till  several  weeks  after  my 
return  to  Grassdale  ;  but  I  did  not  feel  so  anxious  about  him 
now :  to  think  of  him  engaged  in  active  sports  among  the 
wild  hills  of  Scotland,  was  very  different  from  knowing  him 
to  be  immersed  amid  the  corruptions  and  temptations  of 
London.  His  letters,  now,  though  neither  long  nor  lover- 
like,  were  more  regular  than  ever  they  had  been  before  ;  and 
when  he  did  return,  to  my  great  joy  instead  of  being  worse 
than  when  he  went,  he  was  more  cheerful  and  vigorous,  and 
better  in  every  respect.  Since  that  time,  I  have  had  little 
cause  to  complain.  He  still  has  an  unfortunate  predilection 
for  the  pleasures  of.  the  table,  against  which  I  have  to 
struggle  and  watch  ;  but  he  has  begun  to  notice  his  boy,  and 
that  is  an  increasing  source  of  amusement  to  him  within  doors, 
while  his  fox-hunting  and  coursing  are  a  sufficient  occupation 
for  him  without,  when  the  ground  is  not  hardened  by  frost ; 
so  that  he  is  not  wholly  dependent  on  me  for  entertainment. 
But  it  is  now  January :  spring  is  approaching ;  and,  I  re- 
peat, I  dread  the  consequences  of  its  arrival.  That  sweet 
season,  I  once  so  joyously  welcomed  as  the  time  of  hope  and 
gladness,  awakens,  now,  far  other  anticipations  by  its  return. 


OF  WILDFELL   HALL, 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

MARCH  20th,  1824. — The  dreaded  time  is  come,  and  Arthur 
is  gone,  as  I  expected.  This  time  he  announced  it  his  inten- 
tion to  make  but  a  short  stay  in  London,  and  pass  over  to  the 
Continent,  where  he  should  probably  stay  a  few  weeks  ;  but  I 
shall  not  expect  him  till  after  the  lapse  of  many  weeks :  I 
now  know  that,  with  him,  days  signify  weeks,  and  weeks 
months. 

July  30th. — He  returned  about  three  weeks  ago,  rather 
better  in  health,  certainly,  than  before,  but  still  worse  in 
temper.  And  yet,  perhaps,  I  am  wrong :  it  is  I  that  am  less 
patient  and  forbearing.  I  am  tired  out  with  his  injustice,  his 
selfishness  and  hopeless  depravity.  I  wish  a  milder  word 
would  do  ; — I  am  no  angel,  and  my  corruption  rises  against  it. 
My  poor  father  died  last  week :  Arthur  was  vexed  to  hear  ot 
it,  because  he  saw  that  I  was  shocked  and  grieved,  and  lie 
feared  the  circumstance  would  mar  his  comfort.  When  I 
spoke  of  ordering  my  mourning,  he  exclaimed, — 

"  Oh,  I  hate  black !  But,  however,  I  suppose  you  must 
wear  it  awhile,  for  form's  sake ;  but  I  hope,  Helen,  you  won't 
think  it  your  bounden  duty  to  compose  your  face  and  man- 
ners into  conformity  with  your  funereal  garb.  Why  should 
you  sigh  and  groan,  and  I  be  made  uncomfortable  because  an 

old  gentleman  in shire,  a  perfect  stranger  to  us  both, 

lias  thought  proper  to  drink  himself  to  death?  There,  now, 
I  declare  you're  crying !  Well,  it  must  be  affectation." 

He  would  not  hear  of  my  attending  the  funeral,  or  going 
for  a  day  or  two,  to  cheer  poor  Frederick's  solitude.  It  was 
quite  unnecessary,  he  said,  and  I  was  unreasonable  to  wish  it. 
What  was  my  father  to  me?  I  had  never  seen  him,  but  once 
since  I  was  -,  baby,  and  I  well  knew  he  had  never  cared  a 
stiver  about  me  ; — and  my  brother,  too,  was  little  better  than 
a  stranger.  "  Besides,  dear  Helen,"  said  he,  embracing  me 
with  flattering  fondness,  "  I  cannot  spare  you  for  a  single 
day." 

"  Then  how  have  you  managed  without  me  these  many 
days?"  said  I. 

u  Ah  !  then  I  was  knocking  about  the  world,  now  I  am  at 
home  ;  and  home  without  you,  my  household  deity,  would  be 
intolerable." 

"  Yes,  as  long  as  I  am  necessary  to  your  comfort ;  but  you 
did  not  say  so  before,  when  you  urged  me  to  leave  you,  in 
order  that  you  might  get  away  from  your  home  without  me," 
retorted  I ;  but  before  the  words  were  well  out  of  my  mouth, 


200  THE   TENANT 

I  regretted  having  uttered  them.  It  seemed  so  heavy  a 
jharge  :  if  false,  too  gross  an  insult ;  if  true,  too  humiliating 
a  fact  to  be  thus  openly  cast  in  his  teeth.  But  I  might  have 
spared  myself  that  momentary  pang  of  self-reproach.  The  ac- 
cusation awoke  neither  shame  nor  indignation  in  him  :  he  at- 
tempted neither  denial  nor  excuse,  but  only  answered  with  a 
long,  low,  chuckling  laugh,  as  if  he  viewed  the  whole  transac- 
tion as  a  clever,  merry  jest  from  beginning  to  end.  Surely 
that  man  will  make  me  dislike  him  at  last  1 

"  Sine  as  ye  brew,  my  maiden  fair, 
Keep  mind  that  ye  maun  drink  the  yi!3." 

Yes ;  and  I  will  drink  it  to  the  very  dregs :  and  none  but 
myself  shall  know  how  bitter  I  find  it ! 

August  20th. — We  are  shaken  down  again  to  about  our 
usual  position.  Arthur  has  returned  to  nearly  his  former  con- 
dition and  habits  ;  and  I  have  found  it  my  wisest  plan  to  shut 
iny  eyes  against  the  past  and  future,  as  far  as  he,  at  least,  is 
concerned,  and  live  only  for  the  present ;  to  love  him  when  I 
can ;  to  smile  (if  possible)  when  he  smiles,  be  cheerful  when 
he  is  cheerful,  and  pleased  when  he  is  agreeable  ;  and  when 
he  is  not,  to  try  to  make  him  so — and  if  that  won't  answer,  to 
bear  with  him,  to  excuse  him,  and  forgive  him,  as  well  as  I 
can,  and  restrain  my  own  evil  passions  from  aggravating  his  ; 
and  yet,  while  I  thus  yield  and  minister  to  his  more  harmless 

Eropensities  to  self-indulgence,  to  do  all  in  my  power  to  save 
im  from  the  worse. 

But  we  shall  not  be  long  alone  together.  I  shall  shortly  be 
called  upon  to  entertain  the  same  select  body  of  friends  as  we 
had  the  autumn  before  last,  with  the  addition  of  Mr.  Hatters- 
ley  and,  at  my  special  request,  his  wife  and  child.  I  long  to 
see  Milicent — and  her  little  girl  too.  The  latter  is  now  above 
a  year  old ;  she  will  be  a  charming  playmate  for  my  little 
Arthur. 

September  30th. — Our  guests  have  been  here  a  week  or 
two ;  but  I  have  had  no  leisure  to  pass  any  comments  upon 
them  till  now.  I  cannot  get  over  my  dislike  to  Lady  Low- 
borough.  It  is  not  founded  on  mere  personal  pique ;  it  is  the 
woman  herself  that  I  dislike,  because  I  so  thoroughly  disap- 
prove of  her.  I  alwaj's  avoid  her  company  as  much  as  I  can 
without  violating  the  laws  of  hospitality ;  but  when  we  do 
speak  or  converse  together,  it  is  with  the  utmost  civility — 
even  apparent  cordiality  on  her  part ;  but  preserve  me  from 
such  cordiality !  It  is  like  handling  briar-roses  and  may- 
blossoms — bright  enough  to  the  eye,  and  outwardly  soft  to 
the  touch,  but  you  know  there  are  thorns  beneath,  and  every 
now  »nd  then  jou  feel  them  top ;  and  perhaps  resent  the 


OF  WILDFF.LL  HALL.  201 

injury  by  crushing  them  in  till  you  have  destroyed  their 
power,  though  somewhat  to  the  detriment  of  your  own 
fingers. 

Of  late,  however,  I  have  seen  nothing  in  her  conduct  to- 
wards Arthur  to  anger  or  alarm  me.  During  the  first  few 
days  I  thought  she  seemed  very  solicitous  to  win  his  admi- 
ration. Her  efforts  were  not  unnoticed  by  him  :  I  frequently 
saw  him  smiling  to  himself  at  her  artful  manoeuvres  :  but,  tc 
his  praise  be  it  spoken,  her  shafts  fell  powerless  by  his  side. 
Her  most  bewitching  smiles,  her  haughtiest  frowns  were  ever 
received  with  the  same  immutable,  careless  good-humour; 
till,  finding  he  was  indeed  impenetrable,  she  suddenly  re- 
mitted her  efforts,  and  became,  to  all  appearance,  as  perfectly 
indifferent  as  himself.  Nor  have  I  since  witnessed  any  symp- 
tom of  pique  on  his  part,  or  renewed  attempts  at  conquest 
upon  hers. 

This  is  as  it  should  be  ;  but  Arthur  never  will  let  me  be 
satisfied  with  him.  I  have  never,  for  a  single  hour  since  I 
married  him,  known  what  it  is  to  realize  that  sweet  idea,  "In 
quietness  and  confidence  shall  be  your  rest."  Those  two 
detestable  men,  Grimsby  and  Hattersley,  have  destroyed  all 
my  labour  against  his  love  of  wine.  They  encourage  him 
daily  to  overstep  the  bounds  of  moderation,  and,  not  unfre- 
quently,  to  disgrace  himself  by  positive  excess.  I  shall  not 
soon  forget  the  second  night  after  their  arrival.  Just  as  I  had 
retired  from  the  dining-room,  with  the  ladies,  before  the  door 
was  closed  upon  us,  Arthur  exclaimed, — 

"  Now  then,  my  lads,  what  say  you  to  a  regular  jollifi- 
cation ?  " 

Milicent  glanced  at  me  with  a  half-reproachful  look,  as  if  I 
could  hinder  it ;  but  her  countenance  changed  when  she  heard 
Hattersley's  voice  shouting  through  door  and  wall, — 

"I'm  your  man!  Send  for  more  wine:  here  isn't  half 
enough ! " 

We  had  scarcely  entered  the  drawing-room  before  we  were 
joined  by  Lord  Lowborough. 

"What  can  induce  you  to  come  so  soon?"  exclaimed  his 
lady,  with  a  most  ungracious  air  of  dissatisfaction. 

"  You  know  I  never  drink,  Annabella,"  replied  he, 
seriously. 

"  Well,  but  you  might  stay  with  them  a  little  :  it  looks  so 
silly  to  be  always  dangling  after  the  women  ;  I  wonder  you 
can!" 

He  reproached  her  with  a  look  of  mingled  bitterness  and 
surprise,  and,  sinking  into  a  chair,  suppressed  a  heavy  sigh, 
oit  his  pale  lips,  and  fixed  his  eyes  upon  the  floor. 

"  You  did  right  to  leave  them,  Lord  Lowborough,"  said  I. 


202  THE   TENANT 

"  I  trust  you  will  always  continue  tc  honour  us  so  early  with 
your  company.  And  if  Annabella  knew  the  value  of  true 
wisdom,  and  the  misery  of  folly  and — and  intemperance,  she 
would  not  talk  such  nonsense — even  in  jest." 

He  raised  his  eyes  while  I  spoke,  and  gravely  turned  them 
upon  me,  with  a  half-surprised,  half-abstracted  look,  and  then 
bent  them  on  his  wife. 

"  At  least,"  said  she,  "  I  know  the  value  of  a  warm  heart, 
and  a  bold,  manly  spirit." 

"  Well,  Annabella,"  said  he,  in  a  deep  and  hollow  tone, 
*'  since  my  presence  is  disagreeable  to  you,  I  will  relieve  you 
of  it." 

"Are  you  going  back  to  them,  then?"  said  she,  carelessly. 

" No,"  exclaimed  he,  with  harsh  and  startling  emphasis; 
"  I  will  not  go  back  to  them  !  And  I  will  never  stay  with 
them  one  moment  longer  than  I  think  right,  ibr  you  or  any 
other  tempter !  But  you  needn't  mind  that  ;  I  shall  never 
trouble  you  again,  by  intruding  my  company  upon  you  so  un- 
seasonably." 

He  left  the  room,  I  heard  the  hall  door  open  and  shut,  and, 
immediately  after,  on  putting  aside  the  curtain,  I  saw  him 
pacing  down  the  park,  in  the  comfortless  gloon-  of  the  damp, 
cloudy  twilight. 

"It  would  serve  you  right,  Annabella,"  said  I,  at  length, 
"if  Lord  Lowborough  were  to  return  to  his  old  habits,  which 
had  so  nearly  effected  his  ruin,  and  which  it  cost  him  such  an 
effort  to  break:  you  would  then  see  cause  to  repent  such 
conduct  as  this." 

"  Not  at  all,  my  dear !  I  should  not  mind,  if  his  lordship 
were  to  see  fit  to  intoxicate  himself  every  day :  I  should  only 
the  sooner  be  rid  of  him." 

"Oh,  Annabella!"  cried  Milicent.  "How  can  you  say 
such  wicked  things!  It  would,  indeed,  be  a  just  punishment, 
as  far  as  you  are  concerned,  if  Providence  should  take  you  at 
your  word,  and  make  you  feel  what  others  feel  that —  •"  She 
paused  as  a  suddenburst  of  loud  talking  and  laughter  reached 
us  from  the  dining-room,  in  which  the  voice  of  Hattersley  waa 
pre-eminently  conspicuous,  even  to  my  unpractised  ear. 

"What  you  feel  at  this  moment,  I  suppose?"  said  Lady 
Lowborough,  with  a  malicious  smile,  fixing  her  eyes  upon  her 
cousin's  distressed  countenance. 

The  latter  offered  no  reply,  but  averted  her  face  and  brushed 
away  a  tear.  At  that  moment  the  door  opened  and  admitted 
Mr.  Hargrave ;  just  a  little  flushed,  his  dark  eyes  sparkling 
with  unwonted  vivacity. 

"  Oh,  I'm  glad  you're  come,  Walter  ! "  cried  his  Bister — 
M  But  I  wish  you  could  have  got  Ralph  to  come  too." 


OP   WILDFELL  HALL.  203 

"  Utterly  impossible,  dear  Milicent,"  replied  he,  gaily.  "  I 
had  much  ado  to  get  away  myself,  llalph  attempted  to  keep 
me  by  violence  ;  Huntingdon  threatened  me  with  the  eternal 
loss  of  his  friendship ;  and  Grimsby,  worse  than  all,  endea^ 
voured  to  make  me  ashamed  of  my  virtue,  by  such  galling 
sarcasms  and  innuendos  as  he  knew  would  wound  me  the 
most.  So  you  see,  ladies,  you  ought  to  make  me  welcome 
when  I  have  braved  and  suffered  so  much  for  the  favour  of 
your  sweet  society.  He  smilingly  turned  to  me  and  bowed 
as  he  finished  the  sentence. 

"  Isn't  he  handsome  now,  Helen!"  whispered  Milicent,  her 
sisterly  pride  overcoming,  for  the  moment,  all  other  consi- 
derations. 

"  He  would  be,"  I  returned,  "  if  that  brilliance  of  eye,  and 
lip,  and  cheek  were  natural  to  him ;  but  look  again,  a  few 
hours  hence." 

Here  the  gentleman  took  a  seat  near  me  at  the  table,  and 
petitioned  for  a  cup  of  coffee. 

"  I  consider  this  an  apt  illustration  of  Heaven  taken  by 
storm,"  said  he,  as  I  handed  one  to  him.  "  I  am  in  paradise 
now ;  but  I  have  fought  my  way  through  flood  and  fire  to 
win  it.  Ralph  Hattersley's  last  resource  was  to  set  his  back 
ngainst  the  door,  and  swear  I  should  find  no  passage  but 
through  his  body  (a  pretty  substantial  one  too).  Happily, 
however,  that  was  not  the  only  door,  and  I  effected  my 
escape  by  the  side  entrance,  through  the  butler's  pantry,  to  the 
infinite  amazement  of  Benson,  who  was  cleaning  the  plate." 

Mr.  Hargrave  laughed,  and  so  did  his  cousin ;  but  his 
sister  and  I  remained  silent  and  grave. 

"  Pardon  my  levity,  Mrs.  Huntingdon,"  murmured  he, 
more  seriously,  as  he  raised  his  eyes  to  my  face.  "  You  are 
not  used  to  these  things :  you  suffer  them  to  affect  your  deli- 
cate mind  too  sensibly.  But  I  thought  of  you  in  the  midst  of 
those  lawless  roisterers  ;  and  I  endeavoured  to  persuade  Mr. 
Huntingdon  to  think  of  you  too ;  but  to  no  purpose  :  I  fear 
he  is  fully  determined  to  enjoy  himself  this  night ;  and  it  will 
be  no  use  keeping  the  coffee  waiting  for  him  or  his  com- 
panions ;  it  will  be  much  if  they  join  us  at  tea.  Meantime,  I 
earnestly  wish  I  could  banish  the  thoughts  of  them  from  your 
mind — and  my  own  too,  for  I  hate  to  think  of  them — yes — 
even  of  my  dear  friend  Huntingdon,  when  I  consider  the 
power  he  possesses  over  the  happiness  of  one  so  immeasurably 
superior  to  himself,  and  the  use  he  makes  of  it— I  positively 
detest  the  man!" 

"  You  had  better  not  say  so  to  me,  then,"  said  I ;  "  for,  bad 
as  he  is,  he  is  part  of  myself,  and  you  cannot  abuse  him  with- 
out offending  me." 


204  THE  TENANT 

"Pardon  me,  then,  for  I  would  sooner  die  than  offend  you. 
But  let  us  say  no  more  of  him  for  the  present,  if  you  please." 

At  last  they  came  ;  but  not  till  after  ten,  when  tea,  which  had 
been  delayed  for  more  than  half  an  hour,  was  nearly  over. 
Much  as  I  had  longed  for  their  coming,  my  heart  failed  me 
at  the  riotous  uproar  of  their  approach  ;  and  Milicent  turned 
pale  and  almost  started  from  her  seat  as  Mr.  Hattersley  burst 
into  the  room  with  a  clamorous  volley  of  oaths  in  his  mouth, 
which  Hargrave  endeavoured  to  check  by  entreating  him  to 
remember  the  ladies. 

"  Ah  !  you  do  well  to  remind  me  of  the  ladies,  you  dastardly 
deserter,"  cried  he,  shaking  his  formidable  fist  at  his  brother- 
in-law  ;  "  if  it  were  not  for  them,  you  well  know,  I'd  de- 
molish you  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  and  give  your  body  to 
the  fowls  of  heaven  and  the  lilies  ot  the  fields!"  Then, 
planting  a  chair  by  Lady  Lowborough's  side,  he  stationed 
himself  in  it,  and  began  to  talk  to  her,  with  a  mixture  of  ab- 
surdity and  impudence  that  seemed  rather  to  amuse  than  to 
offend  her ;  though  she  affected  to  resent  his  insolence,  and 
to  keep  him  at  bay  with  sallies  of  smart  and  spirited  repartee. 

Meantime,  Mr.  Grimsby  seated  himself  by  me,  in  the  chair 
vacated  by  Hargrave  as  they  entered,  and  gravely  stated  that 
he  would  thank  me  for  a  cup  of  tea :  and  Arthur  placed  him- 
self beside  poor  Milicent,  confidentially  pushing  his  head  into 
her  face,  and  drawing  in  closer  to  her  as  she  shrunk  away 
from  him.  He  was  not  so  noisy  as  Hattersley,  but  his  face 
*vas  exceedingly  flushed,  he  laughed  incessantly,  and  while  I 
blushed  for  all  I  saw  and  heard  of  him,  I  was  glad  that  he 
chose  to  talk  to  his  companion  in  so  low  a  tone  that  no  one 
could  hear  what  he  said  but  herself. 

"What  fools  they  are!"  drawled  Mr.  Grimsby,  who  had 
been  talking  away,  at  my  elbow,  with  sententious  gravity  all 
the  time  ;  but  I  had  been  too  much  absorbed  in  contem- 
plating the  deplorable  state  of  the  other  two — especially 
Arthur — to  attend  to  him. 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  such  nonsense  as  they  talk,  Mrs. 
Huntingdon?"  he  continued.  "I'm  quite  ashamed  of  them 
for  my  part:  they  can't  take  so  much  as  a  bottle  between 
them  without  its  getting  into  their  heads " 

"  You  are  pouring  the  cream  into  your  saucer,  Mr. 
Grimsby." 

"  Ah  !  yes,  I  see,  but  we're  almost  in  darkness  here.  liar- 
grave,  snuff  those  candles,  will  you  ?  " 

"They're  wax  ;  they  don't  require  snuffing,"  said  I. 

"  'The  light  of  the  body  is  the  eye,'"  observed  Hargrave, 
with  a  sarcastic  smile.  " '  If  thine  eye  be  single,  thy  whole 
V?dy  shall  be  full  oflight."' 


0*  WILDFELL  HAlL,  20t 

Grimsby  impulsed  him  with  a  solemn  wave  of  the  hand,  and 
then,  turning  to  me,  continued,  with  the  same  drawling  tones, 
and  strange  uncertainty  of  utterance  and  heavy  gravity  of 
aspect  as  before,  "  But,  as  I  was  saying,  Mrs.  Huntingdon,— 
they  have  no  head  at  all :  they  can't  take  halt'  a  bottle  with- 
out being  affected  some  way;  whereas  I — well,  I've  taken 
three  times  as  much  as  they  have  to-night,  and  you  see  I'm 
perfectly  steady.  Now  that  may  strike  you  as  very  singular, 
but  I  think  I  can  explain  it : — you  see  their  brains — I  men- 
tion no  names,  but  you'll  understand  to  whom  I  allude — 
their  brains  are  light  to  begin  with,  and  the  fumes  of  the 
fermented  liquor  render  them  lighter  still,  and  produce  an 
entire  light-headedness,  or  giddiness,  resulting  in  intoxica- 
tion ;  whereas  my  brains  being  composed  of  more  solid  mate- 
rials, will  absorb  a  considerable  quantity  of  this  alcoholic 
vapour  without  the  production  of  any  sensible  result " 

"  I  think  you  will  find  a  sensible  result  produced  on  that 
tea,"  interrupted  Mr.  Ilargrave,  "  by  the  quantity  of  sugar 
you  have  put  into  it.  Instead  of  your  usual  complement  ot 
one  lump  you  have  put  in  six." 

"Have  I  so?"  replied  the  philosopher,  diving  with  his 
spoon  into  the  cup,  and  bringing  up  several  half-dissolved 
pieces  in  confirmation  of  the  assertion.  "  Um  !  I  perceive. 
Thus,  Madam,  you  see  the  evil  of  absence  of  mind — of  think- 
ing too  much  while  engaged  in  the  common  concerns  of  life. 
Now,  if  I  had  had  my  wits  about  me,  like  ordinary  men,  instead 
of  within  me  like  a  philosopher,  I  should  not  have  spoiled 
this  cup  of  tea,  and  been  constrained  to  trouble  you  for 
another. 

"  That  is  the  sugar-basin,  Mr.  Grimsby.  Now  you  have 
spoiled  the  sugar  too  ;  and  I'll  thank  you  to  ring  for  some 
more — for  here  is  Lord  Lowborough,  at  last ;  and  I  hope  his 
lordship  will  condescend  to  sit  down  with  us,  such  as  we  are, 
and  allow  me  to  give  him  some  tea." 

His  lordship  gravely  bowed  in  answer  to  my  appeal,  but 
said  nothing.  Meantime,  Hargrave  volunteered  to  ring  for 
the  sugar,  while  Grimsby  lamented  his  mistake,  and  attempted 
to  prove  that  it  was  owing  to  the  shadow  of  the  urn  and  t!u 
badness  of  the  lights. 

Lord  Lowborough  had  entered  a  minute  or  two  before,  un- 
observed by  any  one  but  me,  and  had  been  standing  before  the 
door,  grimly  surveying  the  company.  He  now  stepped  up  to 
Annabella,  who  sat  with  her  back  towards  him,  with  Hat- 
tersley  still  beside  her,  though  not  now  attending  to  her, 
being  occupied  in  vociferously  abusing  and  bullying  his  host. 

4i  Well,  Aimabella,"  said  her  husband,  as   he  leant  ovei 


206  THE  TENANT 

the  back  of  her  chair,  "  which  of  these  three  '  bold,  manly 
spirits  '  would  you  have  me  to  resemble  ?  " 

"  By  heaven  and  earth,  you  shall  resemble  us  alll"  cried 
Hattersley,  starting  up  and  rudely  seizing  him  by  the  arm. 
"Hallo,  Huntingdon!"  he  shouted  —  "I've  got  him!  Come, 
man,  and  help  me  !  And  d  —  n  me  if  I  don't  make  him  drunk 
before  I  let  him  go  !  He  shall  make  up  for  all  past  delin- 
q\iencies  as  sure  as  I'm  a  living  soul  !  " 

There  followed  a  disgraceful  contest  ;  Lord  Lowborough, 
in  desperate  earnest,  and  pale  with  anger,  silently  struggling 
to  release  himself  from  the  powerful  madman  that  was  striv- 
ing to  drag  him  from  the  room.  I  attempted  to  urge  Arthur 
to  interfere  in  behalf  of  his  outraged  guest,  but  he  could  do 
nothing  but  laugh. 

"Huntingdon,  you  fool,  come  and  help  me,  can't  you!" 
cried  Hattersley,  himself  somewhat  weakened  by  his  excesses. 

"  I'm  wishing  you  God-speed,  Hattersley,"  cried  Arthur, 
"  and  aiding  you  with  my  prayers  :  I  can't  do  anything  else 
if  my  life  depended  on  it!  I'm  quite  used  up.  Oh,  ho!" 
and  leaning  back  in  his  seat,  he  clapped  his  hands  on  his  sides 
and  groaned  aloud. 

"Annabella,  give  me  a  candle  !"  said  Lowborough,  whose 
antagonist  had  now  got  him  round  the  waist  and  was  endea- 
vouring to  root  him  from  the  door-post  to  which  he  madly 
clung  with  all  the  energy  of  desperation. 

"I  shall  take  no  part  in  your  rude  sports!"  replied  the 
lady,  coldly  drawing  back,  "  I  wonder  you  can  expect  it." 

But  I  snatched  up  a  candle  and  brought  it  to  him.  He 
took  it  and  held  the  flame  to  Hattersley's  hands  till,  roaring 
like  a  wild  beast,  the  latter  unclasped  them  and  let  him 
go.  He  vanished,  I  suppose  to  his  own  apartment,  for  no- 
thing more  was  seen  of  him  till  the  morning.  Swearing  and 
cursing  like  a  maniac,  Ilattersley  threw  himselt  on  to  the 
ottoman  beside  the  window.  The  door  being  now  free,  Mili- 
cent  attempted  to  make  her  escape  from  the  scene  of  her  hus- 
band's disgrace  ;  but  he  called  her  back,  and  insisted  upon 
her  coming  to  him. 

"  What  do  jrou  want,  Ralph  ?  "  murmured  she,  reluctantly 
approaching  him. 

"I  want  to  know  what's  the  matter  with  you,"  said  he, 
ulling  her  on  to  his  knee  like  a  child.  "  What  arc  you  crying 

,  MilicentP-Tellme!" 

"  I'm  not  crying." 

"  You  are,"  persisted  he,  rudely  pulling  her  hands  from 
her  face.  "  How  dare  you  tell  such  a  lie  V  " 

"  I'm  not  crying  now,"  pleaded  she. 


pul 
for 


OF   W1LDFELL  HALL.  207 

"But  you  have  been — and  just  this  minute  too  ;  and  I  will 
know  what  for.  Come  now,  you  shall  tell  me  ! " 

"  Do  let  me  alone,  Ralph  !  remember,  we  are  not  at  home." 

"No  matter:  you  shall  answer  my  question!"  exclaimed 
her  tormentor  ;  and  he  attempted  to  extort  the  confession  by 
shaking  her,  and  remorsely  crushing  her  slight  arms  in  the 
gripe  of  his  powerful  fingers. 

"  Don't  let  him  treat  your  sister  in  that  way,"  said  I  to 
Mr.  Ilargrave. 

"  Come  now,  Hattersley,  I  can't  allow  that,"  said  that 
gentleman,  stepping  up  to  the  ill-assorted  couple.  "  Let 
my  sister  alone,  if  you  please."  And  he  made  an  effort  to 
unclasp  the  ruffian's  fingers  from  her  arm,  but  was  suddenly 
driven  backward,  and  nearly  laid  upon  the  floor  by  a  violent 
blow  in  the  chest  accompanied  with  the  admonition, 

"Take  that  for  your  insolence  ! — and  learn  to  interfere  be- 
tween me  and  mine  again." 

"If  you  were  not  drunk,  I'd  have  satisfaction  for  that!" 
gasped  Hargrave,  white  and  breathless  as  much  from  passion 
as  from  the  immediate  effects  of  the  blow. 

"  Go  to  the  devil !"  responded  his  brother-in-law.  "Now, 
Milicent,  tell  me  what  you  were  crying  for." 

"I'll  tell  you  some  other  time,"  murmured  she,  "when 
we  are  alone." 

"  Tell  me  now !"  said  he,  with  another  shake  and  a  squeeze 
that  made  her  draw  in  her  breath  and  bite  her  lip  to  suppress 
a  cry  of  pain. 

"  I'll  tell  you,  Mr.  Hattersley,"  said  I.  "  She  was  crying 
from  pure  shame  and  humiliation  for  you  ;  because  she  could 
not  bear  to  see  you  conduct  yourself  so  disgracefully." 

"Confound  you,  Madam!"  muttered  he,  with  a  stare  of 
stupid  amazement  at  my  *  impudence.'  "  It  was  not  that — 
was  it,  Milicent?" 

She  was  silent. 

"  Come,  speak  up,  child!" 

"  I  can't  tell  now,"  sobbed  she. 

"  But  you  can  say  'yes '  or  *  no  *  as  well  as  '  I  can't  tell ' 
—Come!" 

"  Yes,"  she  whispered,  hanging  her  head,  and  blushing  at 
the  awful  acknowledgment. 

"Curse  you  for  an  impertinent  hussy,  then!"  cried  he, 
throwing  her  from  him  with  such  violence  that  she  fell  on  her 
side ;  but  she  was  up  again  before  either  I  or  her  brother 
could  come  to  her  assistance,  and  made  the  best  of  her  way  out 
of  the  room,  and,  I  suppose,  up  stairs,  without  loss  of  time. 

The  next  object  of  assault  was  Arthur,  who  sat  opposite, 
and  had,  no  doubt,  richly  enjoyed  the  whole  xene. 


208  IftE   TENANT 

"  Now,  Huntingdon,"  exclaimed  his  irascible  friend,  "  I 
will  not  have  you  sitting  there,  and  laughing  like  an  idiot ! " 

"  Oh,  Hattersley  !"  cried  he,  wiping  his  swimming  eyes — 
"  you'll  be  the  death  of  me." 

"  Yes,  I  will,  but  not  as  you  suppose :  I'll  have  the  heart 
out  of  your  body,  man,  if  you  irritate  me  with  any  more  of 
that  imbecile  laughter  ! — What !  are  you  at  it  yet  ? — There  J 
see  if  that'll  settle  you!"  cried  Hattersley,  snatching  up  a 
footstool  and  hurling  it  at  the  head  of  his  host ;  but  he  missed 
his  aim,  and  the  latter  still  sat  collapsed  and  quaking  with 
feeble  laughter,  with  the  tears  running  down  his  face  ;  a  de- 
plorable spectacle  indeed. 

Hattersley  tried  cursing  and  swearing,  but  it  would  not  do  ; 
he  then  took  a  number  of  books  from  the  table  beside  him, 
and  threw  them,  one  by  one,  at  the  object  of  his  wrath,  but 
Arthur  only  laughed  the  more ;  and,  finally,  Hattersley 
rushed  upon  him  in  a  phrenzy,  and,  seizing  him  by  the  shoul- 
ders, gave  him  a  violent  shaking,  under  which  he  laughed, 
and  shrieked  alarmingly.  But  I  saw  no  more  :  I  thought  I 
had  witnessed  enough  of  my  husband's  degradation  ;  and, 
leaving  Annabella  and  the  rest  to  follow  when  they  pleased,  1 
withdrew,  but  not  to  bed.  Dismissing  Rachel  to  her  rest,  I 
walked  up  and  down  my  room,  in  an  agony  of  misery,  for 
what  had  been  done,  and  suspense,  not  knowing  what  might 
further  happen,  or  how,  or  when,  that  unhappy  creature 
would  come  up  to  bed. 

At  last  he  came,  slowly  and  stumblingly,  ascending  the 
stairs,  supported  by  Grimsby  and  Hattersley,  who  neither  of 
them  walked  quite  steadily  themselves,  but  were  both  laugh- 
ing and  joking  at  him,  and  making  noise  enough  for  all  the 
servants  to  hear.  He  himself  was  no  longer  laughing  now, 
but  sick  and  stupid.  I  will  write  no  more  about  that. 

Such  disgraceful  scenes  (or  nearly  such)  have  been  repeated 
more  than  once.  I  don't  say  much  to  Arthur  about  it,  for,  if 
I  did,  it  would  do  more  harm  than  good  ;  but  I  let  him  know, 
that  I  intensely  dislike  such  exhibitions  ;  and  each  time  he 
has  promised  they  should  never  again  be  repeated  ;  but  I  fear 
he  is  losing  the  little  self-command  and  self-respect  he  once 
possessed  :  formerly,  he  would  have  been  ashamed  to  act  thus 
— at  least,  before  any  other  witnesses  than  his  boon  compa- 
nions, or  such  as  they.  His  friend,  Hargrave,  with  a  prudence 
and  self-government  that  I  envy  for  him,  never  disgraces 
himself  by  taking  more  than  sufficient  to  render  him  a  little 
1  elevated,'  and  is  always  the  first  to  leave  the  table,  afterLord 
Lowborough,  who,  wiser  still,  perseveres  in  vacating  the 
dining-room  immediately  after  us :  but  never  once,  since  Anna- 
belia  offended  him  BO  deeply,  has  he  entered  the  drawing- 


OF   WILDFELL  HALL.  209 

room  before  the  rest;  always  spending  the  interim  in  the 
library,  which  I  take  care  to  have  lighted  for  his  accommoda- 
tion ;  or,  on  fine  moonlight  nights,  in  roaming  about  the 
grounds.  But  I  think  she  regrets  her  misconduct,  for  she  has 
never  repeated  it  since,  and  of  late  she  has  comported  herself 
with  wonderful  propriety  towards  him,  treating  him  with  more 
uniform  kindness  and  consideration  than  ever  I  have  observed 
her  to  do  before.  I  date  the  time  of  this  improvement  from 
the  period  when  she  ceased  to  hope  and  strive  for  Arthur'i 
admiration. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

OCTOBER  5th. — Esther  Hargrave  is  getting  a  fine  girl.  She  is 
not  out  of  the  school-room  yet,  but  her  mother  frequently 
brings  her  over  to  call  in  the  mornings  when  the  gentlemen 
are  out,  and  sometimes  she  spends  an  hour  or  two  in  company 
with  her  sister  and  me,  and  the  children ;  and  when  we  go  to 
the  Grove,  I  always  contrive  to  see  her,  and  talk  more  to  her 
than  to  any  one  else,  for  I  am  very  much  attached  to  my  little 
friend,  and  so  is  she  to  me.  I  wonder  what  she  can  see 
to  like  in  me  though,  for  I  am  no  longer  the  happy,  lively 
girl  I  used  to  be  ;  but  she  has  no  other  society — save  that  of 
her  uncongenial  mother,  and  her  governess  (as  artificial  and 
conventional  a  person  as  that  prudent  mother  could  procure  to 
rectify  the  pupil's  natural  qualities),  and,  now  and  then,  her 
subdued,  quiet  sister.  I  often  wonder  what  will  be  her  lot  in 
life — and  so  does  she  ;  but  her  speculations  on  the  future  are 
full  of  buoyant  hope — so  were  mine  once.  I  shudder  to 
think  of  her  being  awakened,  like  me,  to  a  sense  of  their  delu- 
sive vanity.  It  seems  as  if  I  should  feel  her  disappointment, 
even  more  deeply  than  my  own.  I  feel,  almost,  as  if  I  were 
born  for  such  a  fate,  but  she  is  so  joyous  and  fresh,  so  light 
of  heart  and  free  of  spirit,  and  so  guileless  and  unsuspecting 
too.  Oh,  it  would  be  cruel  to  make  her  feel  as  I  feel  now, 
and  know  what  I  have  known  ! 

Her  sister  trembles  for  her  too.  Yesterday  morning,  one  of 
October's  brightest,  loveliest  days,  Milicent  and  I  were  in  the 
garden  enjoying  a  brief  half  hour  together  with  our  children, 
while  Annabella  was  lying  on  the  drawing-room  sofa,  deep  in 
the  last  new  novel.  We  had  been  romping  with  the  little 
creatures,  almost  as  merry  and  wild  as  themselves,  and  now 
paused  in  the  shade  of  the  tall  copper  beech,  to  recover 
breath  and  rectify  our  hair,  disordered  by  the  rough  play  and 
the  frolicsome  breeze — while  they  toddled  together  along  the 
broad,  sunny  walk ;  my  Arthur  supporting  the  feebler  steps 


210  THE   TENANT 

of  her  little  Helen,  and  sagaciously  pointing  out  to  her  the 
brightest  beauties  of  the  border  as  they  passed,  with  semi- 
articulate  prattle,  that  did  as  well  for  her  as  any  other  mode 
of  discourse.  From  laughing  at  the  pretty  sight,  we  began  to 
talk  of  the  children's  future  life ;  and  that  made  us  thought- 
ful. We  both  relapsed  into  silent  musing  as  we  slowly  pro- 
ceeded up  the  walk ;  and  I  suppose  Milicent,  by  a  train  of 
associations,  was  led  to  think  of  her  sister. 

"  Helen,"  said  she,  "you  often  see  Esther,  don't  you?" 

"  Not  very  often." 

"  But  you  have  more  frequent  opportunities  of  meeting 
her  than  I  have  ;  and  she  loves  you,  I  kno  v,  and  reverences 
you  too ;  there  is  nobody's  opinion  she  thinks  so  much  of; 
and  she  says  you  have  more  sense  than  mamma." 

"  That  is  because  she  is  self-willed,  and  my  opinions  more 
generally  coincide  with  her  own  than  your  mamma's.  But 
what  then,  Milicent?" 

"  Well,  since  you  have  so  much  influence  with  her,  I  wish 
you  would  seriously  impress  it  upon  her,  never,  on  any 
account,  or  for  anybody's  persuasion,  to  marry  for  the  sake 
of  money,  or  rank,  or  establishment,  or  any  earthly  thing, 
but  true  affection  and  well-grounded  esteem." 

44  There  is  no  necessity  for  that,"  said  I,  "  for  we  have  had 
some  discourse  on  that  subject  already,  and  I  assure  you  her 
ideas  of  love  and  matrimony  are  as  romantic  as  any  one  could 
desire." 

44  But  romantic  notions  will  not  do :  I  want  her  to  have 
true  notions." 

44  Very  right ;  but  in  my  judgment,  what  the  world  stigma- 
tises as  romantic,  is  often  more  nearly  allied  to  the  truth  than 
is  commonly  supposed ;  for,  if  the  generous  ideas  of  youth 
are  too  often  overclouded  by  the  sordid  views  of  after-life, 
that  scarcely  proves  them  to  be  false." 

44  Well,  but  if  you  think  her  ideas  are  what  they  ought  to 
be,  strengthen  them,  will  you  ?  and  confirm  them,  as  far  as 

you  can;  for  I  had  romantic  notions  once,  and 1  don't 

mean  to  say  that  I  regret  my  lot,  for  I  am  quite  sure  I  don't — 
but " 

14 1  understand  you,"  said  I ;  "  you  are  contented  for  your- 
self, but  you  would  not  have  your  sister  to  suffer  the  same  as 
you." 

44  No — or  worse.  She  might  have  far  worse  to  suffer  than 
I — for  I  am  really  contented,  Helen,  though  you  mayn't  think 
it :  I  speak  the  solemn  truth  in  saying  tbat  I  would  not 
exchange  my  husband  for  any  man  on  earth,  if  I  might  do  it 
by  the  plucking  of  this  leaf." 

44  Well,  I  believe  you :  now  that  you  have  hi«»  you  would 


OF   WILDFELL  HALL.  211 

not  exchange  him  for  another ;  but  then  you  would  gladly  ex- 
change some  of  his  qualities  for  those  of  better  men." 

"  Yes  ;  just  as  I  would  gladly  exchange  some  of  my  own 
qualities  for  those  of  better  women  ;  for  neither  he  nor  I  are 
perfect,  and  I  desire  his  improvement  as  earnestly  as  my  own. 
And  he  will  improve — don't  you  think  so,  Helen  ? — he's  only 
six  and  twenty  yet." 

"  He  may,"  I  answered. 

"  He  will — he  WILL  !"  repeated  she. 

"Excuse  the  faintness  of  my  acquiescence,  Milicent;  I 
would  not  discourage  your  hopes  for  the  world,  but  mine  have 
been  so  often  disappointed,  that  I  am  become  as  cold  and 
doubtful  in  my  expectations  as  the  flattest  of  octogenarians." 

"  And  yet  you  do  hope,  still — even  for  Mr.  Huntingdon  ?  " 

"  I  do,  I  confess — '  even '  for  him  ;  for  it  seems  as  ii  life 
and  hope  must  cease  together.  And  is  he  so  much  worse, 
Milicent,  than  Mr.  Hattersley?" 

"  Well,  to  give  you  my  candid  opinion,  I  think  there  is  no 
comparison  between  them.  But  you  musn't  be  offended, 
Helen,  for  you  know  I  always  speak  my  mind,  and  you  may 
speak  yours  too  ;  I  shan't  care." 

"  I  am  not  offended,  love  ;  and  my  opinion  is,  that  if  there 
be  a  comparison  made  between  the  two,  the  difference,  for 
the  most  part,  is  certainly  in  Hattersley's  favour." 

Milicent's  own  heart  told  her  how  much  it  cost  me  to  malic 
this  acknowledgment ;  and,  with  a  childlike  impulse,  she  ex- 
pressed her  sympathy  by  suddenly  kissing  my  cheek,  without 
a  word  of  reply,  and  then  turning  quickly  away,  caught  up 
her  baby,  and  hid  her  face  in  its  frock.  How  odd  it  is  that 
we  so  often  weep  for  each  other's  distresses,  when  we  shed 
not  a  tear  for  our  own  !  Her  heart  had  been  full  enough  of 
her  own  sorrows,  but  it  overflowed  at  the  idea  of  mine ; — and 
I,  too,  shed  teais,  at  the  sight  of  her  sympathetic  emotion, 
though  I  had  not  wept  for  myself  for  many  a  week. 

It  was  one  rainy  day  last  week ;  most  of  the  company  were 
killing  time  in  the  billiard-room,  but  Milicent  and  I  were 
with  little  Arthur  and  Helen  in  the  library,  and  between  our 
books,  our  children,  and  each  other,  we  expected  to  make  out 
a  very  agreeable  morning.  We  had  not  been  thus  secluded 
above  two  hours,  however,  when  Mr.  Hattersley  came  in,  at- 
tracted, I  suppose,  by  the  voice  of  his  child,  as  he  was  cross- 
ing the  hall,  for  he  is  prodigiously  fond  of  her,  and  she  of 
him. 

He  was  redolent  of  the  stables,  where  he  had  been  regaling 
himself  with  the  company  of  his  fellow-creatures,  the  horses, 
ever  since  breakfast.  But  that  was  no  matter  to  my  little 
namesake  :  as  soon  as  the  colossal  person  of  her  father  dark- 


212  THE  TENANT 

ened  the  door,  she  uttered  a  shrill  scream  of  delight,  and, 
quitting  her  mother's  side,  ran  crowing  towards  him  — 
balancing  her  course  with  outstretched  arms, — and,  embracing 
his  knee,  threw  back  her  head  and  laughed  in  his  face.  He 
might  well  look  smilingly  down  upon  those  small,  fair  fea- 
tures, radiant  with  innocent  mirth,  those  clear,  blue  shining 
eyes,  and  that  soft  flaxen  hair  cast  back  upon  the  little  ivory 
neck  and  shoulders.  Did  he  not  think  how  unworthy  he  was 
of  such  a  possession?  I  fear  no  such  idea  crossed  his  mind. 
He  caught  her  up,  and  there  followed  some  minutes  of  very 
rough  play,  during  which  it  is  difficult  to  say  whether  the 
father  or  the  daughter  laughed  and  shouted  the  loudest.  At 
length,  however,  the  boisterous  pastime  terminated — suddenly, 
as  might  be  expected :  the  little  one  was  hurt,  and  began 
to  cry  ;  and  the  ungentle  playfellow  tossed  it  into  its  mother's 
lap,  bidding  her  "make  all  straight."  As  happy  to  return  to 
that  gentle  comforter  as  it  had  been  to  leave  her,  the  child 
nestled  in  her  arms,  and  hushed  its  cries  in  a  moment ;  and, 
sinking  its  little  weary  head  on  her  bosom,  soon  dropped 
asleep. 

Meantime,  Mr.  Hattersley  strode  up  to  the  fire,  and,  inter- 
posing his  height  and  breadth  between  us  and  it,  stood,  with 
arms  akimbo,  expanding  his  chest,  and  gazing  round  him  as  if 
the  house  and  all  its  appurtenances  and  contents  were  his  own 
undisputed  possessions. 

"Deuced  bad  weather  this!  "he  began.  "There'll  be  no 
shooting  to-day,  I  guess."  Then,  suddenly  lifting  up  his 
voice,  he  regaled  us  with  a  few  bars  of  a  rollicking  song,  which 
abruptly  ceasing,  he  finished  the  tune  with  a  whistle,  and 
then  continued, — "  I  say,  Mrs.  Huntingdon,  what  a  fine  stud 
your  husband  has  ! — not  large,  but  good. — I've  been  looking 
at  them  a  bit  this  morning ;  and  upon  my  word,  Black  Bess, 
and  Grey  Tom,  and  that  young  Nimrod,  are  the  finest  animals 
I've  seen  for  many  a  day!"  Then  followed  a  particular  dis- 
cussion of  their  various  merits,  succeeded  by  a  sketch  of  the 
great  things  he  intended  to  do  in  the  horse-jockey  line,  when 
his  old  governor  thought  proper  to  quit  the  stage.  "Not 
that  I  wish  him  to  close  his  accounts,"  added  he ;  "  the  old 
Trojan  is  welcome  to  keep  his  books  open  as  long  as  he 
pleases  for  me." 

"  I  hope  so,  indeed,  Mr.  Hattersley." 

"  Oh  yes !  It's  only  my  way  of  talking.  The  event  must 
come  some  time,  and  so  I  look  to  the  bright  side  of  it — that's 
the  right  plan,  isn't  it,  Mrs.  H.  ?  What  are  you  two  doing 
here,  by-the-bye — where's  Lady  Lowborough  ?  " 

"  In  the  billiard-room." 

"What  a  splendid  creature  she  is!"  continued  he,  fixing 


OF   WILDFELL  HAIX.  218 

his  eyes  on  his  wife,  who  changed  colour,  and  looked  more 
and  more  disconcerted  as  he  proceeded.  What  a  noble  figure 
she  has  !  and  what  magnificent  black  eyes ;  and  what  a  fine 
spirit  of  her  own ; — and  what  a  tongue  of  her  own,  too,  when 
she  likes  to  use  it — I  perfectly  adore  her!  But  never  mind, 
Milicent :  I  wouldn't  have  her  for  my  wife — not  if  she'd 
a  kingdom  for  her  dowry  !  I'm  better  satisfied  with  the  one  I 
have.  Now  then!  what  do  you  look  so  sulky  for?  don't  you 
believe  me?" 

"  Yes,  I  believe  you,"  murmured  she,  in  a  tone  of  half  sad, 
half  sullen  resignation,  as  she  turned  away  to  stroke  the  hair 
of  her  sleeping  infant,  that  she  had  laid  on  the  sofa  beside 
her. 

"  "Well  then,  what  makes  you  so  cross  ?  Come  here,  Milly , 
and  tell  me  why  you  can't  be  satisfied  with  my  assurance." 

She  went,  and  putting  her  little  hand  within  his  arm, 
looked  up  in  his  face,  and  said  softly, — 

"  What  does  it  amount  to,  Ralph  ?  Only  to  this,  that  though 
you  admire  Annabella  so  much,  and  for  qualities  that  I  don't 
possess,  you  would  still  rather  have  me  than  her  for  your 
wife,  which  merely  proves  that  you  don't  think  it  necessary  to 
love  your  wife ;  you  are  satisfied  if  she  can  keep  your  house, 
and  take  care  of  your  child.  But  I'm  not  cross ;  I'm  only 
sorry  ;  for,"  added  she,  in  a  low,  tremulous  accent,  withdraw- 
ing her  hand  from  his  arm,  and  bending  her  looks  on  the  rug, 
"  if  you  don't  love  me,  you  don't,  and  it  can't  be  helped." 

"  Very  true  ;  but  who  told  you  I  didn't?  Did  I  say  I  loved 
Annabella?" 

"  You  said  you  adored  her." 

"  True,  but  adoration  isn't  love.  I  adore  Annabella,  but  1 
don't  love  her ;  and  I  love  thee,  Milicent,  but  I  don't  adore 
thee."  In  proof  of  his  affection,  he  clutched  a  handful  of  her 
light  brown  ringlets,  and  appeared  to  twist  them  unmer- 
cifully. 

"  Do  you  really,  Ralph  ?  "  murmured  she,  with  a  faint  smile 
beaming  through  her  tears,  just  putting  up  her  hand  to  his,  in 
token  that  he  pulled  rather  too  hard. 

"  To  be  sure  I  do,"  responded  he :  "  only  you  bother  me 
rather,  sometimes." 

"  I  bother  you !"  cried  she  in  very  natural  surprise. 

"  Yes,  you — but  only  by  your  exceeding  goodness— when  a 
boy  has  been  eating  raisins  and  sugar-plums  all  day,  he  longa 
for  a  squeeze  of  sour  orange  by  way  of  a  change.  And  did  you 
never,  Milly,  observe  the  sands  on  the  sea-shore ;  how  nice 
and  smooth  they  look,  aiid  how  soft  and  easy  they  feel  to  the 
foot  ?  But  if  you  plod  along,  for  half  an  hour,  over  this  soft, 


214  THE  TENANT 

easy  carpet — giving  way  at  every  step,  yielding  the  more  the 
harder  you  press, — you'll  find  it  rather  wearisome  work,  and 
be  glad  enough  to  come  to  a  bit  of  good,  firm  rock,  that 
won't  budge  an  inch  whether  you  stand,  walk,  or  stamp  upon 
it ;  and,  though  it  be  hard  as  the  nether  millstone,  you'll  find 
it  the  easier  footing  after  all." 

"  I  know  what  you  mean,  Ralph,"  said  she,  nervously  play- 
ing with  her  watch-guard  and  tracing  the  figure  on  the  rug 
with  the  point  of  her  tiny  foot,  "  I  know  what  you  mean,  but 
I  thought  you  always  liked  to  be  yielded  to ;  and  I  can't  alter 
now." 

"  I  do  like  it,"  replied  he,  bringing  her  to  him  by  another 
tug  at  her  hair.  "  You  mustn't  mind  my  talk,  Milly.  A  man 
must  have  something  to  grumble  about ;  and  if  he  can't  com- 
plain that  his  wife  harries  him  to  death  with  her  perversity 
and  ill-humour,  he  must  complain  that  she  wears  him  out  with 
her  kindness  and  gentleness." 

"  But  why  complain  at  all,  unless  because  you  are  tired 
and  dissatisfied  ?  " 

"  To  excuse  my  own  failings,  to  be  sure.  Do  you  think  I'll 
bear  all  the  burden  of  my  sins  on  my  own  shoulders,  as  long 
as  there's  another  ready  to  help  me,  with  none  of  her  own  to 
carry?" 

'  There  is  no  such  one  on  earth,"  said  she  seriously ;  and 
then,  taking  his  hand  from  her  head,  she  kissed  it  with  an  air 
of  genuine  devotion,  and  tripped  away  to  the  door. 

*'  What  now  ?  "  said  he.     "  Where  are  you  going  ?  " 

"To  tidy  my  hair,"  she  answered,  smiling  through  her  dis- 
ordered locks :  "you've  made  it  all  come  down." 

"  Off  with  you  then ! — An  excellent  little  woman,"  he  re- 
marked when  she  was  gone,  "  but  a  thought  too  soft — she  al- 
most melts  in  one's  hands.  I  positively  think  I  ill-use  her 
sometimes,  when  I've  taken  too  much — but  I  can't  help  it, 
for  she  never  complains,  either  at  the  time  or  after.  I  sup- 
pose she  doesn't  mind  it." 

"I  can  enlighten  you  on  that  subject,  Mr.  Hattersley," 
said  I :  "  she  does  mind  it ;  and  some  other  things  she  minds 
etill  more,  which,  yet,  you  may  never  hear  her  complain  of." 

"How  do  you  know? — does  she  complain  to  you?"  de- 
manded he,  with  a  sudden  spark  of  fury  ready  to  burst  into  a 
flame  if  I  should  answer  '  Yes.' 

"No,"  I  replied;  "but  I  have  known  her  longer  and 
studied  her  more  closely  than  you  have  done. — And  1  can  tell 
you,  Mr.  Hattersley,  that  Milicent  loves  you  more  than  you 
deserve,  and  that  you  have  it  in  your  power  to  make  her  very 
happy,  instead  of  which  you  are  her  evil  genius,  and,  I  will 


OF   WILDFELL  HALL.  215 

venture  to  say,  there  is  not  a  single  day  passes  in  which  you 
do  not  inflict  upon  her  some  pang  that  you  might  spare  her  if 
you  would." 

"  Well — it's  not  my  fault,"  said  he,  gazing  carelessly  up  at 
the  ceiling  and  plunging  his  hands  into  his  pockets :  "  if  my 
ongoings  don't  suit  her,  she  should  tell  me  so." 

"  Is  she  not  exactly  the  wife  you  wanted  ?  Did  you  not  tell 
Mr.  Huntingdon  you  must  have  one  that  would  submit  to 
anything  without  a  murmur,  and  never  blame  you,  whatever 
you  did?" 

'True,  but  we  shouldn't  always  have  what  we  want:  it 


spoils  the  best  of  us,  doesn't  it?  How  can  I  help  playing  the 
deuce  when  I  see  it's  all  one  to  her  whether  I  behave  like  a 
Christian  or  like  a  scoundrel  such  as  nature  made  me  ? — and 
how  can  I  help  teasing  her  when  she's  so  invitingly  meek  and 
mini — when  she  lies  down  like  a  spaniel  at  my  feet  and  never 
so  much  as  squeaks  to  tell  me  that's  enough?" 

"  If  you  are  a  tyrant  by  nature,  the  temptation  is  strong,  I 
allow ;  but  no  generous  mind  delights  to  oppress  the  weak, 
but  rather  to  cherish  and  protect." 

"  I  don't  oppress  her ;  but  it's  so  confounded  flat  to  be  al- 
ways cherishing  and  protecting; — and  then  how  can  I  tell 
that  I  am  oppressing  her  when  she  '  melts  away  and  makes  no 
sign?'  I  sometimes  thinks  she  has  no  feeling  at  all ;  and  then 
I  go  on  till  she  cries — and  that  satisfies  me." 

"Then  you  do  delight  to  oppress  her?" 

"  I  don't,  I  tell  you ! — only  when  I'm  in  a  bad  humour — or 
a  particularly  good  one,  and  want  to  afflict  for  the  pleasure  oi 
comforting ;  or  when  she  looks  flat  and  wants  shaking  up  a 
bit.  And  sometimes,  she  provokes  me  by  crying  for  nothing, 
and  won't  tell  me  what  it's  for ;  and  then,  I  allow,  it  enrages 
me  past  bearing — especially,  when  I'm  not  my  own  man." 

"  As  is  no  doubt  generally  the  case  on  such  occasions,"  said 
I.  "  But  in  future,  Mr.  Hattersley,  when  you  see  her  looking 
flat,  or  crying  for  'nothing'  (as  you  call  it),  ascribe  it  all  to 
yourself:  be  assured  it  is  something  you  have  done  amiss,  or 
your  general  misconduct,  that  distresses  her." 

"  I  don't  believe  it.  If  it  were,  she  should  tell  me  so  :  I 
don't  like  that  way  of  moping  and  fretting  in  silence,  and  say- 
ing nothing — it's  not  honest.  How  can  she  expect  me  to  mend 
my  ways  at  that  rate?" 

"  Perhaps  she  gives  you  credit  for  having  more  sense  than 
you  possess,  and  deludes  herself  with  the  hope  that  you  will 
one  day  see  your  own  errors  and  repair  them,  if  left  to  your 
own  reflection. 

"  None  of  your  sneers,  Mrs.  Huntingdon  I  have  the  sense 
to  see  that  I'm  not  always  quite  correct — but  sometimes  I 


216  THE  TENANT 

think  that's  no  great  matter,  as  long  as  I  injure  nobody  but 
myself " 

"  It  is  a  great  matter,"  interrupted  I,  "  both  to  yourself  (as 
you  will  hereafter  find  to  your  cost)  and  to  all  connected  with 
you — most  especially  your  wife.  But,  indeed,  it  is  nonsense  to 
talk  about  injuring  no  one  but  yourself;  it  is  impossible  to 
injure  yourself — especially  by  such  acts  as  we  allude  to — with- 
out injuring  hundreds,  if  not  thousands,  besides,  in  a  greater 
or  less  degree,  either  by  the  evil  you  do  or  the  good  you 
leave  undone." 

"And  as  I  was  saying,"  continued  he — "or  would  have 
said  if  you  hadn't  taken  me  up  so  short — I  sometimes  think  I 
should  do  better  if  I  were  joined  to  one  that  would  always 
remind  me  when  I  was  wrong,  and  give  me  a  motive  for  doing 
good  and  eschewing  evil  by  decidedly  showing  her  approval 
of  the  one,  and  disapproval  of  the  other." 

"  If  you  had  no  higher  motive  than  the  approval  of  your 
fellow  mortal,  it  would  do  you  little  good." 

"  Well,  but  if  I  had  a  mate  that  would  not  always  be  yield- 
ing, and  always  equally  kind,  but  that  would  have  the  spirit 
to  stand  at  bay  now  and  then,  and  honestly  tell  me  her  mind 
at  all  times — such  a  one  as  yourself  for  instance. — Now  if  I 
went  on  with  you  as  I  do  with  her  when  I'm  in  London,  you'd 
make  the  house  too  hot  to  hold  me  at  times,  I'll  be  sworn." 

"  You  mistake  me :  I'm  no  termagant." 

"  Well,  all  the  better  for  that,  for  I  can't  stand  contradic- 
tion— in  a  general  way — and  I'm  as  fond  of  my  own  will  as 
another  :  only  I  think  too  much  of  it  doesn't  answer  for  any 
man." 

"  Well,  I  would  never  contradict  you  without  a  cause,  but 
certainly  I  would  always  let  you  know  what  I  thought  of  your 
conduct ;  and  if  you  oppressed  me,  in  body,  mind,  or  estate, 
you  should  at  least  have  no  reason  to  suppose  '  I  didn't  mind 
it.'  " 

"  I  know  that,  my  lady ;  and  I  think  if  my  little  wife  were 
to  follow  the  same  plan  it  would  be  better  for  us  both." 

"  I'll  tell  her." 

"No,  no,  let  her  be  ;  there's  much  to  be  said  on  both  sides 
— and,  now  I  think  upon  it,  Huntingdon  often  regrets  that 
you  are  not  more  like  her — scoundrelly  dog  that  he  is — and 
you  see,  after  all,  you  can't  reform  him  :  he's  ten  times  worse 
than  I.  He's  afraid  of  you,  to  be  sure — that  is,  he's  always 
on  his  best  behaviour  in  your  presence — but " 

"  I  wonder  what  his  worst  behaviour  is  like,  then  ?  "  I  could 
not  forbear  observing. 

"  Why,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  it's  very  bad  indeed— isn't  it, 
Hargrave  ?  "  said  he,  addressing  that  gentleman,  who  had  en- 


OF  WILDFELL  HALL.  217 

tered  the  room  unperceived  by  me,  for  I  was  now  standing 
near  the  fire  with  my  back  to  the  door.  "Isn't  Hunting- 
don," he  continued,  "  as  great  a  reprobate  as  ever  was  d — d  V  " 

"  His  lady  will  not  hear  him  censured  with  impunity,"  re- 
plied Mr.  Hargrave,  coming  forward ;  "but  I  must  say,  I  thank 
God  I  am  not  such  another." 

" Perhaps  it  would  become  you  better,"  said  I,  "to  look 
at  what  you  are,  and  say,  '  God  be  merciful  to  me  a  sinner.'" 

"  You  are  severe,"  returned  he,  bowing  slightly  and  draw- 
ing himself  up  with  a  proud  yet  injured  air.  Hattersley 
laughed,  and  clapped  him  on  the  shoulder.  Moving  from 
under  his  hand  with  a  gesture  of  insulted  dignity,  Mr.  Har- 
grave took  himself  away  to  the  other  end  of  the  rug. 

"  Isn't  it  a  shame,  Mrs.  Huntingdon?"  cried  his  brother-in- 
law — "  I  struck  Walter  Hargrave  when  I  was  drunk,  the 
second  night  after  we  came,  and  he's  turned  a  cold  shoulder 
on  me  ever  since  ;  though  I  asked  his  pardon  the  very  morn- 
ing after  it  was  done ! " 

"  Your  manner  of  asking  it,"  returned  the  other,  "  and  the 
clearness  with  which  you  remembered  the  whole  transaction, 
showed  you  were  not  too  drunk  to  be  fully  conscious  of  what 
you  were  about,  and  quite  responsible  for  the  deed." 

"You  wanted  to  interfere  between  me  and  my  wife,' 
grumbled  Hattersley,  "  and  that  is  enough  to  provoke  any 
man." 

"You  justify  it,  then?"  said  his  opponent,  darting  upon 
him  a  most  vindictive  glance. 

"  No,  I  tell  you  I  wouldn't  have  done  it  if  I  hadn't  been 
under  excitement ;  and  if  you  choose  to  bear  malice  for  it 
after  all  the  handsome  things  I've  said — do  so  and  be 
d— d?" 

"  I  would  refrain  from  such  language  in  a  lady's  presence, 
at  least,"  said  Mr.  Hargrave,  hiding  his  anger  under  a  mask  of 
disgust. 

"What  have  I  said?"  returned  Hattersley.  "  Nothing  but 
Heaven's  truth — he  will  be  damned,  won't  he,  Mrs.  Hunting- 
don, if  he  doesn't  forgive  his  brother's  trespasses  ?  " 

"  You  ought  to  forgive  him,  Mr.  Hargrave,  since  he  asks 
you,"  said  I. 

"  Do  you  say  so  ?  Then  I  will ! "  And,  smiling  almost 
frankly,  he  stepped  forward  and  offered  his  hand.  It  was 
immediately  clasped  in  that  of  his  relative,  and  the  reconci- 
liation was  apparently  cordial  on  both  sides. 

"  The  affront,"  continued  Hargrave,  turning  to  me,  "  owed 
half  its  bitterness  to  the  fact  of  its  being  offered  in  your 
presence ;  and  since  you  bid  me  forgive  it,  I  will,  and  forget  it 
too." 


218  THE  TENANT 

"I  guess  the  best  return  I  can  make  will  be  to  take  my- 
self oft,"  muttered  Hattersley,  with  a  broad  grin.  His  com- 
panion smiled,  and  he  left  the  room.  This  put  me  on  my 
guard.  Mr.  Hargrave  turned  seriously  to  me,  and  earnestly 
began, — 

"Dear  Sirs.  Huntingdon,  how  I  have  longed  for,  yet 
dreaded,  this  hour  !  Do  not  be  alarmed,"  he  added,  for  my 
face  was  crimson  with  anger ;  "  I  am  not  about  to  oii'end  you 
with  any  useless  entreaties  or  complaints.  I  am  not  going  to 
presume  to  trouble  you  with  the  mention  of  my  own  feelings 
or  your  perfections,  but  I  have  something  to  reveal  to  you 
which  you  ought  to  know,  and  which,  yet,  it  pains  me  inex- 
pressibly  " 

"  Then  don't  trouble  yourself  to  reveal  it !" 

"  But  it  is  of  importance " 

"  If  so  I  shall  hear  it  soon  enough,  especially  if  it  is  bad 
news,  as  you  seem  to  consider  it.  At  present  I  am  going  to 
take  the  children  to  the  nursery." 

"  But  can't  you  ring  and  send  them?" 

"No  ;  I  want  the  exercise  of  a  run  to  the  top  of  the  house 
— come,  Arthur." 

"But  you  will  return?" 

"  Not  yet ;  don't  wait." 

"  Then  when  may  I  see  you  again  ?  " 

"  At  lunch,"  said  I,  departing  with  little  Helen  in  one  arm 
and  leading  Arthur  by  the  hand. 

He  turned  away  muttering  some  sentence  of  impatient 
censure  or  complaint,  in  which  "  heartless  "  was  the  only  dis- 
tinguishable word. 

"What  nonsense  is  this,  Mr.  Hargrave?"  said  I,  pausing 
in  the  doorway.  "  What  do  you  mean?" 

"  Oh,  nothing — I  did  not  intend  you  should  hear  my  soli 
loquy.  But  the  fact  is,  Mrs.  Huntingdon,  I  have  a  disclosure 
to  make — painful  for  me  to  offer  as  for  you  to  hear — and  I 
want  you  to  give  me  a  few  minutes  of  your  attention  in  pri> 
vate  at  any  time  and  place  you  like  to  appoint.  It  is  from  no 
selfish  motive  that  I  ask  it,  and  not  for  any  cause  that  could 
alarm  your  superhuman  purity,  therefore  you  need  not  kill 
me  with  that  look  of  cold  and  pitiless  disdain.  I  know  too 
well  the  feelings  with  which  the  bearers  of  bad  tidings  are 
commonly  regarded  not  to " 

"  What  is  this  wonderful  piece  of  intelligence  ?  "  said  I.  im- 
patiently interrupting  him.  "If  it  is  anything  of  real  import- 
ance speak  it  in  three  words  before  I  go." 

"  Ju  three  words  I  cannot.  Send  those  children  away  and 
Btay  with  me." 

"  No ;  keep  your  bad  tidings  to  yourself.     I  know  it  ii 


OF   WILDFELL   HALL.  219 

something  I  don't  want  to  hear,  and  something  you  would 
displease  me  by  telling." 

"  You  have  divined  too  truly,  I  fear,  but  still  since  I  know 
it  I  feel  it  my  duty  to  disclose  it  to  you." 

"  Oh,  spare  us  both  the  infliction,  and  I  will  exonerate  yot 
from  the  duty.  You  have  offered  to  tell ;  I  have  refused  to 
hear :  my  ignorance  will  not  be  charged  on  you." 

"  Be  it  so — you  shall  not  hear  it  from  me.  But  if  the  blow 
fall  too  suddenly  upon  you  when  it  comes,  remember  I  wished 
to  soften  it!" 

I  left  him.  I  was  determined  his  words  should  not  alarm 
me.  What  could  he  of  all  men  have  to  reveal  that  was  of 
importance  for  me  to  hear  ?  It  was  no  doubt  some  exagge- 
rated tale  about  my  unfortunate  husband  that  he  wished  to 
make  the  most  of  to  serve  his  own  bad  purposes. 

6th.— He  has  not  alluded  to  this  momentous  mystery 
since,  and  I  have  seen  no  reason  to  repent  of  my  unwilling- 
ness to  hear  it.  The  threatened  blow  has  not  been  struck 
yet,  and  I  do  not  greatly  fear  it.  At  present  I  am  pleased 
with  Arthur  :  he  has  not  positively  disgraced  himself  for  up- 
wards of  a  fortnight,  and  all  this  last  week  has  been  so  very 
moderate  in  his  indulgence  at  table  that  I  can  perceive  a 
marked  difference  in  his  general  temper  and  appearance. 
Dare  I  hope  this  will  continue  ? 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

SEVENTH. — Yes,  I  will  hope !  To-night  I  heard  Grimsby 
and  Hattersley  grumbling  together  about  the  inhospitality  ol 
their  host.  They  did  not  know  I  was  near,  for  I  happened  to 
be  standing  behind  the  curtain  in  the  bow  of  the  window, 
watching  the  moon  rising  over  the  clump  of  tall,  dark  elm- 
trees  below  the  lawn,  and  wondering  why  Arthur  was  so  sen- 
timental as  to  stand  without,  leaning  against  the  outer  pillar 
of  the  portico,  apparently  watching  it  too. 

"  So,  I  suppose  we've  seen  the  last  of  our  merry  carousals 
in  this  house,"  said  Mr.  Hattersley  ;  "  I  thought  his  good  fel- 
lowship wouldn't  last  long.  But,"  added  he,  laughing,  "  I 
didn't  expect  it  would  meet  its  end  this  way.  I  rather 
thought  our  pretty  hostess  would  be  setting  up  her  porcu- 
pine quills,  and  threatening  to  turn  us  out  of  the  house  if  we 
didn't  mind  our  manners." 

"  You  didn't  foresee  this,  then  ?"  answered  Grimsby  with  a 
guttural  chuckle.  "  But  he'll  change  again  when  he's  sick  of 
her.  If  we  come  here  a  year  or  two  hence,  we  shall  have  all 
our  own  way,  you'll  see." 


220  THE  TENANT 

"  I  don't  know,"  replied  the  other :  "  she's  not  the  style  01 
woman  you  soon  tire  of — but  be  that  as  it  may,  it's  devilish 
provoking  now  that  we  can't  be  jolly,  because  he  chooses  to  be 
on  his  good  behaviour." 

"It's  all  these  cursed  women!"  muttered  Grimsby. 
"  They're  the  very  bane  of  the  world  !  They  bring  trouble 
and  discomfort  wherever  they  come,  with  their  false,  fair  face* 
and  their  deceitful  tongues." 

At  this  juncture  I  issued  from  my  retreat,  and  smiling  on 
Mr.  Grimsby  as  I  passed,  left  the  room  and  went  out  in  search 
of  Arthur.  Having  seen  him  bend  his  course  towards  the 
shrubbery,  I  ibllowed  him  thither,  and  found  him  just  enter- 
ing the  shadowy  walk.  I  was  so  light  of  heart,  so  overflow- 
ing with  affection,  that  I  sprang  upon  him  and  clasped  him  in 
my  arms.  This  startling  conduct  had  a  singular  effect  upon 
him:  first,  he  murmured,  "Bless  you,  darling!"  and  re- 
turned my  close  embrace  with  a  fervour  like  old  times,  and 
then  he  started,  and,  in  a  tone  of  absolute  terror,  ex- 
claimed,— 

"  Helen !  What  the  devil  is  this?"  and  I  saw,  by  the  faint 
light  gleaming  through  the  overshadowing  tree,  that  he  was 
positively  pale  with  the  shock. 

How  strange  that  the  instinctive  impulse  of  affection  should 
come  first,  and  then  the  shock  of  the  surprise  !  It  shows,  at 
least,  that  the  affection  is  genuine  :  he  is  not  sick  of  me  yet. 

"  I  startled  you,  Arthur,"  said  I,  laughing  in  my  glee. 
"  How  nervous  you  are  1" 

"  What  the  deuce  did  you  do  it  for  ?  "  cried  he,  quite  testily, 
extricating  himself  from  my  arms,  and  wiping  his  ibrehead 
with  his  handkerchief.  "  Go  back,  Helen— go  back  directly  ! 
You'll  get  your  death  of  cold ! " 

"  I  won't — till  I've  told  you  what  I  came  for.  They  are 
blaming  you,  Arthur,  for  your  temperance  and  sobriety,  and 
I'm  come  to  thank  you  for  it.  They  say  it  is  all  '  these  cursed 
women,'  and  that  we  are  the  bane  of  the  world ;  but  don't  let 
them  laugh  or  grumble  you  out  of  your  good  resolutions,  or 
your  affection  for  me." 

He  laughed.  I  squeezed  him  in  my  arms  again,  and  cried 
in  tearful  earnest, — 

"  Do — do  persevere !  and  I'll  love  you  better  than  ever  I 
did  before!" 

"  Well,  well,  I  will  1 "  said  he,  hastily  kissing  me.  "  There 
now,  go.  You  mad  creature,  how  could  you  come  out  in  your 
light  evening  dress  this  chill  autumn  night?" 

"  It  is  a  glorious  night,"  said  I. 

**  It  is  a  night  that  will  give  you  your  death,  in  another 
minute.  Run  away,  do  !" 


OF   WILDFKLL  BALL.  221 

44 Do  you  see  my  death  among  those  trees,  Arthur?"  said 
I,  for  he  was  gazing  intently  at  the  shrubs,  as  if  he  saw  it 
coming,  and  I  was  reluctant  to  leave  him.  in  my  new-found 
happiness,  and  revival  of  hope  and  love.  But  he  grew  angry 
at  my  delay,  so  I  kissed  him  and  ran  back  to  the  house. 

I  was  in  such  a  good  humour  that  night :  Milicent  told  me 
I  was  the  life  of  the  party,  and  whispered  she  had  never  seen 
me  so  brilliant.  Certainly,  I  talked  enough  for  twenty,  and 
smiled  upon  them  all.  Grimsby,  Hattersley,  Hargrave,  Lady 
Lowborough — all  shared  my  sisterly  kindness.  Grimsby 
stared  and  wondered  ;  Hattersley  laughed  and  jested  (in  spite 
of  the  little  wine  he  had  been  suffered  to  imbibe),  but  still, 
behaved  as  well  as  he  knew  how ;  Hargrave  and  Annabella, 
from  different  motives  and  in  different  ways,  emulated  me,  and 
doubtless  both  surpassed  me,  the  former  in  his  discursive  ver- 
satility and  eloquence,  the  latter  in  boldness  and  animation  at 
least.  Milicent,  delighted  to  see  her  husband,  her  brother, 
and  her  over-estimated  friend  acquitting  themselves  so  well, 
was  lively  and  gay  too,  in  her  quiet  way.  Even  Lord  Low- 
borough  caught  the  general  contagion :  his  dark,  greenish 
eyes  were  lighted  up  beneath  their  moody  brows  ;  his  sombre 
countenance  was  beautified  by  smiles ;  all  traces  of  gloom, 
and  proud  or  cold  reserve  had  vanished  for  the  time  ;  and  he 
astonished  us  all,  not  only  by  his  general  cheerfulness  and  ani- 
mation, but  by  the  positive  flashes  of  true  force  and  brilliance 
he  emitted  from  time  to  time.  Arthur  did  not  talk  much,  but 
he  laughed,  and  listened  to  the  rest,  and  was  in  perfect  good- 
humour,  though  not  excited  by  wine.  So  that,  altogether  we 
made  a  very  merry,  innocent  and  entertaining  party. 

9th. — Yesterday,  when  Rachel  came  to  dress  me  for  dinner, 
I  saw  that  she  had  been  crying.  I  wanted  to  know  the  cause 
of  it,  but  she  seemed  reluctant  to  tell.  Was  she  unwell  ?  No. 
Had  she  heard  bad  news  from  her  friends  ?  No.  Had  any 
of  the  servants  vexed  her  ? 

"  Oh,  no,  ma'am!"  she  answered — "it's  not  for  myself." 

"  What  then,  Rachel  ?     Have  you  been  reading  novels  ?" 

"Bless  you,  no!"  said  she  with  a  sorrowful  shake  of  the 
head  ;  and  then  she  sighed  and  continued,  "  But  to  tell  you 
the  truth,  ma'am,  I  don't  like  master's  ways  of  going  on." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Rachel  ? — He's  going  on  very  properly 
— at  present." 

"  Well,  ma'am,  if  you  think  so,  it's  right." 

And  she  went  on  dressing  my  hair,  in  a  hurried  way,  quite 
unlike  her  usual  calm,  collected  manner, — murmuring,  half  to 
herself,  she  was  sure  it  was  beautiful  hair,  she  "  could  like  to 
eee  'em  match  it."  When  it  was  done,  she  fondly  stroked  it, 
and  gently  patted  my  head. 


^2  THE  TEXAKT 

"  Is  that  affectionate  ebullition  intended  for  my  hair,  or  my- 
self, nurse  ?  "  said  I,  laughingly  turning  round  upon  her  ;— 
but  a  tear  was  even  now  in  her  eye. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Rachel  ?' "  I  exclaimed. 

"Well,  ma'am,  I  don't  know,— but  if " 

"If  what?" 

"  Well,  if  I  was  you,  I  wouldn't  have  that  Lady  Low- 
borough  in  the  house  another  minute — not  another  minute  I 
wouldn't!" 

I  was  thunderstruck  ;  but  before  I  could  recover  from  the 
shock  sufficiently  to  demand  an  explanation,  Milicent  entered 
my  room — as  she  frequently  does,  when  she  is  dressed  before 
me  ;  and  she  stayed  with  me  till  it  was  time  to  go  down.  She 
must  have  found  me  a  very  unsociable  companion  this  time, 
for  Rachel's  last  words  rang  in  my  ears.  But  still,  I  hoped — 
I  trusted  they  had  no  foundation  but  in  some  idle  rumour  of 
the  servants  from  what  they  had  seen  in  Lady  Lowborough's 
manner  last  month ;  or  perhaps,  from  something  that  had 
passed  between  their  master  and  her  during  her  former  visit. 
At  dinner,  I  narrowly  observed  both  her  and  Arthur,  and  saw 
nothing  extraordinary  in  the  conduct  of  either — nothing  cal- 
culated to  excite  suspicion,  except  in  distrustful  minds — which 
mine  was  not,  and  therefore  I  would  not  suspect. 

Almost  immediately  after  dinner,  Annabella  went  out  with 
her  husband  to  share  his  moon-light  ramble,  for  it  was  a 
splendid  evening  like  the  last.  Mr.  Hargrave  entered  the 
drawing-room  a  little  before  the  others,  and  challenged  me  to 
a  game  of  chess.  He  did  it  without  any  of  that  sad,  but  proud 
humility  he  usually  assumes  in  addressing  me,  unless  he  is 
excited  with  wine.  I  looked  at  his  face  to  see  if  that  was  the 
case  now.  His  eye  met  mine  keenly,  but  steadily  :  there  waa 
something  about  him  I  did  not  understand,  but  he  seemed 
sober  enough.  Not  choosing  to  engage  with  him,  I  referred 
him  to  Milicent. 

"  She  plays  badly,"  said  he  ;  "I  want  to  match  my  skill 
with  yours.  Come 'now  ! — you  can't  pretend  you  are  reluc- 
tant to  lay  down  your  work — I  know  you  never  take  it  up 
except  to  pass  an  idle  hour,  when  there  is  nothing  better  you 
can  do." 

"  But  chess  players  are  so  unsociable,"  I  objected  ;  "  they 
are  no  company  for  any  but  themselves." 

"  There  is  no  one  here — but  Milicent,  and  she " 

"  Oh,  I  shall  be  delighted  to  watch  you  !"  cried  our  mutual 
friend — "Two  such  players — it  will  be  quite  a  treat  1  I 
wonder  which  will  conquer." 

I  consented. 

"  Now,  Mrs.  Huntingdon,"  said  Hargrave,  as  he  arranged 


OF  W1LDFELL  HALL.  223 

the  men  on  the  board,  speaking  distinctly,  and  with  a  peculiar 
emphasis,  as  if  he  had  a  double  meaning  to  all  his  words,  "  you 
are  a  good  player, — but  I  am  a  better  :  we  shall  have  a  long 
game,  and  you  will  give  me  some  trouble ;  but  I  can  be  as 
patient  as  you,  and,  in  the  end,  I  shall  certainly  win."  He 
fixed  his  eyes  upon  me  with  a  glance  I  did  not  like — keen, 
crafty,  bold,  and  almost  impudent ;  already  half  triumphant 
in  his  anticipated  success. 

"  I  hope  not,  Mr.  Hargrave !"  returned  I,  with  vehemence 
that  must  have  startled  JMilicent  at  least ;  but  he  only  smiled 
ind  murmured, — 

"  Time  will  show." 

We  set  to  work ;  he,  sufficiently  interested  in  the  game, 
but  calm  and  fearless  in  the  consciousness  of  superior  skill ; 
I,  intensely  eager  to  disappoint  his  expectations,  tor  I  con- 
sidered this  the  type  of  a  more  serious  contest — as  I  imagined 
he  did — and  I  felt  an  almost  superstitious  dread  of  being 
beaten  :  at  all  events,  I  could  ill  endure  that  present  success 
should  add  one  tittle  to  his  conscious  power,  (his  insolent  self- 
confidence,  I  ought  to  say,)  or  encourage,  for  a  moment,  his 
dream  of  future  conquest.  His  play  was  cautious  and  deep, 
but  I  struggled  hard  against  him.  For  some  time  the  combat 
was  doubtful;  at  length,  to  my  joy,  the  victory  seemed  inclin- 
ing to  my  side :  I  had  taken  several  of  his  best  pieces,  and 
manifestly  baffled  his  projects.  He  put  his  hand  to  his  brow 
and  paused,  in  evident  perplexity.  I  rejoiced  in  my  advan- 
tage, but  dared  not  glory  in  it  yet.  At  length,  he  lifted  his 
head,  and,  quietly  making  his  move,  looked  at  me  and  said, 
calmly, — 

"  Now,  you  think  you  will  win,  don't  you  ?  " 

"I  hope  so,"  replied  I,  taking  his  pawn  that  he  had  pushed 
into  the  way  of  my  bishop  with  so  careless  an  air  that  I 
thought  it  was  an  oversight,  but  was  not  generous  enough, 
under  the  circumstances,  to  direct  his  attention  to  it,  and  too 
heedless,  at  the  moment,  to  foresee  the  after  consequences  of 
my  move. 

"It  is  those  bishops  that  trouble  me,"  said  he  ;  "  but  the 
bold  knight  can  overleap  the  reverend  gentleman,"  taking  my 
last  bishop  with  his  knight ;  "  and,  now,  those  sacred  persons 
once  removed,  I  shall  carry  all  before  me." 

"  Oh,  Walter,  how  you  talk!"  cried  Milicent;  "she  has 
far  more  pieces  than  you  still." 

"  I  intend  to  give  you  some  trouble,  yet,"  said  I ;  "  and, 
perhaps,  sir,  you  will  find  yourself  checkmated  before  you 
are  aware.  Look  to  your  queen." 

The  combat  deepened.  The  game  was  a  long  one,  and  I 
did  give  him  some  trouble  :  but  he  was  a  better  player  than  I 


^24  THE  TENANT 

"What  keen  gamesters  you  are!"  said  Mr.  Hattersley, 
who  had  now  entered,  and  been  watching  us  for  some  time. 
"  Why,  Mrs.  Huntingdon,  your  hand  trembles  as  if  you  had 
staked  your  all  upon  it !  and  Walter — you  dog — you  look  as 
deep  and  cool  as  if  you  were  certain  of  success— and  as  keen 
and  cruel  as  if  you  would  drain  her  heart's  blood !  But  if  I 
were  you,  I  wouldn't  beat  her,  for  very  fear :  she'll  hate  you 
if  you  do — she  will,  by  Heaven  !  I  see  it  in  her  eye." 

"Hold  your  tongue,  will  you?"  said  I — his  talk  distracted 
me,  for  I  was  driven  to  extremities.  A  few  more  moves,  and 
I  was  inextricably  entangled  in  the  snare  of  my  antagonist. 

"  Check," — cried  he :  I  sought  in  agony  some  means  of 
escape — "  mate  !"  he  added,  quietly,  but  with  evident  delight. 
He  had  suspended  the  utterance  of  that  last  fatal  syllable  the 
better  to  enjoy  my  dismay.  I  was  foolishly  disconcerted  by 
the  event.  Hattersley  laughed  ;  Milicent  was  troubled  to  see 
me  so  disturbed.  Hargrave  placed  his  hand  on  mine  that 
rested  on  the  table,  and  squeezing  it  with  a  firm  but  gentle 
pressure,  murmured,  "Beaten — beaten!"  and  gazed  into  my 
face  with  a  look  where  exultation  was  blended  with  an  expres- 
sion of  ardour  and  tenderness  yet  more  insulting. 

"No,  never,  Mr.  Hargrave!"  exclaimed  J,  quickly  with- 
drawing my  hand. 

"Do  you  deny?"  replied  he,  smilingly  pointing  to  the 
board. 

"  No,  no,"  I  answered,  recollecting  how  strange  my  con- 
duct must  appear ;  "  you  have  beaten  me  in  that  game." 

"Will  you  try  another,  then?"     "No." 

"  You  acknowledge  my  superiority?" 

"  Yes — as  a  chess-player." 

I  rose  to  resume  my  work. 

"Where  is  Annabella?"  said  Hargrave,  gravely,  after 
glancing  round  the  room. 

"  Gone  out  with  Lord  Lowborough,"  answered  I,  for  he 
looked  at  me  for  a  reply. 

"And  not  yet  returned!"  he  said  seriously. 

"  I  suppose  not." 

"Where  is  Huntingdon?"  looking  round  again. 

"  Gone  out  with  Grimsby — as  you  know,"  said  Hattersley, 
suppressing  a  laugh,  which  broke  forth  as  he  concluded  the 
sentence. 

Why  did  he  laugh  ?  Why  did  Hargrave  connect  them  thus 
together  ?  Was  it  true,  then  ?  And  was  this  the  dreadful 
secret  he  had  wished  to  reveal  to  me  ?  I  must  know — and 
that  quickly.  I  instantly  rose  and  left  the  room  to  go  in 
search  of  Rachel,  and  demand  an  explanation  of  her  words  ; 
but  Mr.  Hargrave  followed  me  into  the  ante -room,  and  before 


OF    '.VILDFELL  HALL.  2_'O 

I  could  open  its  outer  door,  gently  laid  his  hand  upon  the 
lock. 

"May  I  tell  you  something,  Mrs.  Huntingdon?"  said  he, 
in  a  subdued  tone,  with  serious  downcast  eyes, 

"  If  it  be  anything  worth  hearing,"  replied  I,  struggling  to 
be  composed,  for  I  trembled  in  every  limb. 

He  quietly  pushed  a  chair  towards  me.  I  merely  leant  my 
hand  upon  it,  and  bid  him  go  on. 

"Do  not  be  alarmed,"  said  he:  "what  I  wish  to  say  is 
nothing  in  itself;  and  I  will  leave  you  to  draw  your  own 
inferences  from  it.  You  say  that  Annabella  is  not  yet  re- 
turned?" 

"Yes,  yes — go  on!"  said  I,  impatiently,  for  I  feared  my 
forced  calmness  would  leave  me  before  the  end  of  his  disclo- 
sure, whatever  it  might  be. 

"  And  you  hear,"  continued  he,  "  that  Huntingdon  is  gone 
out  with  Grimsby  ?  " 

"Well?" 

"  I  heard  the  latter  say  to  your  husband — or  the  man  who 
calls  himself  so " 

"Goon,  sir!" 

He  bowed  submissively,  and  continued,  "  I  heard  him  say, 
— '  I  shall  manage  it,  you'll  see  !  They're  gone  down  by  the 
water  ;  I  shall  meet  them  there,  and  tell  him  I  want  a  bit  of 
talk  with  him  about  some  things  that  we  needn't  trouble  the 
lady  with  ;  and  she'll  say  she  can  be  walking  back  to  the 
house ;  and  then  I  shall  apologise,  you  know,  and  all  that, 
and  tip  her  a  wink  to  take  the  vay  of  the  shrubbery.  I'll  keep 
him  talking  there,  about  those  matters  I  mentioned,  and  any- 
thing else  I  can  think  of,  as  long  as  I  can,  and  then  bring  him. 
round  the  other  way,  stopping  to  look  at  the  trees,  the  fields, 
and  anything  else  I  can  find  to  discourse  of.'  "  Mr.  Hargrave 
paused,  and  looked  at  me. 

Without  a  word  of  comment  or  further  questioning,  T  rose, 
and  darted  from  the  room  and  out  of  the  house.  The  torment 
of  suspense  was  not  to  be  endured :  I  would  not  suspect  my 
husband  falsely,  on  this  man's  accusation,  and  I  would  not 
trust  him  unworthily — I  must  know  tl  e  truth  at  once.  I  flew 
to  the  shrubbery.  Scarcely  had  I  reached  it,  when  a  sound 
of  voices  arrested  my  breathless  speed. 

"  AVe  have  lingered  too  long ;  he  will  be  back,"  said  Lady 
Lowborough's  voice. 

"  Surely  not,  dearest!"  was  his  reply  ;  "  but  you  can  run 
across  the  lawn,  and  get  in  as  quietly  as  you  can :  I'll  follow 
in  a  while." 

My  knees  trembled  under  me  ;  my  brain  swam  round :  I 
was  ready  to  faint.  She  must  not  see  me  thus.  I  shrunk 

15 


226  THE  TENAKT 

among  the  bushes,  and  leant  against  the  trunk  of  a  tree  to  let 
her  pass. 

"Ah,  Huntingdon!"  said  she  reproachfully,  pausing  where 
I  had  stood  with  him  the  night  before — u  it  was  here  you 
kissed  that  woman!"  she  looked  back  into  the  leafy  shade. 
Advancing  thence,  he  answered,  with  a  careless  laugh, — 

"  Well,  dearest,  I  couldn't  help  it.  You  know  I  must  keep 
straight  with  her  as  long  as  I  can.  Haven't  I  seen  you  kiss 
your  dolt  of  a  husband  scores  of  tunes  ? — and  do  I  ever  com- 
plain?" 

"  But  tell  me,  don't  you  love  her  still— a  little  ?"  said  she, 
placing  her  hand  on  his  arm,  looking  earnestly  in  his  face — foi 
I  could  see  them  plainly,  the  moon  shining  full  upon  them 
from  between  the  branches  of  the  tree  that  sheltered  me. 

"Not  one  bit,  by  all  that's  sacred!"  he  replied,  kissing  her 
glowing  cheek. 

"Good  heavens,  I  must  be  gone!"  cried  she,  suddenly 
breaking  from  him,  and  away  she  flew. 

There  he  stood  before  me  ;  but  I  had  not  strength  to  con- 
front him  now ;  my  tongue  cleaved  to  the  roof  of  my  mouth, 
I  was  well  nigh  sinking  to  the  earth,  and  I  almost  wondered 
he  did  not  hear  the  beating  of  my  heart  above  the  low  sigh- 
ing of  the  wind,  and  the  fitful  rustle  of  the  falling  leaves. 
My  senses  seemed  to  fail  me,  but  still  I  saw  his  shadowy  form 

5 ass  before  me,  and  through  the  rushing  sound  in  my  ears,  I 
istinctly  heard  him  say,  as  he  stood  looking  up  the  lawn, — 
" There  goes  the  fool !  Run,  Annabella,  run!    There— in 
with  you  I     Ah,  he  didn't  see  !     That's  right,  Grimsby,  keep 
him  back ! "  And  even  his  low  laugh  reached  me  as  he  walked 
away. 

"  God  help  me  now!"  I  murmured,  sinking  on  my  knees 
among  the  damp  weeds  and  brushwood  that  surrounded  me, 
and  looking  up  at  the  moonlit  sky,  through  the  scant  foliage 
above.  It  seemed  all  dim  and  quivering  now  to  my  darkened 
sight.  My  burning,  bursting  heart  strove  to  pour  forth  its 
agony  to  God,  but  could  not  frame  its  anguish  into  prayer ; 
until  a  gust  of  wind  swept  over  me,  which,  while  it  scattered 
the  dead  leaves,  like  blighted  hopes,  around,  cooled  my  fore- 
head, and  seemed  a  little  to  revive  my  sinking  frame.  Then, 
while  I  lifted  up  my  soul  in  speechless,  earnest  supplication, 
some  heavenly  influence  seemed  to  strengthen  me  within :  I 
breathed  more  freely ;  my  vision  cleared ;  I  saw  distinctly 
the  pure  moon  shining  on,  and  the  light  clouds  skimming  the 
clear,  dark  sky ;  and  then,  I  saw  the  eternal  stars  twinkling 
down  upon  me ;  I  knew  their  God  was  mine,  and  he  was 
strong  to  save  and  swift  to  hear.  "  I  will  never  leave  thee, 
nor  forsake  thee,"  seemed  whispered  from  above  their  myriad 


OF   WILDFELL  HALL.  227 

orbs.  No,  no ;  I  felt  he  would  not  leave  me  comfortless :  in 
spite  of  earth  and  hell  I  should  have  strength  for  all  my  trials, 
and  win  a  glorious  rest  at  last ! 

Refreshed,  invigorated,  if  not  composed,  I  rose  and  re 
turned  to  the  house.  Much  of  my  newborn  strength  and 
courage  forsook  me,  I  confess,  as  1  entered  it,  and  shut  out 
the  fresh  wind  and  the  glorious  sky :  everything  I  saw  and 
heard  seemed  to  sicken  my  heart — the  hall,  the  lamp,  the 
staircase,  the  doors  of  the  different  apartments,  the  social 
sound  of  talk  and  laughter  from  the  drawing-room.  How 
could  I  bear  my  future  life !  In  this  house,  among  those 
people — O  how  could  I  endure  to  live !  John  just  then 
entered  the  hall,  and  seeing  me,  told  me  he  had  been  sent  ia 
search  of  me,  adding  that  he  had  taken  in  the  tea,  and  master 
wished  to  know  if  I  were  coming. 

"Ask  Mrs.  Hattersley  to  be  so  kind  as  to  make  the  tea, 
John,"  said  I.  "  Say  I  am  not  well  to-night,  and  wish  to  be 
excused." 

I  retired  into  the  large,  empty  dining-room,  where  all  was 
silence  and  darkness,  but  for  the  soft  sighing  of  the  wind 
without,  and  the  faint  gleam  of  moonlight  that  pierced  the 
blinds  and  curtains ;  and  there  I  walked  rapidly  up  and  down, 
thinking  of  my  bitter  thoughts  alone.  How  different  was  this 
from  the  evening  of  yesterday!  That,  it  seems,  was  the  last 
expiring  flash  of  my  fife's  happiness.  Poor,  blinded  fool  that 
I  was,  to  be  so  happy !  I  could  now  see  the  reason  of 
Arthur's  strange  reception  of  me  in  the  shrubbery  ;  the  burst 
of  kindness  was  for  his  paramour,  the  start  of  horror  for  hia 
wife.  Now,  too,  I  could  better  understand  the  conversation 
between  Hattersley  and  Grimsby;  it  was  doubtless  of  his  love 
for  her  they  spoke,  not  for  me. 

I  heard  the  drawing-room  door  open ;  a  light  quick  step 
came  out  of  the  ante-room,  crossed  the  hall,  and  ascended  the 
stairs.  It  was  Milicent,  poor  Milicent,  gone  to  see  how  I  was 
— no  one  else  cared  for  me ;  but  she  still  was  kind.  I  shed 
no  tears  before,  but  now  they  came,  fast  and  free.  Thus  she 
did  me  good,  without  approaching  me.  Disappointed  in  her 
search  1  heard  her  come  down,  more  slowly  than  she  had 
ascended.  Would  she  come  in  there,  and  find  me  out?  No, 
she  turned  in  the  opposite  direction  and  re-entered  the  draw- 
ing-room. I  was  glad,  for  I  knew  not  how  to  meet  her,  or 
what  to  say.  I  wanted  no  confidante  in  my  distress.  I  de- 
served none,  and  I  wanted  none.  I  had  taken  the  burden 
upon  myself;  let  me  bear  it  alone. 

As  the  usual  hour  of  retirement  approached  I  dried  my 
eyes,  and  tried  to  clear  my  voice  and  calm  my  mind.  I  must 
see  Arthur  to-night,  and  speak  to  him ;  but  I  would  do  it 


228  THE  TENANT 

calmly :  there  should  be  no  scene — nothing  to  complain  or  to 
boast  of  to  his  companions — nothing  to  laugh  at  with  his  lady 
love.  When  the  company  were  retiring  to  their  chambers  I 
gently  opened  the  door,  and  just  as  he  passed  I  beckoned 
him  in. 

"What's  to  do  with  you,  Helen?"  said  he.  "Why  couldn't 
you  come  to  make  tea  for  us?  and  what  the  deuce  are  you 
here  for,  in  the  dark  ?  What  ails  you,  young  woman ;  you 
look  like  a  ghost!"  he  continued,  surveying  me  by  the  light 
of  his  candle. 

"  No  matter,"  I  answered,  "  to  you  ;  you  have  no  longer 
any  regard  for  me,  it  appears  ;  and  I  have  no  longer  any  for 
you." 

"  Hal-low !  what  the  devil  is  this?"  he  muttered. 

"  I  would  leave  you  to-morrow,"  continued  I,  "  and  never 
again  come  under  this  roof,  but  for  my  child" — I  paused  a 
moment  to  steady  my  voice. 

"What  in  the  devil's  name  is  this,  Helen?"  cried  he. 
"What  can  you  be  driving  at?" 

"  You  know,  perfectly  well.  Let  us  waste  no  time  in  use- 
less explanation,  but  tell  me,  will  you " 

He  vehemently  swore  he  knew  nothing  about  it,  and  in- 
sisted upcn  hearing  what  poisonous  old  woman  had  been 
blackening  •  his  name,  and  what  infamous  lies  I  had  been  fool 
enough  to  believe. 

"  Spare  yourself  the  trouble  of  forswearing  yourself  and 
racking  your  brains  to  stifle  truth  with  falsehood,"  I  coldly 
replied.  "  I  have  trusted  to  the  testimony  of  no  third  person. 
I  was  in  the  shrubbery  this  evening,  and  I  saw  and  heard  for 
myself." 

This  was  enough.  He  uttered  a  suppressed  exclamation 
of  consternation  and  dismay,  and  muttering,  "  I  shall  catch  it 
now!"  set  down  his  candle  on  the  nearest  chair,  and,  rearing 
his  back  against  the  wall,  stood  confronting  me  with  folded 
arms. 

"Well,  what  then?"  said  he,  with  the  calm  insolence  of 
mingled  shamelessness  and  desperation. 

"  Only  this,"  returned  I :  "  will  you  let  me  take  our  child 
and  what  remains  of  my  fortune,  and  go  ?  " 

"Go  where?" 

"  Anywhere,  where  he  will  be  safe  from  your  contaminating 
influence,  and  I  shall  be  delivered  from  your  presence,  and 
you  from  mine." 

"  No." 

"Will  you  let  me  have  the  child  then,  without  the 
money?" 

"  No,  nor  yourself  without  the  child.    Do  you  think  I'm 


OF  WILDFELL   HALL.  229 

going  to  be  made  the  talk  of  the  country,  for  your  fastidious 
caprices  ?  " 

u  Then  I  must  stay  here,  to  be  hated  and  despised.  But 
henceforth  we  are  husband  and  wife  only  in  the  name." 

"  Very  good." 

"  I  am  your  child's  mother,  and  your  housekeeper,  nothing 
more.  So  you  need  not  trouble  yourself  any  longer  to  feign 
the  love  you  cannot  feel :  I  will  exact  no  more  heartless 
caresses  from  you,  nor  offer,  nor  endure  them  either.  I  will 
not  be  mocked  with  the  empty  husk  of  conjugal  endearments, 
when  you  have  given  the  substance  to  another!" 

"Very  good,  if  you  please.  We  shall  see  who  will  tire 
first,  my  lady." 

"  If  I  tire,  it  will  be  of  living  in  the  world  with  yon :  not 
of  living  without  your  mockery  of  love.  When  you  tire  ot 
your  sinful  ways,  and  show  yourself  truly  repentant,  I  will 
forgive  you,  and,  perhaps,  try  to  love  you  again,  though  that 
will  be  hard  indeed." 

"  Humph  !  and  meantime  you  will  go  and  talk  me  over  to 
Mrs.  Hargrave,  and  write  long  letters  to  aunt  Maxwell  to 
complain  of  the  wicked  wretch  you  have  married?" 

"  I  shall  complain  to  no  one.  Hitherto,  I  have  struggled 
hard  to  hide  your  vices  from  every  eye,  and  invest  you  with 
virtues  you  never  possessed ;  but  now  you  must  look  to 
yourself." 

I  left  him  muttering  bad  language  to  himself,  and  went  up 
stairs. 

"You  are  poorly,  ma'am,"  said  Rachel,  surveying  me  with 
deep  anxiety. 

"  It  is  too  true,  Rachel,"  said  I,  answering  her  sad  looks 
rather  than  her  words. 

"  I  knew  it,  or  I  wouldn't  have  mentioned  such  a  thing." 

"  But  don't  you  trouble  yourself  about  it,"  said  I,  kissing 
her  pale,  time-wasted  cheek  ;  "  I  can  bear  it  better  than  you 
imagine." 

"  Yes,  you  were  always  for  '  bearing.'  But  if  I  was  you  I 
wouldn't  bear  it ;  I'd  give  way  to  it,  and  cry  right  hard ! 
and  I'd  talk  too,  I  just  would — I'd  let  him  know  what  it  was 
to " 

"  I  have  talked,"  said  I:  "I've  said  enough." 

"  Then  I'd  cry,"  persisted  she.  "  I  wouldn't  look  so  white 
and  so  calm,  and  burst  my  heart  with  keeping  it  in." 

"  I  have  cried,"  said  I,  smiling,  in  spite  of  my  misery ;  "and 
I  am  calm  now,  really,  so  don't  discompose  me  again,  nurse : 
let  us  say  no  more  about  it,  and  don't  mention  it  to  the 
servants.  There,  you  may  go  now.  Good  night ;  and  don't 
disturb  your  rest  for  me  :  I  shall  sleep  well — if  I  can." 


230  THE  TENANT 

Notwithstanding  this  resolution,  I  found  my  bed  so  intole- 
rable that,  before  two  o'clock,  I  rose,  and,  lighting  my  candle 
by  the  rushlight  that  was  still  burning,  I  got  my  desk  and  sat 
down  in  my  dressing-gown  to  recount  the  events  of  the  past 
evening.  It  was  better  to  be  so  occupied  than  to  be  lying  in 
bed  torturing  my  brain  with  recollections  of  the  far  past  and 
anticipations  of  the  dreadful  future.  I  have  found  relief  in 
describing  the  very  circumstances  that  have  destroyed  my 
peace,  as  well  as  the  little  trivial  details  attendant  upon  their 
discovery.  No  sleep  I  could  have  got  this  night  would  have 
done  so  much  towards  composing  my  mind,  and  preparing 
me  to  meet  the  trials  of  the  day — I  fancy  so,  at  least ;  and 
yet,  when  I  cease  writing,  I  find  my  head  aches  terribly;  and 
when  I  look  into  the  glass  I  am  startled  at  my  haggard,  worn 
appearance. 

Rachel  has  been  to  dress  me,  and  says  I  have  had  a  sad 
night  of  it  she  can  see.  Milicent  has  just  looked  in  to  ask 
me  how  I  was.  I  told  her  I  was  better,  but  to  excuse  my 
appearance  admitted  I  had  had  a  restless  night.  I  wish  this 
day  were  over !  I  shudder  at  the  thoughts  of  going  down  to 
breakfast.  How  shall  I  encounter  them  all?  Yet  let  me 
remember  it  is  not  I  that  am  guilty :  I  have  no  cause  to  fear  ; 
and  if  they  scorn  me  as  the  victim  of  their  guilt,  I  can  pity 
their  folly  and  despise  their  scorn. 


CHAPTER   XXXIV. 

EVENING. — Breakfast  passed  well  over,  I  was  calm  and  cool 
throughout.  I  answered  composedly  all  inquiries  respecting 
my  health ;  and  whatever  was  unusual  in  my  look  or  manner 
was  generally  attributed  to  the  trifling  indisposition  that  had 
occasioned  my  early  retirement  last  night.  But  how  am  I  to 
get  over  the  ten  or  twelve  days  that  must  yet  elapse  before 
they  go  ?  Yet  why  so  long  for  their  departure  ?  When  they 
are  gone,  how  shall  I  get  through  the  months  or  years  of  my 
future  life  in  company  with  that  man — my  greatest  enemy  ? 
for  none  could  injure  me  as  he  has  done.  Oh !  when  I  think 
how  fondly,  how  foolishly  I  have  loved  him,  how  madly  I 
have  trusted  him,  how  constantly  I  have  laboured,  and  stu- 
died, and  prayed,  and  struggled  for  his  advantage  ;  and  how 
cruelly  he  has  trampled  on  my  love,  betrayed  my  trust, 
scorned  my  prayers  and  tears,  and  efforts  for  his  preserva- 
tion, crushed  my  hopes,  destroyed  my  youth's  best  feelings, 
and  doomed  me  to  a  life  of  hopeless  misery— as  far  as  man 
can  do  it — it  is  not  enough  to  say  that  I  no  longer  love  my 
husband — I  HATE  him !  The  word  stares  me  in  the  face  like 


OF  WILDFELL  HALL.  231 

a  guilty  confession,  but  it  is  true :  I  hate  him — I  hate  him ! 
But  God  have  mercy  on  his  miserable  soul !  and  make  him 
see  and  feel  his  guilt — I  ask  no  other  vengeance  !  if  he  could 
but  fully  know  and  truly  feel  my  wrongs,  I  should  be  well 
avenged,  and  I  could  freely  pardon  all ;  but  he  is  so  lost,  so 
hardened  in  his  heartless  depravity,  that  in  this  life  I  believe 
he  never  will.  But  it  is  useless  dwelling  on  this  theme  :  let 
me  seek  once  more  to  dissipate  reflection  in  the  minor  details 
of  passing  events. 

Mr.  Hargrave  has  annoyed  me  all  day  long  with  his  serious, 
sympathising,  and  (as  he  thinks)  unobtrusive  politeness — if 
it  were  more  obtrusive  it  would  trouble  me  less,  for  then  I 
could  snub  him  ;  but,  as  it  is,  he  contrives  to  appear  so  really 
kind  and  thoughtful  that  I  cannot  do  so  without  rudeness  and 
seeming  ingratitude.  I  sometimes  think  I  ought  to  give  him 
credit  for  the  good  feeling  he  simulates  so  well ;  and  then 
again,  I  think  it  is  my  duty  to  suspect  him  under  the  peculiar 
circumstances  in  which  I  am  placed.  His  kindness  may  not 
all  be  feigned,  but  still,  let  not  the  purest  impulse  of  grati- 
tude to  him,  induce  me  to  forget  myself;  let  me  remember 
the  game  of  chess,  the  expressions  he  used  on  the  occasion, 
and  those  indescribable  looks  of  his,  that  so  justly  roused  my 
indignation,  and  I  think  I  shall  be  safe  enough.  I  have  done 
well  to  record  them  so  minutely. 

I  think  he  wishes  to  find  an  opportunity  of  speaking  to  me 
alone  :  he  has  seemed  to  be  on  the  watch  all  day !  but  I  have 
taken  care  to  disappoint  him ;  not  that  I  fear  anything  he 
could  say,  but  I  have  trouble  enough  without  the  addition  ot 
his  insulting  consolations,  condolences,  or  whatever  else  he 
might  attempt;  and,  for  Milicent's  sake,  I  do  not  wish  to 
quarrel  with  him.  He  excused  himself  from  going  out  to 
shoot  with  the  other  gentlemen  in  the  morning,  under  the 
pretext  of  having  letters  to  write ;  and  instead  of  retiring  for 
that  purpose  into  the  library,  he  sent  for  his  desk  into  the 
morning-room,  where  I  was  seated  with  Milicent  and  Lady 
Lowborough.  They  had  betaken  themselves  to  their  work ; 
I,  less  to  divert  my  mind  than  to  deprecate  conversation,  had 
provided  myself  with  a  book.  Milicent  saw  that  I  wished  to 
be  quiet,  and  accordingly  let  me  alone.  Annabella,  doubtless, 
saw  it  too ;  but  that  was  no  reason  why  she  should  restrain 
her  tongue,  or  curb  her  cheerful  spirits:  she  accordingly 
chatted  away,  addressing  herself  almost  exclusively  to  me, 
and  with  the  utmost  assurance  and  familiarity,  growing  the 
more  animated  and  friendly,  the  colder  and  briefer  my  an- 
swers became.  Mr.  Hargrave  saw  that  I  could  ill  endure  it ; 
and,  looking  up  from  his  desk,  he  answered  her  questions  and 
observations  for  me,  as  far  as  he  could,  and  attempted  to 


232  THE   TENAKT 

transfer  her  social  attentions  from  me  to  himself;  tut  it  would 
not  do.  Perhaps,  she  thought  I  had  a  headache  and  could 
not  bear  to  talk — at  any  rate,  she  saw  that  her  loquacious 
vivacity  annoyed  me,  as  I  could  tell  by  the  malicious  pertina- 
city with  which  she  persisted.  But  I  checked  it  effectually, 
by  putting  into  her  hand  the  book  I  had  been  trying  to  read, 
on  the  fly-leaf  of  which  I  had  hastily  scribbled, — 

"  I  am  too  well  acquainted  with  your  character  and  conduct 
to  feel  any  real  friendship  for  you,  and,  as  I  am  without  your 
talent  for  dissimulation,  I  cannot  assume  the  appearance  of  it. 
I  must,  therefore,  beg  that  hereafter  all  familiar  intercourse 
may  cease  between  us ,  and  if  I  still  continue  to  treat  you 
with  civility,  as  if  you  were  a  woman  worthy  of  considera- 
tion and  respect,  understand  that  it  is  out  of  regard  for  your 
cousin  Milicent's  feelings,  not  for  yours." 

Upon  perusing  this,  she  turned  scarlet,  and  bit  her  lip. 
Covertly  tearing  away  the  leaf,  she  crumpled  it  up  and  put  it 
in  the  fire,  and  then  employed  herself  in  turning  over  the 
pages  of  the  book,  and,  really  or  apparently,  perusing  its 
contents.  In  a  little  while  Milicent  announced  it  her  inten- 
tion to  repair  to  the  nursery,  and  asked  if  I  would  accompany 
her. 

"  Annabella  will  excuse  us,"  said  she,  "  she's  busy  read- 
ing." 

"  No,  I  won't,"  cried  Annabella,  suddenly  looking  up,  and 
throwing  her  book  on  the  table.  "  I  want  to  speak  to  Helen 
a  minute.  You  may  go,  Milicent,  and  she'll  follow  in  a  while." 
(Milicent  went.)  "  Will  you  oblige  me,  Helen?"  continued 
she. 

Her  impudence  astounded  me ;  but  I  complied,  and  fol- 
lowed her  into  the  library.  She  closed  the  door,  and  walked 
up  to  the  fire. 

"  Who  told  you  this?"  said  she. 

"  No  one  :  1  am  not  incapable  of  seeing  for  myself." 

"Ah,  you  are  suspicious!"  cried  she,  smiling,  with  a  gleam 
of  hope — hitherto,  there  had  been  a  kind  of  desperation  in 
her  hardihood  ;  now  she  was  evidently  relieved. 

"If  I  were  suspicious,"  I  replied,  "I  should  have  dis- 
covered your  infamy  long  before.  No,  Lady  Lowborough,  I 
do  not  found  my  charge  upon  suspicion." 

"  On  what  do  you  found  it  then?"  said  she,  throwing  her- 
self into  an  arm-chair,  and  stretching  out  her  feet  to  the 
fender,  with  an  obvious  effort  to  appear  composed. 

"  I  enjoy  a  moonlight  ramble  as  well  as  you,"  I  answered, 
steadily  fixing  my  eyes  upon  her :  "  and  the  shrubbery  hap- 
pens to  be  one  of  my  favourite  resorts." 

She  coloured  again,  excessively,  and  remained  silent,  press- 


OF   WILDFELL   HALL.  283 

ing  her  finger  against  her  teeth,  and  gazing  into  the  fire. 
I  watched  her  a  few  moments  with  a  feeling  of  malevolent 
gratification  ;  then,  moving  towards  the  door,  I  calmly  asked 
if  she  had  anything  more  to  say. 

"  Yes,  yes ! "  cried  she  eagerly,  starting  up  from  her  re- 
clining posture.  "  I  want  to  know  if  you  will  tell  Lord  Low- 
borough?" 

"Suppose  I  do?" 

"  Well,  if  you  are  disposed  to  publish  the  matter,  I  can- 
not dissuade  you,  of  course — but  there  will  be  terrible  work 
if  you  do — and  if  you  don't,  I  shall  think  you  the  most  gene- 
rous of  mortal  beings — and  if  there  is  anything  in  the  world 
I  can  do  for  you — anything  short  of "  she  hesitated. 

"  Short  of  renouncing  your  guilty  connection  with  my  hus- 
band, I  suppose  you  mean,"  said  I. 

She  paused,  in  evident  disconcertion  and  perplexity,  min- 
gled with  anger  she  dared  not  show. 

"  I  cannot  renounce  what  is  dearer  than  life,"  she  muttered, 
in  a  low,  hurried  tone.  Then,  suddenly  raising  her  head  and 
fixing  her  gleaming  eyes  upon  me,  she  continued  earnestly, 
"  But  Helen — or  Mrs.  Huntingdon,  or  whatever  you  would 
have  me  call  you — will  you  tell  him  ?  If  you  are  generous, 
here  is  a  fitting  opportunity  for  the  exercise  of  your  magna- 
nimity :  if  you  are  proud,  here  am  I — your  rival — ready  to 
acknowledge  myself  your  debtor  for  an  act  of  the  most  noble 
forbearance." 

"I  shall  not  tell  him." 

"You  will  not!"  cried  she  delightedly.  "Accept  my  sin- 
cere thanks,  then!" 

She  sprang  up,  and  offered  me  her  hand.     I  drew  back. 

"  Give  me  no  thanks  ;  it  is  not  for  your  sake  that  I  refrain. 
Neither  is  it  an  act  of  any  forbearance :  I  have  no  wish  to 
publish  your  shame.  I  should  be  sorry  to  distress  your  hus- 
band with  the  knowledge  of  it." 

"And  Milicent?  will  you  tell  her?" 

"  No,  on  the  contrary  I  shall  do  my  utmost  to  conceal  it 
from  her.  I  would  not  for  much  that  she  should  know  the 
infamy  and  disgrace  of  her  relation ! " 

"  You  use  hard  words,  Mrs.  Huntingdon — but  I  can  pardon 
you." 

"And  now,  Lady  Lowborough,"  continued  I,  "let  me 
counsel  you  to  leave  this  house  as  soon  as  possible.  You 
must  be  aware  that  your  continuance  here  is  excessively  dis- 
agreeable to  me — not  for  Mr.  Huntingdon's  sake,"  said  I,  ob- 
serving the  dawn  of  a  malicious  smile  of  triumph  on  her  face 
— "  You  are  welcome  to  him,  if  you  like  him,  as  far  as  I  am 
concerned — but  because  it  is  painful  to  be  always  disguising 


231  THE  TENANT 

my  true  sentiments  respecting  you,  and  straining  to  keep  up 
an  appearance  of  civility  and  respect  towards  one  for  whom  I 
have  not  the  most  distant  shadow  of  esteem  ;  and  because,  if 
you  stay,  your  conduct  cannot  possibly  remain  concealed  much 
longer  from  the  only  two  persons  in  the  house  who  do  not 
know  it  already.  And,  for  your  husband's  sake,  Annabella, 
and  even  for  your  own,  I  wish  —  I  earnestly  advise  and  entreat 
you  to  break  off  this  unlawful  connection  at  once,  and  return 
to  your  duty  while  you  may,  before  the  dreadful  conse- 
quences -  " 

"  Yes,  yes,  of  course,"  said  she,  interrupting  me  with  a  ges- 


ture of  impatience.  —  "  But  I  cannot  go,  Helen,  before  the 

What  possible   prete 
could  I  frame  for  such  a  thing  ?     Whether  I  proposed  going 


time  appointed  for  our  departure.     What  possible   pretext 


back  alone  —  which  Lowborough  would  not  hear  of—  or  taking 
him  with  me,  the  very  circumstance  itself,  would  be  certain  to 
excite  suspicion  —  and  when  our  visit  is  so  nearly  at  an  end  too 
—  little  more  than  a  week  —  surely,  you  can  endure  my  pre- 
sence so  long  !  I  will  not  annoy  you  with  any  more  of  my 
friendly  impertinences." 

"  Well,  I  have  nothing  more  to  say  to  you." 

"Have  you  mentioned  this  affair  to  Huntingdon?"  asked 
she,  as  I  was  leaving  the  room. 

"  How  dare  you  mention  his  name  to  me  !"  was  the  only 
answer  I  gave. 

No  words  have  passed  between  us  since,  but  such  as  out- 
ward decency  or  pure  necessity  demanded. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

NINETEENTH. — In  proportion  as  Lady  Lowborough  finds  she 
has  nothing  to  fear  from  me,  and  as  the  time  of  departure 
draws  nigh,  the  more  audacious  and  insolent  she  becomes. 
She  does  not  scruple  to  speak  to  my  husband  with  affectionate 
familiarity  in  my  presence,  when  no  one  else  is  by,  and  is 
particularly  fond  of  displaying  her  interest  in  his  health  and 
welfare,  or  in  anything  that  concerns  him,  as  if  for  the  pur- 
pose of  contrasting  her  kind  solicitude  with  my  cold  indiffer- 
ence. And  he  rewards  her  by  such  smiles  and  glances,  such 
whispered  words,  or  boldly-spoken  insinuations,  indicative  of 
his  sense  of  her  goodness  and  my  neglect,  as  makes  the  blood 
rush  into  my  face,  in  spite  of  myself— for  I  would  be  utterly 
regardless  of  it  all — deaf  and  blind  to  everything  that  passes 
between  them,  since  the  more  I  show  myself  sensible  of  their 
wickedness,  the  more  she  triumphs  in  her  victory,  and  the 


OF   WILDFELL  HALL.  235 

more  he  flatters  himself  that  I  love  him  devotedly  still,  in 
spite  of  my  pretended  indifference.  On  such  occasions  I  have 
sometimes  been  startled  by  a  subtle,  fiendish  suggestion  incit- 
ing me  to  show  him  the  contrary  by  a  seeming  encouragement 
of  Hargrave's  advances ;  but  such  ideas  are  banished  in  a 
moment  with  horror  and  self-abasement ;  and  then  I  hate  him 
tenfold  more  than  ever  for  having  brought  me  to  this ! — God 
pardon  me  for  it — and  all  my  sinful  thoughts !  Instead  ol 
being  humbled  and  purified  by  my  afflictions,  I  feel  that  they 
are  turning  my  nature  into  gall.  This  must  be  my  fault  as 
much  as  theirs  that  wrong  me.  No  true  Christian  could 
cherish  such  bitter  feelings  as  I  do  against  him  and  her — 
especially  the  latter  :  him,  I  still  feel  that  I  could  pardon — 
freely,  gladly, — on  the  slightest  token  of  repentance  ;  but  she 
— words  cannot  utter  my  abhorrence.  Reason  forbids,  but 
passion  urges  strongly ;  and  I  must  pray  and  struggle  long 
ere  I  subdue  it. 

It  is  well  that  she  is  leaving  to-morrow,  for  I  could  not  well 
endure  her  presence  for  another  day.  This  morning,  she  rose 
earlier  than  usual.  I  found  her  in  the  room  alone,  when  I 
went  down  to  breakfast. 

"  Oh  Helen !  is  it  you?"  said  she,  turning  as  I  entered. 

I  gave  an  involuntary  start  back  on  seeing  her,  at  which  she 
littered  a  short  laugh,  observing, — 

"  I  think  we  are  both  disappointed." 

I  came  forward  and  busied  myself  with  the  breakfast-things. 

"  This  is  the  last  day  I  shall  burden  your  hospitality,"  said 
she,  as  she  seated  herself  at  the  table.  "Ah,  here  comes  one 
that  will  not  rejoice  at  it!"  she  murmured,  half  to  herself,  as 
Arthur  entered  the  room. 

He  shook  hands  with  her  and  wished  her  good  mornrog : 
then,  looking  lovingly  in  her  face,  and  still  retaining  her  hand 
in  his,  murmured  pathetically, — 

"  The  last — last  day ! " 

"  Yes,"  said  she  with  some  asperity ;  "  and  I  rose  early  to 
make  the  best  of  it — I  have  been  here  alone  this  half  hour, 
and  you,  you  lazy  creature " 

<•'  Well,  I  thought  I  was  early  too,"  said  he — "  but,"  drop- 
ping his  voice  almost  to  a  whisper,  "  you  see  we  are  not 
alone." 

u  We  never  are,"  returned  she.  But  they  were  almost  as 
good  as  alone,  for  I  was  now  standing  at  the  window,  watch- 
ing the  clouds,  and  struggling  to  suppress  my  wrath. 

Some  more  words  passed  between  them,  which,  happily,  I 
did  not  overhear;  but  Annabella  had  the  audacity  to  come 
and  place  herself  beside  me,  and  even  to  put  her  hand  upon 
my  shoulder  and  say  softly, — 


23b  THE  TENAXT 

"  You  need  not  grudge  him  to  me,  Helen,  for  I  love  him 
more  than  ever  you  could  do." 

This  put  me  beside  myself.  I  took  her  hand  and  violently 
dashed  it  from  me,  with  an  expression  of  abhorrence  and  in- 
dignation that  could  not  be  suppressed.  Startled,  almost  ap- 
palled, by  this  sudden  outbreak,  she  recoiled  in  silence.  I 
would  have  given  way  to  my  fury  and  said  more,  but  Arthur's 
low  laugh  recalled  me  to  myself.  I  checked  the  half"  uttered 
invective,  and  scornfully  turned  away,  regretting  that  I  had 
given  him  so  much  amusement.  He  was  still  laughing  when 
Mr.  Hargrave  made  his  appearance.  How  much  of  the  scene 
he  had  witnessed  I  do  not  know,  for  the  door  was  ajar  when 
he  entered.  He  greeted  his  host  and  his  cousin  both  coldly, 
and  me  with  a  glance  intended  to  express  the  deepest  sym- 
pathy mingled  with  high  admiration  and  esteem. 

"  How  much  allegiance  do  you  owe  to  that  man?"  he  asked 
below  his  breath,  as  he  stood  beside  me  at  the  window,  affect- 
ing to  be  making  observations  on  the  weather. 

"  None,"  I  answered.  And  immediately  returning  to  the 
table,  I  employed  myself  in  making  the  tea.  He  followed, 
and  would  have  entered  into  some  kind  of  conversation  with 
me,  but  the  other  guests  were  now  beginning  to  assemble,  and 
I  took  no  more  notice  of  him,  except  to  give  him  his  coffee. 

After  breakfast,  determined  to  pass  as  little  of  the  day  as 
possible  in  company  with  Lady  Lowborough,  I  quietly  stole 
away  from  the  company  and  retired  to  the  library.  Mr.  Har- 
grave followed  me  thither,  under  pretence  of  coming  for  a 
book ;  and  first,  turning  to  the  shelves,  he  selected  a  volume  ; 
and  then,  quietly,  but  by  no  means  timidly,  approaching  me, 
he  stood  beside  me,  resting  his  hand  on  the  back  of  my  chair, 
and  said  softly, — 

"  And  so  you  consider  yourself  free,  at  last?" 

"  Yes,"  said  I,  without  moving,  or  raising  my  eyes  from  my 
book, — u  free  to  do  any  thing  but  offend  God  and  my  con- 
science." 

There  was  a  momentary  pause. 

"  Very  right,"  said  he  ;  "  provided  your  conscience  be  not 
too  morbidly  tender,  and  your  ideas  of  God  not  too  errone- 
ously severe ;  but  can  you  suppose  it  would  offend  that  be- 
nevolent Being  to  make  the  happiness  of  one  who  would  die 
for  yours  ? — to  raise  a  devoted  heart  from  purgatorial  torments 
to  a  state  of  heavenly  bliss,  when  you  could  do  it  without  the 
slightest  injury  to  yourself  or  any  other  ?  " 

This  was  spoken  in  a  low,  earnest,  melting  tone  as  he  bent 
over  me.  I  now  raised  my  head ;  and  steadily  confronting 
Via  gaze,  I  answered  calmly, — 

44  Mr.  Hargrave,  do  you  mean  to  insult  me  ?" 


OF  WILDFELL   HALL.  237 

He  was  not  prepared  for  this.  He  paused  a  moment  to  re- 
cover the  shock  ;  then,  drawing  himself  up  and  removing  hia 
hand  from  my  chair,  he  answered,  with  proud  sadness, — 

44  That  was  not  my  intention." 

I  just  glanced  towards  the  door,  with  a  slight  movement  ol 
the  head,  and  then  returned  to  my  book.  He  immediately 
withdrew.  This  was  better  than  if  I  had  answered  with  more 
words,  and  in  the  passionate  spirit  to  which  my  first  impulse 
would  have  prompted.  What  a  good  thing  it  is  to  be  able  to 
command  one's  temper  !  I  must  labour  to  cultivate  this  inesti- 
mable quality  :  God  only  knows  how  often  I  shall  need  it  in 
this  rough,  dark  road  that  lies  before  me. 

In  the  course  of  the  morning,  I  drove  over  to  the  Grove 
with  the  two  ladies,  to  give  Milicent  an  opportunity  for  bid- 
ding farewell  to  her  mother  and  sister.  They  persuaded  hei 
to  stay  with  them  the  rest  of  the  day,  Mrs.  Hargrave  pro- 
mising to  bring  her  back  in  the  evening  and  remain  till  the 
party  broke  up  on  the  morrow.  Consequently,  Lady  Low- 
borough  and  I  had  the  pleasure  of  returning  tete-a-tete  in  the 
carriage  together.  For  the  first  mile  or  two,  we  kept  silence, 
I  looking  out  of  my  window,  and  she  leaning  back  in  her 
corner.  But  I  was  not  going  to  restrict  myself  to  any  par- 
ticular position  for  her  :  when  I  was  tired  of  leaning  forward, 
with  the  cold,  raw  wind  in  my  face,  and  surveying  the  russet 
hedges,  and  the  damp,  tangled  grass  of  their  banks,  I  gave  it 
up,  and  leant  back  too.  With  her  usual  impudence,  my  com- 
panion then  made  some  attempts  to  get  up  a  conversation  ;  but 
the  monosyllables  '  yes,'  or  4  no,'  or  4  humph,'  were  the  ut- 
most her  several  remarks  could  elicit  from  me.  At  last,  on 
her  asking  my  opinion  upon  some  immaterial  point  of  discus- 
sion, I  answered, — 

44  Why  do  you  wish  to  talk  to  me,  Lady  Lowborough? — 
you  must  know  what  I  think  of  you." 

44  Well,  if  you  will  be  so  bitter  against  me,"  replied  she, 
44 1  can't  help  it ; — but  I'm  not  going  to  sulk  for  anybody." 

Our  short  drive  was  now  at  an  end.  As  soon  as  the  car- 
riage door  was  opened,  she  sprang  out,  and  went  down  the 
park  to  meet  the  gentlemen,  who  were  just  returning  from  the 
woods.  Of  course  I  did  not  follow. 

But  I  had  not  done  with  her  impudence  yet : — after  dinner , 
I  retired  to  the  drawing-room,  as  usual,  and  she  accompanied 
me,  but  I  had  the  two  children  with  me,  and  I  gave  them  my 
whole  attention,  and  determined  to  keep  them  till  the  gentle- 
men came,  or  till  Milicent  arrived  with  her  mother.  Little 
Helen,  however,  was  soon  tired  of  playing,  and  insisted  upon 
going  to  sleep  ;  and  while  I  sat  on  the  sofa  with  her  on  my 
knee,  and  Arthur  seated  beside  me,  gently  playing  with  her 


238  THE  TENANT 

soft,  flaxen  hair, — Lady  Lowborough  composedly  came  and 
placed  herself  on  the  other  side. 

"To-morrow,  Mrs.  Huntingdon,"  said  she,  "you  will  be 
delivered  from  my  presence,  which,  no  doubt,  you  will  be  very 
glad  of — it  is  natural  you  should  ; — but  do  you  know  I  have 
rendered  you  a  great  service  ? — Shall  I  tell  you  what  it  is  ?  " 

"  I  shall  be  glad  to  hear  of  any  service  you  have  rendered 
me,"  said  I,  determined  to  be  calm,  for  I  knew  by  the  tone  of 
her  voice  she  wanted  to  provoke  me. 

"  Well,"  resumed  she,  "  have  you  not  observed  the  salutary 
change  in  Mr.  Huntingdon?  Don't  you  see  what  a  sober, 
temperate  man  he  is  become  ?  You  saw  with  regret  the  sad 
habits  he  was  contracting,  I  know  ;  and  I  know  you  did  your 
utmost  to  deliver  him  from  them, — but  without  success,  until 
I  came  to  your  assistance.  I  told  him  in  few  words  that  I 
could  not  bear  to  see  him  degrade  himself  so,,  and  that  I 
should  cease  to — no  matter  what  I  told  him, — but  you  see  the 
reformation  I  have  wrought ;  and  you  ought  to  thank  me  for 
it." 

I  rose,  and  rang  for  the  nurse. 

"  But  I  desire  no  thanks,"  she  continued  ;  "  all  the  return  I 
ask  is,  that  you  will  take  care  of  him  when  I  am  gone,  and 
not,  by  harshness  and  neglect,  drive  him  back  to  his  old 
courses." 

I  was  almost  sick  with  passion,  but  Rachel  was  now  at  the 
door :  I  pointed  to  the  children,  for  I  could  not  trust  myself 
to  speak  :  she  took  them  away,  and  I  followed. 

"  Will  you,  Helen?"  continued  the  speaker. 

I  gave  her  a  look  that  blighted  the  malicious  smile  on  her 
face — or  checked  it,  at  least  for  a  moment — and  departed.  In 
the  ante -room  I  met  Mr.  Hargrave.  He  saw  I  was  in  no  hu- 
mour to  be  spoken  to,  and  suffered  me  to  pass  without  a  word ; 
but  when,  after  a  few  minutes'  seclusion  in  the  library,  I  had 
regained  my  composure,  and  was  returning,  to  join  Mrs.  Har- 
grave and  Milicent,  whom  I  had  just  heard  come  down  stairs 
and  go  into  the  drawing-room,  I  found  him  there  still,  lin- 
gering in  the  dimly-lighted  apartment,  and  evidently  waiting 
lor  me. 

"Mrs.  Huntingdon,"  said  he  as  I  passed,  "will  you  allow 
me  one  word?" 

"  What  is  it  then  ? — be  quick  if  you  please." 

"  I  oftended  you  this  morning ;  and  I  cannot  live  under 
your  displeasure." 

"  Then,  go,  and  sin  no  more,"  replied  I,  turning  away. 

"No,  nol"  said  he,  hastily,  setting  himself  before  me — • 
"  Pardon  me,  but  I  must  have  your  forgiveness.  I  leave  you 
to-morrow,  and  I  nay  not  have  an  opportunity  of  speaking 


OF  WILDFELL  HALL.  289 

to  you  again.  I  was  wrong  to  forget  myself — and  you,  as  I 
did ;  but  let  me  implore  you  to  forget  and  forgive  my  rash 
presumption,  and  think  of  me  as  if  those  words  had  never 
been  spoken  ;  for,  believe  me,  I  regret  them  deeply,  and  the 
loss  of  your  esteem  is  too  severe  a  penalty— I  cannot  bear  it.* 

"  Forgetfulness  is  not  to  be  purchased  with  a  wish  ;  and  I 
cannot  bestow  my  esteem  on  all  who  desire  it,  unless  they 
deserve  it  too." 

"  I  shall  think  my  life  well  spent  in  labouring  to  deserve 
it,  if  you  will  but  pardon  this  offence — Will  you?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Yes !  but  that  is  coldly  spoken.  Give  me  your  hand 
and  I'll  believe  you.  You  won't  ?  Then,  Mrs.  Huntingdon, 
you  do  not  forgive  me  !" 

"  Yes — here  it  is,  and  my  forgiveness  with  it :  only — sin 
no  more." 

He  pressed  my  cold  hand  with  sentimental  fervour,  but 
said  nothing,  and  stood  aside  to  let  me  pass  into  the  room, 
where  all  the  company  were  now  assembled.  Mr.  Grimsby 
was  seated  near  the  door  :  on  seeing  me  enter,  almost  imme- 
diately followed  by  Hargrave,  he  leered  at  me,  with  a  glance 
of  intolerable  significance,  as  I  passed.  I  looked  him  in  the 
face,  till  he  sullenly  turned  away,  if  not  ashamed,  at  least 
confounded  for  the  moment.  Meantime,  Hattersley  had 
seized  Hargrave  by  the  arm,  and  was  whispering  something 
in  his  ear — some  coarse  joke,  no  doubt,  for  the  latter  neither 
laughed  nor  spoke  in  answer,  but,  turning  from  him  with  a 
slight  curl  of  the  lip,  disengaged  himself  and  went  to  his 
mother,  who  was  telling  Lord  Lowborough  how  many  reasons 
she  had  to  be  proud  of  her  son. 

Thank  Heaven,  they  are  all  going  to-morrowv 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

DECEMBER  20th,  1824. — This  is  the  third  anniversary  of  our 
felicitous  union.  It  is  now  two  months  since  our  guests  left 
us  to  the  enjoyment  of  each  other's  society  ;  and  I  have  had 
nine  weeks'  experience  of  this  new  phase  of  conjugal  life — 
two  persons  living  together,  as  master  and  mistress  of  the 
house,  and  father  and  mother  of  a  winsome,  merry  little 
child,  with  the  mutual  understanding  that  there  is  no  love, 
friendship,  or  sympathy  between  them.  As  far  as  in  me  lies, 
I  endeavour  to  live  peaceably  with  him  :  I  treat  him  with  un- 
impeachable civility,  give  up  my  convenience  to  his,  where- 
ever  it  may  reasonably  be  done,  and  consult  him  in  a  busi- 
ueBS-like  way  on  household  affairs,  deferring  to  his  pleasure 


240  THE   TENANT 

and  judgment,  even  when  I  know  the  latter  to  be  inferior  to 
my  own. 

As  for  him  :  for  the  first  week  or  two,  he  was  peevish  and 
low — fretting,  I  suppose,  over  his  dear  Annabella's  departure 
— and  particularly  ill-tempered  to  me  :  everything  I  did  was 
wrong  ;  I  was  cold-hearted,  hard,  insensate ;  my  sour,  pale 
face  was  perfectly  repulsive  ;  my  voice  made  him  shudder  ; 
he  knew  not  how  he  could  live  through  the  winter  with  me , 
I  should  kill  him  by  inches.  Again  I  proposed  a  separation, 
but  it  would  not  do :  he  was  not  going  to  be  the  talk  of  all 
the  old  gossips  in  the  neighbourhood  :  he  would  not  have  it 
said  that  he  was  such  a  brute  his  wife  could  not  live  with 
him  ; — no  ;  he  must  contrive  to  bear  with  me. 

"I  must  contrive  to  bear  with  you,  you  mean;"  said  I, 
"  for  so  long  as  I  discharge  my  functions  of  steward  and 
housekeeper,  so  conscientiously  and  well,  without  pay  and 
without  thanks,  you  cannot  afford  to  part  with  me.  I  shall 
therefore  remit  these  duties  when  my  bondage  becomes  in- 
tolerable." This  threat,  I  thought,  would  serve  to  keep  him 
in  check,  if  anything  would. 

I  believe  he  was  much  disappointed  that  I  did  not  feel  his 
offensive  sayings  more  acutely,  for  when  he  had  said  any- 
thing particularly  well  calculated  to  hurt  my  feelings,  he 
would  stare  me  searchingly  in  the  face,  and  then  grumble 
against  my  "  marble  heart,"  or  my  "  brutal  insensibility." 
If  I  had  bitterly  wept  and  deplored  his  lost  affection,  he 
would,  perhaps,  have  condescended  to  pity  me,  and  taken  me 
into  favour  for  a  while,  just  to  comfort  his  solitude  and  con- 
sole him  for  the  absence  of  his  beloved  Annabella,  until  he 
could  meet  her  again,  or  some  more  fitting  substitute.  Thank 
Heaven,  I  am  not  so  weak  as  that !  I  was  infatuated  once 
with  a  foolish,  besotted  affection,  that  clung  to  him  in  spite 
of  his  unworthiness,  but  it  is  fairly  gone  now — wholly  crushed 
and  withered  away ;  and  he  has  none  but  himself  and  his 
vices  to  thank  for  it. 

At  first  (in  compliance  with  his  sweet  lady's  injunctions,  I 
suppose),  he  abstained  wonderfully  well  from  seeking  to  solace 
his  cares  in  wine ;  but  at  length  he  began  to  relax  his  vir- 
tuous efforts,  and  now  and  then  exceeded  a  little,  and  still 
continues  to  do  so — nay,  sometimes,  not  a  little.  When  he  is 
under  the  exciting  influence  of  these  excesses,  he  sometimes 
fires  up  and  attempts  to  play  the  brute ;  and  then  I  take 
little  pains  to  suppress  my  scorn  and  disgust :  when  he  is 
under  the  depressing  influence  of  the  after  consequences,  he 
bemoans  his  sufferings  and  his  errors,  and  charges  them  both 
upon  me ;  he  knows  such  indulgence  injures  his  health,  and 
does  him  more  harm  than  good ;  but  he  says  I  drive  him  to 


OK   WlLDFELL   HALL.  241 

it  by  my  unnatural,  unwomanly  conduct ;  it  will  be  the  ruin 
of  him  in  the  end,  but  it  is  all  my  fault ; — and  then  I  am 
roused  to  defend  myself,  sometimes,  with  bitter  recrimina- 
tion. This  is  a  kind  of  injustice  I  cannot  patiently  endure. 
Have  I  not  laboured  long  and  hard  to  save  him  from  this  very 
vice  ?  would  I  not  labour  still  to  deliver  him  from  it,  if  I 
could  ?  But  could  I  do  so  by  fawning  upon  him  and  caressing 
him  when  I  know  that  he  scorns  me  ?  Is  it  my  fault  that  I 
have  lost  my  influence  with  him,  or  that  he  has  forfeited 
every  claim  to  my  regard?  And  should  I  seek  a  reconcilia- 
tion with  him,  when  I  feel  that  I  abhor  him,  and  that  he 
despises  me?  —  and  while  he  continues  still  to  correspond 
with  Lady  Lowborough,  as  I  know  he  does?  No,  never, 
never,  never  ! — he  may  drink  himself  dead,  but  it  is  NOT  my 
fault  1 

Yet  I  do  my  part  to  save  him  still :  I  give  him  to  under- 
stand that  drinking  makes  his  eyes  dull,  and  his  face  red  and 
bloated ;  and  that  it  tends  to  render  him  imbecile  in  body 
and  mind  ;  and  if  Annabella  were  to  see  him  as  often  as  I  do, 
she  would  speedily  be  disenchanted ;  and  that  she  certainly 
will  withdraw  her  favour  from  him,  if  he  continues  such 
courses.  Such  a  mode  of  admonition  wins  only  coarse  abuse 
for  me — and,  indeed,  I  almost  feel  as  if  I  deserved  it,  for  I 
hate  to  use  such  arguments,  but  they  sink  into  his  stupified 
heart,  and  make  him  pause,  and  ponder,  and  abstain,  more 
than  anything  else  I  could  say. 

At  present,  I  am  enjoying  a  temporary  relief  from  his  pre- 
sence :  he  is  gone  with  Hargrave  to  join  a  distant  hunt,  and 
will  probably  not  be  back  before  to-morrow  evening.  How 
differently  I  used  to  feel  his  absence ! 

Mr.  Hargrave  is  still  at  the  Grove.  He  and  Arthur  fre- 
quently meet  to  pursue  their  rural  sports  together  :  he  often 
calls  upon  us  here,  and  Arthur  not  unfrequently  rides  over  to 
him.  I  do  not  think  either  of  these  soi-disant  friends  is  over- 
flowing with  love  for  the  other ;  but  such  intercourse  serves 
to  get  the  time  on,  and  I  am  very  willing  it  should  continue,  as 
it  saves  me  some  hours  of  discomfort  in  Arthur's  society,  and 
gives  him  some  better  employment  than  the  sottish  indulgence 
of  his  sensual  appetites.  The  only  objection  I  have  to  Mr. 
Hargrave's  being  in  the  neighbourhood,  is  that  the  fear  of 
meeting  him  at  the  Grove  prevents  me  from  seeing  his  sister 
BO  often  as  I  otherwise  should  ;  for,  of  late,  he  has  conducted 
himself  towards  me  with  such  unerring  propriety,  that  I  have 
almost  forgotten  his  former  conduct.  I  suppose  he  is  striving 
to  "  win  my  esteem."  If  he  continue  to  act  in  this  way,  he 
may  win  it ; — but  what  then  ?  The  moment  he  attempts  to 
demand  anything  more,  he  will  lose  it  again. 

16 


242  THE  TENANT 

February  10th. —  It  is  a  hard,  embittering  thing  to  have 
one's  kind  feelings  and  good  intentions  cast  back  in  one's 
teeth.  I  was  beginning  to  relent  towards  my  wretched  partnei 
— to  pity  his  forlorn,  comfortless  condition,  unalleviated  as  ifc 
is  by  the  consolations  of  intellectual  resources  and  the  answer 
of  a  good  conscience  towards  God — and  to  think  I  ought  to 
sacrifice  my  pride,  and  renew  my  efforts  once  again  to  make 
his  home  agreeable  and  lead  him  back  to  the  path  of  virtue  ; 
not  by  false  professions  of  love,  and  not  by  pretended  re- 
morse, but  by  mitigating  my  habitual  coldness  of  manner, 
and  commuting  my  frigid  civility  into  kindness  wherever  an 
opportunity  occurred  ;  and  not  only  was  I  beginning  to  think 
so,  but  I  had  already  begun  to  act  upon  the  thought — and 
what  was  the  result  ?  No  answering  spark  of  kindness — no 
awakening  penitence,  but  an  unappeasable  ill-humour,  and  a 
spirit  of  tyrannous  exaction  that  increased  with  indulgence, 
and  a  lurking  gleam  of  self-complacent  triumph,  at  every 
detection  of  relenting  softness  in  my  manner,  that  congealed 
me  to  marble  again  as  often  as  it  recurred  ;  and  this  morning 
he  finished  the  business : — I  think  the  petrifaction  is  so  com- 
pletely effected  at  last,  that  nothing  can  melt  me  again 
Among  his  letters  was  one  which  he  perused  with  symptoms 
of  unusual  gratification,  and  then  threw  it  across  the  table  to 
me,  with  the  admonition, — 

"  There  !  read  that,  and  take  a  lesson  by  it  1" 

It  was  in  the  free,  dashing  hand  of  Lady  Lowborough.  I 
glanced  at  the  first  page  ;  it  seemed  full  of  extravagant  pro- 
testations of  affection ;  impetuous  longings  for  a  speedy  re- 
union ;  and  impious  defiance  of  God's  mandates,  and  railings 
against  his  providence  for  having  cast  their  lot  asunder,  and 
doomed  them  both  to  the  hateful  bondage  of  alliance  with 
those  they  could  not  love.  He  gave  a  slight  titter  on  seeing 
me  change  colour.  I  folded  up  the  letter,  rose,  and  returned 
it  to  him,  with  no  remark,  but, — 

"  Thank  you— I  will  take  a  lesson  by  it  1"^ 

My  little  Arthur  was  standing  between  his  knees,  delight- 
edly playing  with  the  bright,  ruby  ring  on  his  finger.  Urged 
by  a  sudden,  imperative  impulse  to  deliver  my  son  from  that 
contaminating  influence,  I  caught  him  up  in  my  arms  and 
carried  him  with  me  out  of  the  room.  Not  liking  this  abrupt 
removal,  the  child  began  to  pout  and  cry.  This  was  a  new 
stab  to  my  already  tortured  heart.  I  would  not  let  him  go ; 
but,  taking  him  with  me  into  the  library,  I  shut  the  door, 
and,  kneeling  on  the  floor  beside  him,  I  embraced  him,  kissed 
him,  wept  over  him  with  passionate  fondness.  Rathci 
frightened  than  consoled  by  this,  he  turned  struggling  from 
me  and  cried  out  aloud  for  his  papa.  I  released  him  from  my 


OF  AVILDFKLL    HALL.  248 

arms,  and  never  were  more  bitter  tears  than  those  that  now 
concealed  him  from  my  blinded,  burning  eyes.  Hearing  his 
cries,  the  father  came  to  the  room.  I  instantly  turned  away 
lest  he  should  see  and  misconstrue  my  emotion.  He  swore 
at  me,  and  took  the  now  pacified  child  away. 

It  is  hard  that  my  little  darling  should  love  him  more  than 
me  ;  and  that,  when  the  well-being  and  culture  of  my  son  is 
all  I  have  to  live  for,  I  should  see  my  influence  destroyed  by 
one  whose  selfish  affection  is  more  injurious  than  the  coldest 
indifference  or  the  harshest  tyranny  could  be.  If  I,  for  his 
good,  deny  him  some  trifling  indulgence,  he  goes  to  his  father, 
and  the  latter,  in  spite  of  his  selfish  indolence,  will  even  give 
himself  some  trouble  to  meet  the  child's  desires :  if  I  attempt 
to  curb  his  will,  or  look  gravely  on  him  for  some  act  of 
childish  disobedience,  he  knows  his  other  parent  will  smile 
and  take  his  part  against  me.  Thus,  not  only  have  I  the 
father's  spirit  in  the  son  to  contend  against,  the  germs  of  his 
evil  tendencies  to  search  out  and  eradicate,  and  his  corrupt- 
ing intercourse  and  example  in  after-life  to  counteract,  but 
already  he  counteracts  my  arduous  labour  for  the  child's  ad- 
vantage, destroys  my  influence  over  his  tender  mind,  and  robs 
me  of  his  very  love  ;  I  had  no  earthly  hopo  but  this,  and  he 
seems  to  take  a  diabolical  delight  in  tearing  it  away. 

But  it  is  wrong  to  despair  ;  I  will  remember  the  counsel  of 
the  inspired  writer  to  him  "  that  feareth  the  Lord  and 
obeyeth  the  voice  of  his  servant,  that  sitteth  in  darkness  and 
hath  no  light ;  let  him  trust  in  the  name  of  the  Lord,  and 
stay  upon  his  God!" 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

DECEMBER  20th,  1825. — Another  year  is  past;  and  I  am 
weary  of  this  life.  And  yet  I  cannot  wish  to  leave  it :  what- 
ever afflictions  assail  me  here,  I  cannot  wish  to  go  and  leave 
my  darling  in  this  dark  and  wicked  world  alone,  without  a 
friend  to  guide  him  through  its  weary  mazes,  to  warn  him  of 
its  thousand  snares,  and  guard  him  from  the  perils  that  beset 
him  on  every  hand.  I  am  not  well  fitted  to  be  his  only  com- 
panion, I  know  ;  but  there  is  no  other  to  supply  my  place.  I 
am  too  grave  to  minister  to  his  amusements  and  enter  into  his 
infantile  sports  as  a  nurse  or  a  mother  ought  to  do,  and  often 
his  bursts  of  gleeful  merriment  trouble  and  alarm  me  ;  I  see 
in  them  his  father's  spirit  and  temperament,  and  I  tremble  for 
the  consequences  ;  and,  too  often,  damp  the  innocent  mirth  I 
ought  to  share.  That  father,  on  the  contrary,  has  no  weight 
of  sadness  on  his  mind — is  troubled  with  uo  fears,  no  scruples 


24 -i  TI:E  TEX  AST 

concerning  his  son's  future  welfare  ;  and  at  evenings  especially, 
the  times  when  the  child  sees  him  the  most  and  the  oftenest, 
he  is  always  particularly  jocund  and  open-hearted :  ready  to 
laugh  and  to  jest  with  anything  or  anybody — but  me — and  I 
am  particularly  silent  and  sad  :  therefore,  of  course,  the  child 
dotes  upon  his  seemingly  joyous,  amusing,  ever-indulgent 
papa,  and  will  at  any  time  gladly  exchange  my  company  for 
his.  This  disturbs  me  greatly ;  not  so  much  for  the  sake  of 
my  son's  affection  (though  I  do  prize  that  highly,  and  though 
I  feel  it  is  my  right,  and  know  I  have  done  much  to  earn  it) 
as  for  that  influence  over  him  Avhich,  for  his  own  advantage, 
I  would  strive  to  purchase  and  retain,  and  which  for  very 
spite  his  father  delights  to  rob  me  of,  and,  from  motives  of 
mere  idle  egotism,  is  pleased  to  win  to  himself;  making  no 
use  of  it  but  to  torment  me  and  ruin  the  child.  My  only  con- 
solation is,  that  he  spends  comparatively  little  of  his  time  at 
home,  and,  during  the  months  he  passes  in  London  or  else- 
where, I  have  a  chance  of  recovering  the  ground  I  had  lost, 
and  overcoming  with  good  the  evil  he  has  wrought  by  his 
wilful  mismanagement.  But  then  it  is  a  bitter  trial  to  behold 
him,  on  his  return,  doing  his  utmost  to  subvert  my  labours 
and  transform  my  innocent,  affectionate,  tractable  darling 
into  a  selfish,  disobedient,  and  mischievous  boy;  thereby  pre- 
paring the  soil  for  those  vices  he  has  so  successfully  cultivated 
in  his  own  perverted  nature. 

Happily,  there  were  none  of  Arthur's  "friends"  invited  to 
Grassdale  last  autumn :  he  took  himself  off  to  visit  some  of 
them  instead.  I  wish  he  would  always  do  so,  and  I  wish  his 
friends  were  numerous  and  loving  enough  to  keep  him 
amongst  them  all  the  year  round.  Mr.  Hargrave,  con- 
siderably to  my  annoyance,  did  not  go  with  him  ;  but  I 
think  I  have  done  with  that  gentleman  at  last. 

For  seven  or  eight  months,  he  behaved  so  remarkably  well, 
and  managed  so  skilfully  too,  that  I  was  almost  completely 
off  my  guard,  and  was  really  beginning  to  look  upon  him  as 
a  friend,  and  even  to  treat  him  as  such,  \\ith  certain  prudent 
restrictions  (which  I  deemed  scarcely  necessary)  ;  when,  pre- 
suming upon  my  unsuspecting  kindness,  he  thought  he  might 
venture  to  overstep  the  bounds  of  decent  moderation  and 
propriety  that  had  so  long  restrained  him.  It  was  on  a  pleasant 
evening  at  the  close  of  May :  I  was  wandering  in  the  park, 
and  he,  on  seeing  me  there  as  he  rode  past,  made  bold  to 
enter  and  approach  me,  dismounting  and  leaving  his  horse  at 
the  gate.  This  was  the  first  time  he  had  ventured  to  come 
within  its  inclosure  since  I  had  been  left  alone,  without  the 
sanction  of  his  mother's  or  sister's  company,  or  at  least  the 
excuse  of  a  message  from  them.  But  he  managed  to  appear 


OF  WILDFELL  HALL.  215 

BO  calm  and  easy,  so  respectful  and  self-possessed  in  his 
friendliness,  that,  though  a  little  surprised,  I  was  neither 
alarmed  nor  offended  at  the  unusual  liberty,  and  he  walked 
with  me  under  the  ash-trees  and  by  the  MTater-side,  and 
talked,  with  considerable  animation,  good  taste,  and  intelli 
gence,  on  many  subjects,  before  I  began  to  think  about  getting 
rid  of  him.  Then,  after  a  pause,  during  which  we  both  stood 
gazing  on  the  calm,  blue  water ;  I  revolving  in  my  mind  the 
best  means  of  politely  dismissing  my  companion,  he,  no  doubt, 
pondering  other  matters  equally  alien  to  the  sweet  sights  and 
sounds  that  alone  were  present  to  his  senses, — he  suddenly 
electrified  me  by  beginning,  in  a  peculiar  tone,  low,  soft,  but 
perfectly  distinct,  to  pour  forth  the  most  unequivocal  expres- 
sions of  earnest  and  passionate  love  ;  pleading  his  cause  with 
all  the  bold  yet  artful  eloquence  he  could  summon  to  his  aid. 
But  I  cut  short  his  appeal,  and  repulsed  him  so  determinately, 
so  decidedly,  and  with  such  a  mixture  of  scornful  indignation, 
tempered  with  cool,  dispassionate  sorrow  and  pity  for  his  be- 
nighted mind,  that  he  withdrew,  astonished,  mortified,  and 
discomforted  ;  and,  a  few  days  after,  I  heard  that  he  had  de- 
parted for  London.  lie  returned,  however,  in  eight  or  nine 
weeks — and  did  not  entirely  keep  aloof  from  me,  but  com- 
ported himself  in  so  remarkable  a  manner  that  his  quick- 
sighted  sister  could  not  fail  to  notice  the  change. 

"What  have  you  done  to  Walter,  Mrs.  Huntingdon?" 
said  she  one  morning,  when  I  had  called  at  the  Grove,  and  he 
had  just  left  the  room  after  exchanging  a  few  words  of  the 
coldest  civility.  "  He  has  been  so  extremely  ceremonious 
and  stately  of  late,  I  can't  imagine  what  it  is  all  about,  unless 
you  have  desperately  offended  him.  Tell  me  what  it  is,  that 
I  may  be  your  mediator,  and  make  you  friends  again." 

"  I  have  done  nothing  willingly  to  offend  him,"  said  I. 
"  If  he  is  offended,  he  can  best  tell  you  himself  what  it  is 
about." 

"I'll  ask  him,"  cried  the  giddy  girl,  springing  up  and 
putting  her  head  out  of  the  window;  "he's  only  in  the 
garden — Walter ! " 

"  No,  no,  Esther !  you  will  seriously  displease  me  if  you 
do  ;  and  I  shall  leave  you  immediately,  and  not  come  again 
for  months — perhaps  years." 

"  Did  you  call,  Esther?"  said  her  brother,  approaching  the 
window  from  without. 

"  Yes ;  I  wanted  to  ask  you " 

"  Good  morning,  Esther,"  said  I,  taking  her  hand  and 
giving  it  a  severe  squeeze. 

"  To  ask  you,"  continued  she,  "  to  get  me  a  rose  for  Mrs. 
Huntingdon."  He  departed.  "  Mrs.  Huntingdon,"  she  ex- 


246  THE  TENANT 

claimed,  turning  to  me  and  still  holding  me  fast  by  the  hand, 
11  I'm  quite  shocked  at  you — you're  just  as  angry,  and  distant, 
and  cold  as  he  is :  and  I'm  determined  you  shall  be  as  good 
friends  as  ever,  before  you  go." 

"  Esther,  how  can  you  be  so  rude!"  cried  Mrs.  Hargrave 
who  was  seated  gravely  knitting  in  her  easy  chair.  "  Surely, 
you  never  will  learn  to  conduct  yourself  like  a  lady!" 

"Well,  mamma,  you  said,  yourself "  But  the  young  lady 

was  silenced  by  the  uplifted  finger  of  her  mamma,  accom- 
panied, with  a  very  stern  shake  of  the  head. 

"Isn't  she  cross?"  whispered  she  to  me;  but,  before  I 
could  add  my  share  of  reproof,  Mr.  Hargrave  reappeared  at 
the  window  with  a  beautiful  moss  rose  in  his  hand. 

"  Here,  Esther,  I've  brought  you  the  rose,"  said  he,  ex- 
tending it  towards  her. 

"  Give  it  her  yourself,  you  blockhead  !"  cried  she,  recoil- 
ing with  a  spring  from  between  us. 

"Mrs.  Huntingdon  would  rather  receive  it  from  you,"  re- 
plied he,  in  a  very  serious  tone,  but  lowering  his  voice  that 
his  mother  might  not  hear.  His  sister  took  the  rose  and  gave 
it  to  me. 

"  My  brother's  compliments,  Mrs.  Huntingdon,  and  he 
hopes  you  and  he  will  come  to  a  better  understanding  by-and- 
bye.  Will  that  do,  Walter?"  added  the  saucy  girl,  turning 
to  him  and  putting  her  arm  round  his  neck,  as  he  stood  lean- 
ing upon  the  sill  of  the  window — "  or  should  I  have  said  that 
you  are  sorry  you  were  so  touchy  ?  or  that  you  hope  she  will 
pardon  your  offence?" 

"  You  silly  girl !  you  don't  know  what  you  are  talking 
about,"  replied  he  gravely. 

"  Indeed  I  don't:  for  I'm  quite  in  the  dark !" 

"  Now,  Esther,"  interposed  Mrs.  Hargrave,  who,  if  equally 
benighted  on  the  subject  of  our  estrangement,  saw  at  least 
that  her  daughter  was  behaving  very  improperly,  "  I  must  in- 
sist upon  your  leaving  the  room  !" 

u  Pray  don't,  Mrs.  Hargrave,  for  I'm  going  to  leave  it  my- 
eelf,"  said  I,  and  immediately  made  my  adieux. 
1  About  a  week  after,  Mr.  Hargrave  brought  his  sister  to  see 
me.  He  conducted  himself,  at  first,  with  his  usual  cold,  dis- 
tant, half-stately,  half-melancholy,  altogether  injured  air; 
but  Esther  made  no  remark  upon  it  this  time  :  she  had  evi- 
dently been  schooled  into  better  manners.  She  talked  to  me, 
and.  laughed  and  romped  with  little  Arthur,  her  loved  and 
loving  playmate.  He,  somewhat  to  my  discomfort,  enticed 
her  from  the  room  to  have  a  run  in  the  hall,  and  thence  into 
the  garden.  I  got  up  to  stir  the  fire.  Mr.  Hargrave  asked  if 
I  felt  cold,  and  shut  the  door — a  very  unseasonable  piece  of 


OF  WILDFELL  HA1X.  347 

officiousness,  for  I  had  meditated  following  the  noisy  play- 
fellows if  they  did  not  speedily  return.  He  thon  took  the 
liberty  of  walking  up  to  the  fire  himself,  and  asking  me  if  I 
were  aware  that  Mr.  Huntingdon  was  now  at  the  seat  of  Lord 
Lowborough,  and  likely  to  continue  there  some  time. 

"  No  ;  but  it's  no  matter,"  I  answered  carelessly ;  and  if  my 
cheek  glowed  like  fire,  it  \vns  rather  at  the  question  than  the 
information  it  conveyed. 

41  You  don't  object  to  it?"  he  said. 

"  Not  at  all,  if  Lord  Lowborough  likes  his  company." 

44  You  have  no  love  left  lor  him,  then?" 

44  Not  the  least." 

44 1  knew  that — I  knew  you  were  too  high-minded  and  pure 
in  your  own  nature  to  continue  to  regard  one  so  utterly 
false  and  polluted  with  any  feelings  but  those  of  indignation 
and  scornful  abhorrence!" 

44  Is  he  not  your  friend  ?  "  said  I,  turning  my  eyes  from  the 
fire  to  his  face  with  perhaps  a  slight  touch  of  those  feelings 
he  assigned  to  another. 

44  He  was,"  replied  he,  with  the  same  calm  gravity  as  be- 
fore, "  but  do  not  wrong  me  by  supposing  that  I  could  con- 
tinue my  friendship  and  esteem  to  a  man  who  could  so  infa- 
mously, so  impiously  forsake  and  injure  one  so  transcen- 

dently well,  I  won't  speak  of  it  But  tell  me,  do  you  never 

think  of  revenge  ?  " 

44  Revenge  1  No — what  good  would  that  do? — it  would  make 
him  no  better,  and  me  no  happier. " 

44 1  don't  know  how  to  talk  to  you,  Mrs.  Huntingdon,"  said 
he  smiling  ;  "you  are  only  half  a  woman — your  nature  must 
be  half  human,  half  angelic.  Such  goodness  overawes  me  ;  I 
don't  know  what  to  make  of  it." 

44  Then,  sir,  I  fear  you  must  be  very  much  worse  than  you 
should  be,  if  I,  a  mere  ordinary  mortal,  am,  by  your  own  con- 
fession, so  vastly  your  superior ;  and  since  there  exists  so 
little  sympathy  between  us,  I  think  we  had  better  each  look 
out  for  some  more  congenial  companion."  And  forthwith 
moving  to  the  window,  I  began  to  look  out  for  my  little  son 
and  his  gay  young  friend. 

44  No,  1  am  the  ordinary  mortal,  I  maintain,"  replied  Mr. 
Hargrave.  "  I  will  not  allow  myself  to  be  worse  than  my 
fellows ;  but  you,  madam,  I  equally  maintain  there  is  no- 
body like  you.  But  are  you  happy  ?  "  he  asked  in  a  serious 
tone. 

41  AB  happy  as  some  others,  I  suppose." 

'4  Are  you  as  happy  as  you  desire  to  be?" 

44  No  one  is  BO  blest  as  that  comes  to  on  this  side  eternity." 


248  THE  TENANT 

"  One  thing  I  know,"  returned  he,  with  a  deep  sad  sigh  ; 
"  you  are  immeasurably  happier  than  I  am." 

"I  am  very  sorry  for  you,  then,"  I  could  not  help  re- 
plying. 

'•Are  you,  indeed?  No,  for  if  you  were  you  would  be 
glad  to  relieve  me." 

"  And  so  I  should  if  I  could  do  so  without  injuring  myself 
or  any  other." 

"  And  can  you  suppose  that  I  should  wish  you  to  injure 
yourself?  No,  on  the  contrary,  it  is  your  own  happiness  I 
long  for  more  than  mine.  You  are  miserable  now,  Mrs. 
Huntingdon,"  continued  he,  looking  me  boldly  in  the  face. 
"  You  do  not  complain,  but  I  see — and  feel — and  know  that 
you  are  miserable — and  must  remain  so  as  long  as  you  keep 
those  walls  of  impenetrable  ice  about  your  still  warm  and  pal- 
pitating heart ;  and  I  am  miserable,  too.  Deign  to  smile  on 
me  and  I  am  happy :  trust  me,  and  you  shall  be  happy  also, 
for  if  you  are  a  woman  I  can  make  you  so — and  I  will  do  it 
in  spite  of  yourself! "  he  muttered  between  his  teeth  ;  "  and 
as  for  others,  the  question  is  between  ourselves  alone  :  you 
cannot  injure  your  husband,  you  know,  and  no  one  else  has 
any  concern  in  the  matter." 

"  I  have  a  son,  Mr.  Hargrave,  and  you  have  a  mother," 
said  I,  retiring  from  the  window,  whither  he  had  fol- 
lowed me. 

"  They  need  not  know,"  he  began ;  but  before  anything 
more  could  be  said  on  either  side  Esther  and  Arthur  re- 
entered  the  room.  The  former  glanced  at  Walter's  flushed, 
excited  countenance,  and  then  at  mine — a  little  flushed  and 
excited  too,  I  dare  say,  though  from  far  different  causes.  She 
must  have  thought  we  had  been  quarrelling  desperately,  and 
was  evidently  perplexed  and  disturbed  at  the  circumstance  ; 
but  she  was  too  polite  or  too  much  afraid  of  her  brother's  an- 
ger to  refer  to  it.  She  seated  hersell  on  the  sofa,  and  putting 
back  her  bright,  golden  ringlets,  that  were  scattered  in  wild 
profusion  over  her  face,  she  immediately  began  to  talk  about 
the  garden  and  her  little  playfellow,  and  continued  to  chatter 
away  in  her  usual  strain  till  her  brother  summoned  her  to 
depart. 

"  If  I  have  spoken  too  warmly,  forgive  me,"  he  murmured 
on  taking  his  leave,  "  or  I  shall  never  forgive  myself." 

Esther  smiled  and  glanced  at  me  :  I  merely  bowed,  and  her 
countenance  fell.  She  thought  it  a  poor  return  for  Walter's 
generous  concession,  and  was  disappointed  in  her  friend.  Poor 
child,  she  little  knows  the  world  she  lives  in  1 

Mr,  Hargrave  had  not  au  opportunity  of  meeting  me  again 


OF   WILDFELL  HALL.  249 

in  private  for  several  weeks  after  this  ;  but  when  he  did  meet 
me  there  was  less  of  pride  and  more  of  touching  melancholy  in 
his  manner  than  before.  Oh,  how  he  annoyed  me !  I  wag 
obliged  at  last  almost  entirely  to  remit  my  visits  to  the  Grove 
at  the  expense  of  deeply  offending  Mrs.  Hargrave  and  se- 
riously afflicting  poor  Esther,  who  really  values  my  society 
for  want  of  better,  and  who  ought  not  to  suffer  for  the  fault 
of  her  brother.  But  that  indefatigable  foe  was  not  yet  van- 
quished :  he  seemed  to  be  always  on  the  watch.  I  frequently 
saw  him  riding  lingeringly  past  the  premises,  looking  search- 
ingly  round  him  as  he  went — or,  if  I  did  not,  Rachel  did. 
That  sharp-sighted  woman  soon  guessed  how  matters  stood 
between  us,  and  descrying  the  enemy's  movements  from  her 
elevation  at  the  nursery-window,  she  would  give  me  a  quiet 
intimation  if  she  saw  me  preparing  for  a  walk  when  she  had 
reason  to  believe  he  was  about,  or  to  think  it  likely  that  he 
would  meet  or  overtake  me  in  the  way  I  meant  to  traverse.  I 
would  then  defer  my  ramble,  or  confine  myself  for  that  day 
to  the  park  and  gardens,  or,  if  the  proposed  excursion  was 
a  matter  of  importance,  such  as  a  visit  to  the  sick  or  afflicted, 
I  would  take  Rachel  with  me,  and  then  I  was  never  mo- 
lested. 

But  one  mild,  sunshiny  day,  early  in  November,  I  had 
ventured  forth  alone  to  visit  the  village  school  and  a  few  of 
the  poor  tenants,  and  on  my  return  I  was  alarmed  at  the 
clatter  of  a  horse's  feet  behind  me  approaching  at  a  rapid, 
steady  trot.  There  was  no  stile  or  gap  at  hand  by  which  I 
could  escape  into  the  fields,  so  I  walked  quietly  on,  saying  to 
myself, — 

"  It  may  not  be  he  after  all ;  and  if  it  is,  and  if  he  do 
annoy  me,  it  shall  be  for  the  last  time,  I  am  determined,  if 
there  be  power  in  words  and  looks  against  cool  impudence 
and  mawkish  sentimentality  so  inexhaustible  as  his." 

The  horse  soon  overtook  me,  and  was  reined  up  close  be- 
side me.  It  was  Mr.  Hargrave.  He  greeted  me  with  a  smile 
intended  to  be  soft  and  melancholy,  but  his  triumphant  satis- 
faction at  having  caught  me  at  last  so  shone  through  that  it 
was  quite  a  failure.  After  briefly  answering  his  salutation 
and  inquiring  after  the  ladies  at  the  Grove,  I  turned  away 
and  walked  on ;  but  he  followed  and  kept  his  horse  at  my 
side  :  it  was  evident  he  intended  to  be  my  companion  all  the 
way. 

"  Well !  I  don't  much  care.  ]f  you  want  another  rebuff 
take  it — and  welcome,"  was  my  inward  remark.  "  Now,  sir, 
what  next?" 

This  question,  though  unspoken,  was  not  long  unanswered : 
aftar  a.  few  passing  observations  upon  indifferent  subject*,  be 


250  THE  TENANT 

began  in  solemn  tones  the  following  appeal  to  my  hu« 
manity  : — 

"  It  will  be  four  years  next  April  since  I  first  saw  you, 
Mrs.  Huntingdon — you  may  have  forgotten  the  circumstance, 
hut  I  never  can.  I  admired  you  then  most  deeply,  but  I 
dared  not  love  you :  in  the  following  autumn  I  saw  so  much 
of  your  perfections  that  I  could  not  fail  to  love  you,  though  I 
dared  not  show  it.  For  upwards  of  three  years  I  have  en- 
dured a  perfect  martyrdom.  From  the  anguish  of  suppressed 
emotions,  intense  and  fruitless  longings,  silent  sorrow,  crushed 
hopes,  and  trampled  affections,  I  have  suffered  more  than  I 
can  tell,  or  you  imagine — and  you  were  the  cause  of  it,  and 
not  altogether  the  innocent  cause.  My  youth  is  wasting 
away ;  my  prospects  are  darkened ;  my  life  is  a  desolate 
blank ;  I  have  no  rest  day  or  night :  I  am  become  a  burden 
to  myself  and  others,  and  you  might  save  me  by  a  word — a 
glance,  and  will  not  do  it — is  this  right?" 

u  In  the  first  place  I  don't  believe  you,"  answered  I:  "  in 
the  second,  if  you  will  be  such  a  fool  I  can't  hinder  it." 

"  If  you  affect,"  replied  he  earnestly,  "  to  regard  as  folly, 
the  best,  the  strongest,  the  most  godlike  impulses  of  our  na- 
ture,— I  don't  believe  you ;  I  know  you  are  not  the  heartless, 
icy  being  you  pretend  to  be — you  had  a  heart  once  and  gave 
it  to  your  husband.  When  you  found  him  utterly  unworthy 
of  the  treasure,  you  reclaimed  it ;  and  you  will  not  pretend 
that  you  loved  that  sensual,  earthly-minded  profligate  so 
deeply,  so  devotedly,  that  you  can  never  love  another?  I 
know  that  there  are  feelings  in  your  nature  that  have  never  yet 
been  called  forth — I  know,  too,  that  in  your  present  neglected 
lonely  state  you  are  and  must  be  miserable.  You  have  it  i» 
your  power  to  raise  two  human  beings  from  a  state  of  actual 
suffering  to  such  unspeakable  beatitude  as  only  generous,  no- 
ble, self-forgetting  love  can  give  (for  you  can  love  me  if  you 
will)  ;  you  may  tell  me  that  you  scorn  and  detest  me,  but — 
since  you  have  set  me  the  example  of  plain  speaking — I  will 
answer  that  I  do  not  believe  you !  but  you  will  not  do  it !  you 
choose  rather  to  leave  us  miserable  ;  and  you  coolly  tell  me 
it  is  the  will  of  God  that  we  should  remain  so.  You  may  call 
this  religion,  but  I  call  it  wild  fanaticism !" 

"  There  is  another  life  both  for  you  and  for  me,"  said  I. 
"  If  it  be  the  will  of  God  that  we  should  sow  in  tears,  now, 
it  is  only  that  we  may  reap -in  joy  hereafter.  It  is  his  will 
that  we  should  not  injure  others  by  the  gratification  of  our 
own  earthly  passions ;  and  you  have  a  mother,  and  sisters,  and 
friends,  who  would  be  seriously  injured  by  your  disgrace ;  and 
I,  too,  have  friends,  whose  peace  of  mind  shall  never  be  sacri- 
ficed to  my  enjoyment — or  yours  either,  with  my  consent — • 


OF  WILDFEIX  HALL.  251 

and  if  I  were  alone  in  the  world,  I  have  still  my  God  and  my 
religion,  and  I  would  sooner  die  than  disgrace  my  calling  and 
break  my  faith  with  Heaven  to  obtain  a  few  brief  years  ot 
false  and  fleeting  happiness — happiness  sure  to  end  in  misery, 
even  here — for  myself  or  any  other ! " 

"  There  need  be  no  disgrace — no  misery  or  sacrifice  in  any 
quarter,"  persisted  he.  "  I  do  not  ask  you  to  leave  your  home 
or  defy  the  world's  opinion." — But  I  need  not  repeat  all  hia 
arguments.  I  refuted  them  to  the  best  of  my  power ;  but 
that  power  was  provokingly  small,  at  the  moment,  for  I  was 
too  much  flurried  with  indignation — and  even  shame — that  he 
should  thus  dare  to  address  me,  to  retain  sufficient  command 
of  thought  and  language  to  enable  me  adequately  to  contend 
against  his  powerful  sophistries.  Finding,  however,  that  he 
could  not  be  silenced  by  reason,  and  even  covertly  exulted  in 
his  seeming  advantage,  and  ventured  to  deride  those  assertions 
I  had  not  the  coolness  to  prove,  I  changed  my  course  and  tried 
another  plan, 

"Do  you  really  love  me?"  said  I  seriously,  pausing  and 
looking  him  calmly  in  the  face. 

"Do  I  love  you !"  cried  he. 

"Truly?"  I  demanded. 

His  countenance  brightened ;  he  thought  his  triumph  was 
at  hand.  He  commenced  a  passionate  protestation  of  the 
truth  and  fervour  of  his  attachment,  which  I  cut  short  by 
another  question : — 

"But  is  it  not  a  selfish  love? — have  you  enough  disin- 
terested affection  to  enable  you  to  sacrifice  your  own  pleasure 
to  mine?" 

'  I  would  give  my  life  to  serve  you." 

"  I  don't  want  your  life — but  have  you  enough  real  sympathy 
for  my  afflictions  to  induce  you  to  make  an  effort  to  relieve 
them,  at  the  risk  of  a  little  discomfort  to  yourself?" 

"  Try  me,  and  see  ! " 

"If  you  have — never  mention  this  subject  again.  You 
cannot  recur  to  it  in  any  way,  without  doubling  the  weight  of 
those  sufferings  you  so  feelingly  deplore.  I  have  nothing  left 
me  but  the  solace  of  a  good  conscience  and  a  hopeful  trust  in 
Heaven,  and  you  labour  continually  to  rob  me  of  these.  If 
you  persist,  I  must  regard  you  as  my  deadliest  foe." 

"  But  hear  me  a  moment " 

"  No,  sir !  you  said  you  would  give  your  life  to  serve  me : 
I  only  ask  your  silence  on  one  particular  point.  I  have 
spoken  plainly ;  and  what  I  say  I  mean.  If  you  torment  me 
in  this  way  any  more,  I  must  conclude  that  your  protestations 
are  entirely  false,  and  that  you  hate  me  in  your  heart  as 
fervently  as  you  profess  to  love  me !" 


252  THE   TENAKT 

He  bit  his  lip,  and  bent  his  eyes  upon  the  ground  in  silence 
for  a  while. 

"Then  I  must  leave  you,"  said  he  at  length,  looking  steadily 
upon  me,  as  if  with  the  last  hope  of  detecting  some  token  of 
irrepressible  anguish  or  dismay  awakened  by  those  solemn 
words.  "  I  must  leave  you.  I  cannot  live  here,  and  be  for 
ever  silent  on  the  all-absorbing  subject  of  my  thoughts  and 
wishes." 

"  Formerly,  I  believe,  you  spent  but  little  of  your  time  at 
home,"  I  answered  :  "  it  will  do  you  no  harm  to  absent  your- 
self again,  for  a  while — if  that  be  really  necessary." 

"If  that  be  really  possible,"  he  muttered — "and  can  you 
bid  me  go  so  coolly?  Do  you  really  wish  it ?" 

"  Most  certainly  I  do.  If  you  cannot  see  me  without  tor- 
menting me  as  you  have  lately  done,  I  would  gladly  say  fare- 
well and  never  sae  you  more." 

He  made  no  answer,  but,  bending  from  his  horse,  held  out 
his  hand  towards  me.  I  looked  up  at  his  face,  and  saw 
therein  such  a  look  of  genuine  agony  of  soul  that,  whether 
bitter  disappointment,  or  wounded  pride,  or  lingering  love,  or 
burning  wrath  were  uppermost,  I  could  not  hesitate  to  put  my 
hand  in  his  as  frankly  as  if  I  bade  a  friend  farewell.  He 
grasped  it  very  hard,  and  immediately  put  spurs  to  his  horse 
and  galloped  away.  Very  soon  after,  I  learned  that  he  was 
gone  to  Paris,  where  he  still  is ;  and  the  longer  he  stays  there 
the  better  for  me. 

I  thank  God  for  this  deliverance  ! 


CHAPTER  XXXVHI. 

DECEMBER  20th,  1826.— The  fifth  anniversary  ot  my  wed- 
ding day,  and,  I  trust,  the  last  I  shall  spend  under  this  roof. 
My  resolution  is  formed,  my  plan  concocted,  and  already  partly 
put  in  execution.  My  conscience  does  not  blame  me,  but 
while  the  purpose  ripens,  let  me  beguile  a  few  of  these  long 
winter  evenings  in  stating  the  case  for  my  own  satisfaction — 
a  dreary  amusement  enough,  but  having  the  air  of  a  useful 
occupation,  and  being  pursued  as  a  task,  it  will  suit  me  better 
than  a  lighter  one. 

In  September,  quiet  Grassdale  was  again  alive  with  a  party 
of  ladies  and  gentlemen  (so  called)  consisting  of  the  same  in- 
dividuals as  those  invited  the  year  before  last,  with  the  addi- 
tion of  two  or  three  others,  among  whom  were  Mrs.  Hargrave 
and  her  younger  daughter.  The  gentlemen  and  Lady  Low- 
uorough  were  invited  for  the  pleasure  and  convenience  of  the 


OF   WlLDFEIA  HALL.  268 

host,  the  other  ladies,  I  suppose  for  the  sake  of  appearances, 
and  to  keep  me  in  check,  and  make  me  discreet  and  civil  in  my 
demeanour.  But  the  ladies  stayed  only  three  weeks,  the 
gentlemen,  with  two  exceptions,  above  two  months,  for  their 
hospitable  entertainer  was  loath  to  part  with  them  and  be  left 
alone  with  his  bright  intellect,  his  stainless  conscience,  and 
his  loved  and  loving  wife. 

On  the  day  of  Lady  Lowborough's  arrival,  I  followed  her 
into  her  chamber,  and  plainly  told  her  that,  if  I  found  reason 
to  believe  that  she  still  continued  her  criminal  connection  with 
Mr.  Huntingdon,  I  should  think  it  my  absolute  duty  to  in- 
form her  husband  of  the  circumstance — or  awaken  his  sus- 
picions at  least — however  painful  it  might  be,  or  however 
dreadful  the  consequences.  She  was  startled  at  first,  by  the 
declaration,  so  unexpected,  and  so  determinately  yet  calmly 
delivered  ;  but  rallying  in  a  moment,  she  coolly  replied  that, 
if  I  saw  anything  at  all  reprehensible  or  suspicious  in  her  con- 
duct, she  would  freely  give  me  leave  to  tell  his  lordship  all 
about  it.  Willing  to  be  satisfied  with  this,  I  left  her ;  and 
certainly  I  saw  nothing  thenceforth  particularly  reprehensible 
or  suspicious  in  her  demeanour  towards  her  host ;  but  then  I 
had  the  other  guests  to  attend  to,  and  I  did  not  watch  them 
narrowly — for,  to  confess  the  truth,  I  feared  to  see  anything 
between  them.  I  no  longer  regarded  it  as  any  concern  of 
mine,  and  if  it  was  my  duty  to  enlighten  Lord  Lowborough, 
it  was  a  painful  duty,  and  I  dreaded  to  be  called  to  perform  it. 

But  my  fears  were  brought  to  an  end,  in  a  manner  I  had 
not  anticipated.  One  evening,  about  a  fortnight  after  the 
visitors'  arrival,  I  had  retired  into  the  library  to  snatch  a  few 
minutes'  respite  from  forced  cheerfulness  and  wearisome  dis- 
course— for  after  so  long  a  period  of  seclusion,  dreary  indeed, 
as  I  had  often  found  it,  I  could  not  always  bear  to  be  doing 
violence  to  my  feelings,  and  goading  my  powers  to  talk,  and 
smile  and  listen,  and  play  the  attentive  hostess,  or  even  the 
cheerful  friend : — I  had  just  ensconced  myself  within  the  bow 
of  the  window,  and  was  looking  out  upon  the  west  where  the 
darkening  hills  rose  sharply  defined  against  the  clear  amber 
light  of  evening,  that  gradually  blended  and  faded  away  into 
the  pure,  pale  blue  of  the  upper  sky,  where  one  bright  star 
was  shining  through,  as  if  to  promise — "  When  that  dying 
light  is  gone,  the  world  will  not  be  left  in  darkness,  and  they 
who  trust  in  God — whose  minds  are  unbeclouded  by  the  mista 
of  unbelief  and  sin — are  never  wholly  comfortless," — when  I 
heard  a  hurried  step  approaching,  and  Lord  Lowborough  en- 
tered— this  room  was  still  his  favourite  resort.  He  flung  the 
door  to  with  unusual  violence,  and  cast  his  hat  aside  regardless 
where  it  fell.  What  could  be  the  matter  with  him  ?  His  face 


254  THE   TENANT 

was  ghastly  pale ;  his  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  ground  ;  hia 
teeth  clenched ;  his  fore'head  glistened  with  the  dews  of  agony. 
It  was  plain  he  knew  his  wrongs  at  last ! 

Unconscious  of  my  presence,  he  began  to  pace  the  room  in 
a  state  of  fearful  agitation,  violently  wringing  his  hands  and 
uttering  low  groans  or  incoherent  ejaculations.  I  made  a 
movement  to  let  him  know  that  he  was  not  alone  ;  but  he  was 
too  preoccupied  to  notice  it.  Perhaps,  while  his  back  was 
towards  me,  I  might  cross  the  room  and  slip  away  unobserved. 
I  rose  to  make  the  attempt,  but  then  he  perceived  me.  He 
started  and  stood  still  a  moment ;  then  wiped  his  streaming 
forehead,  and,  advancing  towards  me,  with  a  kind  of  unnatural 
composure,  said  in  a  deep,  almost  sepulchral  tone, — 

"  Mrs.  Huntingdon,  I  must  leave  you  to-morrow." 

"To-morrow!"  I  repeated.    "  I  do  not  ask  the  cause." 

"You  know  it  then — and  you  can  be  so  calm!"  said  he, 
surveying  me  with  profound  astonishment,  not  unmingled  with 
a  kind  of  resentful  bitterness,  as  it  appeared  to  me. 

"  I  have  so  long  been  aware  of "  I  paused  in  time,  and 

added,  "  of  my  husband's  character,  that  nothing  shocks 
me." 

"But  this — how  long  have  you  been  aware  of  this?"  de- 
manded he,  laying  his  clenched  hand  on  the  table  beside  him, 
and  looking  me  keenly  and  fixedly  in  the  face. 

I  felt  like  a  criminal. 

"  Not  long,"  I  answered. 

"  You  knew  it ! "  cried  he,  with  bitter  vehemence — "  and  you 
did  not  tell  me  !  You  helped  to  deceive  me  ! " 

"  My  lord,  I  did  not  help  to  deceive  you." 

"  Then  why  did  you  not  tell  me  ?  " 

"  Because  I  knew  it  would  be  painful  to  you — I  hoped  she 
would  return  to  her  duty,  and  then  there  would  be  no  need  to 
harrow  your  feelings  with  such " 

"  O  God !  how  long  has  this  been  going  on  ?  how  long  has 
it  been,  Mrs.  Huntingdon  ? — Tell  me — I  must  know  ! "  he  ex- 
claimed, with  intense  and  fearful  eagerness. 

"  Two  years,  I  believe.1' 

"Great  Heaven!  and  she  has  duped  me  all  this  time!" 
He  turned  away  with  a  suppressed  groan  of  agony,  and  paced 
the  room  again,  in  a  paroxysm  of  renewed  agitation.  My 
heart  smote  me;  but  1  would  try  to  console  him,  though  I 
knew  not  how  to  attempt  it. 

"  She  is  a  wicked  woman,"  I  said.  "  She  has  basely 
deceived  and  betrayed  you.  She  is  as  little  worthy  of  your 
regret  as  she  was  of  your  aftvction.  Let  her  injure  you  no 
further;  abstract  yourself  from  her,  and  stand  alone.1' 

"And  you,   madam,"    said    lie   sUriily,    anxiMing   liimsclf. 


OF  WILDFELL  HATL.  2W) 

and  turning  rovud  upon  me — "you  have  injured  me  too,  by 
this  ungenerous  concealment  i " 

There  was  a  sudden  revulsion  in  my  feelings.  Something 
rose  within  me,  and  urged  me  to  resent  this  harsh  return  for 
my  heartfelt  sympathy,  and  defend  myself  with  answering 
severity.  Happily,  I  did  not  yield  to  the  impulse.  I  saw  his 
anguish  as,  suddenly  smiting  his  forehead,  he  turned  abruptly 
to  the  window,  and,  looking  upward  at  the  placid  sky,  mur- 
mured passionately,  "O  God,  that  I  might  diel" — and  felt 
that  to  add  one  drop  of  bitterness  to  that  already  overflowing 
cup,  would  be  ungenerous  indeed.  And  yet,  I  fear  there  was 
more  coldness  than  gentleness  in  the  quiet  tone  of  my 
reply  :— 

"  I  might  offer  many  excuses  that  some  would  admit  to  be 
valid,  but  I  will  not  attempt  to  enumerate  them " 

"  I  know  them,"  said  he  hastily,  "  you  would  say  that 
it  was  no  business  of  yours — that  I  ought  to  have  taken  care 
of  myself— that  if  my  own  blindness  has  led  me  into  this  pit 
of  hell,  I  have  no  right  to  blame  another  for  giving  me  credit 
for  a  larger  amount  of  sagacity  than  I  possessed " 

"  I  confess  I  was  wrong,"  continued  I,  without  regarding 
this  bitter  interruption  ;  u  but  whether  want  of  courage 
or  mistaken  kindness  was  the  cause  of  my  error,  I  think  you 
blame  me  too  severely.  I  told  Lady  Lowborough  two  weeks 
ago,  the  very  hour  she  came,  that  I  should  certainly  think  it 
my  duty  to  inform  you  if  she  continued  to  deceive  you :  she 
gave  me  full  liberty  to  do  so  if  I  should  see  anything  repre- 
hensible or  suspicious  in  her  conduct — I  have  seen  nothing  ; 
and  I  trusted  she  had  altered  her  course." 

He  continued  gazing  from  the  window  while  I  spoke,  and 
did  not  answer,  but,  stung  by  the  recollections  my  words 
awakened,  stamped  his  foot  upon  the  floor,  ground  his  teeth, 
and  corrugated  his  brow,  like  one  under  the  influence  of 
acute  physical  pain. 

"It  was  wrong — it  was  wrong!"  he  muttered  at  length. 
"  Nothing  can  excuse  it — nothing  can  atone  for  it, — for  nothing 
can  recall  those  years  of  cursed  credulity — nothing  obliterate 
them  !— nothing,  nothing!  "he  repeated  in  a  whisper  whose 
despairing  bitterness  precluded  all  resentment. 

"  When  I  put  the  case  to  myself,  I  own  it  was  wrong," 
I  answered ;  "  but  I  can  only  now  regret  that  I  did  not 
eee  it  in  this  light  before,  and  that,  as  you  say,  nothing  can 
recall  the  past." 

Something  in  my  voice  or  in  the  spirit  of  this  answer 
seemed  to  alter  his  mood.  Turning  towards  me,  and  atten- 
tively surveying  my  face  by  the  dim  light,  he  said,  in  a  milder 
tone  than  he  had  yet  employed, — 


256  fJlE   TEXAN* 

"  You,  too,  have  suffered,  I  suppose." 

"  I  suffered  much,  at  first." 

"When  was  that?" 

"Two  years  ago  ;  and  two  years  hence  you  will  be  as  calm 
as  1  am  now, — and  far,  far  happier,  I  trust,  for  you  are  a  man, 
and  free  to  act  as  you  please." 

Something  like  a  smile,  but  a  very  bitter  one,  crossed  his  face 
for  a  moment. 

"  You  have  not  been  happy  lately  ?  "  he  said,  with  a  kind  of 
effort  to  regain  composure,  and  a  determination  to  waive  the 
lurther  discussion  of  his  own  calamity. 

"  Happy  1"  I  repeated,  almost  provoked  at  such  a  question. 
"  Could  I  be  so,  with  such  a  husband  ?  " 

"  I  have  noticed  a  change  in  your  appearance  since  the 
first  years  of  your  marriage,"  pursued  he  :  "  I  observed  it  to 
— to  that  infernal  demon,"  he  muttered  between  his  teeth — 
"  and  he  said  it  was  your  own  sour  temper  that  was  eating 
away  your  bloom  :  it  was  making  you  old  and  ugly  before 
your  time,  and  had  already  made  his  fire-side  as  comfortless 
as  a  convent  cell.  You  smile,  Mrs.  Huntingdon — nothing 
moves  you.  I  wish  my  nature  were  as  calm  as  yours." 

"  My  nature  was  not  originally  calm,"  said  I.  "  I  have 
learned  to  appear  so  by  dint  of  hard  lessons  and  many 
repeated  efforts." 

At  this  juncture  Mr.  Hattersley  burst  into  the  room. 

"  Hallow,  Lowborough  ! "  he  began — "  Oh  !  I  beg  your 
pardon,"  he  exclaimed  on  seeing  me  ;  "I  didn't  know  it  was 
a  tete-i-tete.  Cheer  up,  man,"  he  continued,  giving  Lord 
Lowborough  a  thump  on  the  back,  which  caused  the  latter  to 
recoil  from  him  with  looks  of  ineffable  disgust  and  irritation. 
"  Come,  I  want  to  speak  with  you  a  bit." 

"  Speak,  then." 

"  But  I'm  not  sure  it  would  be  quite  agreeable  to  the  lady, 
what  I  have  to  say." 

"  Then  it  would  not  be  agreeable  to  me,"  said  his  lordship, 
turning  to  leave  the  room. 

"  Yes,  it  would,"  cried  the  other,  following  him  into  the 
hall.  "  If  you've  the  heart  of  a  man  it  would  be  the  very 
ticket  for  you.  It's  just  this,  my  lad,"  he  continued,  rather 
lowering  his  voice,  but  not  enough  to  prevent  me  from 
hearing  every  word  he  said,  though  the  half-closed  door 
stood  between  us.  "  I  think  you're  an  ill-used  man — nay, 
now,  don't  flare  up — 1  don't  want  to  offend  you  :  it's  only  my 
rough  way  of  talking.  I  must  speak  right  out,  you  know,  or 
else  not  at  all ; — and  I'm  come — stop  now  !  let  me  explain — 
I'm  come  to  offer  you  my  services,  for  though  Huntingdon  is 
my  friend,  he's  a  devilish  scamp,  as  we  all  know,  and  I'll 


OF  WILDFELL   HALL.  257 

be  your  friend  for  the  nonce.  I  know  what  it  is  you  want,  to 
make  matters  straight :  it's  just  to  exchange  a  shot  with  him, 
and  then  you'll  feel  yourself  all  right  again ;  and  if  an  acci- 
dent happens — why,  that'll  be  all  right  too,  I  dare  say, 
to  a  desperate  fellow  like  you.  Come  now,  give  me  your 
hand,  and  don't  look  so  black  upon  it.  Name  time  and  place, 
and  I'll  manage  the  rest." 

u  That,"  answered  the  more  low,  deliberate  voice  of  Lord 
Lowborough,  "  is  just  the  remedy  my  own  heart — or  the 
devil  within  it,  suggested — to  meet  him,  and  not  to  part 
without  blood.  Whether  I  or  he  should  fall — or  both,  it 
would  be  an  inexpressible  relief  to  me,  if " 

"  Just  so  !     Well  then " 

"No!"  exclaimed  his  lordship,  with  deep,  determined 
emphasis.  "Though  I  hate  him  from  my  heart,  and  should 
rejoice  at  any  calamity  that  could  befall  him — I'll  leave  him 
to  God  ;  and  though  1  abhor  my  own  life,  I'll  leave  that  too, 
to  Him  that  gave  it." 

"  But  you  see  in  this  case,"  pleaded  Hattersley 

"I'll  not  hear  you!"  exclaimed  his  companion,  hastily 
turning  away.  "Not  another  word!  I've  enough  to  do 
against  the  fiend  within  me." 

"  Then  you're  a  white-livered  fool,  and  I  wash  my  hands  ot 
you,"  grumbled  the  tempter,  as  he  swung  himself  round  and 
departed. 

"  Right,  right,  Lord  Lowborough,"  cried  I,  darting  out  and 
clasping  his  burning  hand,  as  he  was  moving  away  to  the 
stairs.  "  I  begin  to  think  the  world  is  not  worthy  of  you ! " 

Not  understanding  this  sudden  ebullition,  he  turned  upon 
me  with  a  stare  of  gloomy,  bewildered  amazement,  that  made 
me  ashamed  of  the  impulse  to  which  1  had  yielded  ;  but  soon 
a  more  humanised  expression  dawned  upon  his  countenance, 
and,  before  I  could  withdraw  my  hand,  he  pressed  it  kindly, 
while  a  gleam  of  genuine  feeling  flashed  from  his  eyes  as  he 
murmured, — 

"God  help  us  both!" 

"  Amen !"  responded  I ;  and  we  parted. 

I  returned  to  the  drawing-room,  where,  doubtless,  my 
presence  would  be  expected  by  most,  desired  by  one  or  two. 
In  the  ante-room  was  Mr.  Hattersley,  railing  against  Lord 
Lowborough's  poltroonery  before  a  select  audience,  viz.  Mr. 
Huntingdon,  who  was  lounging  against  the  table,  exulting  in 
his  own  treacherous  villany,  and  laughing  his  victim  to 
scorn,  and  Mr.  Grimsby,  standing  by,  quietly  rubbing  his 
bands,  and  chuckling  with  fiendish  satisfaction. 

In  the  drawing-room  I  found  Lad}'  Lowborough,  evidently 
ia  110  very  enviable  state  of  mind,  and  struggling  hard  to 


258  THE  TENANT 

conceal  her  discomposure  by  an  overstrained  affectation  of 
unusual  cheerfulness  and  vivacity,  very  uncalled  for  under 
the  circumstances,  for  she  had  herself  given  the  company 
to  understand  that  her  husband  had  received  unpleasant 
intelligence  from  home,  which  necessitated  his  immediate 
departure,  and  that  he  had  suffered  it  so  to  bother  his  mind, 
that  it  had  brought  on  a  bilious  headache,  owing  to  which,  and 
the  preparations,  he  judged  necessary  to  hasten  his  departure, 
she  believed  they  would  not  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  him 
to-night.  However,  she  asserted,  it  was  only  a  business  con- 
cern, and  so  she  did  not  intend  it  should  trouble  her.  She 
was  just  saying  this  as  I  entered,  and  she  darted  upon  me 
such  a  glance  of  hardihood  and  defiance  as  at  once  astonished 
and  revolted  me. 

"  But  I  am  troubled,"  continued  she,  "  and  vexed  too,  for  I 
think  it  my  duty  to  accompany  his  lordship,  and  of  course  I 
am  very  sorry  to  part  with  all  my  kind  friends  so  unexpect- 
edly and  so  soon." 

"  And  yet,  Annabella,"  said  Esther,  who  was  sitting  beside 
her,  "  I  never  saw  you  in  better  spirits  in  my  life." 

"  Precisely  so,  my  love  ;  because  I  wish  to  make  the  best 
of  your  society,  since  it  appears  this  is  to  be  the  last  night  I 
am  to  enjoy  it  till  Heaven  knows  when  ;  and  I  wish  to  leave  a 
good  impression  on  you  all," — she  glanced  round,  and  seeing 
her  aunt's  eye  fixed  upon  her,  rather  too  scrutinizingly,  as  she 
probably  thought,  she  started  up  and  continued,  "  to  which 
end  I'll  give  you  a  song — shall  I,  aunt?  "shall  I,  Mrs.  Hunt- 
ingdon? shall  I,  ladies  and  gentlemen — all?  Very  well, 
I'll  do  my  best  to  amuse  you." 

She  and  Lord  Lowborough  occupied  the  apartments  next 
to  mine.  I  know  not  how  she  passed  the  night,  but  I  lay 
awake  the  greater  part  of  it  listening  to  his  heavy  step  pacing 
monotonously  up  and  down  his  dressing-room,  which  was 
nearest  my  chamber.  Once  I  heard  him  pause  and  throw 
something  out  of  the  window  with  a  passionate  ejaculation  ; 
and  in  the  morning,  after  they  were  gone,  a  keen-bladed 
clasp-knife  was  found  on  the  grass-plot  below  ;  a  razor,  like- 
wise, was  snapped  in  two  and  thrust  deep  into  the  cinders  of 
the  grate,  but  partially  corroded  by  the  decaying  embers.  So 
strong  had  been  the  temptation  to  end  his  miserable  life,  BO 
determined  his  resolution  to  resist  it. 

My  heart  bled  for  him  as  I  lay  listening  to  that  ceaseless 
tread.  Hitherto  I  had  thought  too  much  of  myself,  too  little 
of  him  :  now  I  forgot  my  own  afflictions,  and  thought  only  of 
his — of  the  ardent  affection  so  miserably  wasted,  the  fond 
faith  so  cruelly  betrayed,  the no,  I  will  not  attempt  to  enu- 
merate his  wrongs — but  I  hated  his  wife  and  my  husband 


OF   WILUFELL  HALL.  2-59 

more  intensely  than  ever,  and  not  for  my  sake,  but  lor 
hia. 

They  departed  early  in  the  morning,  before  any  one  else  was 
down,  except  myself,  and  just  as  1  was  leaving  my  room. 
Lord  Lowborough  was  descending  to  take  his  place  in  the 
carriage  where  his  lady  was  already  ensconced  ;  and  Arthur 
(or  Mr.  Huntingdon  as  I  prefer  calling  him,  for  the  other  is 
my  child's  name)  had  the  gratuitous  insolence  to  come  out  in 
his  dressing-gown  to  bid  his  "  friend  "  good-bye. 

"What,  going  already,  Lowborough!"  said  he.  "Well., 
good  morning."  He  smilingly  offered  his  hand. 

I  think  the  other  would  have  knocked  him  down,  had  he 
not  instinctively  started  back  before  that  bony  fist  quivering 
with  rage  and  clenched  till  the  knuckles  gleamed  white  and 
glistening  through  the  skin.  Looking  upon  him  with  a  coun- 
tenance livid  with  furious  hate,  Lord  Lowborough  muttered 
between  his  closed  teeth  a  deadly  execration  he  would  not 
have  uttered  had  he  been  calm  enough  to  choose  his  words, 
and  departed. 

"I  call  that  an  unchristian  spirit  now,"  said  the  villain. 
"  But  I'd  never  give  up  an  old  friend  for  the  sake  of  a  wife. 
You  may  have  mine  if  you  like,  and  I  call  that  handsome — I 
can  do  no  more  than  offer  restitution,  can  I ?" 

But  Lowborough  had  gained  the  bottom  of  the  stairs,  and 
was  now  crossing  the  hall ;  and  Mr.  Huntingdon,  leaning 
over  the  banisters,  called  out,  "  Give  my  love  to  Annabella ! 
and  I  wish  you  both  a  happy  journey,"  and  withdrew  laugh- 
ing to  his  chamber. 

He  subsequently  expressed  himself  rather  glad  she  was 
gone  :  "  she  was  so  deuced  imperious  and  exacting,"  said  he  : 
"  now  I  shall  be  my  own  man  again,  and  feel  rather  more  at 
my  ease." 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

MY  greatest  source  of  uneasiness,  in  this  time  of  trial,  was  my 
son,  whom  his  father  and  his  father's  friends  delighted  to  en- 
courage in  all  the  embryo  vices  a  little  child  can  show,  and  to 
instruct  in  all  the  evil  habits  he  could  acquire — in  a  word,  to 
"  make  a  man  of  him  "  was  one  of  their  staple  amusements ; 
and  I  need  say  no  more  to  justify  my  alarm  on  his  account, 
and  my  determination  to  deliver  him  at  any  hazard  from  the 
hands  of  such  instructors.  I  first  attempted  to  keep  him  al- 
ways with  me  or  in  the  nursery,  and  gave  Rachel  particular 
injunctions  never  to  let  him  come  down  to  dessert  as  luus;  a3 
these  "  gentlemen"  stayed ;  but  it  was  no  use  ;  these  orders 


2CO  THE  TENAKT 

were  immediacy  countermanded  and  overruled  by  his  fatheF : 
he  was  not  going  to  have  the  little  fellow  moped  to  death 
between  an  old  nurse  and  a  cursed  fool  of  a  mother.  So  the 
little  fellow  came  down  every  evening  in  spite  of  his  cross 
mamma,  and  learned  to  tipple  wine  like  papa,  to  swear 
like  Mr.  Hattersley,  and  to  have  his  own  way  like  a  man, 
and  sent  mamma  to  the  devil  when  she  tried  to  prevent  him. 
To  see  such  things  done  with  the  roguish  naivete  of  that 
pretty  little  child,  and  hear  such  things  spoken  by  that  small 
infantile  voice,  was  as  peculiarly  piquant  and  irresistibly  droll 
to  them  as  it  was  inexpressibly  distressing  and  painful  to  me  ; 
and  when  he  had  set  the  table  in  a  roar  he  would  look  round 
delightedly  upon  them  all,  and  add  his  shrill  laugh  to 
theirs.  But  if  that  beaming  blue  eye  rested  on  me,  its  light 
would  vanish  for  a  moment,  and  he  would  say,  in  some  con- 
cern— "Mamma,  why  don't  you  laugh?  Make  her  laugh, 
papa — she  never  will." 

Hence  was  I  obliged  to  stay  among  these  human  brutes, 
watching  an  opportunity  to  get  my  child  away  from  them  in- 
stead of  leaving  them  immediately  after  the  removal  of  the 
cloth,  as  I  should  always  otherwise  have  done.  He  was  never 
willing  to  go,  and  I  frequently  had  to  carry  him  away  by 
force,  for  which  he  thought  me  very  cruel  and  \injust;  and 
sometimes  his  father  would  insist  upon  my  letting  him  re- 
main ;  and  then  I  would  leave  him  to  his  kind  friends,  and 
retire  to  indulge  my  bitterness  and  despair  alone,  or  to  rack 
my  brains  for  a  remedy  to  this  great  evil. 

But  here  again  I  must  do  Mr.  Hargrave  the  justice  to  ac- 
knowledge that  I  never  saw  him  laugh  at  the  child's  misde- 
meanours, nor  heard  him  utter  a  word  of  encouragement  to 
his  aspirations  after  manly  accomplishments.  But  when  any- 
thing very  extraordinary  was  said  or  done  by  the  infant  pro- 
lligate,  I  noticed,  at  times,  a  peculiar  expression  in  his  face 
that  1  could  neither  interpret  nor  define — a  slight  twitching 
about  the  muscles  of  the  mouth — a  sudden  flash  in  the  eye,  as 
he  darted  a  sudden  glance  at  the  child  and  then  at  me :  and 
then  I  could  fancy  there  arose  a  gleam  of  hard,  keen,  sombre, 
satisfaction  in  his  countenance  at  the  look  of  impotent  wrath 
and  anguish  he  was  too  certain  to  behold  in  mine.  But  on 
one  occasion,  when  Arthur  had  been  behaving  particularly 
ill,  and  Mr.  Huntingdon  and  his  guests  had  been  particularly 
provoking  and  insulting  to  me  in  their  encouragement  of  him, 
and  I  particularly  anxious  to  get  him  out  of  the  room,  and  on 
the  very  point  of  demeaning  myself  by  a  burst  of  uncontroll- 
aDie  passion — Mr.  Hargrave  suddenly  rose  from  his  seat  with 
an  aspect  of  stern  determination,  lifted  the  child  from  his  fa- 
tLnr's  knee  where  he  was  sitting  half  tipsy,  cocking  his  head 


OF  WILDFELL   HALL.  261 

and  laughing  at  me,  and  execrating  me  with  words  he  little 
knew  the  meaning  of — handed  him  out  of  the  room,  and,  set- 
ting him  down  in  the  hall,  held  the  door  open  for  me,  gravely 
bowed  as  I  withdrew,  and  closed  it  after  me.  I  heard  high 
words  exchanged  between  him  and  his  already  half-inebriated 
host  as  I  departed,  leading  away  my  bewildered  and  discon- 
certed boy. 

But  this  should  not  continue  ;  my  child  must  not  be  aban- 
doned to  this  corruption :  better  far  that  he  should  live  in 
poverty  and  obscurity  with  a  fugitive  mother,  than  in  luxury 
and  affluence  with  such  a  father.  These  guests  might  not  be 
with  us  long,  but  they  would  return  again  :  and  he,  the  most 
injurious  of  the  whole,  his  child's  worst  enemy,  would  still 
remain.  I  could  endure  it  for  myself,  but  for  my  son  it  must 
be  borne  no  longer :  the  world's  opinion  and  the  feelings  of 
my  friends  must  be  alike  unheeded  here,  at  least,  alike  un- 
able to  deter  me  from  my  duty.  But  where  should  I  find  an 
asylum,  and  how  obtain  subsistence  for  us  both  ?  Oh,  I  would 
take  my  precious  charge  at  early  dawn,  take  the  coach  to 

M ,  flee  to  the  port  of ,  cross  the  Atlantic,  and  seek  a 

quiet,  humble  home  in  New  England,  where  I  would  support 
myself  and  him  by  the  labour  of  my  hands.  The  palette  and 
the  easel,  my  darling  playmates  once,  must  be  my  sober  toil- 
fellows  now.  But  was  I  sufficiently  skilful  as  an  artist  to  ob- 
tain my  livelihood  in  a  strange  land,  without  friends  and  with- 
out recommendation  ?  No ;  I  must  wait  a  little ;  I  must 
labour  hard  to  improve  my  talent,  and  to  produce  something 
worth  while  as  a  specimen  of  my  powers,  something  to  speak 
favourably  for  me,  whether  as  an  actual  painter  or  a  teacher. 
Brilliant  success,  of  course,  I  did  not  look  for,  but  some  de- 
gree of  security  from  positive  failure  was  indispensable — I 
must  not  take  my  son  to  starve.  And  then  I  must  have 
money  for  the  journey,  the  passage,  and  some  little  to  support 
us  in  our  retreat  in  case  I  should  be  unsuccessful  at  first :  and 
not  too  little  either,  for  who  could  tell  how  long  I  might  have 
to  struggle  with  the  indifference  or  neglect  of  others,  or  my 
own  inexperience  or  inability  to  suit  their  tastes  ? 

\Vhat  should  I  do  then?  Apply  to  my  brother  and 
explain  my  circumstances  and  my  resolves  to  him  ?  No,  no : 
even  if  I  told  him  all  my  grievances,  which  I  should  be  very 
reluctant  to  do,  he  would  be  certain  to  disapprove  of  the 
step :  it  would  seem  like  madness  to  him,  as  it  would  to  my 
uncle  and  aunt,  or  to  Milicent.  No ;  I  must  have  patience 
and  gather  a  hoard  of  my  own.  Rachel  should  be  my  only 
confidante — I  thought  I  could  persuade  her  into  the  scheme ; 
and  she  should  help  me,  first,  to  find  out  a  picture-dealer  in 
some  distant  towu ;  then,  through  her  means,  I  would  pri« 


262  THE   TENANT 

vately  sell  what  pictures  I  had  on  hand  that  would  do  for  such 
a  purpose,  and  some  of  those  I  should  thereafter  paint.  Be- 
sides this,  I  would  contrive  to  dispose  of  my  jewels — not  the 
family  jewels,  but  the  few  I  brought  with  me  from  home,  and 
those  my  uncle  gave  me  on  my  marriage.  A  few  months'  ar- 
duous toil  might  well  be  borne  by  me  with  such  an  end  in 
view  ;  and  in  the  interim  my  son  could  not  be  much  more  in- 
jured than  he  was  already. 

Having  lormed  this  resolution,  I  immediately  set  to  work 
to  accomplish  it.  I  might  possibly  have  been  induced  to  wax 
cool  upon  it  afterwards,  or  perhaps  to  keep  weighing  the  pros 
and  cons  in  my  mind  till  the  latter  overbalanced  the  former, 
and  I  was  driven  to  relinquish  the  project  altogether,  or  delay 
the  execution  of  it  to  an  indefinite  period, — had  not  something 
occurred  to  confirm  me  in  that  determination  to  which  I  still 
adhere,  which  I  still  think  I  did  well  to  form,  and  shall  do 
better  to  execute. 

Since  Lord  Lowborough's  departure,  I  had  regarded  the 
library  as  entirely  my  own,  a  secure  retreat  at  all  hours  of  the 
day.  None  of  our  gentlemen  had  the  smallest  pretensions  to 
a  literary  taste,  except  Mr.  Hargrave ;  and  he,  at  present, 
was  quite  contented  with  the  newspapers  and  periodicals  of 
the  day.  And  if,  by  any  chance,  he  should  look  in  here,  I 
felt  assured  he  would  soon  depart  on  seeing  me,  for,  instead 
of  becoming  less  cool  and  distant  towards  me,  he  had  become 
decidedly  more  so  since  the  departure  of  his  mother  and 
sisters,  which  was  just  what  I  wished.  Here,  then,  I  set  up 
my  easel,  and, here  I  Avorked  at  my  canvass  from  daylight  till 
dusk,  with  very  little  intermission  saving  when  pure  necessity, 
or  my  duties  to  little  Arthur,  called  me  away — for  I  still 
thought  proper  to  devote  some  portion  of  every  day  exclu- 
sively to  his  instruction  and  amusement.  But,  contrary  to  my 
expectation,  on  the  third  morning,  while  I  was  thus  employed, 
Mr.  Hargrave  did  look  in,  and  did  not  immediately  withdraw 
on  seeing  me.  He  apologised  for  his  intrusion,  and  said  he 
was  only  come  for  a  book  ;  but  when  he  had  got  it,  he  con- 
descended to  cast  a  glance  over  my  picture.  Being  a  man  of 
taste,  he  had  something  to  say  on  this  subject  as  well  as 
another,  and  having  modestly  commented  on  it,  without  much 
encouragement  from  me,  he  proceeded  to  expatiate  on  the  art 
in  general.  Receiving  no  encouragement  in  that  either,  he 
dropped  it,  but  did  not  depart. 

"  You  don't  give  us  much  of  your  company,  Mrs.  Hun- 
tingdon," observed  he,  after  a  brief  pause,  during  which  I 
went  on  coolly  mixing  and  tempering  my  colours ;  "  and  I 
cannot  wonder  at  it,  for  you  must  be  heartily  sick  of  us  all. 
I  myself  am  so  thoroughly  ashamed  of  my  companions,  and 


OF  WILDFELL   HALL.  263 

BO  weary  of  their  irrational  conversation  and  pursuits — now 
that  there  is  no  one  to  humanise  them  and  keep  them  in  check, 
since  you  have  justly  abandoned  us  to  our  own  devices — that 
I  think  I  shall  presently  withdraw  from  amongst  them — 
probably  within  this  week — and  I  cannot  suppose  you  will  re- 
gret my  departure." 

He  paused.     I  did  not  answer. 

"Probably,"  he  added,  with  a  smile,  "your  only  regret  on 
the  subject  will  be,  that  I  do  not  take  all  my  companions 
along  with  me.  I  flatter  myself,  at  times,  that  though  among 
them,  I  am  not  of  them  ;  but  it  is  natural  that  you  should  be 
glad  to  get  rid  of  me.  I  may  regret  this,  but  I  cannot  blame 
you  for  it." 

"  I  shall  not  rejoice  at  your  departure,  for  you  can  conduct 
yourself  like  a  gentleman,"  said  I,  thinking  it  but  right  to 
make  some  acknowledgment  for  his  good  behaviour,  u  but  I 
must  confess  I  shall  rejoice  to  bid  adieu  to  the  rest,  inhospi- 
table as  it  may  appear." 

"No  one  can  blame  you  for  such  an  avowal,"  replied  he 
gravely;  "not  even  the  gentlemen  themselves,  I  imagine. 
I'll  just  tell  you,"  he  continued,  as  if  actuated  by  a  sudden 
resolution,  "  what  was  said  last  night  in  the  dining-room,  after 
you  left  us — perhaps  you  will  not  mind  it,  as  you're  so  very 
philosophical  on  certain  points,"  he  added  with  a  slight  sneer. 
"They  were  talking  about  Lord  Lowborough  and  his  delect- 
able lady,  the  cause  of  whose  sudden  departure  is  no  secret 
amongst  them  ;  and  her  character  is  so  well  known  to  them 
all,  that,  nearly  related  to  me  as  she  is,  I  could  not  attempt 
to  defend  it. — Curse  me,"  he  muttered,  par  parenthese,  "  if  I 
don't  have  vengeance  for  this !  If  the  villain  must  disgrace 
the  family,  must  he  blazon  it  abroad  to  every  low-bred  knave 
of  his  acquaintance? — I  beg  your  pardon,  Mrs.  Huntingdon. 
Well,  they  were  talking  of  these  things,  and  some  of  them 
remarked  that,  as  she  was  separated  from  her  husband,  he 
might  see  her  again  when  he  pleased." 

"'Thank  you,'  said  he;  'I've  had  enough  of  her  for  the 
present :  I'll  not  trouble  to  see  her,  unless  she  comes  to  me.' 

"  'Then  what  do  you  mean  to  do,  Huntingdon,  when  we're 
gone  ? '  said  Ralph  Hattersley.  '  Do  you  mean  to  turn  from 
the  error  of  your  ways,  and  be  a  good  husband,  a  good  father, 
and  so  forth— as  I  do,  when  I  get  shut  of  you  and  all  these 
rollicking  devils  you  call  your  friends  ?  I  think  it's  time  ;  and 
your  wife  is  fifty  times  too  good  for  you,  you  know ' 

"  And  he  added  some  praise  of  you,  which  you  would  not 
thank  me  for  repeating — nor  him  for  uttering ;  proclaiming  it 
aloud,  as  he  did,  without  delicacy  or  discrimination,  in  an 
audience  where  it  seemed  profanation  to  utter  your  name — 


264  THE   TENANT 

himself  utterly  incapable  of  understanding  or  appreciating 
your  real  excellences.     Huntingdon,  meanwhile,  sat  quietly 
drinking  his  wine,  or  looking  smilingly  into  his  glass  and  of- 
fering no  interruption  or  reply,  till  Hattersley  shouted  out, — 
"  *  Do  you  hear  me,  man  ? ' 
"  '  Yes,  go  on,'  said  he. 

" '  Nay,  I've  done,'  replied  the  other :    '  I  only  want  to 
know  if  you  intend  to  take  my  advice.' 
"'What  advice?' 

"  '  To  turn  over  a  new  leaf,  you  double-dyed  scoundrel,' 
shouted  Ralph,  '  and  beg  your  wife's  pardon,  and  be  a  good 
boy  for  the  future.' 

"  '  My  wife !  what  wife?  I  have  no  wife,'  replied  Hunting- 
don, looking  innocently  up  from  his  glass — '  or  if  I  have,  look 
3rou,  gentlemen,  1  value  her  so  highly  that  any  one  among 
you,  that  can  fancy  her,  may  have  her  and  welcome — you  may, 
by  Jove,  and  my  blessing  into  the  bargain  ! ' 

"  I — hem — some  one  asked  if  he  really  meant  what  he  said, 
upon  which,  he  solemnly  swore  he  did,  and  no  mistake. — 
What  do  you  think  of  that,  Mrs.  Huntingdon?"  asked  Mr. 
llargrave,  after  a  short  pause,  during  which  I  had  felt  he  was 
keenly  examining  my  half-averted  face. 

"  I  say,"  replied  I,  calmly,  "  that  what  he  prizes  s\)  lightly, 
will  not  be  long  in  his  possession." 

"  You  cannot  mean  that  you  will  break  j-our  heart  and  die 
for  the  detestable  conduct  of  an  infamous  villain  like  that!" 

"  By  no  means :  my  heart  is  too  thoroughly  dried  to  be 
broken  in  a  hurry,  and  I  mean  to  live  as  long  as  I  can." 
1  AVill  you  leave  him  then  ?  " 
lYes." 

'  When — and  how  ?  "  asked  he,  eagerly. 
1  When  I  am  ready,  and  how  I  can  manage  it  most  effec- 
tually." 

But  your  child?" 
'  My  child  goes  with  me." 
'  He  will  not  allow  it." 
I  shall  not  ask  him." 
'Ah,  then,  it  is  a  secret  flight  you  meditate! — but  with 
whom,  Mrs.  Huntingdon?" 

'  Writh  my  son — and,  possibly,  his  nurse." 
'  Alone — and  unprotected  1    But  where  can  you  go  ?  what 
can  you  do  ?     He  will  follow  you  and  bring  you  back." 

"  I  have  laid  my  plans  too  well  for  that.  Let  me  once  get 
clear  of  Grassdale,  and  I  shall  consider  myself  safe." 

Mr.  Hargrave  advanced  one  step  towards  me,  looked  me 
in  the  face,  and  drew  in  his  breath  to  speak ;  but  that  look, 
that  heightened  colour,  that  sudden  sparkle  of  the  eye,  madfl 


OF   WILDFELL  HALL.  265 

my  blood  rise  in  wrath  :  I  abruptly  turned  away,  and,  snatch- 
ing up  my  brush,  began  to  dash  away  at  my  canvas  with 
rather  too  much  energy  for  the  good  of  the  picture. 

"Mrs.  Huntingdon,"  said  he  with  bitter  solemnity,  "you 
are  cruel — cruel  to  me — cruel  to  yourself." 

"  Mr.  Hargrave,  remember  your  promise." 

"  I  must  speak — my  heart  will  burst  if  I  don't!  I  have 
been  silent  long  enough — and  you  must  hear  me!"  cried  he 
boldly  intercepting  my  retreat  to  the  door.  "  You  tell  me 
you  owe  no  allegiance  to  your  husband  ;  he  openly  declares 
liimsell  weary  of  you,  and  calmly  gives  you  up  to  anybody 
that  will  take  you  ;  you  are  about  to  leave  him  ;  no  one  will 
believe  that  you  go  alone — all  the  world  will  say,  '  She  has 
left  him  at  last,  and  who  can  wonder  at  it?  Few  can  blame 
her,  fewer  still  can  pity  him  ;  but  who  is  the  companion  of 
her  flight?'  Thus  you  will  have  no  credit  for  your  virtue  (if 
you  call  it  such) :  even  your  best  friends  will  not  believe  in 
it ;  because,  it  is  monstrous,  and  not  to  be  credited — but  by 
those  who  suffer,  from  the  effects  of  it,  such  cruel  torments 
that  they  know  it  to  be  indeed  reality.  But  what  can  you  do 
in  the  cold,  rough  world  alone  ?  you,  a  young  and  inex- 
perienced woman,  delicately  nurtured,  and  utterly " 

"  In  a  word,  you  would  advise  me  to  stay  where  I  am,"  in- 
terrupted I.  "  Well,  I'll  see  about  it." 

"  By  all  means,  leave  him  !"  cried  he  earnestly,  "but  NOT 
alone  !  Helen  !  let  me  protect  you !" 

"  Never ! — while  heaven  spares  my  reason,"  replied  I, 
snatching  away  the  hand  he  had  presumed  to  seize  and  press 
between  his  own.  But  he  was  in  for  it  now ;  he  had  fairly 
broken  the  barrier  :  he  was  completely  roused,  and  determined 
to  hazard  all  for  victory. 

"I  must  not  be  denied!"  exclaimed  he  vehemently;  and 
seizing  both  my  hands,  he  held  them  very  tight,  but  dropped 
\ipon  his  knee,  and  looked  up  in  my  face  with  a  half-implor- 
ing, half-imperious  gaze.  "  You  have  no  reason  now :  you 
are  flying  in  the  face  of  heaven's  decrees.  God  has  designed 
me  to  be  your  comfort  and  protector — I  feel  it — I  know  it  as 
certainly  as  if  a  voice  from  heaven  declared  '  Ye  twain  shall 
be  one  flesh ' — and  you  spurn  me  from  you " 

"Let  me  go,  Mr.  Hargrave!"  said  I,  sternly.  But  he 
only  tightened  his  grasp. 

"  Let  me  go  !"  I  repeated,  quivering  with  indignation. 

His  face  was  almost  opposite  the  window  as  he  knelt.  With 
a  slight  start,  I  saw  him  glance  towards  it ;  and  then  a  gleam 
of  malicious  triumph  lit  up  his  countenance.  Looking  over 
my  shoulder,  I  beheld  a  shadow  just  retiring  round  the 
corner. 


266  THE   TENANT 

"  That  is  Grimsby,"  said  he  deliberately.  "  He  will  report 
what  he  has  seen  to  Huntingdon  and  all  the  rest,  with  such 
embellishments  as  he  thinks  proper.  He  has  no  love  lor  you, 
Mrs.  Huntingdon — no  reverence  for  your  sex — no  belief  in 
virtue — no  admiration  for  its  image.  He  will  give  such  a  ver- 
sion of  this  story  as  will  leave  no  doubt  at  all,  about  your 
character,  in  the  minds  of  those  who  hear  it.  Your  fair  fame 
is  gone  ;  and  nothing  that  I  or  you  can  say  can  ever  retrieve 
it.  But  give  me  the  power  to  protect  you,  and  show  me  the 
villain  that  dares  to  insult!" 

41  No  one  has  ever  dared  to  insult  me  as  you  are  doing 
now!"  said  I,  at  length  releasing  my  hands,  and  recoiling 
from  him. 

"  I  do  not  insult  you,"  cried  he  :  "I  worship  you.  You 
are  my  angel — my  divinity  !  I  lay  my  powers  at  your  feet- — 
and  you  must  and  shall  accept  them  !"  he  exclaimed  impetu- 
ously starting  to  his  feet — "  I  will  be  your  consoler  and  de- 
fender !  and  if  your  conscience  upbraid  you  for  it,  say  I  over- 
came you,  and  you  could  not  choose  but  yield !" 

I  never  saw  a  man  so  terribly  excited.  He  precipitated 
himself  towards  me.  I  snatched  up  my  palette-knife  and 
held  it  against  him.  This  startled  him  :  he  stood  and  gazed 
at  me  in  astonishment ;  I  dare  say  I  looked  as  fierce  and  reso- 
lute as  he.  I  moved  to  the  bell,  and  put  my  hand  upon  the 
cord.  This  tamed  him  still  more.  With  a  half -authoritative 
half-deprecating  wave  of  the  hand,  he  sought  to  deter  me  from 
ringing. 

"Stand  off,  then!"  said  I— he  stepped  back— "  And  listen 
to  me. — I  don't  like  you,"  I  continued,  as  deliberately  and 
emphatically  as  I  could,  to  give  the  greater  efficacy  to  my 
words  ;  "  and  if  I  were  divorced  from  my  husband — or  if  he 
were  dead,  I  would  not  marry  you.  There  now!  I  hope 
you're  satisfied." 

His  face  grew  blanched  with  anger. 

u  I  am  satisfied,"  he  replied,  with  bitter  emphasis,  "  that 
you  are  the  most  cold-hearted,  unnatural,  ungrateful  woman 
J  ever  yet  beheld!" 

"Ungrateful,  sir?" 

"  Ungrateful." 

"  No,  Mr.  Hargrave ;  I  am  not.  For  all  the  good  you 
ever  did  me,  or  ever  wished  to  do,  I  most  sincerely  thank 
you :  for  all  the  evil  you  have  done  me,  and  all  you  would 
have  done,  I  pray  God  to  pardon  you,  and  make  you  of  a 
better  mind." 

Here  the  door  was  thrown  open,  and  Messrs.  Huntingdon 
and  Hattersley  appeared  without.  The  latter  remained  in 
the  hall,  busy  with  his  ram-rod  and  his  gun ;  the  former 


OK   WILDFELL  HALL.  26  J 

walked  in,  and  stood  with  his  back  to  the  fire,  surveying  Mr. 
Hargrave  and  me,  particularly  the  ionner,  with  a  smile  ol  in- 
supportable meaning,  accompanied  as  it  was  by  the  impu- 
dence of  his  brazen  brow,  and  the  sly,  maliciouSj  twinkle  ol 
his  eye. 

"Well,  sir?"  said  Hargrave,  interrogatively,  and  with  the 
air  of  one  prepared  to  stand  on  the  defensive. 

"  Well,  sir,"  returned  his  host. 

"  We  want  to  know  if  you're  at  liberty  to  join  us  in  a  go  at 
the  pheasants,  Walter,"  interposed  Hattersley  from  without. 
"  Come  !  there  shall  be  nothing  shot  besides,  except  a  puss 
or  two  ;  I'll  vouch  for  that." 

Walter  did  not  answer,  but  walked  to  the  window  to  collect 
his  faculties.  Arthur  uttered  a  low  whistle,  and  followed  him 
with  his  eyes.  A  slight  flush  of  anger  rose  to  Hargrave's 
cheek  ;  but  in  a  moment,  he  turned  calmly  round,  and  said 
carelessly 

"  I  came  here  to  bid  farewell  to  Mrs.  Huntingdon,  and  tell 
her  I  must  go  to-morrow." 

"Humph!  You're  mighty  sudden  in  your  resolution.  What 
takes  you  off  so  soon,  may  I  ask  ?" 

"  Business,"  returned  he,  repelling  the  other's  incredulous 
pneer  with  a  glance  of  scornful  defiance. 

"  Very  good,"  was  the  reply ;  and  Hargrave  walked  away. 
Thereupon,  Mr.  Huntingdon,  gathering  his  coat  laps  under 
his  arms,  and  setting  his  shoulder  against  the  mantle-piece, 
turned  to  me,  and,  addressing  me  in  a  low  voice,  scarcely 
above  his  breath,  poured  forth  a  volley  of  the  vilest  and 
grossest  abuse  it  was  possible  for  the  imagination  to  conceive 
or  the  tongue  to  utter.  I  did  not  attempt  to  interrupt  him; 
but  my  spirit  kindled  within  me,  and  when  he  had  done, 
I  replied, — 

"  If  your  accusation  were  true,  Mr.  Huntingdon,  how  dare 
you  blame  me?" 

"  She's  hit  it,  by  Jove !  "  cried  Hattersley,  rearing  his  gun 
against  the  wall ;  and,  stepping  into  the  room,  he  took  his 
precious  friend  by  the  arm,  and  attempted  to  drag  him  away. 
"  Come,  my  lad,"  he  muttered ;  "  true  or  false,  you've  no 
right  to  blame  her,  you  know — nor  him  either;  after  what 
you  said  last  night.  So  come  along." 

There  was  something  implied  here  that  I  could  not  endure. 

"  Dare  you  suspect  me,  Mr.  Hattersley  ? "  said  I,  almost 
beside  myself  with  fury. 

"  Nay,  nay,  I  suspect  nobody.  It's  all  right — it's  all  right. 
So  come  along,  H  ntingdon,  you  blackguard." 

"She  can't  deny  it !"  cried  the  gentleman  thus  addressed, 
grinning  hi  mingled  rage  and  triumph.  "  She  can't  deny  it  if 


268  THE  TEXANT 

her  life  depended  on  it!"  and  muttering  some  more  abusive 
language,  he  walked  into  the  hall,  and  took  up  his  hat  and 
gun  from  the  table. 

"I  scorn  to  justify  myself  to  you!"  said  I.  "But  you," 
turning  to  Hattersley,  "  If  you  presume  to  have  any  doubts 
on  the  subject,  ask  Mr.  Hargrave." 

At  this,  they  simultaneously  burst  into  a  rude  laugh  that 
made  my  whole  frame  tingle  to  the  fingers'  ends. 

"  Where  is  he  ?  I'll  ask  him  myself ! "  said  1,  advancing 
towards  them. 

Suppressing  a  new  burst  of  merriment,  Hattersley  pointed 
to  the  outer  door.  It  was  half  open.  His  brother-in-law  was 
standing  on  the  front  without. 

"  Mr.  Hargrave,  will  you  please  to  step  this  way  ?  "  said  I. 

He  turned  and  looked  at  me  in  grave  surprise. 

"Step  this  way,  if  you  please!"  I  repeated,  in  so  deter- 
mined a  manner  that  he  could  not,  or  did  not  choose  to  resist 
its  authority.  Somewhat  reluctantly  he  ascended  the  steps 
and  advanced  a  pace  or  two  into  the  hall. 

"  And  tell  those  gentlemen,"  I  continued — "  these  men, 
whether  or  not  I  yielded  to  your  solicitations." 

"  I  don't  understand  you,  Mrs.  Huntingdon." 

"  You  do  understand  me,  sir  ;  and  I  charge  you  upon  your 
honour  as  a  gentleman,  (if  you  have  any,)  to  answer  truly. 
Did  I,  or  did  I  not?" 

"  No,"  muttered  he,  turning  away. 

"  Speak  up,  sir  ;  they  can't  hear  you.  Did  I  grant  your 
request?" 

"  You  did  not." 

"  No,  I'll  be  sworn  she  didn't,"  said  Hattersley,  "  or  he'd 
never  look  so  black." 

"  I'm  willing  to  grant  you  the  satisfaction  of  a  gentleman, 
Huntingdon,"  said  Mr.  Hargrave,  calmly  addressing  his  host, 
but  with  a  bitter  sneer  upon  his  countenance. 

"Go  to  the  deuce!"  replied  the  latter,  with  an  impatient 
jerk  of  the  head.  Hargrave  withdrew  with  a  look  of  cold 
disdain,  saying, — 

"  You  know  where  to  find  me,  should  you  feel  disposed  to 
send  a  friend." 

Muttered  oaths  and  curses  were  all  the  answer  this  intima- 
tion obtained. 

"  Now  Huntingdon,  you  see  ! "  said  Hattersley,  "  clear  aa 
the  day." 

u  I  don't  care  what  he  sees,"  said  T,  "or  what  he  imagines  ; 
but  you,  Mr.  Hattersley,  when  you  hear  my  name  belied  and 
slandered,  will  you  defend  it?" 

"I  will." 


OF    WILDFELL   HALL.  2C9 

I  instantly  departed,  and  shut  myself  into  the  library 
What  could  possess  me  to  make  such  a  request  of  such  a 
man?  I  cannot  tell,  but  drowning  men  catch  at  straws  :  they 
had  driven  me  desperate  between  them  ;  I  hardly  knew  what 
I  said.  There  was  no  other  to  preserve  my  name  from  being 
blackened  and  aspersed  among  this  nest  of^boon  companions, 
and  through  them,  perhaps,  into  the  world ;  and  beside  my 
abandoned  wretch  of  a  husband,  the  base,  malignant  Grimsby, 
and  the  false  villain  Hargrave,  this  boorish  ruffian,  coarse  and 
brutal  as  he  was,  shone  like  a  glow-worm  in  the  dark,  among 
its  fellow  worms. 

What  a  scene  was  this !  Could  I  ever  have  imagined  that 
I  should  be  doomed  to  bear  such  insults  under  my  own  roof— 
to  hear  such  things  spoken  in  my  presence — nay,  spoken  to  me 
and  of  me — and  by  those  who  arrogated  to  themselves  the 
name  of  gentlemen?  And  could  1  have  imagined  that  I 
should  have  been  able  to  endure  it  as  calmly,  and  to  repel 
their  insults  as  firmly  and  as  boldly  as  I  had  done  ?  A  hardnesa 
such  as  this,  is  taught  by  rough  experience  and  despair  alone. 

Such  thoughts  as  these  chased  one  another  through  my 
mind,  as  I  paced  to  and  fro  the  room,  and  longed — oh,  how  I 
longed — to  take  my  child  and  leave  them  now,  without  an 
hour's  delay  !  But  it  could  not  be  ;  there  was  work  before  me 
— hard  work,  that  must  be  done. 

**Then  let  me  do  it,"  said  I,  "and  lose  not  a  moment  in  vain 
repinings,  and  idle  chafings  against  my  fate,  and  those  who 
influence  it." 

And  conquering  my  agitation  with  a  powerful  effort,  I  im- 
mediately resumed  my  task,  and  laboured  hard  all  day. 

Mr.  Hargrave  did  depart  on  the  morrow;  and  I  have  never 
seen  him  since.  The  others  stayed  on  for  two  or  three  weeks 
longer ;  but  I  kept  aloof  from  them  as  much  as  possible,  and 
still  continued  my  labour,  and  have  continued  it,  with  almost 
unabated  ardour,  to  the  present  day.  I  soon  acquainted  Ra- 
chel with  my  design,  confiding  all  my  motives  and  intentions 
to  her  ear,  and,  much  to  my  agreeable  surprise,  found  little 
difficulty  in  persuading  her  to  enter  into  my  views.  She  is  a 
sober,  cautious  woman,  but  she  so  hates  her  master,  and  so 
loves  her  mistress  and  her  nursling,  that  after  several  ejacula- 
tions, a  few  faint  objections,  and  many  tears  and  lamentations 
that  I  should  be  brought  to  such  a  pass,  she  applauded  my 
resolution  and  consented  to  aid  me  with  all  her  might — on  one 
rendition,  only — that  she  might  share  my  exile :  otherwise, 
she  was  utterly  inexorable,  regarding  it  as  perfect  madness  for 
me  and  Arthur  to  go  alone.  With  touching  generosity,  she 
modestly  offered  to  aid  me  with  her  little  hoard  of  savings, 
hoping  I  would  "  excuse  her  for  the  liberty,  but  really,  if  1 


270  THE  TENANT 

would  do  her  the  favour  to  accept  it  as  a  loan,  she  would  be. 
very  happy."  Of  course  I  could  not  think  of  such  a  thing ; 
— but  now,  thank  Heaven,  I  have  gathered  a  little  hoard  ol 
my  own,  and  my  preparations  are  so  far  advanced,  that  I  am 
looking  forward  to  a  speedy  emancipation.  Only  let  the 
stormy  severity  of  this  winter  weather  be  somewhat  abated, 
and  then,  some  morning,  Mr.  Huntingdon  will  come  down  to 
a  solitary  breakfast-table,  and  perhaps  be  clamouring  through 
the  house  for  his  invisible  wife  and  child,  when  they  are  some 
fifty  miles  on  their  way  to  the  western  world — or  it  may  be 
more,  for  we  shall  leave  him  hours  before  the  dawn,  and  it  is 
not  probable  he  will  discover  the  loss  of  both,  until  the  day 
is  far  advanced. 

I  am  fully  alive  to  the  evils  that  may  and  must  result  upon 
the  step  I  am  about  to  take  ;  but  I  never  waver  in  my  resolu- 
tion, because  I  never  forget  my  son.  It  was  only  this  morning 
— while  I  pursued  my  usual  employment,  he  was  sitting  at 
my  feet,  quietly  playing  with  the  shreds  of  canvas  I  had 
thrown  upon  the  carpet — but  his  mind  was  otherwise  occupied, 
for,  in  a  while,  he  looked  up  wistfully  in  my  face,  and  gravely 
asked,— 

"Mamma,  why  are  you  wicked?" 

"  Who  told  you  I  was  wicked,  love  ?" 

*»  Rachel." 

"  No,  Arthur,  Rachel  never  said  so,  I  am  certain." 

"  Well  then,  it  was  papa,"  replied  he  thoughtfully.  Then, 
after  a  reflective  pause,  he  added,  u  At  least,  I'll  tell  you  how 
it  was  I  got  to  know  :  when  I'm  with  papa,  if  I  say  mamma 
wants  me,  or  mamma  says  I'm  not  to  do  something  that  he 
tells  me  to  do — he  always  says,  '  Mamma  be  damned,' — and 
llachel  says  it's  only  wicked  people  that  are  damned.  So 
mamma,  that's  why  I  think  you  must  be  wicked — and  J  wish 
you  wouldn't." 

"My  dear  child,  I  am  not.  Those  are  bad  words,  and 
wicked  people  often  say  them  of  others  better  than  themselves. 
Those  words  cannot  make  people  be  damned,  nor  show  that 
they  deserve  it.  God  will  judge  us  by  our  own  thoughts  and 
deeds,  not  by  what  others  say  about  us.  And  when  you  hear 
such  words  spoken,  Arthur,  remember  never  to  repeat  them  : 
it  is  wicked  to  say  such  things  of  others,  not  to  have  them  said 
against  you." 

"Then  it's  papa  that's  wicked,"  said  he,  ruefully. 

"  Papa  is  wrong  to  say  such  things,  and  you  will  be  very 
wrong  to  imitate  him  now  that  you  know  better. 

"What  is  imitate?" 

"To  do  as  he  does." 

"Does  he  know  better?" 


OF  WILDFELL   HALL.  271 

14  Perhaps  he  does ;  but  that  is  nothing  to  you." 

44  If  he  doesn't,  you  ought  to  tell  him,  mamma." 

"  I  have  told  him." 

The  little  moralist  paused  and  pondered.  I  tried  in  vain  to 
divert  his  mind  from  the  subject. 

"  I'm  sorry  papa's  wicked,"  said  he  mournfully,  at  length, 
"  for  I  don't  want  him.  to  go  to  hell."  And  so  saying  he  burst 
into  tears. 

I  consoled  him  with  the  hope  that  perhaps  his  papa  would 

alter  and  become  good  before  he  died but  is  it  uot  time 

to  deliver  him  from  such  a  parent? 


CHAPTER  XL. 

JANUARY  10th,  1827. — While  writing  the  above,  yesterday 
evening,  I  sat  in  the  drawing-room.  Mr.  Huntingdon  was 
present,  but,  as  I  thought,  asleep  on  the  sofa  behind  me.  lie 
had  risen  however,  unknown  to  me,  and,  actuated  by  some 
base  spirit  of  curiosity,  been  looking  over  my  shoulder  for  I 
know  not  how  long ;  for  when  I  had  laid  aside  my  pen,  and 
was  about  to  close  the  book,  he  suddenly  placed  his  hand 
upon  it,  and  saying — "  With  your  leave,  my  dear,  I'll  have  a 
look  at  this,"  forcibly  wrested  it  from  me,  and,  drawing  a 
chair  to  the  table,  composedly  sat  down  to  examine  it — turn- 
ing back  leaf  after  leaf  to  find  an  explanation  of  what  he  had 
read.  Unluckily  for  me,  he  was  more  sober  that  night  than 
he  usually  is  at  such  an  hour. 

Of  course  I  did  not  leave  him  to  pursue  this  occupation  in 
quiet :  I  made  several  attempts  to  snatch  the  book  from 
his  hands,  but  he  held  it  too  firmly  for  that;  I  upbraided  him 
in  bitterness  and  scorn  for  his  mean  and  dishonourable  con- 
duct, but  that  had  no  effect  upon  him  ;  and,  finally,  I  extin- 
guished both  the  candles,  but  he  only  wheeled  round  to  the  fire, 
and  raising  a  blaze  sufficient  for  his  purposes,  calmly  con- 
tinued the  investigation.  I  had  serious  thoughts  of  getting  a 
pitcher  of  water  and  extinguishing  that  light  too  ;  but  it  was 
evident  his  curiosity  was  too  keenly  excited  to  be  quenched 
by  that,  and  the  more  I  manifested  my  anxiety  to  baffle  his 
scrutiny,  the  greater  would  be  his  determination  to  persist  in 
it — besides  it  was  too  late. 

44  It  seems  very  interesting,  love,"  said  he,  lifting  his  head 
and  turning  to  where  I  stood  wringing  my  hands  in  silent 
rage  and  anguish  ;  "  but  it's  rather  long ;  I'll  look  at  it  some 
other  time  ; — and  meanwhile,  I'll  trouble  you  for  your  keys, 
my  dear." 

44  What  keys?" 


THE  TEXAJfT 

"  The  keys  of  your  cabinet,  desk,  drawers,  and  whatever 
else  you  possess,"  said  he,  rising  and  holding  out  his  hand. 

"  I've  not  got  them,"  I  replied.  The  key  of  my  desk,  in 
fact,  was,  at  that  moment,  in  the  lock,  and  the  others  were 
attached  to  it. 

u  Then  you  must  send  for  them,"  said  he  ;  "  and  if  that  old 
devil,  Rachel,  doesn't  immediately  deliver  them  up,  she 
tramps  bag  and  baggage  to-morrow." 

"  She  doesn't  know  where  they  are,"  I  answered,  quietly 
placing  my  hand  upon  them,  and  taking  them  from  the  desk, 
as  I  thought,  unobserved.  "  I  know,  but  I  shall  not  give 
them  up  without  a  reason." 

u  And  I  know,  too,"  said  he,  suddenly  seizing  my  closed 
hand  and  rudely  abstracting  them  from  it.  He  then  took 
up  one  of  the  candles  and  relighted  it  by  thrusting  it  into  the 
fire. 

"  Now,  then,"  sneered  he,  "  we  must  have  a  confiscation 
of  property.  But,  first,  let  us  take  a  peep  into  the  studio." 

And  putting  the  keys  into  his  pocket,  he  walked  into  the 
library.  I  followed,  whether  with  the  dim  idea  of  preventing 
mischief,  or  only  to  know  the  worst,  I  can  hardly  tell.  My 
painting  materials  were  laid  together  on  the  corner  table, 
ready  for  to-morrow's  use,  and  only  covered  with  a  cloth. 
He  soon  spied  them  out,  and  putting  down  the  candle,  deli- 
berately proceeded  to  cast  them  into  the  fire — palette,  paints, 
bladders,  pencils,  brushes,  varnish — I  saw  them  all  consumed 
— the  palette-knives  snapped  in  two — the  oil  and  turpentine 
sent  hissing  and  roaring  up  the  chimney.  He  then  rang  the 
bell. 

"  Benson,  take  those  things  away,"  said  he,  pointing  to  the 
easel,  canvas,  and  stretcher ;  "  and  tell  the  housemaid  she 
may  kindle  the  fire  with  them :  your  mistress  won't  want 
them  any  more." 

Benson  paused  aghast  and  looked  at  me. 

"  Take  them  away,  Benson,"  said  I ;  and  his  master  mut- 
tered an  oath. 

"And  this  and  all,  sir?"  said  the  astonished  servant,  re- 
ferring to  the  half-finished  picture. 

"  That  and  all,"  replied  the  master ;  and  the  things  were 
cleared  away. 

Mr.  Huntingdon  then  went  up  stairs.  I  did  not  attempt  to 
follow  him,  but  remained  seated  in  the  arm-chair,  speechless, 
tearless,  and  almost  motionless,  till  he  returned  about  half  an 
hour  after,  and  walking  up  to  me,  held  the  candle  in  my  face 
and  peered  into  my  eyes  with  looks  and  laughter  too  insulting 
to  be  borne.  With  a  sudden  stroke  of  my  hand,  I  dashed  the 
candle  to  the  floor. 


OF   WILDFELL   HALL.  273 

"Hal-lo!"  muttered  he,  starting  back — "She's  the  very 
devil  for  spite  !  Did  ever  any  mortal  see  such  eyes  ? — they 
shine  in  the  dark  like  a  cat's.  Oh,  you're  a  sweet  one !" — so 
saying,  he  gathered  up  the  candle  and  the  candlestick.  The 
former  being  broken  as  well  as  extinguished,  he  rang  for 
another. 

"  Benson,  your  mistress  has  broken  the  candle :  bring 
another." 

"  You  expose  yourself  finely,"  observed  I  as  the  man  de- 
parted. 

"I  didn't  say  I'd  broken  it,  did  I?"  returned  he.  He 
then  threw  my  keys  into  my  lap,  saying, — "  There  !  you'll 
find  nothing  gone  but  your  money,  and  the  jewels — and  a  few 
little  trifles  I  thought  it  advisable  to  take  into  my  own  pos- 
session, lest  your  mercantile  spirit  should  be  tempted  to  turn 
them  into  gold.  I've  left  you  a  few  sovereigns  in  your  purse, 
which  I  expect  to  last  you  through  the  month — at  all  events, 
when  you  want  more  you  will  be  so  good  as  to  give  me  an 
account  of  how  that's  spent.  I  shall  put  you  upon  a  small 
monthly  allowance,  in  future,  for  your  own  private  expenses ; 
and  you  needn't  trouble  yourself  any  more  about  my  con- 
cerns ;  I  shall  look  out  for  a  steward,  my  dear  ;  I  won't  ex- 
pose you  to  the  temptation.  And  as  for  the  household  mat- 
ters, Mrs.  Greaves  must  be  very  particular  in  keeping  her 
accounts:  we  must  go  upon  an  entirely  new  plan " 

"  What  great  discovery  have  you  made  now,  Mr.  Hunting- 
don ?  Have  I  attempted  to  defraud  you  ?  " 

u  Not  in  money  matters,  exactly,  it  seems,  but  it's  best  to 
keep  out  of  the  way  of  temptation." 

Here  Benson  entered  with  the  candles,  and  there  followed 
a  brief  interval  of  silence  ;  I  sitting  still  in  my  chair,  and  he 
standing  with  his  back  to  the  fire,  silently  triumphing  in  my 
despair. 

u  And  so,"  said  he  at  length,  "  you  thought  to  disgrace  me, 
did  you,  by  running  away  and  turning  artist,  and  supporting 
yourself  by  the  labour  of  your  hands,  forsooth?  And  you 
thought  to  rob  me  of  my  son  too,  and  bring  him  up  to  be  a 
dirty  Yankee  tradesman,  or  a  low,  beggarly  painter?" 

"  Yes,  to  obviate  his  becoming  such  a  gentleman  as  his 
father." 

"  It's  well  you  couldn't  keep  your  own  secret — ha,  ha  !  It's 
well  these  women  must  be  blabbing — if  they  haven't  a  friend 
to  talk  to,  they  must  whisper  their  secrets  to  the  fishes,  or 
write  them  on  the  sand,  or  something  ;  arid  it's  well  too  I 
wasn't  over  full  to-night,  now  I  think  of  it,  or  I  might 
have  snoosed  away  and  never  dreamt  of  looking  what  my 
sweet  lady  was  about — or  I  mijjht  have  lacked  the  sense 

1 8 


274  THE  TENANT 

or  the  power  to  carry  my  point  like  a  man,  as  I  have 
done." 

Leaving  him  to  his  self-congratulations,  I  rose  to  secure 
my  manuscript,  for  I  now  remembered  it  had  been  left  upon 
the  drawing-room  table,  and  I  determined,  if  possible,  to 
save  myself  the  humiliation  of  seeing  it  in  his  hands  again.  I 
could  not  bear  the  idea  of  his  amusing  himself  over  my 
secret  thoughts  and  recollections ;  though,  to  be  sure,  he 
would  find  little  good  of  himself  therein  indited,  except  in 
the  former  part — and  oh,  I  would  sooner  burn  it  all  than  he 
should  read  what  I  had  written  when  I  was  such  a  fool  as  to 
love  him ! 

"And  by-the-bye,"  cried  he  as  I  was  leaving  the  room, 
"  you'd  better  tell  that  d — d  old  sneak  of  a  nurse  to  keep  out 
of"  my  way  for  a  day  or  two — I'd  pay  her  her  wages  and  send 
her  packing  to-morrow,  but  I  know  she'd  do  more  mischief 
out  of  the  house  than  in  it." 

And  as  I  departed,  he  went  on  cursing  and  abusing  my 
faithful  friend  and  servant  with  epithets  I  will  not  defile  this 
paper  with  repeating.  I  went  to  her  as  soon  as  I  had  put 
away  my  book,  and  told  her  how  our  project  was  defeated. 
She  was  as  much  distressed  and  horrified  as  I  was — and  more 
so  than  I  was  that  night,  for  I  was  partly  stunned  by  the 
blow,  and  partly  excited  and  supported  against  it  l>y  the  bit- 
terness of  my  wrath  But  in  the  morning,  when  I  woke 
without  that  cheering  hope  that  had  been  my  secret  comfort 
and  support  so  long,  and  all  this  day,  when  1  have  wandered 
about  restless  and  objectless,  shunning  my  husband,  shrinking 
even  from  my  child — knowing  that  I  am  unfit  to  be  his 
teacher  or  companion,  hoping  nothing  for  his  future  life,  and 
fervently  wishing  he  had  never  been  born — I  felt  the  full 
extent  of  my  calamity — and  I  feel  it  now.  I  know  that  day 
after  day  such  feelings  will  return  upon  me :  I  am  a  slave — 
a  prisoner — but  that  is  nothing ;  if  it  were  myself  alone,  I 
would  not  complain,  but  I  am  forbidden  to  rescue  my  son 
from  ruin,  and  what  was  once  my  only  consolation,  is  be- 
come the  crowning  source  of  my  despair. 

Have  I  no  faith  in  God  ?  I  try  to  look  to  him  and  raise  my 
heart  to  Heaven,  but  it  will  cleave  to  the  dust :  I  can  only 
say — "  He  hath  hedged  me  about,  that  I  cannot  get  out :  he 
hath  made  my  chain  heavy.  He  hath  filled  me  with  bitter- 
ness, he  hath  made  me  drunken  with  wormwood :" — I  forget 
to  add — "  But  though  he  cause  grief,  yet  will  he  have  com- 
passion according  to  the  multitude  of  his  mercies.  For  he 
doth  not  afflict  willingly  nor  grieve  the  children  of  men."  i 
ought  to  think  of  this ;  and  if  there  be  nothing  but  sorrow 
for  me  in  this  world,  what  is  the  longest  life  of  misery  to  a 


OF   WILDFELL  HALT..  276 

whole  eternity  of  peace  ?  And  for  my  little  Arthur — has  he 
no  friend  but  me  ?  Who  was  it  said,  "  It  is  not  the  will  ot 
your  Father  which  is  in  Heaven  that  one  of  these  little  ones 
should  perish?" 

CHAPTER  XLI. 

MARCH  20th. — Having  now  got  rid  of  Mr.  Huntingdon  for  a 
season,  my  spirits  begin  to  revive.  He  left  me  early  in  Fe- 
bruary ;  and  the  moment  he  was  gone,  I  breathed  again,  and 
felt  my  vital  energy  return ;  not  with  the  hope  ot  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  de- 
spondent 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  de- 
files his  mouth,  and  I  have  succeeded  in  giving  him  an  abso- 
lute 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  alto- 
gether, that  would  only  have  increased  his  partiality  for  it, 
and  made  him  regard  it  as  a  greater  treat  than  ever.  I  there- 
fore 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  disagree- 
able 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  waa 
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 


276  THE  TENANT 

•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 :  "  Ar- 
thur, 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,  T  flatter  myself  I  shall  secure  him  from  this  one  vice ; 
^nd  for  the  rest,  if  on  his  father's  return  I  find  reason  to  ap- 
prehend 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  wicked- 
ness, I  will  yet  deliver  my  son  from  his  hands.  I  have  de- 
vised 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,  1  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,  1  believe,  he  knows  much  more  of  my  situation 
than  I  have  told  him.  I  can  tell  this  by  the  air  of  tender 
Badness  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.  Hunt- 
ingdon is  at  home.  Bi'i  he  has  never  openly  expressed  any 


OF   WILDFELL   HALL.  277 

disapprobation  of  him  or  sympathy  for  me  ;  he  has  never 
asked  atiy  questions,  or  said  anything  to  invite  my  confidence. 
Had  he  done  so,  I  should  probably  have  had  but  few  con- 
cealments 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  dispo- 
sition, for  my  misfortunes  have  soured  and  embittered  me  ex- 
ceedingly :  I  was  beginning  insensibly  to  cherish  very  un- 
amiable  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  doubt- 
less 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. 

44  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." 

44  You  flatter  me,  Helen,"  replied  he,  stroking  the  child's 
soft,  wavy  locks. 

4>  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  ? " 
eaid  I. 

k'  i  think  I  have  an  idea." 

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

44  Is  it  really  so?" 

"  If  you  have  not,"  continued  I,  4'  I'll  tell  you  something 


278  THE  TENAlvT 

more  about  him," — and  I  gave  a  sketch  of  his  general  con- 
duct, 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.  Hunting- 
don, 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  advan- 
tage of  it,  unless  circumstances  should  render  it  really  neces- 
sary, 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  irom  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." 


OF  WILDFELL  HALL.  279 

44 1  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  yon 
would  be  quite  shocked  at  my  undutiful  conduct — you  can't 
imagine  how  she  lectures  me — I  am  disobedient  and  un- 
grateful ;  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  pu- 
nishment 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 
irom  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  for- 
tune, whatever  exalted  ideas  I  may  have  of  my  own  attrac- 
tions." 

"  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  can- 
not get  married  if  nobody  sees  me.  I  saw  one  or  two  gentle- 
men in  London  that  I  might  have  liked,  but  they  were 
ycmnger  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  ac- 

44 1  have  no  doubt  you  would  feel  it  so,  but  it  is  possible 


280  THE   TENANT 

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  other- 
wise. If  I  thought  myself  doomed  to  oldmaidenhood,  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  pati- 
ence, 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  yon 
have  a  right  to  the  protection  and  support  of  your  mother  and 
brother,  however  they  may  seem  to  grudge  it." 

41  You  are  so  grave,  Mrs.  Huntingdon,"  said  Esther,  after  a 
pause.  "  When  Milicent  uttered  the  same  discouraging  sen- 
timents 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  hei  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  Grass- 
dale,  while  Mr.  Huntingdon  goes  about  enjoying  himself 
where  and  how  he  pleases — 1  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." 


OF   WILDFELL  HALL. 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

SEPTEMBER  1st. — No  Mr.  Huntingdon  yet.  Peihaps  he  wiu 
stay  among  his  friends  till  Christmas ;  and  then,  next  spring, 
he  will  be  off  again.  If  he  continue  this  plan,  1  shall  be  able 
to  stay  at  Grassdale  well  enough— that  is,  I  shall  be  able  to 
stay,  and  that  is  enough  ;  even  an  occasional  bevy  of  ii-ienda 
at  the  shooting  season  may  be  borne,  if  Arthur  get  so  firmly 
attached  to  me,  so  well  established  in  good  sense  and  prin- 
ciples before  they  come,  that  I  shall  be  able,  by  reason  and 
affection,  to  keep  him  pure  from  their  contaminations.  Vain 
hope,  I  fear !  but  still,  till  such  a  time  of  trial  comes,  I  will 
forbear  to  think  of  my  quiet  asylum  in  the  beloved  old  Hall. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hattersley  have  been  staying  at  the  Grove  a 
fortnight ;  and  as  Mr.  Hargrave  is  still  absent,  and  the 
weather  was  remarkably  fine,  I  never  passed  a  day  without 
seeing  my  two  friends,  Milicent  and  Esther,  either  there 
or  here.  On  one  occasion,  when  Mr.  Hattersley  had  driven 
them  over  to  Grassdale  in  the  phaeton,  with  little  Helen  and 
Ralph,  and  we  were  all  enjoying  ourselves  in  the  garden — I 
had  a  few  minutes'  conversation  with  that  gentleman,  while 
the  ladies  were  amusing  themselves  with  the  children. 

"Do  you  want  to  hear  anything  of  your  husband,  Mrs. 
Huntingdon?"  said  he. 

"  No,  unless  you  can  tell  me  when  to  expect  him  home." 

"I  can't. — You  don't  want  him,  do  you?"  said  he,  with  a 
broad  grin. 

"  No." 

"  Well,  I  think  you're  better  without  him,  sure  enough — 
for  my  part,  I'm  downright  weary  of  him.  I  told  him  I'd 
leave  him  if  he  didn't  mend  his  manners — and  he  wouldn't ; 
so  I  left  him — you  see  I'm  a  better  man  than  you  think  me  ; 
and,  what's  more,  I  have  serious  thoughts  of  washing  my 
hands  of  him  entirely,  and  the  whole  set  of  'em,  and  com- 
porting myself  from  this  day  forward,  with  all  decency  and 
sobriety,  as  a  Christian  and  the  father  of  a  family  should  do. 
What  do  you  think  of  that?" 

"  It  is  a  resolution  you  ought  to  have  formed  long  ago." 

"  Well,  I'm  not  thirty  yet ;  it  isn't  too  late,  is  it  V  " 

"  No ;  it  is  never  too  late  to  reform,  as  long  as  you  have 
the  sense  to  desire  it,  and  the  strength  to  execute  your 
purpose." 

"  Well,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I've  thought  of  it  often  and 
often  before,  but  he's  such  devilish  good  company  is  Hunting- 
don, after  all — you  can't  imagine  what  a  jovial  good  fellow  he 


£82  THE  TENANT 

is  when  he's  not  fairly  drunk,  only  just  primed  or  half  seas 
sver — we  all  have  a  bit  of  a  liking  for  him  at  the  bottom 
of  our  hearts,  though  we  can't  respect  him." 

"  But  should  you  wish  yourself  to  be  like  him  ?" 

"  No,  I'd  rather  be  like  myself,  bad  as  I  am." 

"You  can't  continue  as  bad  as  you  are  without  getting 
worse,  and  more  brutalised  every  day — and  therefore  more 
like  him." 

I  could  not  help  smiling  at  the  comical,  half-angry,  half- 
confounded  look  he  put  on  at  this  rather  unusual  mode  of 
address. 

"  Never  mind  my  plain  speaking,"  said  I ;  "it  is  from  the 
best  of  motives.  But,  tell  me,  should  you  wish  your  sons  to 
be  like  Mr.  Huntingdon — or  even  like  yourself?  " 

"Hang  it,  no." 

"Should  you  wish  your  daughter  to  despise  you — or,  at 
least,  to  feel  no  vestige  of  respect  for  you,  and  no  affection  but 
what  is  mingled  with  the  bitterest  regiet?  " 

"  Oh,  no!  I  couldn't  stand  that." 

"  And  finally,  should  you  wish  your  wife  to  be  ready  to 
sink  into  the  earth  when  she  hears  you  mentioned ;  and 
to  loathe  the  very  sound  of  your  voice,  and  shudder  at  your 
approach  ?  " 

"  She  never  will :  she  likes  me  all  the  same,  whatever 
I  do." 

"  Impossible,  Mr.  Hattersley !  you  mistake  her  quiet  sub- 
mission for  affection." 

"  Fire  and  fury " 

"  Now,  don't  burst  into  a  tempest  at  that — I  don't  mean  to 
say  she  does  not  love  you — she  does,  I  know,  a  great  deal 
better  than  you  deserve  ;  but  I  am  quite  sure,  that  if  you  be 
have  better,  she  will  love  you  more,  and  if  you  behave  worse, 
she  will  love  you  less  and  less,  till  all  is  lost  in  fear,  aversion, 
and  bitterness  of  soul,  if  not  in  secret  hatred  and  contempt. 
But,  dropping  the  subject  of  affection,  should  you  wish  to  be 
the  tyrant  of  her  life — to  take  away  all  the  sunshine  from  her 
existence,  and  make  her  thoroughly  miserable  ?  " 

"  Of  course  not;  and  I  don't,  and  I'm  not  going  to." 

"  You  have  done  more  towards  it  than  you  suppose." 

"  Pooh,  pooh  !  she's  not  the  susceptible,  anxious,  worriting 
creature  you  imagine :  she's  a  little  meek,  peaceable,  affec- 
tionate body ;  apt  to  be  rather  sulky  at  times,  but  quiet  and 
cool  in  the  main,  and  ready  to  take  things  as  they  come." 

"  Think  of  what  she  was  five  years  ago,  when  you  married 
her,  and  what  she  is  now." 

"  I  know — she  was  a  little  plump  lassie  then,  with  a  pretty 
piuk  and  white  face :  now  she's  a  poor  little  bit  of  a  creature, 


OF   WILDFELL  HALL.  283 

lading  and  melting  away  like  a  snow-wreath — but  hang  it ! — 
that's  not  my  fault." 

u  What  is  the  cause  of  it  then  ?  Not  years,  for  she's  only 
five  and  twenty." 

"  It's  her  own  delicate  health,  and — confound  it,  madam ! 
what  would  you  make  of  me  ? — and  the  children,  to  be  sure, 
that  worry  her  to  death  between  them." 

"No,  Mr.  Hattersley,  the  children  give  her  more  pleasure 
than  pain :  they  are  fine,  well-dispositioned  children " 

"  I  know  they  are — bless  them  !" 

"  Then  why  lay  the  blame  on  them  ? — I'll  tell  you  what  it 
is :  it's  silent  fretting  and  constant  anxiety  on  your  account, 
mingled,  I  suspect,  with  something  of  bodily  fear  on  her 
own.  When  you  behave  well,  she  can  only  rejoice  with 
trembling;  she  has  no  security,  no  confidence  in  your  judg- 
ment or  principles  ;  but  is  continually  dreading  the  close  of 
such  short-lived  felicity  ;  when  you  behave  ill,  her  causes  of 
terror  and  misery  are  more  than  any  one  can  tell  but  herself. 
In  patient  endurance  of  evil,  she  forgets  it  is  our  duty  to  ad- 
monish our  neighbours  of  their  transgressions.  Since  you 
will  mistake  her  silence  for  indifference,  come  with  me,  and 
I'll  show  you  one  or  two  of  her  letters — no  breach  of  confi- 
dence, I  hope,  since  you  are  her  other  half." 

He  followed  me  into  the  library.  I  sought  out  and  put 
into  his  hands  two  of  Milicent's  letters ;  one  dated  from  Lon- 
don, and  written  during  one  of  his  wildest  seasons  of  reck- 
less dissipation ;  the  other  in  the  country  during  a  lucid 
interval.  The  former  was  full  of  trouble  and  anguish ;  not 
accusing  him,  but  deeply  regretting  hia  connection  with  his 
profligate  companions,  abusing  Mr.  Grimsby  and  others,  in- 
sinuating bitter  things  against  Mr.  Huntingdon,  and  most 
ingeniously  throwing  the  blame  of  her  husband's  misconduct 
on  to  other  men's  shoulders.  The  latter  was  full  of  hope  and 
j°3r>  yet  with  a  trembling  consciousness  that  this  happiness 
would  not  last ;  praising  his  goodness  to  the  skies,  but  with 
an  evident,  though  but  half-expressed  wish,  that  it  were  based 
on  a  surer  foundation  than  the  natural  impulses  of  the  heart, 
and  a  half-prophetic  dread  of  the  fall  of  that  house  so  founded 
on  the  sand, — which  fall  had  shortly  after  taken  place,  ai 
Hattersley  must  have  been  conscious  while  he  read. 

Almost  at  the  commencement  of  the  first  letter  I  had  the 
unexpected  pleasure  of  seeing  him  blush  ;  but  he  immediately 
turned  his  back  to  me,  and  finished  the  perusal  at  the  window. 
At  the  second,  I  saw  him,  once  or  twice,  raise  his  hand,  and 
hurriedly  pass  it  across  his  face.  Could  it  be  to  dash  away  a 
tear?  When  he  had  done,  there  was  an  interval  spent  in 
clearing  his  throat,  and  staring  out  of  the  window,  and  then, 


284  THE  TEX AST 

after  whistling  a  lew  bars  of  a  i'avourite  air,  he  turned  round, 
gave  me  back  the  letters,  and  silently  shook  me  by  the  hand. 

"  I've  been  a  cursed  rascal,  God  knows,"  said  he,  as  he 
gave  it  a  hearty  squeeze,  "  but  you  see  if  I  don't  make  amends 
lor  it— d— n  me  if  I  don't !" 

"  Don't  curse  yourself,  Mr.  Hattersley ;  if  God  had  heard 
half  your  invocations  of  that  kind,  you  would  have  been  in 
hell  long  belore  now — and  you  cannot  make  amends  for  the 
past  by  doing  your  duty  for  the  future,  inasmuch  as  your 
duty  is  only  what  you  owe  to  your  Maker,  and  you  cannot  do 
more  than  fulfil  it — another  must  make  amends  for  your  past 
delinquencies.  If  you  intend  to  reform,  invoke  God's  bless- 
ing, his  mercy,  and  his  aid  ;  not  his  curse." 

44  God  help  me,  then — for  I'm  sure  I  need  it — Where's 
Milicent  ?" 

"  She's  there,  just  coming  in  with  her  sister." 

He  stepped  out  at  the  glass  door,  and  went  to  meet  them 
I  followed  at  a  little  distance.  Somewhat  to  his  wile's 
astonishment,  he  lifted  her  off  from  the  ground,  and  saluted 
her  with  a  hearty  kiss  and  a  strong  embrace  ;  then,  placing 
his  two  hands  on  her  shoulders,  he  gave  her,  I  suppose,  a 
sketch  of  the  great  things  he  meant  to  do,  for  she  suddenly 
threw  her  arms  round  him,  and  burst  into  tears,  exclaim- 
ing*— 

"  Do,  do,  Ralph — we  shall  be  so  happy !  How  very,  very 
good  you  are  !" 

"  Nay,  not  I,"  said  he,  turning  her  round,  and  pushing  her 
towards  me.  "  Thank  her  ;  it's  her  doing." 

Milicent  flew  to  thank  me,  overflowing  with  gratitude.  I 
disclaimed  all  title  to  it,  telling  her  her  husband  was  predis- 
posed to  amendment  before  I  added  my  mite  of  exhortation 
and  encouragement,  and  that  I  had  only  done  what  she 
might — and  ought  to — have  done  herself. 

44  Oh,  no !"  cried  she,  "  I  couldn't  have  influenced  him, 
I'm  sure,  by  anything  that  I  could  have  said.  I  should  only 
have  bothered  him  by  my  clumsy  efforts  at  persuasion,  if  I 
had  made  the  attempt." 

44  You  never  tried  me,  Milly,"  said  he. 

Shortly  after,  they  took  their  leave.  They  are  now  gone 
on  a  visit  to  Hattersley's  father.  After  that,  they  will  repair 
to  their  country  home.  I  hope  his  good  resolutions  will  not 
fall  through,  and  poor  Milicent  will  not  be  again  disappointed. 
Her  last  letter  was  lull  oi  present  bliss,  and  pleasing  antici- 
pations for  the  future  ;  but  no  particular  temptation  has  yet 
occurred  to  put  his  virtue  to  the  test.  Henceforth,  however, 
ehe  will  doubtless  be  somewhat  less  timid  and  reserved,  and 
be  more  kind  and  thoughtful.  —Surely,  then,  her  hopes  are 


OF   WILDFELL  HALL. 


cot  unfounded  ;  and  I  have  one  bright  spot,  at  leaet,  whereon 
to  rest  my  thoughts. 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

OCTOBER  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  gover- 
ness 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  : 
1  had  already  reduced  the  boy  to  little  better  than  an  auto- 
maton, 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  bother- 
ing about  the  matter,  for  he  had  engaged  a  governess  already, 
and  she  was  coming  next  week ;  so  that  all  I  had  to  do  waa 
to  get  things  ready  for  her  reception.  This  was  a  rather 
startling  piece  of  intelligence.  1  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  inor- 
dinate 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, 

*\nd  made  no  further  objections. 


286  THE  TENANT 

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  un- 
friendly 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  scrutinise  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   uhc, 


OF  WILDFELL  HALL.  2S7 

having  sojourned  for  half  a  century  in  this  land  of  sin  and 
Borrow,  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.  "  Yoru'll 
wan't  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 
scrvant-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  accus- 
tomed to " 

"  Do  you  think,  ma'am,  I  can't  bear  what  my  missis  can? 
eurely  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  shan'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 
laved  like  my  own  bairns — for  all  I'm  too  old  to  bide  the 


288  THE   TENAAT 

thoughts  o1  leaving  'em  iu  trouble  and  danger,  and  going 
amongst  strangers  myself." 

44  Then  you  shan't,  Rachel !"  cried  I,  embracing  my  faithful 
friend.  "  We'll  all  go  together,  and  you  shall  see  how  the 
new  life  suits  you." 

44  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  1,"  was  my  answer;  and  so  that  point  was 
settled. 

By  that  morning's  post,  1  dispatched  a  few  hasty  lines  to 
Frederick,  beseeching  him  to  prepare  my  asylum  for  my  im- 
mediate 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.  1  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 
st  Grassdale,  or  to  leave  my  son  under  his  father's  protec- 
tion ;  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  cir- 
cumstances. 

The  third  was  to  my  aunt — a  much  more  difficult  and  pain- 
ful 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, 
1  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  con- 
cerning it ;  but  any  communications  addressed  to  me  under 
cover  to  my  brother  would  be  certain  to  reach  me.  I  hoped 
e>he  and  my  uncle  would  pardon  the  step  I  had  taken,  for  if 
they  knew  all,  1  was  sure  they  would  not  blame  me ;  and  I 


OF   WILDFELL   HALT,. 


trusted  they  would  not  afflict  themselves  on  my  account,  for 
if  I  could  only  reach  my  retreat  in  safety  and  keep  it  unmo- 
lested, 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  secresy,  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  any- 
thing 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  my- 
self 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  in- 
nocent 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. 

u  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  J.  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." 

u  Somebody  else  may  fill  it  to-morrow,"  I  thought — but  did 
not  say.  "  There  !  I've  seen  the  last  of  you,  I  hope,"  1  mut- 
tered 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 
«ras  entirely  out  of  the  question.  It  was  equally  out  ot  the 


290  THE   TENANT 

question  to  sit,  or  wander  about  my  room,  counting  the  horns 
and  the  minutes  between  me  and  the  appointed  time  of  action, 
straining  my  ears  and  trembling  at  every  sound  lest  some  one 
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  past 
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  Ben- 
son, 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. 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

OCTOBER  24th.— Thank  Heaven,  I  am  free  and  safe  at  last ! 
— Early  we  rose,  swiftly  and  quietly  dressed,  slowly  and 
stealthily  descended  to  the  hall,  where  Benson  stood  ready 
with  a  light  to  open  the  door  and  fasten  it  after  us.  We  were 
obliged  to  let  one  man  into  our  secret  on  account  of  the  boxes, 
&c.  All  the  servants  were  but  too  well  acquainted  with  their 
master's  conduct,  and  either  Benson  or  John  would  have  been 
willing  to  serve  me,  but  as  the  former  was  more  staid  and 
elderly,  and  a  crony  of  Rachel's  besides,  I  of  course  directed 
her  to  make  choice  of  him  as  her  assistant  and  confidant  on 
the  occasion,  as  far  as  necessity  demanded.  I  only  hope  he 
may  not  be  brought  into  trouble  thereby,  and  only  wish  I 
could  reward  him  for  the  perilous  service  he  was  so  ready  to 
undertake.  I  slipped  two  guineas  into  his  hand,  by  way  of 
remembrance,  as  he  stood  in  the  door-way,  holding  the  candle 
to  light  our  departure,  with  a  tear  in  his  honest  grey  eye  and 
a  host  of  good  wishes  depicted  on  his  solemn  countenance. 
Alas !  I  could  offer  no  more  :  I  had  barely  sufficient  remain- 
ing for  the  probable  expenses  of  the  journey. 

What  trembling  joy  it  was  when  the  little  wicket  closed  be- 
hind us,  as  we  issued  from  the  park !  Then,  for  on*  *iom?Et, 


OP   WILDFELL   HALL.  291 

I  paused,  to  inhale  one  draught  of  that  cool,  bracing  air,  and 
venture  one  look  back  upon  the  house.  All  was  dark  and 
still ;  no  light  glimmered  in  the  windows ;  no  wreath  of  smoke 
obscured  the  stars  that  sparkled  above  it  in  the  frosty  sky. 
As  I  bade  farewell  for  ever  to  that  place,  the  scene  of  so  much 
guilt  and  misery,  I  felt  glad  that  I  had  not  left  it  before,  for 
now  there  was  no  doubt  about  the  propriety  of  such  a  step — 
no  shadow  of  remors%  for  him  I  left  behind :  there  was 
nothing  to  disturb  my  joy  but  the  fear  of  detection ;  and 
every  step  removed  us  further  from  the  chance  of  that. 

We  had  left  Grassdale  many  miles  behind  us  before  the 
round,  red  sun  arose  to  welcome  our  deliverance,  and  if  any 
inhabitant  of  its  vicinity  had  chanced  to  see  us  then,  as  we 
bowled  along  on  the  top  of  the  coach,  I  scarcely  think  they 
would  have  suspected  our  identity.  As  I  intend  to  be  taken 
for  a  widow  I  thought  it  advisable  to  enter  my  new  abode  in 
mourning :  I  was  therefore  attired  in  a  plain  black  silk  dress 
and  mantle,  a  black  veil  (which  I  kept  carefully  over  my  face 
for  the  first  twenty  or  thirty  miles  of  the  journey),  and  a  black 
silk  bonnet,  which  I  had  been  constrained  to  borrow  of  Rachel 
for  want  of  such  an  article  myself — it  was  not  in  the  newest 
fashion,  of  course  ;  but  none  the  worse  for  that,  under  present 
circumstances.  Arthur  was  clad  in  his  plainest  clothes,  and 
wrapped  in  a  coarse  woollen  shawl ;  and  Rachel  was  muffled 
in  a  grey  cloak  and  hood  that  had  seen  better  days,  and  gave 
her  more  the  appearance  of  an  ordinary  though  decent  old 
woman,  than  of  a  lady's  maid 

Oh,  what  delight  it  was  to  he  thus  seated  aloft,  rumbling 
along  the  broad,  sunshiny  road,  with  the  fresh  morning 
breeze  in  my  face,  surrounded  by  an  unknown  country  all 
smiling— cheerfully,  gloriously  smiling  in  the  yellow  lustre 
of  those  early  beams, — with  my  darling  child  in  my  arms, 
almost  as  happy  as  myself  and  my  faithful  friend  beside  me  ; 
a  prison  and  despair  behind  me,  receding  further,  further  back 
at  every  clatter  of  the  horses'  feet, — and  liberty  and  hope 
before  !  I  could  hardly  refrain  from  praising  God  aloud  for 
my  deliverance,  or  astonishing  my  fellow  passengers  by  some 
surprising  outburst  of  hilarity. 

But  the  journey  was  a  very  long  one,  and  we  were  all 
weary  enough  before  the  close  of  it.  It  was  far  into  the 

night  when  we  reached  the  town  of  L ,  and  still  we  were 

eeven  miles  from  our  journey's  end  ;  and  there  was  no  more 
coaching — nor  any  conveyance  to  be  had,  except  a  common 
cart — and  that  with  the  greatest  difficulty,  for  half  the  town 
was  in  bed.  And  a  dreary  ride  we  had  of  it  that  last  stage  of 
the  journey,  cold  and  weary  as  we  were  ;  sitting  on  our  boxes, 
•vitn  nothing  to  cling  to,  nothing  to  lean  against,  slowly 


293  THE   TENANT 

dragged  and  cruelly  shaken  over  the  rough,  hilly  roads.  Bui 
Arthur  was  asleep  in  Rachel's  lap,  and  between  us  we  ma- 
naged pretty  well  to  shield  him  from  the  cold  night  air. 

At  last  we  began  to  ascend  a  terribly  steep  and  stony  lane 
which,  in  spite  of  the  darkness,  Rachel  said  she  remembered 
well :  she  had  often  walked  there  with  me  in  her  arms,  and 
little  thought  to  come  again  so  many  years  after,  under  such 
circumstances  as  the  present.  Arthur  being  now  awakened 
by  the  jolting  and  the  stoppages,  we  all  got  out  and  walked. 
We  had  not  far  to  go  ;  but  what  if  Frederick  should  not  have 
received  my  letter?  or  if  he  should  not  have  had  time  to  pre- 
pare the  rooms  for  our  reception  ;  and  we  should  find  them 
all  dark,  damp,  and  comfortless ;  destitute  of  food,  fire,  and 
furniture,  after  all  our  toil  ? 

At  length  the  grim,  dark  pile  appeared  before  us.  The  lane 
conducted  us  round  by  the  back  way.  We  entered  the  deso- 
late court,  and  in  breathless  anxiety  surveyed  the  ruinous 
mass.  Was  it  all  blackness  and  desolation  V  No ;  one  faint 
red  glimmer  cheered  us  from  a  window  where  the  lattice  was 
iu  good  repair.  The  door  was  fastened,  but  after  due  knock- 
ing and  waiting,  and  some  parleying  with  a  voice  from  an 
upper  window,  we  were  admitted,  by  an  old  woman  who  had 
been  commissioned  to  air  and  keep  the  house  till  our  arrival, 
into  a  tolerably  snug  little  apartment,  formerly  the  scullery 
of  the  mansion,  which  Frederick  had  now  fitted  up  as  a 
kitchen.  Here  she  procured  us  a  light,  roused  the  fire  to  a 
cheerful  blaze,  and  soon  prepared  a  simple  repast  for  our 
refreshment ;  while  we  disencumbered  ourselves  of  our  tra- 
velling gear,  and  took  a  hasty  survey  of  our  new  abode. 
Besides  the  kitchen  there  were  two  bed-rooms,  a  good  sized 
parlour,  and  another  smaller  one,  which  I  destined  for  my 
studio,  all  well  aired  and  seemingly  in  good  repair,  but  only 
partly  furnished  with  a  few  old  articles,  chiefly  of  ponderous 
black  oak — the  veritable  ones  that  had  been  there  before,  and 
which  had  been  kept  as  antiquarian  relics  in  my  brother's 
present  residence,  and  now,  in  all  haste,  transported  back  again. 

The  old  woman  brought  my  supper  and  Arthur's  into  the 
parlour,  and  told  me,  with  all  due  formality,  that  "  The  mas- 
ter desired  his  compliments  to  Mrs.  Graham,  and  he  had  pre- 
pared the  rooms  as  well  as  he  could  upon  so  short  a  notice, 
but  he  would  do  himself  the  pleasure  of  calling  upon  her  to- 
morrow, to  receive  her  further  commands." 

I  was  glad  to  ascend  the  stern-looking  stone  staircase,  and 
lie  down  in  the  gloomy  old-fashioned  bed,  beside  my  little 
Arthur.  He  was  asleep  in  a  minute ;  but,  weary  as  I  was, 
my  excited  feelings  and  restless  cogitations  kept  me  awake  till 
dawn  began  to  struggle  with  the  darkness ;  but  sleep  was 


OF   WILDFELL  HALL.  293 

iweet  and  refreshing  when  it  came,  and  the  waking  was  de- 
lightful beyond  expression.  It  was  little  Arthur  that  roused 
me,  with  his  gentle  kisses  : — He  was  here,  then — safely 
clasped  in  my  arms,  and  many  leagues  away  from  his  un- 
worthy father !  Broad  daylight  illumined  the  apartment,  for 
the  sun  was  high  in  heaven,  though  obscured  by  rolling 
masses  of  autumnal  vapour. 

The  scene,  indeed,  was  not  remarkably  cheerful  in  itsell, 
either  within  or  without.  The  large  bare  room,  with  its  grim 
old  furniture,  the  narrow,  latticed  windows,  revealing  the 
dull,  grey  sky  above  and  the  desolate  wilderness  below,  where 
the  dark  stone  walls  and  iron  gate,  the  rank  growth  of  grass 
and  weeds,  and  the  hardy  evergreens  of  preternatural  forms, 
alone  remained  to  tell  that  there  had  been  once  a  garden,— 
and  the  bleak  and  barren  fields  beyond  might  have  struck  me 
as  gloomy  enough  at  another  time,  but  now,  each  separate 
object  seemed  to  echo  back  my  own  exhilarating  sense  of  hope 
and  freedom  :  indefinite  dreams  of  the  far  past  and  bright  an- 
ticipations of  the  future  seemed  to  greet  me  at  every  turn.  I 
should  rejoice  with  more  security,  to  be  sure,  had  the  broad 
sea  rolled  between  my  present  and  my  former  homes,  but 
surely  in  this  lonely  spot  I  might  remain  unknown ;  and  then, 
I  had  my  brother  here  to  cheer  my  solitude  with  his  occa- 
sional visits. 

He  came  that  morning  ;  and  I  have  had  several  interviews 
with  him  since ;  but  he  is  obliged  to  be  very  cautious  when 
and  how  he  comes  ;  not  even  his  servants  or  his  best  friends 
must  know  of  his  visits  to  Wildfell — except  on  such  occa- 
sions as  a  landlord  might  be  expected  to  call  upon  a  stranger 
tenant — lest  suspicion  should  be  excited  against  me,  whether 
of  the  truth  or  of  some  slanderous  falsehood. 

I  have  now  been  here  nearly  a  fortnight,  and,  but  for  one 
disturbing  care,  the  haunting  dread  of  discovery,  I  am  com- 
fortably settled  in  my  new  home  :  Frederick  has  supplied  me 
with  all  requisite  furniture  and  painting  materials  :  Rachel  has 
sold  most  of  my  clothes  for  me,  in  a  distant  town,  and  pro- 
cured me  a  Trardrobe  more  suitable  to  my  present  position  : 
I  have  a  second-hand  piano,  and  a  tolerably  well-stocked 
book-case  in  my  parlour ;  and  my  other  room  has  assumed 
quite  a  professional,  business-like  appearance  already.  I  am 
working  hard  to  repay  my  brother  for  all  his  expenses  on  my 
account;  not  that  there  is  the  slightest  necessity  for  anything 
of  the  kind,  but  it  pleases  me  to  do  so :  I  shall  have  so  much 
more  pleasure  in  my  labour,  my  earnings,  my  frugal  fare,  and 
household  economy,  when  I  know  that  I  am  paying  my  way 
honestly,  and  that  what  little  I  possess  is  legitimately  all  my 
own ;  and  that  no  one  suffers  for  my  folly— in  a  pecuniary 


294  THE  TENANT 

way  at  least.  I  shall  make  him  take  the  last  penny  I  owe  him, 
if  I  can  possibly  effect  it  without  offending  him  too  deeply.  1 
have  a  few  pictures  already  done,  for  I  told  Rachel  to  pack 
up  all  I  had  ;  and  she  executed  her  commission  hut  too  well, 
for  among  the  rest,  she  put  up  a  portrait  of  Mr.  Huntingdon 
that  I  had  painted  in  the  first  year  of  my  marriage.  It  struck 
me  with  dismay,  at  the  moment,  when  I  took  it  from  the  box 
and  beheld  those  eyes  fixed  upon  me  in  their  mocking  mirth, 
as  if  exulting,  still,  in  his  power  to  control  my  fate,  and 
deriding  my  efforts  to  escape. 

How  widely  different  had  been  my  feelings  in  painting  that 
portrait  to  what  they  now  were  in  looking  upon  it  1  How  I 
had  studied  and  toiled  to  produce  something,  as  I  thought, 
worthy  of  the  original !  what  mingled  pleasure  and  dissatis- 
faction I. had  had  in  the  result  of  my  labours! — pleasure  for 
the  likeness  I  had  caught ;  dissatisfaction,  because  I  had  not 
made  it  handsome  enough.  Now,  I  see  no  beauty  in  it — 
nothing  pleasing  in  any  part  of  its  expression  ;  and  yet  it  is 
far  handsomer  and  far  more  agreeable — far  less  repulsive  I 
should  rather  say — than  he  is  now ;  for  these  six  years  have 
wrought  almost  as  great  a  change  upon  himself  as  on  my 
feelings  regarding  him.  The  frame,  however,  is  handsome 
enough  ;  it  will  serve  for  another  painting.  The  picture  itself 
I  have  not  destroyed,  as  I  had  first  intended  ;  I  have  put  it 
aside  ;  not,  I  think,  from  any  lurking  tenderness  for  the  me- 
mory of  past  affection,  nor  yet  to  remind  me  of  my  former 
folly,  but  chiefly  that  1  may  compare  my  son's  features  and 
countenance  with  this,  as  he  grows  up,  and  thus  be  enabled 
to  judge  how  much  or  how  little  he  resembles  his  father — if 
I  may  be  allowed  to  keep  -him  with  me  still,  and  never  to  be- 
hold that  father's  face  again — a  blessing  I  hardly  dare  reckon 
upon. 

It  seems  Mr.  Huntingdon  is  making  every  exertion  to  dis- 
cover the  place  of  my  retreat.  He  has  been  in  person  to 
Staningley,  seeking  redress  for  his  grievances — expecting  to 
hear  of  his  victims,  if  not  to  find  them  there — and  has  told  so 
.  many  lies,  and  with  such  unblushing  coolness,  that  my  uncle 
more  than  half  believes  him,  and  strongly  advocates  my  going 
back  to  him  and  being  friends  again;  but  my  aunt  knows 
better  :  she"  is  too  cool  and  cautious,  and  too  well  acquainted 
with  both  my  husband's  character  and  my  own  to  be  imposed 
upon  by  any  specious  falsehoods  the  former  could  invent. 
But  he  does  not  want  me  back ;  he  wants  my  child ;  and 
gives  my  friends  to  understand  that  if  I  prefer  living  apart 
from  him,  he  will  indulge  the  whim  and  let  me  do  so  un- 
molested, and  even  settle  a  reasonable  allowance  on  me,  pro- 
vided I  will  immediately  deliver  up  his  son.  But,  Heaven 


OF  WILDFELL  HALL.  295 

help  me  i  I  am  not  going  to  sell  my  child  for  gold,  though  it 
were  to  save  both  him  and  me  from  starving :  it  would  be 
better  that  he  should  die  with  me,  than  that  he  should  live 
with  his  father. 

Frederick  showed  me  a  letter  he  had  received  from  that 
gentleman,  full  of  cool  impudence  such  as  would  astonish  any 
one  who  did  not  know  him,  but  such  as,  I  am  convinced,  none 
would  know  better  how  to  answer  than  my  brother.  He  gave 
me  no  account  of  his  reply,  except  to  tell  me  that  he  had  not 
acknowledged  his  acquaintance  with  my  place  of  refuge,  but 
rather  left  it  to  be  inferred  that  it  was  quite  unknown  to  him, 
by  saying  it  was  useless  to  apply  to  him,  or  any  other  of  my 
relations,  for  information  on  the  subject,  as  it  appeared  I  had 
been  driven  to  such  extremity,  that  I  had  concealed  my 
retreat  even  from  my  best  friends  ;  but  that  if  he  had  known 
it,  or  should  at  any  time  be  made  aware  of  it,  most  certainly 
Mr.  Huntingdon  would  be  the  last  person  to  whom  he  should 
communicate  the  intelligence ;  and  that  he  need  not  trouble 
himself  to  bargain  for  the  child,  for  he  (Frederick)  fancied  he 
knew  enough  of  his  sister  to  enable  him  to  declare,  that 
wherever  she  might  be,  or  however  situated,  no  considera- 
tion would  induce  her  to  deliver  him  up. 

30th. — Alas !  my  kind  neighbours  will  not  let  me  alone. 
By  some  means  they  have  ferreted  me  out,  and  I  have  had  to 
sustain  visits  from  three  different  families,  all  more  or  less 
bent  upon  discovering  who  and  what  I  am,  whence  I  came, 
and  why  I  have  chosen  such  a  home  as  this.  Their  society 
is  unnecessary  to  me,  to  say  the  least,  and  their  curiosity 
annoys  and  alarms  me  :  if  I  gratify  it,  it  may  lead  to  the  ruin 
of  my  son,  and  if  I  am  too  mysterious,  it  will  only  excite  their 
suspicions,  invite  conjecture,  and  rouse  them  to  greater  exer- 
tions— and  perhaps  be  the  means  of  spreading  my  lame  from 
parish  to  parish,  till  it  reach  the  ears  of  some  one  who  will 
carry  it  to  the  lord  of  Grassdale  Manor. 

I  shall  be  expected  to  return  their  calls,  but  if,  upon  in- 
quiry, I  find  that  any  of  them  live  too  far  away  for  Arthur 
to  accompany  me,  they  must  expect  in  vain  for  a  while,  for  I 
cannot  bear  to  leave  him,  unless  it  be  to  go  to  church  ;  and'I 
have  not  attempted  that  yet,  for — it  may  be  foolish  weakness, 
but  I  am  under  such  constant  dread  of  his  being  snatched 
away,  that  I  am  never  easy  when  he  is  not  by  my  side  ;  and 
I  fear  these  nervous  terrors  would  so  entirely  disturb  my 
devotions,  that  I  should  obtain  no  benefit  from  the  attend- 
ance. I  mean,  however,  to  make  the  experiment  next  Sun- 
day, and  oblige  myself  to  leave  him  in  charge  of  Rachel  for  a 
few  hours.  It  will  be  a  hard  task,  but  surely  no  imprudence  ; 
und  the  vicar  has  been  to  scold  me  for  my  neglect  of  the  ordi- 


296  THE   TENANT 

nances  of  religion.  I  had  no  sufficient  excuse  to  offer,  and  I 
promised,  if  all  were  well,  he  should  see  me  in  my  pew  next 
Sunday  ;  for  I  do  not  wish  to  be  set  down  as  an  infidel ;  and, 
besides,  I  know  I  should  derive  great  comfort  and  benefit 
from  an  occasional  attendance  at  public  worship,  if  I  could 
only  have  faith  and  fortitude  to  compose  my  thoughts  in  con- 
formity with  the  solemn  occasion,  and  forbid  them  to  be  for 
ever  dwelling  on  my  absent  child,  and  on  the  dreadful  possi- 
bility of  finding  him  gone  when  I  return  ;  and  surely  God  in 
his  mercy  will  preserve  me  from  so  severe  a  trial :  for  my 
child's  own  sake,  if  not  for  mine,  He  will  not  suffer  him  to  be 
torn  away. 

November  3rd. — I  have  made  Borne  further  acquaintance 
with  my  neighbours.  The  fine  gentleman,  and  beau  of  the 
parish  and  its  vicinity  (in  his  own  estimation,  at  least),  is  a 
young.  .  .  . 

*  *  *  *  * 

#  #  *  *  * 

Here  it  ended.  The  rest  was  torn  away.  How  cruel — 
just  when  she  was  going  to  mention  me  !  for  I  could  not 
doubt  it  was  your  humble  servant  she  was  about  to  mention, 
though  not  very  favourably  of  course — I  could  tell  that,  as 
well  by  those  few  words  as  by  the  recollection  of  her  whole 
aspect  and  demeanour  towards  me  in  the  commencement  of 
our  acquaintance.  Well !  I  could  readily  forgive  her  preju- 
dice against  me,  and  her  hard  thoughts  of  our  sex  in  general, 
when  I  saw  to  what  brilliant  specimens  her  experience  had 
been  limited. 

Respecting  me,  however,  she  had  long  since  seen  her  error, 
and  perhaps  fallen  into  another  in  the  opposite  extreme  ;  for 
if,  at  first,  her  opinion  of  me  had  been  lower  than  I  deserved, 
I  was  convinced  that  now  my  deserts  were  lower  than  her 
opinion  ;  and  if  the  former  part  of  this  continuation  had  been 
torn  away  to  avoid  wounding  my  feelings,  perhaps  the  latter 
portion  had  been  removed  for  fear  of  ministering  too  much  to 
my  self-conceit.  At  any  rate,  I  would  have  given  much  to 
have  seen  it  all — to  have  witnessed  the  gradual  change,  and 
watched  the  progress  of  her  esteem  and  friendship  for  me, — 
and  whatever  warmer  feeling  she  might  have — to  have  seen 
howmuch  of  love  there  was  in  her  regard,  and  how  it  had  grown 
upon  her  in  spite  of  her  virtuous  resolutions  and  strenuous 

exertions  to but  no,  I  had  no  right  to  see  it :  all  this  was 

too  sacred  for  any  eyes  but  her  own,  and  she  had  done  well 
to  keep  it  from  me. 


OK    \VILDFELL   HALL.  297 


CHAPTER  XLV. 

WELL,  Halford,  what  do  you  think  of  all  this  ?  and  while  you 
read  it,  did  you  ever  picture  to  yourself  what  my  feelings 
would  probably  be  during  its  perusal  ?  Most  likely  not ;  but 
I  am  not  going  to  descant  upon  them  now :  I  will  only  make 
this  acknowledgment,  little  honourable  as  it  may  be  to 
human  nature,  and  especially  to  myself: — that  the  former 
half  of  the  narrative  was,  to  me,  more  painful  than  the  latter ; 
not  that  I  was  at  all  insensible  to  Mrs.  Huntingdon's  wrongs 
or  unmoved  by  her  sufferings,  but,  I  must  confess,  1  felt  a 
kind  of  selfish  gratification  in  watching  her  husband's  gradual 
decline  in  her  good  graces,  and  seeing  how  completely  he 
extinguished  all  her  affection  at  last.  The  effect  of  the  whole, 
however,  in  spite  of  all  my  sympathy  for  her,  and  my  fury 
against  him,  was  to  relieve  my  mind  of  an  intolerable  burden, 
and  fill  my  heart  with  joy,  as  if  some  friend  had  roused  me 
from  a  dreadful  nightmare. 

It  was  now  near  eight  o'clock  in  the  morning,  for  my  candle 
had  expired  in  the  midst  of  my  perusal,  leaving  me  no  alter- 
native but  to  get  another,  at  the  expense  of  alarming  the 
house,  or  to  go  to  bed  and  wait  the  return  of  daylight.  On 
my  mother's  account,  I  chose  the  latter;  but  how  willingly  I 
sought  my  pillow,  and  how  much  sleep  it  brought  me,  I 
leave  you  to  imagine. 

At  the  first  appearance  of  dawn,  I  rose,  and  brought  the 
manuscript  to  the  window,  but  it  was  impossible  to  read  it 
yet.  I  devoted  half  an  hour  to  dressing,  and  then  returned 
to  it  again.  Now,  with  a  little  difficulty,  I  could  manage  ; 
and  with  intense  and  eager  interest,  I  devoured  the  remainder 
of  its  contents.  AVhen  it  was  ended,  and  my  transient  regret 
at  its  abrupt  conclusion  wTas  over,  I  opened  the  window  and 
put  out  my  head  to  catch  the  cooling  breeze,  and  imbibe  deep 
draughts  of  the  pure  morning  air.  A  splendid  morning  it 
was  ;  the  half-frozen  dew  lay  thick  on  the  grass,  the  swallows 
were  twittering  round  me,  the  rooks  cawing,  and  cows  lowing 
in  the  distance  ;  and  early  frost  and  summer  sunshine  mingled 
their  sweetness  in  the  air.  But  I  did  not  think  of  that :  a 
confusion  of  countless  thoughts  and  varied  emotions  crowded 
upon  me  while  I  gazed  abstractedly  on  the  lovely  face  of 
nature.  Soon,  however,  this  chaos  of  thoughts  and  passions 
cleared  away,  giving  place  to  two  distinct  emotions  ;  joy  un- 
epeakable  that  my  adored  Helen  was  all  I  wished  to  think 
her — that  through  the  noisome  vapours  of  the  world's  asper- 
lions  and  my  own  fancied  convictions,  her  character  shone 


298  THE  TENANT 

bright,  and  clear,  and  stainless  as  that  sun  I  could  not  bear  to 
look  on  ;  and  shame  and  deep  remorse  for  my  own  conduct. 

Immediately  after  breakfast,  I  hurried  over  to  Wildfell 
Hall.  Rachel  had  risen  many  degrees  in  my  estimation 
since  yesterday.  I  was  ready  to  greet  her  quite  as  an  old 
friend  ;  but  every  kindly  impulse  was  checked  by  the  look  oi 
cold  distrust  she  cast  upon  me  on  opening  the  door.  The 
old  virgin  had  constituted  herself  the  guardian  of  her  lady's 
honour,  I  suppose,  and  doubtless  she  saw  in  me  another 
Mr.  Hargrave,  only  the  more  dangerous  in  being  more 
esteemed  and  trusted  by  her  mistress. 

"  Missis  can't  see  any  one  to-day,  sir — she's  poorly,"  said 
she,  in  answer  to  my  inquiry  for  Mrs.  Graham. 

"  But  I  must  see  her,  Rachel,"  said  I,  placing  my  hand  on 
the  door  to  prevent  its  being  shut  against  me. 

"  Indeed,  sir,  you  can't,"  replied  she,  settling  her  counte- 
nance in  still  more  iron  frigidity  than  before. 

"  Be  so  good  as  to  announce  me." 

"  It's  no  manner  of  use,  Mr.  Markham ;  she's  poorly,  I  tell 
you." 

Just  in  time  to  prevent  me  from  committing  the  impropriety 
of  taking  the  citadel  by  storm,  and  pushing  forward  unan- 
nounced, an  inner  door  opened,  and  little  Arthur  appeared 
with  his  frolicsome  playfellow,  the  dog.  He  seized  my  hand 
between  both  his,  and  smilingly  drew  me  forward. 

"  Mamma  says  you're  to  come  in,  Mr.  Markham,"  said  he, 
"  and  I  am  to  go  out  and  play  with  Rover." 

Rachel  retired  with  a  sigh,  and  I  stepped  into  the  parlour 
and  shut  the  door.  There,  before  the  fire-place,  stood  the 
tall,  graceful  figure,  wasted  with  many  sorrows.  I  cast  the 
manuscript  on  the  table,  and  looked  in  her  face.  Anxious 
and  pale,  it  was  turned  towards  me ;  her  clear,  dark  eyes 
were  fixed  on  mine  with  a  gaze  so  intensely  earnest  that  they 
bound  me  like  a  spell. 

'4Have  you  looked  it  over?"  she  murmured.  The  spell 
was  broken. 

"  I've  read  it  through,"  said  I,  advancing  into  the  room, — 
"  and  I  want  to  know  if  you'll  forgive  me — if  you  can  forgive 
me?" 

She  did  not  answer,  but  her  eyes  glistened,  and  a  faint  red 
mantled  on  her  lip  and  cheek.  As  I  approached,  she 
abruptly  turned  away,  and  went  to  the  window.  It  was 
not  in  anger,  I  was  well  assured,  but  only  to  conceal  or 
control  her  emotion.  I  therefore  ventured  to  follow  and 
stand  beside  her  there, — but  not  to  speak.  She  gave  me 
her  hand,  without  turning  her  head,  and  murmured  in  a 
voice  she  strove  in  vain  to  steady, — 


OF  WILDFELL  I1ALL.  299 

"  Can  you  forgive  me  ?  " 

It  might  be  deemed  a  breach  of  trust,  I  thought,  to  convey 
that  lily  hand  to  my  lips,  so  I  only  gently  pressed  it  between 
my  own,  and  smilingly  replied, — 

44 1  hardly  can.  You  should  have  told  me  this  before.  It 
shows  a  want  of  confidence " 

44  Oh,  no,"  cried  she,  eagerly  interrupting  me,  4C  it  was  not 
that !  It  was  no  want  of  confidence  in  you ;  but  if  I  had  told 
you  anything  of  my  history,  I  must  have  told  you  all,  in 
order  to  excuse  my  conduct ;  and  I  might  well  shrink  from 
such  a  disclosure,  till  necessity  obliged  me  to  make  it.  But 
you  forgive  me? — I  have  done  very,  very  wrong,  I  know; 
but,  as  usual,  I  have  reaped  the  bitter  fruits  of  my  own 
error, — and  must  reap  them  to  the  end." 

Bitter,  indeed,  was  the  tone  of  anguish,  repressed  by  resolute 
firmness,  in  which  this  was  spoken.  Now,  I  raised  her  hand 
to  my  lips,  and  fervently  kissed  it  again  and  again  ;  for  tears 
prevented  any  other  reply.  She  suffered  these  wild  caresses 
without  resistance  or  resentment;  then,  suddenly  turning 
from  me,  she  paced  twice  or  thrice  through  the  room.  I 
knew  by  the  contraction  of  her  brow,  the  tight  compression 
of  her  lips,  and  wringing  of  her  hands,  that  meantime  a 
violent  conflict  between  reason  and  passion  was  silently 
passing  within.  At  length  she  paused  before  the  empty 
tire-place,  and  turning  to  me,  said  calmly — if  that  might 
be  called  calmness,  which  was  so  evidently  the  result  of  a 
violent  effort, — 

44  Now,  Gilbert,  you  must  leave  me — not  this  moment,  but 
soon — and  you  must  never  come  again." 

44  Never  again,  Helen?  just  when  I  love  you  more  than 
ever!" 

41  For  that  very  reason,  if  it  be  so,  we  should  not  meet  again. 
I  thought  this  interview  was  necessary — at  least,  I  persuaded 
myself  it  was  so — that  we  might  severally  ask  and  receive 
each  other's  pardon  for  the  past ;  but  there  can  be  no  excuse 
for  another.  I  shall  leave  this  place,  as  soon  as  I  have  means 
to  seek  another  asylum ;  but  our  intercourse  must  end  here." 

4 'End  here  !"  echoed  I ;  and  approaching  the  high,  carved 
chimney-piece,  I  leant  my  hand  against  its  heavy  mould- 
ings, and  dropped  my  forehead  upon  it  in  silent,  sullen 
despondency. 

44  You  must  not  come  again,"  continued  she.  There  was  a 
slight  tremor  in  her  voice,  but  I  thought  her  whole  manner 
was  provokingly  composed,  considering  the  dreadful  sentence 
she  pronounced.  "  You  must  know  why  I  tell  you  so,"  she 
resumed ;  44  and  you  must  see  that  it  is  better  to  part  at 


800  THE   TENANT 

once : — if  it  be  hard  to  say  adieu  for  ever,  you  ought  to  help 
me."  She  paused.  I  did  not  answer.  "  Will  you  promise 
not  to  come  ? — If  you  won't,  and  if  you  do  come  here  again, 
you  will  drive  me  away  before  I  know  where  to  find  another 
place  of  refuge — or  how  to  seek  it." 

"Helen,"  said  I,  turning  impatiently  towards  her,  "lean- 
not  discuss  the  matter  of  eternal  separation,  calmly  and 
dispassionately  as  you  can  do.  It  is  no  question  of  mere 
expedience  with  me;  it  is  a  question  of  life  and  death!" 

She  was  silent.  Her  pale  lips  quivered,  and  her  fingers 
trembled  with  agitation,  as  she  nervously  entwined  them  in 
the  hair  chain  to  which  was  appended  her  small  gold  watch — 
the  only  thing  of  value  she  had  permitted  herself  to  keep. 
I  had  said  an  unjust  and  cruel  thing ;  but  I  must  needs  follow 
it  up  with  something  worse. 

"But,  Helen!"  I  began  in  a  soft,  low  tone,  not  daring  to 
raise  my  eyes  to  her  face — "  that  man  is  not  your  husband  : 

in  the  sight  of  Heaven  he  has  forfeited  all  claim  to "  She 

seized  my  arm  with  a  grasp  of  startling  energy. 

"Gilbert,  don't!"  she  cried,  in  a  tone  that  would  have 
pierced  a  heart  of  adamant.  "  For  God's  sake,  don't  you 
attempt  these  arguments !  No  fiend  could  torture  me  like 
this!" 

"I  won't,  I  won't!"  said  I,  gently  laying  my  hand  on  hers; 
almost  as  much  alarmed  at  her  vehemence,  as  ashamed  of  my 
own  misconduct. 

"  Instead  of  acting  like  a  true  friend,"  continued  she, 
breaking  from  me,  and  throwing  herself  into  the  old  arm 
chair — "  and  helping  me  with  all  your  might — or  rather 
taking  your  own  part  in  the  struggle  of  right  against  pas- 
sion— you  leave  all  the  burden  to  me  ; — and  not  satisfied  with 
that,  you  do  your  utmost  to  fight  against  me — when  you 
know  that  I "  she  paused,  and  hid  her  face  in  her  hand- 
kerchief. 

"Forgive  me,  Helen!"  pleaded  I,  "I  will  never  utter 
another  word  on  the  subject.  But  may  we  not  still  meet 
as  friends?" 

"  It  will  not  do,"  she  replied,  mournfully  shaking  her 
head ;  and  then  she  raised  her  eyes  to  mine,  with  a  mildly 
reproachful  look  that  seemed  to  say,  "  You  must  know  that 
as  well  as  I." 

"Then  what  must  we  do?"  cried  I,  passionately.  But 
immediately  I  added  in  a  quieter  tone — "  I'll  do  whatever 
you  desire ;  only  don't  say  that  this  meeting  is  to  be  our 
last." 

"  And  why  not?  Don't  you  know  that  every  time  we  meet, 


OF    WILDFELL   UALL.  302 

the  thoughts  of  the  final  parting  will  become  more  painful? 
Don't  you  feel  that  every  interview  makes  ua  dearer  to  each 
other  than  the  last?" 

The  utterance  of  this  last  question  was  hurried  and  low, 
and  the  downcast  eyes  and  burning  blush  too  plainly  showed 
that  she,  at  least,  had  felt  it.  It  was  scarcely  prudent  to  make 
such  an  admission,  or  to  add — as  she  presently  did — "  I  have 
power  to  bid  you  go,  now:  another  time  it  might  be  dif- 
ferent,"— but  I  was  not  base  enough  to  attempt  to  take 
advantage  of  her  candour. 

"  But  we  may  write,"  I  timidly  suggested — "  You  will  not 
deny  me  that  consolation?" 

u  We  can  hear  of  each  other  through  my  brother." 

"Your  brother!"  A  pang  of  remorse  and  shame  shot 
through  me.  She  had  not  heard  of  the  injury  he  had 
sustained  at  my  hands ;  and  I  had  not  the  courage  to  tell 
her.  "Your  brother  will  not  help  us,"  I  said:  "he  would 
have  all  communion  between  us  to  be  entirely  at  an  end." 

"  And  he  would  be  right,  I  suppose.  As  a  friend  of  both, 
he  would  wish  us  both  well ;  and  every  friend  would  tell  us  it 
was  our  interest,  as  well  as  our  duty,  to  forget  each  other, 
though  we  might  not  see  it  ourselves.  But  don't  be  afraid, 
Gilbert,"  she  added,  smiling  sadly  at  my  manifest  discom- 
posure, "  there  is  little  chance  of  my  forgetting  you.  But  I 
did  not  mean  that  Frederick  should  be  the  means  of  trans- 
mitting messages  between  us,  only  that  each  might  know, 
through  him,  of  the  other's  welfare  ; — and  more  than  this 
ought  not  to  be ;  for  you  are  young,  Gilbert,  and  you  ought 
to  marry — and  will  some  time,  though  you  may  think  it 
impossible  now :  and  though  I  hardly  can  say  I  wish  you 
to  forget  me,  I  know  it  is  right  that  you  should,  both  for 
your  own  happiness,  and  that  of  your  future  wife  ; — and  there- 
fore I  must  and  will  wish  it,"  she  added  resolutely. 

"  And  you  are  young  too,  Helen,"  I  boldly  replied,  "  and 
when  that  profligate  scoundrel  has  run  through  his  career, 
you  will  give  your  hand  to  me — I'll  wait  till  then." 

But  she  would  not  leave  me  this  support.  Independently  of 
the  moral  evil  of  basing  our  hopes  upon  the  death  of  another, 
who,  if  unfit  for  this  world,  was  at  least  no  less  so  for  the 
next,  and  whose  amelioration  would  thus  become  our  bane 
and  his  greatest  transgression  our  greatest  benefit, — she  main- 
tained it  to  be  madness :  many  men  of  Mr.  Huntingdon's 
habits  had  lived  to  a  ripe  though  miserable  old  age  ; — u  and  if 
I,"  said  she,  "  am  young  in  years  I  am  old  in  sorrow ;  but 
even  if  trouble  should  fail  to  kill  me  before  vice  destroys  him, 
tliink,  if  he  reached  but  fifty  years  or  so,  would  you  wait 
twenty  or  fifteen — in  vague  uncertainty  and  suspense —through 


802  THE  TENANT 

all  the  prime  of  youth  and  manhood — and  marry  at  last  n 
woman  laded  and  worn  as  I  shall  be — without  ever  having 
seen  me  from  this  day  to  that  ? — You  would  not,"  she  con- 
tinued, interrupting  my  earnest  protestations  of  unfailing  con- 
stancy,— "  or  if  you  would  you  should  not.  Trust  me,  Gil- 
bert ;  in  this  matter  I  know  better  than  you.  You  think  me 
cold  and  stony  hearted,  and  you  may,  but " 

"  I  don't,  Helen." 

"  Well,  never  mind ;  you  might  if  you  would — but  I  have 
not  spent  my  solitude  in  utter  idleness,  and  I  am  not  speaking 
now  from  the  impulse  of  the  moment  as  you  do :  I  have 
thought  of  all  these  matters  again  and  again  ;  I  have  argued 
these  questions  with  myself,  and  pondered  well  our  past,  and 
present,  and  future  career ;  and,  believe  me,  I  have  come  to 
the  right  conclusion  at  last.  Trust  my  words  rather  than  your 
own  feelings,  now,  and  in  a  few  years  you  will  see  that  1  was 
right — though  at  present  I  hardly  can  see  it  myself,"  she 
murmured  with  a  sigh  as  she  rested  her  head  on  her  hand. 
"  And  don't  argue  against  me  any  more  :  all  you  can  say  has 
been  already  said  by  my  own  heart  and  refuted  by  my  reason. 
It  was  hard  enough  to  combat  those  suggestions  as  they  were 
whispered  within  me ;  in  your  mouth  they  are  ten  times 
worse,  and  if  you  knew  how  much  they  pain  me  you  would 
cease  at  once,  I  know.  If  you  knew  my  present  feelings,  you 
would  even  try  to  relieve  them  at  the  expense  of  your  own." 

"I  will  go — in  a  minute,  if  that  can  relieve  you — and 
NEVER  return!"  said  I,  with  bitter  emphasis.  "But,  if  we 
may  never  meet,  and  never  hope  to  meet  again,  is  it  a  crime 
to  exchange  our  thoughts  by  letter  ?  May  not  kindred  spirits 
meet,  and  mingle  in  communion,  whatever  be  the  fate  and  cir- 
cumstances of  their  earthly  tenements  ?" 

"They  may,  they  may!"  cried  she,  with  a  momentary 
burst  of  glad  enthusiasm.  "  I  thought  of  that  too,  Gilbert, 
but  I  feared  to  mention  it,  because  I  feared  you  would  not 
understand  my  views  upon  the  subject — I  fear  it  even  now — 
I  fear  any  kind  friend  would  tell 'us  we  are  both  deluding 
ourselves  with  the  idea  of  keeping  up  a  spiritual  intercourse 
without  hope  or  prospect  of  anything  further — without  foster- 
ing vain  regrets  and  hurtful  aspirations,  and  feeding  thoughts 
that  should  be  sternly  and  pitilessly  left  to  perish  of  inani- 
tion  " 

"  Never  mind  our  kind  friends :  if  they  can  part  our  bodies, 
it  is  enough  ;  in  God's  name,  let  them  not  sunder  our  souls ! " 
cried  I,  in  terror  lest  she  should  deem  it  her  duty  to  deny  us 
this  last  remaining  consolation. 

"But  no  letters  can  pass  between  us  here,"  said  she, 
M  without  giving  fresh  food  for  scandal ;  and  when  I  departed, 


OF  WILDFELL  HALL.  303 

I  had  intended  that  my  new  abode  should  be  unknown  to  you 
as  to  the  rest  of  the  world ;  not  that  I  should  doubt  your 
word  if  you  promised  not  to  visit  me,  but  I  thought  you 
would  be  more  tranquil  in  your  own  mind  if  you  knew  you 
could  not  do  it ;  and  likely  to  find  less  difficulty  in  abstracting 
yourself  from  me  if  you  could  not  picture  my  situation  to 
your  mind.  But  listen,"  said  she,  smilingly  putting  up  her 
finger  to  check  my  impatient  reply :  "  in  six  months  you  shall 
hear  from  Frederick  precisely  where  I  am ;  and  if  you  still 
retain  your  wish  to  write  to  me,  and  think  you  can  maintain 
a  correspondence  all  thought,  all  spirit — such  as  disembodied 
souls  or  unimpassioned  friends,  at  least,  might  hold, — write, 
and  I  will  answer  you." 

"Six  months!" 

"  Yes,  to  give  your  present  ardour  time  to  cool,  and  try  the 
truth  and  constancy  of  your  soul's  love  for  mine.  And  now, 
enough  has  been  said  between. us.  Why  can't  we  part  at 
once  ?"  exclaimed  she  almost  wildly,  after  a  moment's  pause, 
as  she  suddenly  rose  from  her  chair  with  her  hands  resolutely 
clasped  together.  I  thought  it  was  my  duty  to  go  without 
delay ;  and  I  approached  and  half  extended  my  hand  as  if  to 
take  leave — she  grasped  it  in  silence.  But  this  thought  of 
final  separation  was  too  intolerable :  it  seemed  to  squeeze 
the  blood  out  of  my  heart ;  and  my  feet  were  glued  to  the 
floor. 

"And  must  we  never  meet  again?"  I  murmured,  in  the 
anguish  of  my  soul. 

"  We  shall  meet  in  heaven.  Let  us  think  of  that,"  taid 
she  in  a  tone  of  desperate  calmness ;  but  her  eyes  glittered 
wildly,  and  her  face  was  deadly  pale. 

"  But  not  as  we  are  now,"  I  could  not  help  replying.  "  It 
gives  me  little  consolation  to  think  I  shall  next  behold  you  as 
a  disembodied  spirit,  or  an  altered  being,  with  a  frame  per- 
fect and  glorious,  but  not  like  this ! — :and  a  heart,  perhaps, 
entirely  estranged  from  me." 

"  No,  Gilbert,  there  is  perfect  love  in  heaven!" 

"  So  perfect,  1  suppose,  that  it  soars  above  distinctions,  and 
you  will  have  no  closer  sympathy  with  me  than  with  any  one 
of  the  ten  thoiisand  thousand  angels  and  the  innumerable 
multitude  of  happy  spirits  round  us." 

"  Whatever  I  am,  you  will  be  the  same,  and,  therefore, 
cannot  possibly  regret  it ;  and  whatever  that  change  may  be, 
we  know  it  must  be  for  the  better." 

"  But  if  I  am  to  be  so  changed  that  I  shall  cease  to  adore 
you  with  my  whole  heart  and  soul,  and  love  you  beyond 
every  other  creature,  I  shall  not  be  myself;  and,  though,  if 
ever  1  win  heaven  at  all,  I  must,  I  know,  be  infinitely  better 


804  THE   TENANT 

/md  happier  than  I  am  now,  my  earthly  nature  cannot  rejoice 
in  the  anticipation  of  such  beatitude,*from  which  itself  and 
its  chief  joy  must  be  excluded." 

"  Is  your  love  all  earthly  then?" 

"  No,  but  I  am  supposing  we  shall  have  no  more  intimate 
communion  with  each  other,  than  with  the  rest." 

"  If  so,  it  will  be  because  we  love  them  more  and  not  each 
other  less.  Increase  of  love  brings  increase  of  happiness, 
when  it  is  mutual,  and  pure  as  that  will  be." 

"  But  can  you,  Helen,  contemplate  with  delight  this  pros- 
pect of  losing  me  in  a  sea  of  glory  ?  " 

"  I  own  I  cannot ;  but  we  know  not  that  it  will  be  so  ; — and 
I  do  know  that  to  regret  the  exchange  of  earthly  pleasures 
for  the  joys  of  heaven,  is  as  if  the  grovelling  caterpillar 
should  lament  that  it  must  one  day  quit  the  nibbled  leaf  to 
soar  aloft  and  flutter  through  the  air,  roving  at  will  from 
flower  to  flower,  sipping  sweet  honey  from  their  cups,  or  bask- 
ing in  their  sunny  petals.  If  these  little  creatures  knew  how 
great  a  change  awaited  them,  no  doubt  they  would  regret  it ; 
but  would  not  all  such  sorrow  be  misplaced  ?  And  if  that 
illustration  will  not  move  you,  here  is  another : — We  are 
children  now ;  we  feel  as  children,  and  we  understand  as  chil- 
dren ;  and  when  we  are  told  that  men  and  women  do  not  play 
with  toys,  and  that  our  companions  will  one  day  weary  on  the 
trivial  sports  and  occupations  that  interest  them  and  us  so 
deeply  now,  we  cannot  help  being  saddened  at  the  thoughts 
of  such  an  alteration,  because  we  cannot  conceive  that  as 
we  grow  up,  our  own  minds  will  become  so  enlarged 
and  elevated  that  we  ourselves  shall  then  regard  as 
trifling  those  objects  and  pursuits  we  now  so  fondly  cherish, 
and  that,  though  our  companions  will  no  longer  join  us  in 
those  childish  pastimes,  they  will  drink  with  us  at  other  foun- 
tains of  delight,  and  mingle  their  souls  with  ours  in  higher 
aims  and  nobler  occupations  beyond  our  present  comprehen- 
sion, but  not  less  deeply  relished  or  less  truly  good  for  that, 
while  yet  both  we  and  they  remain  essentially  the  same  indi- 
viduals as  before.  But  Gilbert,  can  you  really  derive  no  con- 
solation from  the  thought  that  we  may  meet  together  where 
there  is  no  more  pain  and  sorrow,  no  more  striving  against 
sin,  and  struggling  of  the  spirit  against  the  flesh ;  where  both 
will  behold  the  same  glorious  truths,  and  drink  exalted  and 
supreme  felicity  from  the  same  fountain  of  light  and  goodness 
— that  Being  whom  both  will  worship  with  the  same  intensity 
of  holy  ardour,  and  where  pure  and  happy  creatures  both 
will  love  with  the  same  divine  affection  ?  If  you  cannot, 
never  write  to  me!" 

41  Helen,  I  can  !  if  faith  would  never  fail." 


OF   WILDFELL   HALL.  305 

"  Now,  then,"  exclaimed  she,  while  this  hope  is  8trong 
within  us " 

"  We  will  ])art,"  I  cried.  "  You  shall  not  have  the  paia 
of  another  effort  to  dismiss  me :  I  will  go  at  once ;  but 

I  did  not  put  my  request  in  words :  she  understood  it  in- 
stinctively, and  this  time  she  yielded  too — or  rather,  there  was 
nothing  so  deliberate  as  requesting  or  yielding  in  the  matter  : 
there  was  a  sudden  impulse  that  neither  could  resist.  One 
moment  I  stood  and  looked  into  her  face,  the  next  I  held  her 
to  my  heart,  and  we  seemed  to  grow  together  in  a  close  em- 
brace from  which  no  physical  or  mental  force  could  rend  ua. 
A  whispered  "  God  bless  you  !"  and  "  Go — go  !"  was  all  she 
said ;  but  while  she  spoke,  she  held  me  so  fast  that,  without 
violence,  I  could  not  have  obeyed  her.  At  length,  however, 
by  some  heroic  effort,  we  tore  ourselves  apart,  and  I  rushed 
from  the  house. 

I  have  a  confused  remembrance  of  seeing  little  Arthur 
running  up  the  garden  walk  to  meet  me,  and  of  bolting 
over  the  wall  to  avoid  him — and  subsequently  running  down 
the  steep  fields,  clearing  the  stone  fences  and  hedges  as  they 
came  in  my  way,  till  I  got  completely  out  of  sight  of  the  old 
hall  and  down  to  the  bottom  of  the  hill ;  and  then  of  long 
hours  spent  in  bitter  tears  and  lamentations,  and  malancholy 
musings  in  the  lonely  valley,  with  the  eternal  music  in  my 
ears,  of  the  west  wind  rushing  through  the  over-shadowing 
trees,  and  the  brook  babbling  and  gurgling  along  its  stony 
bed — my  eyes,  for  the  most  part,  vacantly  fixed  on  the  deep, 
checkered  shades  restlessly  playing  over  the  bright  sunny 
grass  at  my  feet,  where  now  and  then  a  withered  leaf  or  two 
would  come  dancing  to  share  the  revelry,  but  my  heart  was 
away  up  the  hill  in  that  dark  room  where  she  was  weeping 
desolate  and  alone — she  whom  I  was  not  to  comfort,  not  to 
see  again,  till  years  or  suffering  had  overcome  us  both,  and 
torn  our  spirits  from  their  perishing  abodes  of  clay. 

There  was  little  business  done  that  day,  you  may  be  sure. 
The  farm  was  abandoned  to  the  labourers,  and  the  labourers 
were  left  to  their  own  devices.  But  one  duty  must  be  attended 
to:  I  had  not  forgotten  my  assault  upon  Frederick  Lawrence; 
and  I  must  see  him  to  apologise  for  the  unhappy  deed.  I 
would  fain  have  put  it  off  till  the  morro\v;  but  what  if  he 
should  denounce  me  to  his  sister  in  the  meantime  ?  No,  no, 
I  must  ask  his  pardon  to-day,  and  intreat  him  to  be  lenient 
in  his  accusation,  ii  tli2  revelation  must  be  made.  I  deferred 
it,  however,  till  the  evening,  when  my  spirits  were  more  com- 
posed, and  when — oh,  wonderful  perversity  of  human  nature  ! 
— sorae  faint  germs  of  indefinite  hopes  were  beginning  to  rise 


806  THE   TENANT 

in  my  mind ;  not  that  I  intended  to  cherish  them  after  all 
that  had  been  said  on  the  subject,  hut  there  they  must  lie  for 
a  while,  uncrushed  though  not  encouraged,  till  I  had  learnt 
to  live  without  them. 

Arrived  at  Woodford,  the  young  squire's  abode,  I  found  no 
little  difficulty  in  obtaining  admission  to  his  presence.  The 
servant  that  opened  the  door  told  me  his  master  was  very  ill, 
and  seemed  to  think  it  doubtful  whether  he  would  be  able  to 
see  me.  I  was  not  going  to  be  balked  however.  I  waited 
calmly  in  the  hall  to  be  announced,  but  inwardly  determined 
to  take  no  denial.  The  message  was  such  as  I  expected — a 
polite  intimation  that  Mr.  Lawrence  could  see  no  one  ;  he  was 
i'everish  and  must  not  be  disturbed. 

"I  shall  not  disturb  him  long,"  said  I;  "but  I  must  see 
him  for  a  moment :  it  is  on  business  of  importance  that  I  wish 
to  speak  to  him." 

"  I'll  tell  him,  sir,"  said  the  man.  And  I  advanced  further 
into  the  hall  and  followed  him  nearly  to  the  door  of  the  apart- 
ment where  his  master  was — for  it  seemed  he  was  not  in  bed. 
The  answer  returned,  was  that  Mr.  Lawrence  hoped  I  would 
be  so  good  as  to  leave  a  message  or  a  note  with  the  servant, 
as  he  could  attend  to  no  business  at  present. 

"  He  may  as  well  see  me  as  you,"  said  I ;  and,  stepping 
past  the  astonished  footman,  I  boldly  rapped  at  the  door,  en- 
tered, and  closed  it  behind  me.  The  room  was  spacious  and 
handsomely  furnished — very  comfortably,  too,  for  a  bachelor. 
A  clear,  red  fire  was  burning  in  the  polished  grate  :  a  superan- 
nuated greyhound,  given  up  to  idleness  and  good  living  lay 
basking  before  it  on  the  thick,  soft  rug,  on  one  corner  of  which, 
beside  the  sofa,  sat  a  smart  young  springer,  looking  wistfully 
•ip  in  its  master's  face ;  perhaps,  asking  permission  to  share 
his  couch,  or,  it  might  be,  only  soliciting  a  caress  from  his 
hand  or  a  kind  word  from  his  lips.  The  invalid  himself  looked 
very  interesting  as  he  lay  reclining  there,  in  his  elegant  dress- 
ing-gown, with  a  silk  handkerchief  bound  across  his  temples. 
His  usually  pale  face  was  flushed  and  feverish ;  his  eyes  were 
half  closed,  until  he  became  sensible  of  my  presence— and 
then  he  opened  them  wide  enough ; — one  hand  was  thrown 
listlessly  over  the  back  of  the  sofa,  and  held  a  small  volume 
with  which,  apparently,  he  had  been  vainly  attempting  to  be- 
guile the  weary  hours.  He  dropped  it,  however,  in  his  start 
of  indignant  surprise  as  I  advanced  into  the  room  and  stood 
before  him  on  the  rug.  He  raised  himself  on  his  pillows,  and 
gazed  upon  me  with  equal  degrees  of  nervous  horror,  anger, 
and  amazement  depicted  on  his  countenance. 

"Mr.  Markham,  I  scarcely  expected  this!"  he  said;  and 
the  blood  left  his  cheek  as  he  spoke. 


OF   WILDFELL  HALL.  307 

"  I  know  you  didn't,"  answered  I ;  "  butt>e  quiet  a  minute, 
and  I'll  tell  you  what  I  came  for."  Unthinkingly  I  advanced 
a  step  or  two  nearer.  He  winced  at  my  approach,  with  an 
expression  of  aversion  and  instinctive  physical  fear  anything 
but  conciliatory  to  my  feelings.  I  stepped  back  however. 

"  Make  your  story  a  short  one,"  said  he,  putting  hig  hand 
on  the  small  silver  bell  that  stood  on  the  table  beside  him, — 
"  or  I  shall  be  obliged  to  call  for  assistance.  I  am  in  no  state 
to  bear  your  brutalities  now,  or  your  presence  either."  And 
in  truth  the  moisture  started  from  his  pores  and  stood  on  his 
pale  forehead  like  dew. 

Such  a  reception  was  hardly  calculated  to  diminish  the  dif- 
ficulties of  my  unenviable  task.  It  must  be  performed,  how- 
ever, in  some  fashion :  and  so  I  plunged  into  it  at  once,  and 
floundered  through  it  as  I  could. 

"The  truth  is,  Lawrence,"  said  I,  "I  have  not  acted  quite 
correctly  towards  you  of  late — especially  on  this  last  occasion  ; 
and  I'm  come  to — in  short,  to  express  my  regret  for  what  has 
been  done,  and  to  beg  your  pardon. — If  you  don't  choose  to 
grant  it,"  I  added  hastily,  not  liking  the  aspect  of  his  face, 
"it's  no  matter — only,  I've  done  my  duty — that's  all." 

"  It's  easily  done,"  replied  he,  with  a  faint  smile  bordering 
on  a  sneer :  "  to  abuse  your  friend  and  knock  him  on  the 
head,  without  any  assignable  cause,  and  then  tell  him  the  deed 
was  not  quite  correct,  but  it's  no  matter  whether  he  pardons 
it  or  not." 

"I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  it  was  in  consequence  of  a  mis- 
take," muttered  I.  "I  should  have  made  a  very  handsome 
apology,  but  you  provoked  me  so  confoundedly  with  your 

.  Well,  I  suppose  it's  my  fault.  The  fact  is,  I  didn't 

know  that  you  were  Mrs.  Graham's  brother,  and  I  saw  and 
heard  some  things  respecting  your  conduct  towards  her,  which 
Avere  calculated  to  awaken  unpleasant  suspicions,  that,  allow 
me  to  say,  a  little  candour  and  confidence  on  your  part  might 
have  removed  ;  and  at  last,  I  chanced  to  overhear  a  part  of  a 
conversation  between  you  and  her  that  made  me  think  I  had 
a  right  to  hate  you." 

"And  how  came  you  to  know  that  I  was  her  brother?" 
asked  he  in  some  anxiety. 

"  She  told  me  herself.  She  told  me  all.  She  knew  I  might 
be  trusted.  But  you  needn't  disturb  yourself  about  that, 
Mr.  Lawrence,  for  I've  seen  the  last  of  her !" 

"The  last!  is  she  gone  then?" 

"  No,  but  she  has  bid  adieu  to  me ;  and  I  have  promised 
never  to  go  near  that  house  again  while  she  inhabits  it."  I 
could  have  groaned  aloud  at  the  bitter  thoughts  awakened  by 
this  turn  in  the  discourse.  But  I  only  clenched  my  hands 


808  THE   TENANT 

and  stamped  my  foot  upon  the  rug.  My  companion,  however, 
was  evidently  relieved. 

"You  have  done  right!"  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  unqualified 
approbation,  while  his  face  brightened  into  almost  a  sunny  ex- 
pression. u  And  as  for  the  mistake,  I  am  sorry  for  both  our 
sakes  that  it  should  have  occurred.  Perhaps  you  can  forgive 
my  want  of  candour,  and,  remember,  as  some  partial  mitiga- 
tion of  the  offence,  how  little  encouragement  to  friendly  con- 
fidence you  have  given  me  of  late." 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  remember  it  all :  nobody  can  blame  me  more 
than  I  blame  myself  in  my  own  heart — at  any  rate,  nobody 
can  regret  more  sincerely  than  I  do  the  result  of  my  brutality 
as  you  rightly  term  it." 

"Never  mind  that,"  said  he,  faintly  smiling  ;  "let  us  for- 
get all  unpleasant  words  on  both  sides,  as  well  as  deeds,  and 
consign  to  oblivion  everything  that  we  have  cause  to  regret. 
Have  you  any  objection  to  take  my  hand — or  you'd  rather 
not?"  It  trembled  through  weakness,  as  he  held  it  out,  and 
dropped  before  I  had  time  to  catch  it  and  give  it  a  hearty 
squeeze,  which  he  had  not  the  strength  to  return. 

"How  dry  and  burning  your  hand  is,  Lawrence,"  said  I. 
"  You  are  really  ill,  and  I  have  made  you  worse  by  all  this 
talk." 

"  Oh,  it  is  nothing :  only  a  cold  got  by  the  rain." 

"  My  doing,  too." 

"  Never  mind  that — but  tell  me,  did  you  mention  this  affair 
to  my  sister?" 

"  To  confess  the  truth,  I  had  not  the  courage  to  do  so ;  but 
when  you  tell  her,  will  you  just  say  that  I  deeply  regret  it, 
and " 

"  Oh,  never  fear !  I  shall  say  nothing  against  you,  as  long 
as  you  keep  your  good  resolution  of  remaining  aloof  from 
her.  She  has  not  heard  of  «iy  illness  then,  that  you  are 
aware  of?" 

"  I  think  not." 

14  I'm  glad  of  that,  for  I  have  been  all  this  time  tormenting 
myself  with  the  fear  that  somebody  would  tell  her  I  was  dy- 
ing, or  desperately  ill,  and  she  would  be  either  distressing 
herself  on  account  of  her  inability  to  hear  from  me  or  do  me 
any  good,  or  perhaps  committing  the  madness  of  coming  to 
see  me.  I  must  contrive  to  let  her  know  something  about  it, 
if  I  can,"  continued  he  reflectively,  "  or  she  will  be  hearing 
some  such  story.  Many  would  be  glad  to  tell  her  such  news, 
iust  to  see  how  she  would  take  it ;  and  then  she  might  expose 
herself  to  fresh  scandal." 

"  I  wish  1  had  told  her,"  said  I.  "  If  it  were  not  for  my 
promise,  I  would  tell  her  now." 


OF  WILDFELL   HALL.  309 

"  By  no  means  1  I  am  not  dreaming  of  that ; — but  if  I  were 
to  write  a  short  note,  now — not  mentioning  you,  Markham, 
but  just  giving  a  slight  account  of  my  illness,  by  way  of  ex- 
cuse for  my  not  coming  to  see  her,  and  to  put  her  on  her  guard 
against  any  exaggerated  reports  she  may  hear, — and  address 
it  in  a  disguised  hand — would  you  do  me  the  favour  to  slip  it 
into  the  post-office  as  you  pass  ?  for  I  dare  not  trust  any  of 
the  servants  in  such  a  case." 

Most  willingly  I  consented,  and  immediately  brought  him 
his  desk.  There  was  little  need  to  disguise  his  hand,  for  the 
poor  fellow  seemed  to  have  considerable  difficulty  in  writing 
at  all,  so  as  to  be  legible.  When  the  note  was  done,  I  thought 
it  time  to  retire,  and  took  leave  after  asking  if  there  was  any- 
thing in  the  world  I  could  do  for  him,  little  or  great,  in  the 
way  of  alleviating  his  sufferings,  and  repairing  the  injury  I 
had  done. 

"No,"  said  he  ;  "you  have  already  done  much  towards  it ; 
you  have  done  more  for  me  than  the  most  skilful  physician 
could  do  ;  for  you  have  relieved  my  mind  of  two  great  burdens 
— anxiety  on  my  sister's  account,  and  deep  regret  upon  your 
own,  for  I  do  believe  these  two  sources  of  torment  have  had 
more  effect  in  working  me  up  into  a  fever,  than  anything  else  ; 
and  I  am  persuaded  I  shall  soon  recover  now.  There  is  one 
more  thing  you  can  do  for  me,  and  that  is,  come  and  see  me 
now  and  then — for  you  see  I  am  very  lonely  here,  and  I 
promise  your  entrance  shall  not  be  disputed  again." 

I  engaged  to  do  so,  and  departed  with  a  cordial  pressure  of 
the  hand.  I  posted  the  letter  on  my  way  home,  most  man- 
fully resisting  the  temptation  of  dropping  in  a  word  from  my- 
self at  the  same  time. 


CHAPTER  XLVI. 

I  FELT  strongly  tempted,  at  times,  to  enlighten  my  mother  and 
sister  on  the  real  character  and  circumstances  of  the  per- 
secuted tenant  of  Wildfell  Hall,  and  at  first  I  greatly  regretted 
having  omitted  to  ask  that  lady's  permission  to  do  so ;  but, 
on  due  reflection,  I  considered  that  if  it  were  known  to  them, 
it  could  not  long  remain  a  secret  to  the  Millwards  and  Wil- 
sons, and  such  was  my  present  appreciation  of  Eliza  Millward'a 
disposition,  that,  if  once  she  got  a  clue  to  the  story,  I  should 
fear  she  would  soon  find  means  to  enlighten  Mr.  Huntingdon 
upon  the  place  of  his  wife's  retreat.  I  would  therefore  wai 
patiently  till  these  weary  six  months  were  over,  and  then, 
when  the  fugitive  had  found  another  home,  and  I  was  per- 
mitted to  write  to  her,  I  would  beg  to  be  allowed  to  clear  her 


810  THE  TENANT 

name  from  these  vile  calumnies :  at  present  I  must  conten\ 
myself  with  simply  asserting  that  I  knew  them  to  be  false, 
and  would  prove  it  some  day,  to  the  shame  of  those  who  slan- 
dered her.  I  don't  think  anybody  believed  me,  but  everybody 
soon  learned  to  avoid  insinuating  a  word  against  her,  or  even 
mentioning  her  name  in  my  presence.  They  thought  I  was 
so  madly  infatuated  by  the  seductions  of  that  unhappy  lady 
that  I  was  determined  to  support  her  in  the  very  face  of  rea- 
son ;  and  meantime  I  grew  insupportably  morose  and  misan- 
thropical from  the  idea  that  every  one  I  met  was  harbouring 
unworthy  thoughts  of  the  supposed  Mrs.  Graham,  and  would 
express  them  if  he  dared.  My  poor  mother  was  quite  dis- 
tressed about  me  ;  but  I  couldn't  help  it — at  least  I  thought  I 
could  not,  though  sometimes  I  felt  a  pang  of  remorse  for  my 
undutiful  conduct  to  her,  and  made  an  effort  to  amend,  attended 
with  some  partial  success  ;  and  indeed  I  was  generally  more 
humanized  in  my  demeanour  to  her  than  to  any  one  else,  Mr. 
Lawrence  excepted.  Rose  and  Fergus  usually  shunned  my 
presence  ;  and  it  was  well  they  did,  for  I  was  not  fit  company 
for  them,  nor  they  for  me,  under  the  present  circumstances. 

Mrs.  Huntingdon  did  not  leave  Wildfell  Hall  till  above  two 
months  after  our  farewell  interview.  During  that  time  she 
never  appeared  at  church,  and  I  never  went  near  the  house  : 
I  only  knew  she  was  still  there  by  her  brother's  brief  answers 
to  my  many  and  varied  inquiries  respecting  her.  I  was  a  very 
constant  and  attentive  visitor  to  him  throughout  the  whole 
period  of  his  illness  and  convalescence  ;  not  only  from  the  in- 
terest I  took  in  his  recovery,  and  my  desire  to  cheer  him  up 
and  make  the  utmost  possible  amends  for  my  former  "  bru- 
tality," but  from  my  growing  attachment  to  himself,  and  the 
increasing  pleasure  I  found  in  his  society — partly  from  his  in- 
creased cordiality  to  me,  but  chiefly  on  account  of  his  close 
connection,  both  in  blood  and  in  affection,  with  my  adored 
Helen.  I  loved  him  for  it  better  than  I  liked  to  express ; 
and  I  took  a  secret  delight  in  pressing  those  slender  white 
fingers,  so  marvellously  like  her  own,  considering  he  was  not 
a  woman,  and  in  watching  the  passing  changes  in  his  fair  pale 
features,  and  observing  the  intonations  of  his  voice,  detecting 
resemblances  which  I  wondered  had  never  struck  me  before. 
He  provoked  me  at  times,  indeed,  by  his  evident  reluctance  to 
talk  to  me  about  his  sister,  though  I  did  not  question  the 
friendliness  of  his  motives  in  wishing  to  discourage  my  remem- 
brance of  her. 

His  recovery  was  not  quite  so  rapid  as  he  had  expected  it  to 
be  :  he  was  not  able  to  mount  his  pony  till  a  fortnight  after  the 
date  of  our  reconciliation ;  and  the  first  use  he  made  of  his  return- 
ing strength,  was  to  ride  over  by  night  to  \Vildfell  Hall,  to  see 


OF   WILDFELL   HALL.  311 

his  sister.  It  was  a  hazardous  enterprise  both  for  him  and 
for  her,  but  he  thought  it  necessary  to  consult  with  her  on 
the  subject  of  her  projected  departure,  if  not  to  calm  her  appre- 
hensions respecting  his  health,  and  the  worst  result  was  a 
slight  relapse  of  his  illness,  for  no  one  knew  of  the  visit  but 
the  inmates  of  the  Old  Hall,  except  myself;  and  I  believe  it 
had  not  been  his  intention  to  mention  it  to  me,  for  when  I  came 
to  see  him  the  next  day,  and  observed  he  was  not  so  well  as 
he  ought  to  have  been,  he  merely  said  he  had  caught  cold  by 
being  out  too  late  in  the  evening. 

"  You'll  never  be  able  to  see  your  sister,  if  you  don't  take 
care  of  yourself,"  said  I,  a  little  provoked  at  the  circumstance 
on  her  account,  instead  of  commiserating  him. 

"  I've  seen  her  already,"  said  he,  quietly. 

"You've  seen  her!"  cried  I,  in  astonishment. 

"  Yes."  And  then  he  told  me  what  considerations  had  im« 
pelled  him  to  make  the  venture,  and  with  what  precautions 
he  had  made  it. 

"  And  how  was  she  ?"  I  eagerly  asked. 

"  As  usual,"  was  the  brief  though  sad  reply. 

"  As  usual — that  is,  far  from  happy  and  far  from  strong." 

"  She  is  not  positively  ill,"  returned  he  ;  "  and  she  will  re- 
cover her  spirits  in  a  while,  I  have  no  doubt — but  so  many 
trials  have  been  almost  too  much  for  her.  How  threatening 
those  clouds  look,"  continued  he,  turning  towards  the  window. 
"  We  shall  have  thunder  showers  before  night,  I  imagine,  and 
they  are  just  in  the  midst  of  stacking  my  corn.  Have  you  got 
yours  all  in  yet?" 

"No.  And  Lawrence,  did  she — did  your  sister  mention 
me?" 

"  She  asked  if  I  had  seen  you  lately." 

"  And  what  else  did  she  say  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  tell  you  all  she  said,"  replied  he,  with  a  slight 
smile,  "  for  we  talked  a  good  deal,  though  my  stay  was  but 
short ;  but  our  conversation  was  chiefly  on  the  subject  of  her 
intended  departure,  which  I  begged  her  to  delay  till  I  was 
better  able  to  assist  her  in  her  search  after  another  home." 

"  But  did  she  say  no  more  about  me  ?" 

"  She  did  not  say  much  about  you,  Markham.  I  should 
not  have  encouraged  her  to  do  so,  had  she  been  inclined ;  but 
happily  she  was  not :  she  only  asked  a  few  questions  concern- 
ing you,  and  seemed  satisfied  with  my  brief  answers,  wherein 
she  showed  herself  wiser  than  her  friend ;  and  I  may  tell  you, 
too,  that  she  seemed  to  be  far  more  anxious  lest  you  should 
think  too  much  of  her,  than  lest  you  should  forget  her." 

"  She  was  right," 


312  THE   TENANT 

"  But  1  fear  your  anxiety  is  quite  the  other  way  lespecting 
her." 

"  No,  it  is  not :  I  wish  her  to  be  happy ;  but  I  don't  wish 
her  to  forget  me  altogether.  She  knows  it  is  impossible  that 
I  should  forget  her ;  and  she  is  right  to  wish  me  not  to 
remember  her  too  well.  I  should  not  desire  her  to  regret 
me  too  deeply ;  but  I  can  scarcely  imagine  she  will  make 
herself  very  unhappy  about  me,  because  I  know  I  am  not 
worthy  of  it,  except  in  my  appreciation  of  her." 

"  You  are  neither  of  you  worthy  of  a  broken  heart, — nor 
of  all  the  sighs,  and  tears,  and  sorrowful  thoughts  that  have 
been,  and  I  fear  will  be,  wasted  upon  you  both ;  but,  at 
present,  each  has  a  more  exalted  opinion  of  the  other  than, 
I  fear,  he  or  she  deserves  ;  and  my  sister's  feelings  are 
naturally  full  as  keen  as  yours,  and  1  believe  more  constant ; 
but  she  has  the  good  sense  and  fortitude  to  strive  against 
them  in  this  particular ;  and  I  trust  she  will  not  rest  till  she 
has  entirely  weaned  her  thoughts "  he  hesitated. 

"  From  me,"  said  I. 

"And  I  wish  you  would  make  the  like  exertions,"  con- 
tinued he. 

"Did  she  tell  you  that  that  was  her  intention?" 

"No;  the  question  was  not  broached  between  us:  there 
was  no  necessity  for  it,  for  I  had  no  doubt  that  such  was  her 
determination." 

"To  forget  me?" 

"  Yes,  Markham  !    Why  not  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  well,"  was  my  only  audible  reply  ;  but  I  internally 
Answered, — "  No,  Lawrence,  you're  wrong  there,  she  is  not 
determined  to  forget  me.  !t  would  be  wrong  to  forget  one  so 
deeply  and  fondly  devoted  to  her,  who  can  so  thoroughly 
appreciate  her  excellences,  and  sympathise  with  all  her 
thoughts,  as  I  can  do,  and  it  would  be  wrong  in  me  to  forget 
so  excellent  and  divine  a  piece  of  God's  creation  as  she,  when 
I  have  once  so  truly  loved  and  known  her."  But  I  said  no 
more  to  him  on  that  subject.  I  instantly  started  a  new  topic 
of  conversation,  and  soon  took  leave  of  my  companion,  with  a 
feeling  of  less  cordiality  towards  him  than  usual.  Perhaps  I 
had  no  right  to  be  annoyed  at  him,  but  I  was  so  nevertheless. 

In  little  more  than  a  week  after  this,  I  met  him  returning 
from  a  visit  to  the  Wilsons ;  and  I  now  resolved  to  do  him 
a  good  turn,  though  at  the  expense  of  his  feelings,  and, 
perhaps,  at  the  risk  of  incurring  that  displeasure  which  is 
»o  commonly  the  reward  of  those  who  give  disagreeable 
information,  or  tender  their  advice  unasked.  In  this,  believe 
me,  I  was  actuated  by  no  motives  of  revenge  for  the  occa- 


OF   WILDFELL   HALL.  813 

rional  annoyances  I  had  lately  sustained  from  him, — nor  yel 
by  any  feeling  of  malevolent  enmity  towards  Miss  Wilson, 
but  purely  by  the  fact  that  I  could  not  endure  that  such 
a  woman  should  be  Mrs.  Huntingdon's  sister,  and  that,  as 
well  for  his  own  sake  as  for  hers,  I  could  not  bear  to  think 
of  his  being  deceived  into  a  union  with  one  so  unworthy 
of  him,  and  so  utterly  unfitted  to  be  the  partner  of  his 
quiet  home,  and  the  companion  of  his  life.  He  had  had 
uncomfortable  suspicions  on  that  head  himself,  I  imagined ; 
but  such  was  his  inexperience,  and  such  were  the  lady's 
powers  of  attraction,  and  her  skill  in  bringing  them  to  bear 
upon  his  young  imagination,  that  they  had  not  disturbed  him 
long;  and  I  believe  the  only  effectual  causes  of  the  vacillating 
indecision  that  had  preserved  him  hitherto  from  making  an 
actual  declaration  of  love,  was  the  consideration  of  her  con- 
nections, and  especially  of  her  mother,  whom  he  could  not 
abide.  Had  they  lived  at  a  distance,  he  might  have  sur- 
mounted the  objection,  but  within  two  or  three  miles  of 
Woodford,  it  was  really  no  light  matter. 

"  You've  been  to  call  on  the  Wilsons,  Lawrence,"  said  I,  as 
I  walked  beside  his  pony. 

"  Yes,"-  replied  he,  slightly  averting  his  face  :  "  I  thought 
it  but  civil  to  take  the  first  opportunity  of  returning  their 
kind  attentions,  since  they  have  been  so  very  particular  and 
constant  in  their  inquiries,  throughout  the  whole  course  of 
my  illness." 

"  It's  all  Miss  Wilson's  doing." 

"  And  if  it  is,"  returned  he,  with  a  very  perceptible  blush, 
"  is  that  any  reason  why  I  should  not  make  a  suitable 
acknowledgment  ?  " 

"  It  is  a  reason  why  you  should  not  make  the  acknowledg- 
ment she  looks  for." 

"  Let  us  drop  that  subject  if  you  please,"  said  he,  in  evident 
displeasure. 

"  No,  Lawrence,  with  your  leave  we'll  continue  it  a  while 
longer;  and  I'll  tell  you  something,  now  we're  about  it, 
which  you  may  believe  or  not  as  you  choose — only  please 
to  remember  that  it  is  not  my  custom  to  speak  falsely,  and 
that  in  this  case,  I  can  have  no  motive  for  misrepresenting 
the  truth " 

"  Well,  Markham  i  what  now?" 

"  Miss  Wilson  hates  your  sister.  It  may  be  natural  enough 
that,  in  her  ignorance  of  the  relationship,  she  should  feel 
some  degree  of  enmity  against  her,  but  no  good  or  amiable 
noman  would  be  capable  of  evincing  that  bitter,  cold-blooded, 
designing  malice  towards  a  fancied  rival  that  I  have  observed 
in  her." 


314  THE  TENANT 

"Markham!!" 

"Yes — and  it  is  my  belief  that  Eliza  Millward  and  ahe,  ii 
not  the  very  originators  of  the  slanderous  reports  that  have 
been  propagated,  were  designedly  the  encouragers  and  chiet 
disseminators  of  them.  She  was  not  desirous  to  mix  up  your 
name  in  the  matter,  of  course,  but  her  delight  was,  and  still 
is,  to  blacken  your  sister's  character  to  the  utmost  of  her 
power,  without  risking  too  greatly  the  exposure  of  her  own 
malevolence !" 

"  I  cannot  believe  it,"  interrupted  my  companion,  his  face 
burning  with  indignation. 

"Well,  as  I  cannot  prove  it,  I  must  content  myself  with 
asserting  that  it  is  so  to  the  best  of  my  belief;  but  as  you 
would  not  willingly  marry  Miss  Wilson  if  it  were  so,  you  will 
do  well  to  be  cautious,  till  you  have  proved  it  to  be  other- 
wise." 

"I  never  told  you,  Markham,  that  I  intended  to  marry 
Miss  Wilson,"  said  he,  proudly. 

"No,  but  whether  you  do  or  not,  she  intends  to  marry 
you." 

"Did  she  tell  you  so?" 

«  No,  but " 

"Then  you  have  no  right  to  make  such  an  assertion  re- 
specting her."  He  slightly  quickened  his  pony's  pace,  but 
I  laid  my  hand  on  its  mane,  determined  he  should  not  leave 
me  yet. 

"  Wait  a  moment,  Lawrence,  and  let  me  explain  myself; 
and  don't  be  so  very — I  don't  know  what  to  call  it — inacces- 
sible as  you  are. — I  know  what  you  think  of  Jane  Wilson ; 
and  I  believe  I  know  how  far  you  are  mistaken  in  your 
opinion :  you  think  she  is  singularly  charming,  elegant, 
sensible,  and  refined :  you  are  not  aware  that  she  is  selfish, 
cold-hearted,  ambitious,  artful,  shallow-minded " 

"  Enough,  Markham,  enough." 

"  No ;  let  me  finish  : — you  don't  know  that  if  you  married 
her,  your  home  would  be  rayless  and  comfortless ;  and  it 
would  break  your  heart  at  last  to  find  yourself  united  to 
one  so  wholly  incapable  of  sharing  your,  tastes,  feelings,  and 
ideas — so  utterly  destitute  of  sensibility,  good  feeling,  and 
true  nobility  of  soul." 

"  Have  you  done  ?"  asked  my  companion  quietly. 

"  Yes  ; — I  know  you  hate  me  for  my  impertinence,  but  I 
don't  care  if  it  only  conduces  to  preserve  you  from  that  fatal 
mistake." 

"  Well  1"  returned  he,  with  a  rather  wintry  smile — "  I'm 
glad  you  have  overcome  or  forgotten  your  own  afflictions,  so 
far  as  to  be  able  to  study  so  deeply  the  affairs  of  others,  and 


OF  WILPFELL   HALL.  31& 

trouble  your  head,  so  unnecessarily,  about  the  fancied  or 
possible  calamities  of  their  future  life." 

We  parted — somewhat  coldly  again ;  but  still  we  did  not 
cease  to  be  friends ;  and  my  well-meant  warning,  though  it 
might  have  been  more  judiciously  delivered,  as  well  as  more 
thankfully  received,  was  not  wholly  unproductive  of  the  de^ 
sired  effect :  his  visit  to  the  AVilsons  was  not  repeated,  and 
though,  in  our  subsequent  interviews,  he  never  mentioned 
her  name  to  me,  nor  I  to  him, — I  have  reason  to  believe  he 
pondered  my  words  in  his  mind,  eagerly  though  covertly 
sought  information  respecting  the  fair  lady  from  other  quarters, 
secretly  compared  my  character  of  her  with  what  he  had  him- 
self observed  and  what  he  heard  from  others,  and  finally  came 
to  the  conclusion  that,  all  things  considered,  she  had  much 
better  remain  Miss  Wilson  of  Ryecote  Farm,  than  be  trans- 
muted into  Mrs.  Lawrence  of  Woodford  Hall.  I  believe,  too, 
that  he  soon  learned  to  contemplate  with  secret  amazement 
his  former  predilection,  and  to  congratulate  himself  on  the 
lucky  escape  he  had  made  ;  but  he  never  confessed  it  to  me, 
or  hinted  one  word  of  acknowledgment  for  the  part  I  had  had 
in  his  deliverance — but  this  was  not  surprising  to  any  one 
that  knew  him  as  I  did. 

As  for  Jane  Wilson,  she,  of  course,  was  disappointed  and 
embittered  by  the  sudden  cold  neglect  and  ultimate  desertion 
of  her  former  admirer.  Had  I  done  wrong  to  blight  her 
cherished  hopes  ?  I  think  not ;  and  certainly  my  conscience 
has  never  accused  me,  from  that  day  to  this,  of  any  evil  de- 
sign in  the  matter. 


CHAPTER  XLVII. 

ONE  morning,  about  the  beginning  of  November,  while  I  was 
inditing  some  business  letters,  shortly  after  breakfast,  Eliza 
Millward  came  to  call  upon  my  sister.  Rose  had  neither  the 
discrimination  nor  the  virulence  to  regard  the  little  demon  as 
I  did,  and  they  still  preserved  their  former  intimacy.  At  the 
moment  of  her  arrival,  however,  there  was  no  one  in  the 
room  but  Fergus  and  myself,  my  mother  and  sister  being  both 
of  them  absent,  "on  household  cares  intent;"  but  I  was  not 
going  to  lay  myself  out  for  her  amusement,  whoever  else 
might  so  incline  :  I  merely  honoured  her  with  a  careless  salu- 
tation and  a  few  words  of  course,  and  then  went  on  with  my 
writing,  leaving  my  brother  to  be  more  polite  if  he  chose. 
But  she  wanted  to  tease  me. 
"  What  a  pleasure  it  is  to  find  you  at  home,  Mr.  Mark- 


316  THE   TENANT 

ham!"  said  she,  with  a  disingenuously  malicious  smile.  "1 
so  seldom  see  you  now,  for  you  never  come  to  the  vicarage. 
Papa  is  quite  offended  I  can  tell  you,"  she  added  playfully, 
looking  into  my  face  with  an  impertinent  laugh,  as  she  seated 
herself,  half  beside  and  half  before  my  desk,  off  the  corner 
of  the  table. 

"  I  have  had  a  good  deal  to  do  of  late,"  said  I,  without  look 
ing  up  from  my  letter. 

"  Have  you  indeed !  Somebody  said  you  had  been  strangely 
neglecting  your  business  these  last  few  months." 

"  Somebody  said  wrong,  for,  these  last  two  months  es- 
pecially, I  have  been  particularly  plodding  and  diligent." 

"  Ah  !  Well,  there's  nothing  like  active  employment,  I  sup- 

C,  to  console  the  afflicted ; — and,  excuse  me,  Mr.  Mark- 
,  but  you  look  so  very  far  from  well,  and  have  been,  by 
all  accounts,  so  moody  and  thoughtful  of  late, — I  could  al- 
most think  you  have  some  secret  care  preying  on  your  spirits. 
Formerly,"  said  she  timidly,  "  I  could  have  ventured  to  ask 
you  what  it  was,  and  what  I  could  do  to  comfort  you :  I  dare 
not  do  it  now." 

"You're  very  kind,  Miss  Eliza.  When  I  think  you  can  do 
anything  to  comfort  me,  I'll  make  bold  to  tell  you." 

"Pray  do ! — I  suppose  I  mayn't  guess  what  it  is  that  troubles 
you?"  " 

"  There's  no  necessity,  for  I'll  tell  you  plainly.  The  thing 
that  troubles  me  the  most  at  present,  is  a  young  lady  sitting 
at  my  elbow,  and  preventing  me  from  finishing  my  letter,  and, 
thereafter,  repairing  to  my  daily  business." 

Before  she  could  reply  to  this  ungallant  speech,  Rose  en- 
tered the  room ;  and  Miss  Eliza  rising  to  greet  her,  they  both 
seated  themselves  near  the  fire,  where  that  idle  lad,  Fergus, 
was  standing,  leaning  his  shoulder  against  the  corner  of  the 
chimney-piece,  with  his  legs  crossed  and  his  hands  in  his 
breeches  pockets. 

"  Now,  Rose,  I'll  tell  you  a  piece  of  news— I  hope  you've 
not  heard  it  before,  for  good,  bad,  or  indifferent,  one  always 
likes  to  be  the  first  to  tell — It's  about  that  sad  Mrs.  Gra- 
ham  " 

44  Hush — sh — sh  ! "  whispered  Fergus,  in  a  tone  of  solemn 
import.  "  4  We  never  mention  her ;  her  name  is  never  heard.' " 
And  glancing  up,  I  caught  him  with  his  eye  askance  on  me, 
and  his  finger  pointed  to  his  forehead ;  then,  winking  at  the 
young  lady  with  a  doleful  shake  of  the  head,  he  whispered— 
"  a  monomania — but  don't  mention  it — all  right  but  that." 

"I  should  be  sorry  to  injure  any  one's  feelings,"  returned 
%he,  speaking  below  her  breath  ;  "  another  time,  perhaps," 


OF   \V1LDKELL   HALL.  817 

"  Speak  out,  Miss  Eliza !"  said  I,  not  deigning  to  notice  the 
other's  buffooneries,  "you  needn't  fear  to  say  anything  in  my 
presence." 

"  Well,"  answered  she,  "  perhaps  you  know  already  that 
Mrs.  Graham's  husband  is  not  really  dead,  and  that  she  had 
run  away  from  him?"  I  started,  and  felt  my  face  glow;  but 
I  bent  it  over  my  letter,  and  went  on  folding  it  up  as  she  pro- 
ceeded. "  But  perhaps  you  did  not  know  that  she  is  now  gone 
back  to  him  again,  and  that  a  perfect  reconciliation  has  taken 
place  between  them  ?  Only  think,"  she  continued,  turning  to 
the  confounded  Rose,  "  what  a  fool  the  man  must  be  !" 

"And  who  gave  you  this  piece  of  intelligence,  Miss  Eliza?" 
said  I,  interrupting  my  sister's  exclamations. 

"I  had  it  from  a  very  authentic  source,  sir." 

"From  whom,  may  I  ask?" 

"  From  one  of  the  servants  at  Woodford." 

"Oh!  I  was  not  aware  that  you  were  on  such  intimate 
terms  with  Mr.  Lawrence's  household." 

"  It  was  not  from  the  man  himself,  that  I  heard  it ;  but  he 
told  it  in  confidence  to  our  maid  Sarah,  and  Sarah  told  it  to 
me." 

"  In  confidence,  I  suppose  ;  and  you  tell  it  in  confidence  to 
us ;  but  I  can  tell  you  that  it  is  but  a  lame  story  after  all,  and 
scarcely  one-half  of  it  true." 

While  I  spoke,  I  completed  the  sealing  and  direction  of  my 
letters,  with  a  somewhat  unsteady  hand,  in  spite  of  all  my 
efforts  to  retain  composure,  and  in  spite  of  my  firm  conviction 
that  the  story  was  a  lame  one — that  the  supposed  Mrs.  Gra- 
ham, most  certainly,  had  not  voluntarily  gone  back  to  her 
husband,  or  dreamt  of  a  reconciliation.  Most  likely,  she  was 
gone  away,  and  the  tale-bearing  servant,  not  knowing  what 
was  become  of  her,  had  conjectured  that  such  was  the  case, 
and  our  fair  visitor  had  detailed  it  as  a  certainty,  delighted 
with  such  an  opportunity  of  tormenting  me.  But  it  was  pos- 
sible— barely  possible,  that  some  one  might  have  betrayed 
her,  and  she  had  been  taken  away  by  force.  Determined  to 
know  the  worst,  I  hastily  pocketed  my  two  letters,  and  mut- 
tering something  about  being  too  late  for  the  post,  left  the 
room,  rushed  into  the  yard,  and  vociferously  called  for  my 
horse.  No  one  being  there,  I  dragged  him  out  of  the  stable 
myself,  strapped  the  saddle  on  to  his  back  and  the  bridle  on 
to  his  head,  mounted,  and  speedily  galloped  away  to  Wood- 
ford.  I  found  its  owner  pensively  strolling  in  the  grounds. 

_  "  Is  your  sister  gone  ?  "  were  my  first  words  as  I  grasped 
his  hand,  instead  of  the  usual  inquiry  after  his  health. 

"Yes,  she's  gone,"  was  his  answer,  so  calmly  spoken,  that 
my  terror  was  at  once  removed. 


518  THE   TENANT 

"  I  suppose  I  mayn't  know  where  she  is  ? "  said  I,  as  I 
dismounted  and  relinquished  my  horse  to  the  gardener,  who, 
being  the  only  servant  within  call,  had  been  summoned  by  his 
master,  from  his  employment  of  raking  up  the  dead  leaves  on 
the  lawn,  to  take  him  to  the  stables. 

My  companion  gravely  took  my  arm,  and  leading  me  away 
to  the  garden,  thus  answered  rr.'j  question  : — 

"  She  is  at  Grassdale  Manor,  in shire." 

"  Where  ?"  cried  I,  with  a  convulsive  start. 

"  At  Grassdale  Manor." 

"  How  was  it  ?  "  I  gasped.     "  Who  betrayed  her  ?  " 

"  She  went  of  her  own  accord." 

"Impossible,  Lawrence!  She  could  not  be  so  frantic!" 
exclaimed  I,  vehemently  grasping  his  arm,  as  if  to  force  him 
to  unsay  those  hateful  words. 

"  She  did,"  persisted  he  in  the  same  grave  collected  manner 
as  before  ;  "  and  not  without  reason,"  he  continued,  gently 
disengaging  himself  from  my  grasp  :  "  Mr.  Huntingdon  is  ill." 

"  And  so  she  went  to  nurse  him  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"Fool!"  I  could  not  help  exclaiming — and  Lawrence 
looked  up  with  a  rather  reproachful  glance.  "Is  he  dying, 
then?" 

"  I  think  not,  Markham." 

"  And  how  many  more  nurses  has  he  ? — how  many  ladies 
are  there  besides,  to  take  care  of  him?" 

"  None  :  he  was  alone,  or  she  would  not  have  gone." 

"  Oh,  confound  it !  this  is  intolerable  !" 

"  What  is  ?  that  he  should  be  alone  ?" 

I  attempted  no  reply,  for  I  was  not  sure  that  this  circum- 
stance did  not  partly  conduce  to  my  distraction.  I  therefore 
continued  to  pace  the  walk  in  silent  anguish,  with  my  hand 
pressed  to  my  forehead ;  then  suddenly  pausing  and  turning 
to  my  companion,  I  impatiently  exclaimed, — 

"Why  did  she  take  this  infatuated  step?  What  fiend 
persuaded  her  to  it?" 

"Nothing  persuaded  her  but  her  own  sense  of  duty." 

"  Humbug  !" 

"  I  was  half  inclined  to  say  so  myself,  Markham,  at  first. 
I  assure  you  it  was  not  by  my  advice  that  she  went,  for  I  detest 
<hat  man  as  fervently  as  you  can  do— except,  indeed,  that  his 
reformation  would  give  me  much  greater  pleasure  than  IMS 
death  ;  but  all  I  did  was  to  inform  her  of  the  circumstance  of 
his  illness  (the  consequence  of  a  Call  from  his  horse  in  hunting), 
and  to  toll  her  that  that  unhappy  person,  Miss  Myers,  had  left 
linn  some  time  ago."  • 

"  It  was  ill-done  1     Now.  when  he  finds  the  convenience  <.f 


OP  WILDFELL  HALL.  319 

hsr  presence,  he  will  make  all  manner  of  lying  speeches  and 
false,  fair  promises  for  the  future,  and  she  will  believe  him, 
and  then  her  condition  will  be  ten  times  worse  and  ten  times 
more  irremediable  than  before." 

"  There  does  not  appear  to  be  much  ground  for  such  appre- 
hensions at  present,"  said  he,  producing  a  letter  from  his 
pocket :  "  from  the  account  I  received  this  morning,  I  should 
say" 

It  was  her  writing  !  By  an  irresistible  impulse,  I  held  out 
my  hand,  and  the  words — "  Let  me  see  it,"  involuntarily 
passed  my  lips.  He  was  evidently  reluctant  to  grant  the  re- 
quest, but  while  he  hesitated,  I  snatched  it  from  his  hand. 
Recollecting  myself,  however,  the  minute  after,  I  oil'ered  to 
restore  it. 

"  Here,  take  it,"  said  I,  "ii  you  don't  want  me  to  read  it." 

"No,"  replied  he,  "you  may  read  it  if  you  like." 

I  read  it,  and  so  may  you. 

DEAR  FREDERICK,  Gnuadale,  Nov.  4th. 

1  know  you  will  be  anxious  to  hear  from  me,  and  I  will 
tell  you  all  I  can.  Mr.  Huntingdon  is  very  ill,  but  not  dying, 
or  in  any  immediate  danger ;  and  he  is  rather  better  at  present 
than  he  was  when  I  came.  I  found  the  house  in  sad  con- 
fusion :  Mrs.  Greaves,  Benson,  every  decent  servant  had  left, 
and  those  that  were  come  to  supply  their  places  were  a  negli- 
gent, disorderly  set,  to  say  no  worse — I  must  change  them 
again,  if  I  stay.  A  professional  nurse,  a  grim,  hard  old 
woman,  had  been  hired  to  attend  the  wretched  invalid.  He 
suffers  much,  and  has  no  1'ortitude  to  bear  him  through.  The 
immediate  injuries  he  sustained  from  the  accident,  however, 
were  not  very  severe,  and  would,  as  the  doctor  says,  have 
been  but  trifling  to  a  man  of  temperate  habits,  but  with  him 
it  is  very  different.  On  the  night  of  my  arrival,  when  I  first 
entered  his  room,  he  was  lying  in  a  kind  of  half  delirium.  He 
did  not  notice  me  till  I  spoke,  and  then  he  mistook  me  for 
another. 

"Is  it  you,  Alice,  come  again?"  he  murmured.  "What 
did  you  leave  me  for?" 

"  It  is  I,  Arthur — it  is  Helen,  your  wife,"  I  replied. 

"My  wife!"  said  he,  with  a  start.  "For  heaven's  sake, 
don't  mention  her  ! — I  have  none.  Devil  take  her,"  he  cried, 
a  moment  after,  "  and  you  too  !  What  did  you  do  it  for  ?" 

I  said  no  more  ;  but  observing  that  he  kept  gazing  towards 
the  foot  of  the  bed,  I  went  and  sat  there,  placing  the  light  so 
as  to  shine  full  upon  me,  for  I  thought  he  might  be  dying,  and 
I  wanted  him  to  know  me.  For  a  long  time  he  lay  silently 
looking  upon  me,  first  with  &  vacant  stare,  then  with  a  fixed 


S£0  THE  TKNAAT 

gaze  of  strange  growing  intensity.  At  last  lie  startled  me  by 
suddenly  raising  himself  on  his  elbow  and  demanding  in  a 
horrified  whisper,  with  his  eyes  still  fixed  upon  me, — u  Who 
is  it?" 

"  It  is  Helen  Huntingdon,"  said  I,  quietly  rising  at  the 
same  time,  and  removing  to  a  less  conspicuous  position. 

"I  must  be  going  mad,"  cried  he,  "or  something — delirious 
perhaps ;  but  leave  me,  whoever  you  are — I  can't  bear  that 
white  lace,  and  those  eyes ;  for  God's  sake  go,  and  send  me 
somebody  else,  that  doesn't  look  like  that !" 

I  went  at  once,  and  sent  the  hired  nurse  ;  but  next  morning 
I  ventured  to  enter  his  chamber  again  ;  and,  taking  the  nurse's 
place  by  his  bed-side,  I  watched  him  and  waited  on  him  for 
several  hours,  showing  myself  as  little  as  possible,  and  only 
speaking  when  necessary,  and  then  not  above  my  breath.  At 
first  he  addressed  me  as  the  nurse,  but,  on  my"  crossing  the 
room  to  draw  up  the  window-blinds,  in  obedience  to  his 
directions,  he  said, — 

"  No,  it  isn't  nurse  ;  it's  Alice.  Stay  with  me — do  !  that 
old  hag  will  be  the  death  of  me." 

"  I  mean  to  stay  with  you,"  said  I.  And  after  that  he 
would  call  me  Alice,  or  some  other  name  almost  equally  re- 
pugnant to  my  feelings.  I  forced  myself  to  endure  it  for  a 
while,  fearing  a  contradiction  might  disturb  him  too  much, 
but  when,  having  asked  for  a  glass  of  water,  while  I  held  it  to 
his  lips,  he  murmured  "  Thanks,  dearest !"  I  could  not  help 
distinctly  observing—"  You  would  not  say  so  if  you  knew 
me,"  intending  to  follow  that  up  with  another  declaration  of 
my  identity,  but  he  merely  muttered  an  incoherent  reply,  so  I 
dropped  it  again,  till  some  time  after,  when,  as  I  was  bathing 
his  forehead  and  temples  with  vinegar  and  water  to  relieve  the 
heat  and  pain  in  his  head,  he  observed — after  looking  earnestly 
upon  me  for  some  minutes — 

"  I  have  such  strange  fancies — I  can't  get  rid  of  them,  and 
they  won't  let  me  rest ;  and  the  most  singular  and  pertina- 
cious of  them  all  is  your  face  and  voice  ;  they  seem  just  like 
hers.  I  could  swear  at  this  moment,  that  she  was  by  my 
•ide." 

"  She  is,"  said  T. 

"  That  seems  comfortable,"  continued  he,  without  noticing 
my  words  ;  "  and  while  you  do  it,  the  other  fancies  fade  away 
•—but  this  only  strengthens.  Go  on — go  on,  till  it  vanishes 
too.  I  can't  stand  such  a  mania  as  this  ;  it  would  kill  me  I" 

"  It  never  will  vanish,"  said  I,  distinctly,  "  for  it  is  the 
truth." 

u  The  truth!"  he  cried,  starting  as  if  an  asp  had  stung  him. 
14  You  don't  mean  to  say  that  you  nre  really  she ! " 


OF    WILDFELL   HALL.  32J 

11 1  do :  but  you  needn't  shrink  away  from  me,  as  if  I  were 
your  greatest  enemy  :  I  am  come  to  take  care  of  you,  and  do 
what  none  of  them  would  do." 

"For  God's  sake,  don't  torment  me  now!"  cried  he  in 
pitiable  agitation  ;  and  then  he  began  to  mutter  bitter  curses 
against  me,  or  the  evil  fortune  that  had  brought  me  there  ; 
while  I  put  down  the  sponge  and  basin,  and  resumed  my  seat 
at  the  bed-side. 

"Where  are  they?"  said  he— "have  they  all  left  me— 
servants  and  all?" 

•'  There  are  servants  within  call  if  you  want  them  ;  but  you 
had  better  lie  down  now  and  be  quiet :  none  of  them  could  or 
would  attend  you  as  carefully  as  I  shall  do." 

'•  I  can't  understand  it  at  all,"  said  he,  in  bewildered  per- 
plexity. "  Was  it  a  dream  that "  and  he  covered  his 

eyes  with  his  hands,  as  if  trying  to  unravel  the  mystery. 

"  No  Arthur,  it  was  not  a  dream,  that  your  conduct  was 
such  as  to  oblige  me  to  leave  you  ;  but  I  heard  that  you  were 
ill  and  alone,  and  I  am  come  back  to  nurse  you.  You  need 
not  fear  to  trust  me  :  tell  me  all  your  wants,  and  I  will  try  to 
satisfy  them.  There  is  no  one  else  to  care  for  you  ;  and  I 
shall  not  upbraid  you  now." 

"  Oh  !  I  see,"  said  he,  with  a  bitter  smile,  "  it's  an  act  of 
Christian  charity,  whereby  you  hope  to  gain  a  higher  seat  in 
heaven  for  yourself,  and  scoop  a  deeper  pit  in  hell  for  me." 

"  No  ;  I  came  to  offer  you  that  comfort  and  assistance  your 
situation  required ;  and  if  I  could  benefit  your  soul  as  well  as 
your  body,  and  awaken  some  sense  of  contrition  and " 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  if  you  could  overwhelm  me  with  remorse  and 
confusion  of  face,  now's  the  time.  What  have  you  clone  with 
my  son?" 

"  He  is  well,  and  you  may  see  him  some  time,  if  you  will 
compose  yourself,  but  not  now." 

"Where  is  he?" 

"  He  is  safe." 

"Is  he  here?" 

"Wherever  he  is,  you  will  not  see  him  till  you  hare 
promised  to  leave  him  entirely  under  my  care  and  protection, 
and  to  let  me  take  him  away  whenever  and  wherever  I  please, 
if  I  should  hereafter  judge  it  necessary  to  remove  him  again. 
But  we  will  talk  of  that  to-morrow:  you  must  be  quiet 
now." 

"  No,  let  me  see  him  now.    I  promise,  if  it  must  be  so." 

"No » 

"  I  swear  it,  as  God  is  in  heaven !    Now  then,  let  zre  see 
him." 
k  "  But  I  cannot  trust  your  oaths  anJ  promises  :  I  must  have 


522  THE  TENANT 

A  written  agreement,  and  you  must  sign  it  in  presence  of  a 
witness — but  not  to-day,  to-morrow." 

"  No,  to-day — now,"  persisted  he  :  and  he  was  in  such  a 
state  of  feverish  excitement,  and  so  bent  upon  the  immediate 
gratification  of  his  wish,  that  I  thought  it  better  to  grant  it  at 
once,  as  I  saw  he  would  not  rest  till  I  did.  But  I  was  deter- 
mined my  son's  interest  should  not  be  forgotten  ;  and  having 
clearly  written  out  the  promise  I  wished  Mr.  Huntingdon  to 
give  upon  a  slip  of  paper,  I  deliberately  read  it  over  to  him,  and 
made  him  sign  it  in  the  presence  of  Rachel.  He  begged  I 
would  not  insist  upon  this  :  it  was  a  useless  exposure  of  my 
want  of  faith  in  his  word  to  the  servant.  I  told  him  I  was 
sorry,  but  since  he  had  forfeited  my  confidence,  he  must  take 
the  consequence.  He  next  pleaded  inability  to  hold  the  pen. 
"Then  we  must  wait  until  you  can  hold  it,"  said  I.  Upon 
which  he  said  he  would  try  ;  but  then  he  could  not  see  to 
write.  I  placed  my  finger  where  the  signature  was  to  be, 
and  told  him  he  might  write  his  name  in  the  dark,  if  he  only 
knew  where  to  put  it.  But  he  had  not  power  to  form  the 
letters.  "  In  that  case,  you  must  be  too  ill  to  see  the  child," 
said  I ;  and  finding  me  inexorable,  he  at  length  managed  to 
ratify  the  agreement ;  and  I  bade  Rachel  send  the  boy. 

All  this  may  strike  you  as  harsh,  but  I  felt  I  must  not  lose 
my  present  advantage,  and  my  son's  future  welfare  should  riot 
be  sacrificed  to  any  mistaken  tenderness  for  this  man's 
feelings.  Little  Arthur  had  not  forgotten  his  father,  but 
thirteen  months  of  absence,  during  which  he  had  seldom  been 
permitted  to  hear  a  word  about  him,  or  hardly  to  whisper  his 
name,  had  rendered  him  somewhat  shy ;  and  when  he  was 
ushered  into  the  darkened  room  where  the  sick  man  lay,  so 
altered  from  his  former  self,  with  fiercely-flushed  face  and 
wildly-gleaming-  eyes — he  instinctively  clung  to  me,  and  stood 
looking  on  his  father  with  a  countenance  expressive  of  far 
more  awe  than  pleasure. 

"  Come  here,  Arthur,"  said  the  latter,  extending  his  hand 
towards  him.  The  child  went,  and  timidly  touched  that 
burning  hand,  but  almost  started  in  alarm,  when  his  father 
suddenly  clutched  his  arm  and  drew  him  nearer  to  his  side. 

"Do  you  know  me?"  asked  Mr.  Huntingdon,  intently 
Verusing  his  features. 

"Yes" 

"Who  am  I?" 

11  Papa." 

"  Are  you  glad  to  see  me  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  You're  not  I"  replied  the  disappointed  parent,  relaxing hia 
bold,  and  darting  a  vindictive  glance  at  me. 


OF   WILDFKIX    HALL.  32$ 

Arthur,  thus  released,  crept  back  to  me,  and  put  his  hand  in 
mine.  His  father  swore  I  had  made  the  child  hate  him,  and 
abused  and  cursed  me  bitterly.  The  instant  he  began  T  sent 
our  son  out  of  the  room  ;  and  when  he  paused  to  breathe,  I 
calmly  assured  him  that  he  was  entirely  mistaken ;  I  had 
never  once  attempted  to  prejudice  his  child  against  him. 

"  I  did  indeed  desire  him  to  forget  you,"  I  said,  "  and 
especially  to  forget  the  lessons  you  taught  him ;  and  for  that 
cause,  and  to  lessen  the  danger  of  discovery,  I  own  I  have 
generally  discouraged  his  inclination  to  talk  about  you ;  but 
no  one  can  blame  me  for  that,  I  think." 

The  invalid  only  replied  by  groaning  aloud,  and  rolling  his 
head  on  a  pillow  in  a  paroxjrsm  of  impatience. 

"  I  am  in  hell,  already  !"  cried  he.  "  This  cursed  thirst  is 
burning  my  heart  to  ashes  !  Will  nobody " 

Before  he  could  finish  the  sentence,  I  had  poured  out  a 
glass  of  some  acidulated,  cooling  drink  that  was  on  the  table, 
and  brought  it  to  him.  He  drank  it  greedily,  but  muttered, 
as  I  took  away  the  glass. — 

"  I  suppose  you're  heaping  coals  of  fire  on  my  head — you 
think." 

Not  noticing  this  speech,  I  asked  if  there  was  anything  else 
I  could  do  for  him. 

"Yes;  I'll  give  you  another  opportunity  of  showing  your 
Christian  magnanimity,"  sneered  he : — "set  my  pillow  straight, 
— and  these  confounded  bed-clothes."  I  did  so.  "  There — 
now  get  me  another  glass  of  that  slop."  I  complied.  "This 
is  delightful !  isn't  it?"  said  he,  with  a  malicious  grin,  as  I 
held  it  to  his  lips — "you  never  hoped  for  such  a  glorious 
opportunity  ?  " 

"Now,  shall  I  stay  with  you?"  said  T,  as  I  replaced  the 
glass  on  the  table— '-or  will  you  be  more  quiet  if  I  go  and 
send  the  nurse?" 

"Oh,  yes,  you're  wondrous  gentle  and  obliging!  —  But 
you've  driven  me  mad  with  it  all ! "  responded  he,  with  an 
impatient  toss. 

"  I'll  leave  you,  then,"  said  I;  and  I  withdrew,  and  did  not 
trouble  him  with  my  presence  again  that  day,  except  for  a 
r.)inute  or  two  at  a  time,  just  to  see  how  he  was  and  what  he 
wanted. 

Next  morning,  the  doctor  ordered  him  to  be  bled  ;  and  after 
that,  he  was  more  subdued  and  tranquil.  1  passed  half  the 
day  in  his  room  at  different  interval?.  My  presence  did  not 
appear  to  agitate  or  irritate  him  as  before,  and  he  accepted 
my  services  quietly,  without  any  bitter  remarks — indeed  he 
scarcely  spoke  at  all,  except  to  make  known  his  wants,  and 
hardly  then.  But  on  the  morrow — that  is,  to  ciay — ia  pro- 


321  THE  TENANT 

portion  as  he  recovered  from  the  state  of  exhaustion  and 
stupefaction — his  ill-nature  appeared  to  revive. 

"  Oh,  this  sweet  revenge  !"  cried  he,  when  I  had  been 
doing  all  I  could  to  make  him  comfortable  and  to  remedy  the 
carelessness  of  his  nurse.  "  And  you  can  enjoy  it  with  such 
a  quiet  conscience  too,  because  it's  all  in  the  way  of  duty." 

**  It  is  well  for  me  that  I  am  doing  my  duty,"  said  I,  with 
a  bitterness  I  could  not  repress,  "  for  it  is  the  only  comfort  I 
have  ;  and  the  satisfaction  of  my  own  conscience,  it  seems,  is 
the  only  reward  I  need  look  for  !" 

He  looked  rather  surprised  at  the  earnestness  of  my 
manner. 

"  What  reward  did  you  look  for?"  he  asked. 

u  You  will  think  me  a  liar  if  I  tell  you — but  I  did  hope  to 
benefit  you :  as  well  to  better  your  mind,  as  to  alleviate  your 
present  sufferings ;  but  it  appears  I  am  to  do  neither — your 
own  bad  spirit  will  not  let  me.  As  far  as  you  are  concerned, 
1  have  sacrificed  my  own  feelings,  and  all  the  little  eartbly 
comfort  that  was  left  me,  to  no  purpose  : — and  every  little 
thing  I  do  for  you  is  ascribed  to  self-righteous  malice  and 
refined  revenge ! " 

"  It's  all  very  fine,  I  dare  say,"  said  he,  eyeing  me  with 
stupid  amazement ;  "  and  of  course  I  ought  to  be  melted  to 
tears  of  penitence  and  admiration  at  the  sight  of  so  much 
generosity  and  superhuman  goodness, — but  you  sec  I  can't 
manage  it.  However,  pray  do  me  all  the  good  you  can,  if 
you  do  really  find  any  pleasure  in  it ;  for  you  perceive  I  am 
almost  as  miserable  just  now  as  you  need  wish  to  see  me. 
Since  you  came,  I  confess,  I  have  had  better  attendance  than 
before,  for  these  wretches  neglected  me  shamefully,  and  all 
my  old  friends  seem  to  have  fairly  forsaken  me.  I've  had  a 
dreadful  time  of  it,  I  assure  you :  I  sometimes  thought  I 
should  have  died — do  you  think  there's  any  chance  ?  " 

"  There's  always  a  chance  of  death  ;  and  it  is  always  well 
to  live  with  such  a  chance  in  view." 

"  Yes,  yes — but  do  you  think  there's  any  likelihood  that 
this  illness  will  have  a  fatal  termination?" 

"  I  cannot  tell ;  but,  supposing  it  should,  how  are  you  pre- 
pared to  meet  the  event?" 

"  Why  the  doctor  told  me  I  wasn't  to  think  about  it,  for  I 
was  sure  to  get  better,  if  I  stuck  to  his  regimen  and  pre- 
scriptions." 

"  I  hope  you  may,  Arthur ;  but  neither  the  doctor  nor  I  can 
speak  with  certainty  in  such  a  case  ;  there  is  internal  injury, 
and  it  is  difficult  to' know  to  what  extent." 

"There  now  !  you  want  to  scare  me  to  death." 

"  No  j  but  I  don't  want  to  lull  you  to  false  security.    If  a 


OP    \VILDFELL  IIALU  325 

consciousness  of  the  uncertainty  of  life  can  dispose  you  to 
serious  and  useful  thoughts,  I  would  not  deprive  you  of  the 
benefit  of  such  reflections,  whether  you  do  eventually  recover 
or  not.  Does  the  idea  of  death  appal  you  very  much  ?  " 

"It's  just  the  only  thing  I  can't  bear  to  think  of;  so  if 
you've  any " 

"  But  it  must  come  some  time,"  interrupted  I ;  "  and  if  it 
be  years  hence,  it  will  as  certainly  overtake  you  as  if  it  came 
to-day,— and  no  doubt  be  as  unwelcome  then  as  now,  unless 
you " 

u  Oh,  hang  it !  don't  torment  me  with  your  preachments 
now,  unless  you  want  to  kill  me  outright — I  can't  stand  it,  1 
tell  you,  I've  sufferings  enough  without  that.  If  you  think 
there's  danger,  save  me  from  it ;  and  then,  in  gratitude,  I'll 
hear  whatever  you  like  to  say." 

I  accordingly  dropped  the  unwelcome  topic.  And  now, 
Frederick,  I  think  I  may  bring  my  letter  to  a  close.  From 
these  details  you  may  form  your  own  judgment  of  the  state 
of  my  patient,  and  of  my  own  position  and  future  prospects.  Let 
me  hear  from  you  soon,  and  I  will  write  again  to  tell  you  how 
we  get  on  ;  but  now  that  my  presence  is  tolerated,  and  even 
required,  in  the  sick-room,  I  shall  have  but  little  time  to 
spare  between  my  husband  and  my  son, — for  I  must  not 
entirely  neglect  the  latter :  it  would  not  do  to  keep  him  always 
with  Rachel,  and  I  dare  not  leave  him  for  a  moment  with  any 
of  the  other  servants,  or  suffer  him  to  be  alone,  lest  he  should 
meet  them.  If  his  lather  get  worse,  I  shall  ask  Esther  liar- 
grave  to  take  charge  of  him  for  a  time,  till  I  have  re-organized 
the  household  at  least ;  but  I  greatly  prefer  keeping  him 
under  my  own  eye. 

I  find  myself  in  rather  a  singular  position :  I  am  exerting 
my  utmost  endeavours  to  promote  the  recovery  and  reforma- 
tion of  my  husband,  and  if  I  succeed,  what  shall  I  do  ?  My 
duty,  of  course, — but  how? — No  matter;  lean  perform  the 
task  that  is  before  me  now,  and  God  will  give  me  strength  to 
do  whatever  he  requires  hereafter. — Good  bye,  dear  Frederick. 

HELEN  HUNTINGDON. 

"What  do  you  think  of  it?"  said  Lawrence,  as  I  silently 
refolded  the  letter. 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  returned  I,  "  that  she  is  casting  her 
pearls  before  swine.  May  they  be  satisfied  with  trampling 
them  under  their  feet,  and  not  turn  again  and  rend  her  !  But 
I  shall  say  no  more  against  her :  I  see  that  she  was  actuated 
by  the  best  and  noblest  motives  in  what  she  has  done  ;  and  if 
the  act  is  not  a  wise  one,  may  Heaven  protect  her  from  its  con- 
»?quences  !  May  I  keep  this  letter,  Lawrence  ? — you  see  she 


826  THE  TENANT 

has  never  once  mentioned  me  throughout  —or  made  the  most 
distant  allusion  to  me ;  therefore,  there  can  be  no  impro- 
priety or  harm  in  it." 

"  And,  therefore,  why  should  you  wish  to  keep  it?" 

"  Were  not  these  characters  written  by  her  hand  ?  and  were 
not  these  words  conceived  in  her  mind,  and  many  of  them 
spoken  by  her  lips  ?  " 

"Well,"  said  he.  And  so  I  kept  it;  otherwise,  Hal- 
ford,  you  could  never  have  become  so  thoroughly  acquainted 
with  its  contents. 

"  And  when  you  write,"  said  I,  "  will  you  have  the  good- 
ness to  ask  her  if  I  may  be  permitted  to  enlighten  my  mother 
and  sister  on  her  real  history  and  circumstance,  just  so  far  as 
is  necessary  to  make  the  neighbourhood  sensible  of  the  shame- 
ful injustice  they  have  done  her  ?  I  want  no  tender  mes- 
sages, but  just  ask  her  that,  and  tell  her  it  is  the  greatest 
favour  she  could  do  me ;  and  tell  her — no,  nothing  more. — 
You  see  I  know  the  address,  and  I  might  write  to  her  myself, 
but  I  am  so  virtuous  as  to  refrain." 

44  Well,  I'll  do  this  for  you,  Markham," 

"And  as  soon  as  you  receive  an  answer,  you'll  let  me 
know?" 

"  If  all  be  well,  I'll  come  myself  and  tell  you  immediately." 


CHAPTER  XLVIII. 

FIVE  or  six  days  after  this,  Mr.  Lawrence  paid  us  the  honour 
of  a  call ;  and  when  he  and  I  were  alone  together — which  I 
contrived  as  soon  as  possible,  by  bringing  him  out  to  look  at 
my  cornstacks — he  showed  me  another  letter  from  his  sister. 
This  one  he  was  quite  willing  to  submit  to  my  longing  gaze  ; 
he  thought,  I  suppose,  it  would  do  me  good.  The  only  answer 
it  gave  to  my  message  was  this  : — 

"  Mr.  Markham  is  at  liberty  to  make  such  revelations  con- 
cerning me  as  he  judges  necessary.  He  will  know  that  I 
should  wish  but  little  to  be  said  on  the  subject.  I  hope  he  is 
well ;  but  tell  him  he  must  not  think  of  me." 

I  can  give  you  a  few  extracts  from  the  rest  of  the  letter,  for 
I  was  permitted  to  keep  this  also — perhaps,  as  an  antidote  to 
all  pernicious  hopes  and  fancies. 

He  is  decidedly  better,  but  very  low  from  the  depressing 
effects  of  his  severe  illness  and  the  strict  regimen  he  is  obliged 


to  observe — so  opposite  to  all  his  previous  habits.     It  is 
piorable  to  see  how  completely  his  past  life  has  degenerated 
uis  once  noble  constitution,  and  vitiated  the  whole  system  of 


OK   WILDFELL  HALL  SJ 

his  organization.  But  the  doctor  says  he  may  now  be  con- 
sidered out  of  danger,  if  he  will  only  continue  to  observe  the 
necessary  restrictions.  Some  stimulating  cordials  he  must 
have,  but  they  should  be  judiciously  diluted  and  sparingly 
used  ;  and  I  find  it  very  difficult  to  keep  him  to  this.  At  first, 
his  extreme  dread  of  death  rendered  the  task  an  easy  one ; 
but  in  proportion  as  he  feels  his  acute  suffering  abating,  and 
sees  the  danger  receding,  the  more  intractable  he  becomes. 
Now,  also,  his  appetite  for  food  is  beginning  to  return ;  and 
here,  too,  his  long  habits  of  self-indulgence  are  greatly  against 
him.  I  watch  and  restrain  him  as  well  as  I  can,  and  often 
get  bitterly  abused  for  my  rigid  severity  ;  and  sometimes  he 
contrives  to  elude  my  vigilance,  and  sometimes  acts  in  opposi- 
tion to  my  will.  But  he  is  now  so  completely  reconciled  to 
my  attendance  in  general  that  he  is  never  satisfied  when  I  am 
not  by  his  side.  I  am  obliged  to  be  a  little  stiff  with  him 
sometimes,  or  he  would  make  a  complete  slave  of  me  ;  and  I 
know  it  would  be  unpardonable  weakness  to  give  up  all  other 
interests  for  him.  I  have  the  servants  to  overlook,  and  my 
little  Arthur  to  attend  to,— and  my  own  health  too,  all  of 
which  would  be  entirely  neglected  were  I  to  satisfy  his  exor- 
bitant demands.  I  do  not  generally  sit  up  at  night,  for  I  think 
the  nurse  who  has  made  it  her  business,  is  better  qualified  for 
such  undertakings  than  I  am ;  but  still,  an  unbroken  night's 
rest  is  what  I  but  seldom  enjoy,  and  never  can  venture  to 
reckon  upon ;  for  my  patient  makes  no  scruple  of  calling  me 
up  at  any  hour  when  his  wants  or  his  fancies  require  my  pre- 
sence. But  he  is  manifestly  afraid  of  my  displeasure  ;  and  if 
at  one  time  he  tries  my  patience  by  his  unreasonable  exac- 
tions, and  fretful  complaints  and  reproaches,  at  another  he 
depresses  me  by  his  abject  submission  and  deprecatory  self- 
abasement  when  he  fears  he  has  gone  too  far.  But  all  this  I 
can  readily  pardon  ;  I  know  it  is  chiefly  the  result  of  his  en- 
feebled frame  and  disordered  nerves — what  annoys  me  the 
most,  is  his  occasional  attempts  at  affectionate  fondness  that  I 
can  neither  credit  nor  return ;  not  that  I  hate  him  :  his  suffer- 
ings and  my  own  laborious  care  have  given  him  some  claim  to 
my  regard — to  my  affection  even,  if  he  would  only  be  quiet 
and  sincere,  and  content  to  let  things  remain  as  they  are  ;  but 
the  more  he  tries  to  conciliate  me,  the  more  I  shrink  from  him 
and  from  the  future. 

"  Helen,  what  do  you  mean  to  do  when  I  get  well  ? "  he 
asked  this  morning.  "  Will  you  run  away  again  ?" 

"  It  entirely  depends  upon  your  own  conduct." 

«  Oh,  I'll  be  very  good."     " 

"  But  if  I  find  it  necessary  to  leave  you,  Arthur,  I  shall  not 


828  THE   TENANT 

'run  away :'  you  know  I  have  your  own  promise  that  I  may 
go  whenever  I  please,  and  take  my  son  with  me." 

"  Oh,  but  you  shall  have  no  cause."  And  then  followed  a 
rariety  of  professions,  which  I  rather  coldly  checked. 

"  Will  you  not  forgive  me,  then  ?  "  said  he. 

"  Yes, — I  have  forgiven  you  ;  but  I  know  you  cannot  love 
me  as  you  once  did — and  I  should  be  very  sorry  if  you  were 
to,  for  I  could  not  pretend  to  return  it :  so  let  us  drop  the  sub- 
ject, and  never  recur  to  it  again.     By  what  I  have  done  for 
Sm,  you  may  judge  of  what  I  will  do — if  it  be  not  incompati- 
e  with  the  higher  duty  I  owe  to  my  son  (higher,  because  he 
never  forfeited  nis  claims,  and  because  I  hope  to  do  more  good 
to  him  than  I  can  ever  do  to  you)  ;  and  if  you  wish  me  to  feel 
kindly  towards  you,  it  is  deeds  not  words  which  must  purchase 
viy  affection  and  esteem." 

His  sole  reply  to  this  was  a  slight  grimace,  and  a  scarcely 
perceptible  shrug.  Alas,  unhappy  man !  words,  with  him, 
are  so  much  cheaper  than  deeds ;  it  was  as  if  I  had  said, 
"  Pounds,  not  pence,  must  buy  the  article  you  want."  And 
then  he  sighed  a  querulous,  self-commiserating  sigh,  as  if  in 
pure  regret  that  he,  the  loved  and  courted  of  so  many  worship- 
pers, should  be  now  abandoned  to  the  mercy  of  a  harsh,  ex 
acting,  cold-hearted  woman  like  that,  and  even  glad  of  what 
kindness  she  chose  to  bestow. 

"  It's  a  pity,  isn't  it  ?"  said  I ;  and  whether  I  rightly  divined 
his  musings  or  not,  the  observation  chimed  in  with  his  thoughts, 
for  he  answered — "  It  can't  be  helped,"  with  a  rueful  smile  at 
my  penetration. 

***** 

I  have  seen  Esther  Hargrave  twice.  She  is  a  charming 
creature,  but  her  blithe  spirit  is  almost  broken,  and  her  sweet 
temper  almost  spoiled,  by  the  still  unremitting  persecutions  of 
her  mother  in  behalf  of  her  rejected  suitor — not  violent,  but 
wearisome  and  unremitting  like  a  continual  dropping.  The 
unnatural  parent  seems  determined  to  make  her  daughter's 
life  a  burden,  if  she  will  not  yield  to  her  desires. 

"  Mamma  does  all  she  can,"  said  she,  "  to  make  me  feel  my- 
self a  burden  and  incumbrance  to  the  family,  and  the  most 
ungrateful,  selfish,  and  undutiful  daughter  that  ever  was  born ; 
and  Walter,  too,  is  as  stern  and  cold  and  haughty  as  if  he 
hated  me  outright.  I  believe  I  should  have  yielded  at  once  if 
I  had  known,  from  the  beginning,  how  much  resistance  would 
have  cost  me  ;  but  now,  for  very  obstinacy's  sake,  I  will  stand 

DUtl" 

"A  bad  motive  for  a  good  resolve,"  I  answered.  "But, 
lowever,  I  know  you  have  better  motives,  really,  for  your 


OF  WILDFELL  HALL.  3;><j 

perseverance:  and  I  counsel  you  to  keep  them  still  in 
view." 

"  Trust  me  I  will.  I  threaten  mamma  sometimes,  that  I'll 
run  away,  and  disgrace  the  family  by  earning  my  own  liveli- 
hood, if  she  torments  me  any  more  ;  and  then  that  frightens 
her  a  little.  But  I  will  do  it,  in  good  earnest,  if  they  don't 
mind." 

"  Be  quiet  and  patient  awhile,"  said  I,  "  and  better  times 
will  come." 

Poor  girl !  I  wish  somebody  that  was  worthy  to  possess  her 
would  come  and  take  her  away — don't  you,  Frederick  ? 

If  the  perusal  of  this  letter  filled  me  with  dismay  for  Helen's 
future  life  and  mine,  there  was  one  great  source  of  consola- 
tion :  it  was  now  in  my  power  to  clear  her  name  from  every 
foul  aspersion.  The  Millwards  and  the  Wilsons  should  see 
with  their  own  eyes  the  bright  sun  bursting  from  the  cloud — 
and  they  should  be  scorched  and  dazzled  by  its  beams ; — and 
my  own  friends  too  should  see  it — they  whose  suspicions  had 
been  such  gall  and  wormwood  to  my  soul.  To  effect  this,  I 
had  only  to  drop  the  seed  into  the  ground,  and  it  would  soon 
become  a  stately,  branching  herb  :  a  few  words  to  my  mother 
and  sister,  I  knew,  would  suffice  to  spread  the  news  through- 
out the  whole  neighbourhood,  without  any  further  exertion  on 
my  part. 

Rose  was  delighted;  and  as  soon  as  I  had  told  her  all  I 
thought  proper — which  was  all  I  affected  to  know — she  flew 
ft'lth  alacrity  to  put  on  her  bonnet  and  shawl,  and  hasten  to 
carry  the  glad  tidings  to  the  Millwards  and  Wilsons — glad 
tidings,  I  suspect,  to  none  but  herself  and  Mary  Millward — 
that  steady,  sensible  girl,  whose  sterling  worth  had  been  so 
quickly  perceived  and  duly  valued  by  the  supposed  Mrs. 
Graham,  in  spite  of  her  plain  outside ;  and  who,  on  her  part, 
had  been  better  able  to  see  and  appreciate  that  lady's  true 
character  and  qualities  than  the  brightest  genius  among  them. 

As  I  may  never  have  occasion  to  mention  her  again,  I  may 
as  well  tell  you  here,  that  she  was  at  this  time  privately 
engaged  to  Richard  Wilson — a  secret,  I  believe,  to  every 
one  but  themselves.  That  worthy  student  was  now  at 
Cambridge,  where  his  most  exemplary  conduct  and  his 
diligent  perseverance  in  the  pursuit  of  learning  carried  him 
safely  through,  and  eventually  brought  him  with  hard-earned 
honours,  and  an  untarnished  reputation,  to  the  close  of  his 
collegiate  career.  In  due  time,  he  became  Mr.  Millward's 
first  and  only  curate — for  that  gentleman's  declining  years 
forced  him  at  last  to  acknowledge  that  the  duties  of  his 
jxtensive  parish  were  a  little  too  much  for  those  vaunted 


330  T 

energies  which  he  was  wont  to  boast  over  his  younger  and 
less  active  brethren  of  the  cloth.  This  was  what  the  "patient, 
faithful  lovers  had  privately  planned,  and  quietly  waited  for 
years  ago;  and  in  due  time  they  were  united,  to  the 
astonishment  of  the  little  world  they  lived  in,  that  had  long 
since  declared  them  both  born  to  single  blessedness ;  affirm- 
ing it  impossible  that  the  pale,  retiring  bookworm  should 
ever  summon  courage  to  seek  a  wife,  or  be  able  to  obtain 
one  if  he  did,  and  equally  impossible  that  the  plain  looking, 
plain  dealing,  unattractive,  unconciliating  Miss  Millward 
should  ever  find  a  husband. 

They  still  continued  to  live  at  the  vicarage,  the  lady  dividing 
her  time  between  her  father,  her  husband,  and  their  poor 
parishioners, — and  subsequently  her  rising  family ;  and  now 
that  the  Reverend  Michael  Millward  has  been  gathered  to  hig 
fathers,  full  of  years  and  honours,  the  Rererend  Edward 
Wilson  has  succeeded  him  to  the  vicarage  of  Lindenhope, 
greatly  to  the  satisfaction  of  its  inhabitants,  who  had  so  long 
tried  and  fully  proved  his  merits,  and  those  of  his  excellent 
and  well-loved  partner. 

If  you  are  interested  in  the  after-fate  of  that  lady's  sister,  I 
can  only  tell  you — what  perhaps  you  have  heard  from  another 
quarter — that  some  twelve  or  thirteen  years  ago  she  relieved 
the  happy  couple  of  her  presence  by  marrying  a  wealthy 

tradesman  of  L ;  and  I  don't  envy  him  his  bargain.  I 

fear  she  leads  him  a  rather  uncomfortable  life,  though, 
happily,  he  is  too  dull  to  perceive  the  extent  of  his  mis- 
fortune. I  have  little  enough  to  do  with  her  myself:  we 
have  not  met  for  many  years ;  but,  I  am  well  assured,  she 
has  not  yet  forgotten  or  forgiven  either  her  former  lover,  or 
the  lady  whose  superior  qualities  first  opened  his  eyes  to  the 
folly  of  his  boyish  attachment. 

As  for  Richard  Wilson's  sister,  she,  having  been  wholly 
unable  to  re-capture  Mr.  Lawrence,  or  obtain  any  partner 
rich  and  elegant  enough  to  suit  her  ideas  of  what  the  husband 
of  Jane  Wilson  ought  to  be,  is  yet  in  single  blessedness. 
Shortly  after  the  death  of  her  mother,  she  withdrew  the  light 
of  her  presence  from  Ryecote  Farm,  finding  it  impossible  any 
longer  to  endure  the  rough  manners  and  unsophisticated 
habits  of  her  honest  brother  Robert,  and  his  worthy  wile, 
or  the  idea  of  being  identified  with  such  vulgar  people  in 

the  eyes  of  the  world, — and  took  lodgings  in the  county 

town,  where  she  lived,  and  still  lives,  I  suppose,  in  a  kind  of 
closefisted,  cold,  uncomfortable  gentility,  doing  no  good  to 
others,  and  but  little  to  herself;  spending  her  days  in  fancy- 
work  and  scandal ;  referring  frequently  to  her  "  brother  the 
view,"  and  her  "  sister,  the  vicar's  lady,"  but  never  to  her 


OF   \\il.lil •i:i.L   HALL.  331 

brother,  the  farmer,  and  her  sister,  the  farmer's  wife  ;  seeing 
as  much  company  as  she  can  without  too  much  expense,  but 
loving  no  one  and  beloved  by  none — a  cold-hearted,  super- 
cilious, keenly,  insidiously  censorious  old  maid. 


CHAPTER  XLIX. 

THOUGH  Mr.  Lawrence's  health  was  now  quite  re-established, 
my  visits  to  Wood  ford  were  as  unremitting  as  ever  ;  though 
often  less  protracted  than  before.  We  seldom  talked  about 
Mrs.  Huntingdon  ;  but  yet  we  never  met  without  mentioning 
her,  for  I  never  sought  his  conipany  but  with  the  hope  of 
hearing  something  about  her,  and  he  never  sought  mine  at 
all,  because  he  saw  me  often  enough  without.  But  I  always 
began  to  talk  of  other  things,  and  waited  first  to  see  if  he 
would  introduce  the  subject.  If  he  did  not,  I  would  casually 
ask,  "  Have  you  heard  from  your  sister  lately?"  If  he  said 
"  No,"  the  matter  was  dropped :  if  he  said  "  Yes,"  I  would 
venture  to  inquire,  "  How  is  she?"  but  never  "  How  is  her 
husband  ?"  though  I  might  be  burning  to  know ;  because  I 
had  not  the  hypocrisy  to  profess  any  anxiety  for  his  recovery, 
and  I  had  not  the  face  to  express  any  desire  for  a  contrary 
result.  Had  I  any  such  desire  ? — I  fear  I  must  plead  guilty  ; 
but  since  you  have  heard  my  confession,  you  must  hear  my 
justification  as  well — a  few  of  the  excuses,  at  least,  wherewith 
I  sought  to  pacify  my  own  accusing  conscience. 

In  the  first  place,  you  see  his  life  did  harm  to  others,  and 
evidently  no  good  to  himself;  and  though  I  wished  it  to 
terminate,  I  would  not  have  hastened  its  close  if,  by  the  lifting 
of  a  finger,  I  could  have  done  so,  or  if  a  spirit  had  whispered 
in  my  ear  that  a  single  effort  of  the  will  would  be  enough, — 
unless,  indeed,  I  had  the  power  to  exchange  him  for  some 
other  victim  of  the  grave,  whose  life  might  be  of  service  to 
his  race,  and  whose  death  would  be  lamented  by  his  friends. 
But  was  there  any  harm  in  wishing  that,  among  the  many 
thousands  whose  souls  would  certainly  be  required  of  them 
before  the  year  was  over,  this  wretched  mortal  might  be  one  ? 
I  thought  not ;  and  therefore  I  wished  with  all  my  heart  that 
it  might  please  Heaven  to  remove  him  to  a  better  world,  or 
if  that  might  not  be,  still,  to  take  him  out  of  this ;  for  if  he 
were  unfit  to  answer  the  summons  now,  after  a  warning 
sickness,  and  with  such  an  angel  by  his  side,  it  seemed  but 
too  certain  that  he  never  would  be — that,  on  the  contrary, 
returning  health  would  bring  returning  lust  and  villany,  and 
*s  he  grew  more  certain  of  recovery,  more  accustomed  to  her 


832  THE  TENANT 

generous  goodness,  his  feelings  would  become  more  callous, 
nis  heart  more  flinty  and  impervious  to  her  persuasive 
arguments — but  God  knew  best.  Meantime,  however,  I 
could  not  but  be  anxious  for  the  result  of  his  decrees ;  know- 
ing, as  I  did,  that  (leaving  myself  entirely  out  of  the  question) 
however  Helen  might  feel  interested  in  her  husband's  welfare, 
however  she  might  deplore  his  fate,  still  while  he  lived  she 
must  be  miserable. 

A  fortnight  passed  away,  and  my  inquiries  were  always 
answered  in  the  negative.  At  length  a  welcome  u  yes  "  drew 
from  me  the  second  question.  Lawrence  divined  my  anxious 
thoughts,  and  appreciated  my  reserve.  I  feared,  at  first,  he 
was  going  lo  torture  me  by  unsatisfactory  replies,  and  either 
leave  me  quite  in  the  dark  concerning  what  I  wanted  to  know, 
or  force  me  to  drag  the  information  out  of  him,  morsel  by 
morsel,  by  direct  inquiries — "  and  serve  you  right,"  you  will 
say ;  but  he  was  more  merciful ;  and  in  a  little  while,  he  put 
his  sister's  letter  into  my  hand.  I  silently  read  it,  and  restored 
it  to  him  without  comment  or  remark.  This  mode  of  pro- 
cedure suited  him  so  well,  that  thereafter  he  always  pursued 
the  plan  of  showing  me  her  letters  at  once,  when  I  inquired 
after  her,  if  there  were  any  to  show — it  was  so  much  less 
trouble  than  to  tell  me  their  contents ;  and  I  received  such 
confidences  so  quietly  and  discreetly  that  he  was  never 
induced  to  discontinue  them. 

But  I  devoured  those  precious  letters  with  my  eyes,  and 
never  let  them  go  till  their  contents  were  stamped  upon  my 
mind ;  and  when  I  got  home,  the  most  important  passages 
were  entered  in  my  diary  among  the  remarkable  events  of  the 
day. 

The  first  of  these  communications  brought  intelligence  of  a 
serious  relapse  in  Mr.  Huntingdon's  illness,  entirely  the  result 
of  his  own  infatuation  in  persisting  in  the  indulgence  of  his 
appetite  for  stimulating  drink.  In  vain  had  she  remonstrated,  in 
vain  she  had  mingled  his  wine  with  water :  her  arguments  and 
entreaties  were  a  nuisance,  her  interference  was  an  insult  so 
intolerable,  that,  at  length,  on  finding  she  had  covertly  diluted 
the  pale  port  that  was  brought  him,  he  threw  the  bottle  out 
of  window,  swearing  he  would  not  be  cheated  like  a  baby, 
ordered  the  butler,  on  pain  of  instant  dismissal,  to  bring  a 
bottle  of  the  strongest  wine  in  the  cellar,  and  affirming  that 
he  should  have  been  well  long  ago  if  he  had  been  let  to  have 
his  own  way,  but  she  wanted  to  keen  him  weak  in  order  that 
she  might  have  him  under  her  thumb — but  by  the  Lord 
Uarry,  he  would  have  no  more  humbug — seized  a  glass  in  one 
hand  and  the  bottle  in  the  other,  and  never  rested  till  he 
had  drunk  it  dry.  Alarming  symptoms  were  the  immediate 


OF    WII.DFKU.   HALL.  353 

result  of  this  "  imprudence "  as  she  mildly  termed  it — • 
symptoms  which  had  rather  increased  than  diminished  since  ; 
and  this  was  the  cause  of  her  delay  in  writing  to  her  brother. 
Every  former  feature  of  his  malady  had  returned  with  aug- 
mented virulence  :  the  slight  external  wound,  half  healed, 
had  broken  out  afresh  ;  internal  inflammation  had  taken  place, 
which  might  terminate  fatally  if  not  soon  removed.  Of  course, 
the  wretched  sufferer's  temper  was  not  improved  by  this 
calamity — in  fact,  I  suspect  it  was  well  nigh  insupportable, 
though  his  kind  nurse  did  not  complain  ;  but  she  said  she  had 
been  obliged  at  last  to  give  her  son  in  charge  to  Esther 
Hargrave,  as  her  presence  was  so  constantly  required  in  the 
sick  room  that  she  could  not  possibly  attend  to  him  herself; 
and  though  the  child  had  begged  to  be  allowed  to  continue 
with  her  there,  and  to  help  her  to  nurse  his  papa,  and  though 
she  had  no  doubt  he  would  have  been  very  good  and  quiet, — 
she  could  not  think  of  subjecting  his  young  and  tender  feelings 
to  the  sight  of  so  much  suffering,  or  of  allowing  him  to 
witness  his  father's  impatience,  or  hear  the  dreadful  language 
he  was  wont  to  use  in  his  paroxysms  of  pain  or  irritation. 

"  The  latter,"  continued  she,  "  most  deeply  regrets  the  step 
that  has  occasioned  his  relapse, — but,  as  usual,  he  throws  the 
blame  upon  me.  If  I  had  reasoned  with  him  like  a  rational 
creature,  he  says,  it  never  would  have  happened ;  but  to  be 
treated  like  a  baby  or  a  fool,  was  enough  to  put  any  man  past 
his  patience,  and  drive  him  to  assert  his  independence  even  at 
the  sacrifice  of  his  own  interest — he  forgets  how  often  I  had 
reasoned  him  'past  his  patience'  before.  He  appears  to  be 
sensible  of  his  danger  ;  but  nothing  can  induce  him  to  behold 
it  in  the  proper  light.  The  other  night  while  I  was  waiting 
on  him,  and  just  as  I  had  brought  him  a  draught  to  assuage 
his  burning  thirst — he  observed,  with  a  return  of  his  former 
sarcastic  bitterness, — 

"  Yes,  you're  mighty  attentive  now  ! — I  suppose  there's 
nothing  you  wouldn't  do  for  me  now?" 

"  You  know,"  said  I,  a  little  surprised  at  his  manner,  "that 
I  am  willing  to  do  anything  I  can  to  relieve  you." 

"  Yes,  now,  my  immaculate  angel ;  but  when  once  you 
have  secured  your  reward,  and  find  yourself  safe  in  heaven, 
and  me  howling  in  hell-fire,  catch  you  lifting  a  finger  to  serve 
me  then  ! — No,  you'll  look  complacently  on,  and  not  so  much 
as  dip  the  tip  of  your  finger  in  water  to  cool  my  tongue !" 

u  If  so,  it  will  be  because  of  the  great  gulf  over  which  I 
cannot  pass  ;  and  if  I  could  look  complacently  on  in  such  a 
case,  it  would  be  only  from  the  assurance  that  you  were  being 
purified  from  your  sins,  and  fitted  to  enjoy  the  happiness  I 


SS4  THE   TKXAXT 

fait. — But  are  you  determined,  Arthur,  that  I  shall  not  meet 
you  in  heaven  ?  " 

"  Humph  1  What  should  I  do  there,  I  should  like  to 
know  ?  " 

"  Indeed,  I  cannot  tell ;  and  I  fear  it  is  too  certain  that 
your  tastes  and  feelings  must  be  widely  altered  before  you  can 
have  any  enjoyment  there.  But  do  you  prefer  sinking, 
without  an  effort,  into  the  state  of  torment  you  picture  to 
yourself?" 

"  Oh,  it's  all  a  fable,"  said  he,  contemptuously. 

"  Are  you  sure,  Arthur  ?  are  you  quite  sure  V  Because  if 
there  is  any  doubt,  and  if  you  should  find  yourself  mistaken 
after  all,  when  it  is  too  late  to  turn " 

"It  would  be  rather  awkward  to  be  sure,"  said  he  ;  "but 
don't  bother  me  now — I'm  not  going  to  die  yet.  I  can't  and 
won't,"  he  added  vehemently,  as  if  suddenly  struck  with  the 
appalling  aspect  of  that  terrible  event.  "Helen,  you  must  save 
me  !"  And  he  earnestly  seized  my  hand,  and  looked  into  my 
face  with  such  imploring  eagerness  that  my  heart  bled  for  him, 
and  I  could  not  speak  for  tears. 

*  *  *  *  # 

The  next  letter  brought  intelligence  that  the  malady  was 
fast  increasing ;  and  the  poor  sufferer's  horror  of  death  was 
still  more  distressing  than  his  impatience  of  bodily  pain.  All 
his  friends  had  not  forsaken  him,  for  Mr.  Hattersley,  hearing 
of  his  danger,  had  come  to  see  him  from  his  distant  home  in 
the  north.  His  wife  had  accompanied  him,  as  much  for  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  her  dear  friend  from  whom  she  had  been 
parted  so  long,  as  to  visit  her  mother  and  sister. 

Mrs.  Huntingdon  expressed  herself  glad  to  see  Milicent 
once  more,  and  pleased  to  behold  her  so  happy  and  well. 
She  is  now  at  the  Grove,  continued  the  letter,  but  she 
often  calls  to  see  me.  Mr.  Hattersley  spends  much  of  his 
time  at  Arthur's  bed-side.  With  more  good  feeling  than  1 
gave  him  credit  for,  he  evinces  considerable  sympathy  for  his 
unhappy  friend,  and  is  far  more  willing  than  able  to  comfort 
him.  Sometimes  he  tries  to  joke  and  laugh  with  him,  but  that 
will  not  do  :  sometimes  he  endeavours  to  cheer  him  with  talk 
about  old  times  ;  and  this  at  one  time  may  serve  to  divert  the 
sufferer  from  his  own  sad  thoughts  ;  at  another,  it  will  only 
plunge  him  into  deeper  melancholy  than  before  ;  and  then 
Ilattersley  is  confounded,  and  knows  not  what  to  say, — unless 
it  be  a  timid  suggestion  that  the  clergyman  might  be  sent  for. 
But  Arthur  will  never  consent  to  that  r  he  knows  he  has  re- 
jected the  clergyman's  well-meant  admonitions  with  scoffing 
levity  at  other  times,  and  cannot  dream  of  turning  to  l"*n  for 
consolation  now. 


OF   WILDFELL   HALL.  835 

Mr.  Hattersley  sometimes  offers  his  services  instead  ol 
mine,  but  Arthur  will  not  let  me  go  :  that  strange  whim  still 
increases,  as  his  strength  declines — the  fantj  to  have  me 
always  by  his  side.  I  hardly  ever  leave  him,  except  to  go 
into  the  next  room,  where  I  sometimes  snatch  an  hour  or  so 
of  sleep  when  he  is  quiet ;  but  even  then,  the  door  is  left 
ajar  that  he  may  know  me  to  be  within  call.  I  am  with  him 
now,  while  I  write ;  and  I  fear  my  occupation  annoys  him ; 
though  I  frequently  break  off  to  attend  to  him,  and  though  Mr. 
Hattersley  is  also  by  his  side.  That  gentleman  came,  as  he 
said,  to  beg  a  holiday  for  me,  that  I  might  have  .a  run  in  the 
park,  this  fine,  frosty  morning,  with  Milicent,  and  Esther, 
and  little  Arthur,  whom  he  had  driven  over  to  see  me.  Our 
poor  invalid  evidently  felt  it  a  heartless  proposition,  and 
would  have  felt  it  still  more  heartless  in  me  to  accede  to  it.  I 
therefore  said  I  would  only  go  and  speak  to  them  a  minute, 
and  then  come  back.  I  did  but  exchange  a  few  words  with 
them,  just  outside  the  portico — inhaling  the  fresh,  bracing  air 
as  I  stood — and  then,  resisting  the  earnest  and  eloquent  en- 
treaties of  all  three  to  stay  a  little  longer,  and  join  them  in  a 
walk  round  the  garden,  I  tore  myself  away  and  returned  to 
my  patient.  I  had  not  been  absent  five  minutes,  but  he  re- 
proached me  bitterly  for  my  levity  and  neglect.  His  friend 
espoused  my  cause  : — 

"Nay,  nay,  Huntingdon,"  said  he,  "you're  too  hard  upon 
her — she  must  have  food  and  sleep,  and  a  mouthful  of  fresh 
air  now  and  then,  or  she  can't  stand  it  I  tell  you.  Look  at 
her,  man,  she's  worn  to  a  shadow  already." 

"  What  are  her  sufferings  to  mine  ?"  said  the  poor  invalid. 
"  You  don't  grudge  me  these  attentions,  do  you,  Helen?" 

"  No,  Arthur,  if  I  could  really  serve  you  by  them.  I 
would  give  my  life  to  save  you,  if  I  might." 

"  Would  you,  indeed?— No !" 

"  Most  willingly,  I  would." 

"  Ah  !  that's  because  you  think  yourself  more  fit  to  die !" 

There  was  a  painful  pause.  He  was  evidently  plunged  in 
gloomy  reflections,  but  while  I  pondered  for  something  to  say, 
that  might  benefit  without  alarming  him,  Hattersley,  whose 
mind  had  been  pursuing  almost  the  same  course,  broke  silence 
with,— 

"  I  say,  Huntingdon,  I  would  send  for  a  parson,  of  some  sort 
— If  you  didn't  like  the  vicar,  you  know,  you  could  have  hia 
curate,  or  somebody  else." 

"  No ;  none  of  them  can  benefit  me  if  she  can't,"  was  the 
answer.  And  the  tears  gushed  from  his  eyes  as  he  earnestly 
exclaimed, — "  Oh,  Helen,  if  I  had  listened  to  you,  it  never 


836  THE  TENANT 

would  have  come  to  this  !     And  if  I  had  heard  you  long  ago 
— Oh,  God  !  how  different  it  would  have  been  !" 

u  Hear  me  now,  then,  Arthur,"  said  I,  gently  pressing  his 
hand. 

"  It's  too  late,  now,"  said  tie  despondingly.  And  after  that 
another  paroxysm  of  pain  came  on ;  and  then  his  mind  began 
to  wander,  and  we  feared  his  death  was  approaching ;  but  an 
opiate  was  administered,  his  sufferings  began  to  abate,  he 
gradually  became  more  composed,  and  at  length  sank  into  a 
kind  of  slumber.  He  has  been  quieter  since  ;  and  now  Hat- 
tersley  has  left  him,  expressing  a  hope  that  he  shall  find  him 
better  when  he  calls  to-morrow. 

"Perhaps  I  may  recover,"  he  replied,  "who  knows? — 
this  may  have  been  the  crisis.  What  do  you  think,  Helen?" 

Unwilling  to  depress  him,  I  gave  the  most  cheering  answer 
I  could,  but  still  recommended  him  to  prepare  for  the  possi- 
bility of  what  I  inly  feared  was  but  too  certain.  But  he 
was  determined  to  hope.  Shortly  after,  he  relapsed  into  a 
kind  of  doze — but  now  he  groans  again. 

There  is  a  change.  Suddenly  he  called  me  to  his  side, 
with  such  a  strange,  excited  manner  that  I  feared  he  was 
delirious — but  he  was  not.  "That  was  the  crisis,  Helen!" 
said  he  delightedly — "  I  had  an  infernal  pain  here — it  is  quite 
gone  now ;  I  never  was  so  easy  since  the  fall — Quite  gone, 
by  heaven!"  and  he  clasped  and  kissed  my  hand  in  the  very 
fulness  of  his  heart ;  but,  finding  I  did  not  participate  his  joy, 
he  quickly  flung  it  from  him,  and  bitterly  cursed  my  coldness 
and  insensibility.  How  could  I  reply  ?  Kneeling  beside  him, 
I  took  his  hand  and  fondly  pressed  it  to  my  lips — for  the  first 
time  since  our  separation — and  told  him  as  well  as  tears 
would  let  me  speak,  that  it  was  not  that  that  kept  me  silent ; 
it  was  the  fear  that  this  sudden  cessation  of  pain  was  not  so 
favourable  a  symptom  as  he  supposed.  I  immediately  sent 
lor  the  doctor.  We  are  now  anxiously  awaiting  him  :  I  will 
tell  you  what  he  savs.  There  is  still  the  same  freedom  from 
pain — the  same  deadness  to  all  sensation  where  the  suffering 
was  most  acute. 

My  worst  fears  are  realized — mortification  has  commenced. 
The  doctor  has  told  him  there  is  no  hope — no  words  can 
describe  his  anguish.  I  can  write  no  more. 

***** 

The  next  was  still  more  distressing  in  the  tenor  of  its  con- 
tents. The  sufferer  was  fast  approaching  dissolution — dragged 
almost  to  the  verge  of  that  awful  chasm  he  trembled  to  con- 
template, from  which  no  agony  of  prayers  or  tears  could  save 
him.  Nothing  could  comfort  him  now;  Hattersley'a  rough 


OF   WILDFELL  HALL.  837 

attempts  at  consolation  were  xitterly  in  vain.  The  world  was 
nothing  to  him :  life  and  all  its  interests,  its  petty  cares  and 
transient  pleasures  were  a  cruel  mockery.  To  talk  of  the 
past,  was  to  torture  him  with  vain  remorse ;  to  refer  to  the 
future,  was  to  increase  his  anguish ;  and  yet  to  be  silent,  was 
to  leave  him  a  prey  to  his  own  regrets  and  apprehensions. 
Often  he  dwelt  with  shuddering  minuteness  on  the  fate  of  his 
perishing  clay — the  slow,  piecemeal  dissolution  already  in- 
vading his  frame;  the  shroud,  the  coffin,  the  dark,  lonely 
grave,  and  all  the  horrors  of  corruption. 

"  If  I  try,"  said  his  afflicted  wife,  "  to  divert  him  from  these 
things — to  raise  his  thoughts  to  higher  themes,  it  is  no  better : 
— '  Worse  and  worse  !'  he  groans.  '  If  there  be  really  life  be- 
yond the  tomb,  and  judgment  after  death,  how  can  I  face  it?' 
—I  cannot  do  him  any  good ;  he  will  neither  be  enlightened, 
nor  roused,  nor  comforted  by  anything  I  say;  and  yet  he 
clings  to  me  with  unrelenting  pertinacity — with  a  kind  ot 
childish  desperation,  as  if  I  could  save  him  from  the  fate  he 
dreads.  He  keeps  me  night  and  day  beside  him.  He  is  hold- 
ing my  left  hand  now,  while  I  write ;  he  has  held  it  thus  for 
hours:  sometimes  quietly,  with  his  pale  face  upturned  to 
mine :  sometimes  clutching  my  arm  with  violence — the  big 
drops  starting  from  his  forehead,  at  the  thoughts  of  what  he 
sees,  or  thinks  he  sees  before  him.  If  I  withdraw  my  hand 
for  a  moment,  it  distresses  him : — 

"  'Stay  with  me,  Helen,'  he  says  ;  '  let  me  hold  you  so :  it 
seems  as  if  harm  could  not  reach  me  while  you  are  here. 
But  death  will  come — it  is  coming  now — fast,  fast ! — and — Oh, 
if  I  could  believe  there  was  nothing  after!' 

"  '  Don't  try  to  believe  it,  Arthur ;  there  is  joy  and  glory 
after,  if  you  will  but  try  to  reach  it!' 

"  'What,  for  me?'  he  said,  with  something  like  a  laugh. 
'Are  we  not  to  be  judged  according  to  the  deeds  done  in  the 
body  ?  Where's  the  use  of  a  probationary  existence,  if  a  man 
may  spend  it  as  he  pleases,  just  contrary  to  God's  decrees, 
and  then  go  to  heaven  with  the  best — if  the  vilest  sinner  may 
win  the  reward  of  the  holiest  saint,  by  merely  saying,  "  I  re- 
pent?'" 

"  '  But  if  you  sincerely  repent—' 

'"I  can't  repent ;  I  only  fear.' 

u  *  You  only  regret  the  past  for  its  consequences  to  your- 
self?' 

'''Just  so— except  that  I'm  sorry  to  have  wronged  you, 
Nell, because  you're  so  good  to  me.' 

"  '  Think  of  the  goodness  of  God,  and  you  cannot  but  be 
grieved  to  have  offended  Him.' 


338  THE   TENANT 

"  '  What  is  God — I  cannot  see  Him  or  bear  Him  ? — God  is 
only  an  idea.' 

"  '  God  is  Infinite  Wisdom,  and  Power,  and  Goodness — and 
LOVE  ;  but  if  this  idea  is  too  vast  for  your  human  faculties — 
if  your  mind  loses  itself  in  its  overwhelming  infinitude,  fix  it 
on  Him  who  condescended  to  take  our  nature  upon  Him,  who 
was  raised  to  heaven  even  in  his  glorified  human  body,  in 
whom  the  fulness  of  the  godhead  shines.' " 

But  he  only  shook  his  head  and  sighed.  Then,  in  another 
paroxysm  of  shuddering  horror,  he  tightened  his  grasp  on  my 
hand  and  arm,  and  groaning  and  lamenting,  still  clung  to  me 
with  that  wild,  desperate  earnestness  so  harrowing  to  my  soul, 
because  I  know  I  cannot  help  him.  I  did  my  best  to  soothe 
and  comfort  him. 

"  *  Death  is  so  terrible,'  he  cried,  '  I  cannot  bear  it !  You 
don't  know,  Helen — you  can't  imagine  what  it  is,  because  you 
haven't  it  before  you ;  and  when  I'm  buried,  you'll  return  to 
your  old  ways  and  be  as  happy  as  ever,  and  all  the  world  will 
go  on  just  as  busy  and  merry  as  if  I  had  never  been  ;  while 

I '  He  burst  into  tears. 

"  '  You  needn't  let  that  distress  you,'  I  said ;  '  we  shall  all 
follow  you  soon  enough.' 

"  'I  wish  to  God  I  could  take  you  with  me  now!'  he  ex- 
claimed, *  you  should  plead  for  me.' 

"  '  No  man  can  deliver  his  brother,  nor  make  agreement 
unto  God  for  him,'  I  replied :  '  it  cost  more  to  redeem  their 
souls — it  cost  the  blood  of  an  incarnate  God,  perfect  and  sin- 
less in  himself,  to  redeem  us  from  the  bondage  of  the  eril 
one  : — let  Him  plead  for  you.' 

"But  I  seem  to  speak  in  vain.  He  does  not  now,  as 
formerly,  laugh  these  blessed  truths  to  scorn :  but  still  he 
cannot  trust,  or  will  not  comprehend  them.  He  cannot  linger 
long.  He  suffers  dreadfully,  and  so  do  those  that  wait  upon 
him — but  I  will  not  harass  you  with  further  details :  I  have 
said  enough,  I  think,  to  convince  you  that  I  did  well  to  go  to 
him." 

*  *  *  *  * 

Poor,  poor  Helen!  dreadful  indeed  her  trials  must  have 
been !  And  I  could  do  nothing  to  lessen  them — nay,  it  almost 
seemed  as  if  I  had  brought  them  upon  her  myself,  by  my  own 
secret  desires ;  and  whether  I  looked  at  her  husband's  suffer- 
ings or  her  own,  it  seemed  almost  like  a  judgment  upon  my- 
self for  having  cherished  such  a  wish. 

The  next  day  but  one  there  came  another  letter.  That 
too  was  put  into  my  hands  without  a  remark,  arid  these  are 
its  contents : — 


OF  WILDFELL  HALL.  389 

Dec.  5th. 

He  is  gone  at  last.  I  sat  beside  him  all  night,  with  my 
hand  fast  locked  in  his,  watching  the  changes  of  his  features 
and  listening  to  his  failing  breath.  He  had  been  silent  a  long 
time,  and  I  thought  he  would  never,  speak  again,  when  he 
murmured,  faintly  but  distinctly, — 

"  Pray  for  me,  Helen ! " 

"  I  do  pray  for  you — every  hour  and  every  minute,  Arthur ; 
but  you  must  pray  for  yourself." 

His  lips  moved,  but  emitted  no  sound ; — then  his  looks  be- 
came unsettled ;  and,  from  the  incoherent  half-uttered  words 
that  escaped  him  from  time  to  time,  supposing  him  to  be  now 
unconscious,  I  gently  disengaged  my  hand  from  his,  intending 
to  steal  away  for  a  breath  of  air,  for  I  was  almost  ready  to 
faint ;  but  a  convulsive  movement  of  the  fingers,  and  a  faintly 
whispered  "Don't  leave  me!"  immediately  recalled  me:  I 
took  his  hand  again,  and  held  it  till  he  was  no  more—  and  then 
I  fainted :  it  was  not  grief;  it  was  exhaustion,  that,  till  then, 
I  had  been  enabled  successfully  to  combat.  Oh,  Frederick  t 
none  can  imagine  the  miseries,  bodily  and  mental,  of  that 
death-bed!  How  could  I  endure  to  think  that  that  poor 
trembling  soul  was  hurried  away  to  everlasting  torment  ?  it 
would  drive  me  mad !  But  thank  God  I  have  hope — not  only 
from  a  vague  dependence  on  the  possibility  that  penitence  and 
pardon  might  have  reached  him  at  the  last,  but  from  the 
blessed  confidence  that,  through  whatever  purging  fires  the 
erring  spirit  may  be  doomed  to  pass — whatever  fate  awaits  it, 
still,  it  is  not  lost,  and  God,  who  hateth  nothing  that  he  hath 
made,  will  bless  it  in  the  end ! 

His  body  will  be  consigned  on  Thursday  to  that  dark  grave 
he  so  much  dreaded ;  but  the  coffin  must  be  closed  as  soon  aa 
possible.  If  you  will  attend  the  funeral  come  quickly,  for  I 
need  help. 

HELEN  HUNTINGDON. 

CHAFTER  L. 

ON  reading  this,  I  had  no  reason  to  disguise  my  joy  and  hope 
from'  Frederick  Lawrence,  for  I  had  none  to  be  ashamed  of. 
I  felt  no  joy  but  that  his  sister  was  at  length  released  from 
her  afflictive,  overwhelming  toil — no  hope  but  that  she  would 
in  time  recover  from  the  effects  of  it,  and  be  suffered  to  rest 
in  peace  and  quietness,  at  least,  for  the  remainder  of  her  life. 
I  experienced  a  painful  commiseration  for  her  unhappy  hus- 
band (though  fully  aware  that  he  had  brought  every  particle 
of  bis  Bufferings  upon  himself,  and  but  too  well  deserved  them 


840  THE   TENANT 

all),  and  a  profound  sympathy  for  her  own  afflictions,  and  deep 
anxiety  for  the  consequences  of  those  harassing  cares,  those 
dreadful  vigils,  that  incessant  and  deleterious  confinement 
beside  a  living  corpse — for  I  was  persuaded  she  had  not  hinted 
half  the  sufferings  she  had  had  to  endure. 

"  You  will  go  to  her,  Lawrence  ?  "  said  I,  as  I  put  the  letter 
into  his  hand. 

"Yes,  immediately. "( 

"  That's  right !  I'll  leave  you,  then,  to  prepare  for  your  de- 
parture." 

"  I've  done  that  already,  while  you  were  reading  the  letter, 
and  before  you  came  ;  and  the  carriage  is  now  coming  round 
to  the  door." 

Inly  approving  his  promptitude,  I  bade  him  good  morning, 
and  withdrew.  He  gave  me  a  searching  glance  as  we  pressed 
each  other's  hands  at  parting ;  but  whatever  he  sought  in  my 
countenance,  he  saw  there  nothing  but  the  most  becoming 
gravity — it  might  be,  mingled  with  a  little  sternness  in  mo- 
mentary resentment  at  what  I  suspected  to  be  passing  in  his 
mind. 

Had  I  forgotten  my  own  prospects,  my  ardent  love,  my 
pertinacious  hopes?  It  seemed  like  sacrilege  to  revert  to 
them  now,  but  I  had  not  forgotten  them.  It  was,  however, 
with  a  gloomy  sense  of  the  darkness  of  those  prospects,  the 
fallacy  of  those  hopes,  and  the  vanity  of  that  affection,  that  I 
reflected  on  those  things  as  I  remounted  my  horse  and  slowly 
journeyed  homewards.  Mrs.  Huntingdon  was  free  now;  it 
was  no  longer  a  crime  to  think  of  her — but  did  she  ever  think 
of  me  ? — not  now — of  course  it  was  not  to  be  expected — but 
would  she,  when  this  shock  was  over? — In  all  the  course  of 
her  correspondence  with  her  brother  (our  mutual  friend,  as 
she  herself  had  called  him),  she  had  never  mentioned  me  but 
once — and  that  was  from  necessity.  This,  alone,  afforded 
strong  presumption  that  I  was  already  forgotten ;  yet  this  was 
not  the  worst :  it  might  have  been  her  sense  of  duty  that  had 
kept  her  silent,  she  might  be  only  trying  to  forget ;  but  in  ad- 
dition to  this,  I  had  a  gloomy  conviction  that  the  awful 
realities  she  had  seen  and  felt,  her  reconciliation  with  the  man 
she  had  once  loved,  his  dreadful  sufferings  and  death,  must 
eventually  efface  from  her  mind  all  traces  of  her  passing  love 
for  me.  She  might  recover  from  these  horrors  so  far  as  to  be 
restored  to  her  former  health,  her  tranquillity,  her  cheerful- 
nesa  even — but  never  to  those  feelings  which  would  appear  to 
her,  henceforth,  as  a  fleeting  fancy,  a  vain,  illusive  dream ; 
especially  as  there  was  no  one  to  remind  her  of  my  existence 
— no  means  of  assuring  her  of  my  fervent  constancy,  now 
that  we  were  so  far  apart,  and  delicacy  forbade  me  to  see  her 


OP   WILDFELL  HALL.  841 

or  to  wtite  to  her,  for  months  to  come  at  least.  And  how 
could  I  engage  her  brother  in  my  behalf?  how  could  I  break 
that  icy  crust  of  shy  reserve  ?  Perhaps  he  would  disapprove 
of  my  attachment  now,  as  highly  as  before  ;  perhaps  he  would 
think  me  too  poor — too  lowly  born,  to  match  with  his  sister. 
Yes,  there  was  another  barrier :  doubtless  there  was  a  wide 
distinction  between  the  rank  and  circumstances  of  Mrs.  Hun- 
tingdon, the  lady  of  Grassdale  Manor,  and  those  of  Mrs. 
Graham  the  artist,  the  tenant  of  Wildfell  Hall ;  and  it  might 
be  deemed  presumption  in  me  to  offer  my  hand  to  the  former 
— by  the  world,  by  her  friends — if  not  by  herself — a  penalty 
I  might  brave,  if  I  were  certain  she  loved  me  ;  but  otherwise, 
how  could  I?  And,  finally,  her  deceased  husband,  with  his 
usual  selfishness,  might  have  so  constructed  his  will  as  to  place 
restrictions  upon  her  marrying  again.  So  that  you  see  I  had 
reasons  enough  for  despair  if  I  chose  to  indulge  it. 

Nevertheless,  it  was  with  no  small  degree  of  impatience 
that  I  looked  forward  to  Mr.  Lawrence's  return  from  Grass- 
dale — impatience  that  increased  in  proportion  as  his  absence 
was  prolonged.  He  stayed  away  some  ten  or  twelve  days. 
All  very  right  that  he  should  remain  to  comfort  and  help  his 
sister,  but  he  might  have  written  to  tell  me  how  she  was, — 
or  at  least  to  tell  me  when  to  expect  his  return ;  for  he  might 
have  known  I  was  suffering  tortures  of  anxiety  for  her,  and 
uncertainty  for  my  own  future  prospects.  And  when  he  did 
return,  all  he  told  me  about  her  was,  that  she  had  been  greatly 
exhausted  and  worn  by  her  unremitting  exertions  in  behalf 
of  that  man  who  had  been  the  scourge  of  her  life,  and  had 
dragged  her  with  him  nearly  to  the  portals  of  the  grave, — 
and  was  still  much  shaken  and  depressed  by  his  melancholy 
end  and  the  circumstances  attendant  upon  it ;  but  no  word  in 
reference  to  me — no  intimation  that  my  name  had  ever  passed 
her  lips,  or  even  been  spoken  in  her  presence.  To  be  sure,  I 
asked  no  questions  on  the  subject :  I  could  not  bring  my  mind 
to  do  so,  believing,  as  I  did,  that  Lawrence  was  indeed  averse 
to  the  idea  of  my  union  with  his  sister. 

I  saw  that  he  expected  to  be  further  questioned  concerning 
his  visit,  and  I  saw  too,  with  the  keen  perception  of  awakened 
jealousy,  or  alarmed  self-esteem — or  by  whatever  name  I 
ought  to  call  it — that  he  rather  shrank  from  that  impending 
scrutiny,  and  was  no  less  pleased  than  surprised  to  find  it  did 
not  come.  Of  course,  I  was  burning  with  anger,  but  pride 
obliged  me  to  suppress  my  feelings,  and  preserve  a  smooth 
face— or  at  least  a  stoic  calmness— throughout  the  interview. 
It  was  well  it  did,  for,  reviewing  the  matter  in  my  sober 
judgment,  I  must  say  it  would  have  been  highly  absurd  and 
improper  to  have  quarrelled  with  him  on  such  an  occasion :  I 


842  THE  TENANT 

must  confess  too  that  I  wronged  him  in  my  heart :  the  truti 
was,  he  liked  me  very  well,  but  he  was  fully  aware  that  a 
union  between  Mrs.  Huntingdon  and  me  would  be  what  the 
world  calls  a  mesalliance  ;  and  it  was  not  in  his  nature  to  set 
the  world  at  defiance  ; — especially  in  such  a  case  as  this,  for 
its  dread  laugh,  or  ill  opinion,  would  be  far  more  terrible  to 
him  directed  against  his  sister  than  himself.  Had  he  believed 
that  a  union  was  necessary  to  the  happiness  of  both,  or  of 
either,  or  had  he  known  how  fervently  I  loved  her,  he  would 
have  acted  differently ;  but  seeing  me  so  calm  and  cool,  he 
would  not  for  the  world  disturb  my  philosophy ;  and  though 
refraining  entirely  from  any  active  opposition  to  the  match, 
he  would  yet  do  nothing  to  bring  it  about,  and  would  much 
rather  take  the  part  of  prudence,  in  aiding  us  to  overcome 
our  mutual  predilections,  than  that  of  feeling,  to  encourage 
them.  "  And  he  was  in  the  right  of  it,"  you  will  say.  Perhaps 
he  was — at  any  rate,  I  had  no  business  to  feel  so  bitterly 
against  him  as  I  did ;  but  I  could  not  then  regard  the  matter 
in  such  a  moderate  light;  and,  after  a  brief  conversation 
upon  indifferent  topics,  I  went  away,  suffering  all  the  pangs  of 
wounded  pride  and  injured  friendship,  in  addition  to  those 
resulting  from  the  fear  that  I  was  indeed  forgotten,  and  the 
knowledge  that  she  I  loved  was  alone  and  afflicted,  suffering 
from  injured  health  and  dejected  spirits,  and  I  was  forbidden 
to  console  or  assist  her — forbidden  even  to  assure  her  of  my 
sympathy,  for  the  transmission  of  any  such  message  through 
Mr.  Lawrence  was  now  completely  out  of  the  question. 

But  what  should  I  do  ?  I  would  wait,  and  see  if  she  would 
notice  me,  which  of  course  she  would  not,  unless  by  some  kind 
message  intrusted  to  her  brother,  that,  in  all  probability,  he 
would  not  deliver,  and  then — dreadful  thought ! — she  would 
think  me  cooled  and  changed  for  not  returning  it,  or,  perhaps, 
he  had  already  given  her  to  understand  that  I  had  ceased  to 
think  of  her.  I  would  wait,  however,  till  the  six  months  after 
our  parting  were  fairly  passed  (which  would  be  about  the 
close  of  February),  and  then  I  would  send  her  a  letter  modestly 
reminding  her  of  her  former  permission  to  write  to  her  at  the 
close  of  that  period,  and  hoping  I  might  avail  myself  of  it,  at 
least  to  express  my  heart-felt  sorrow  for  her  late  afflictions, 
my  just  appreciation  of  her  generous  conduct,  and  my  hope 
that  her  health  was  now  completely  re-established,  and  that 
she  would,  some  time,  be  permitted  to  enjoy  those  blessings  of 
a  peaceful  happy  life,  which  had  been  denied  her  so  long,  but 
which  none  could  more  truly  be  said  to  merit  than  herself, — 
adding  a  few  words  of  kind  remembrance  to  my  little  friend 
Arthur,  with  a  hope  that  he  had  not  forgotten  me,  and,  per- 
haps, a  few  more  in  reference  to  by-gone  times,  to  the  delight- 


OF   WILDFELL   HALL.  34J 

ful  hours  I  had  passed  in  her  society,  and  my  unfading  recol- 
lection of  them,  which  was  the  salt  and  solace  of  my  life,  and 
a  hope  that  her  recent  troubles  had  not  entirely  banished  me 
from  her  mind.  If  she  did  not  answer  this,  of  course  I  should 
•write  no  more :  if  she  did  (as  surely  she  would,  in  some 
fashion),  my  future  proceedings  should  be  regulated  by  her 
reply. 

Ten  weeks  was  long  to  wait  in  such  a  miserable  state  of  un- 
certainty, but  courage  !  it  must  be  endured  ;  and  meantime 
I  would  continue  to  see  Lawrence  now  and  then,  though 
not  so  often  as  before,  and  I  would  still  pursue  my  habitual 
inquiries  after  his  sister,  if  he  had  lately  heard  from  her,  and 
how  she  was,  but  nothing  more. 

I  did  so,  and  the  answers  I  received  were  always  provok- 
ingly  limited  to  the  letter  of  the  inquiry :  she  was  much  as 
usual :  she  made  no  complaints,  but  the  tone  of  her  last  letter 
evinced  great  depression  of  mind :  she  said  she  was  better : 
and,  finally,  she  said  she  was  well,  and  very  busy  with  her 
son's  education,  and  with  the  management  of  her  late  hus- 
band's property,  and  the  regulation  of  his  affairs.  The  rascal 
had  never  told  me  how  that  property  was  disposed,  or  whether 
Mr.  Huntingdon  had  died  intestate  or  not ;  and  I  would 
sooner  die  than  ask  him,  lest  he  should  misconstrue  into 
covetousness  my  desire  to  know.  He  never  offered  to  show 
me  his  sister's  letters  now,  and  I  never  hinted  a  wish  to  see 
them.  February,  however,  was  approaching  ;  December  was 
past ;  January,  at  length,  was  almost  over — a  few  more  weeks, 
and  then,  certain  despair  or  renewal  of  hope  would  put  ao 
end  to  this  long  agony  of  suspense. 

But  alas !  it  was  just  about  that  time  she  was  called  to  sus- 
tain another  blow  in  the  death  of  her  uncle,  a  worthless  old 
fellow  enough  in  himself,  I  dare  say,  but  he  had  always  shown 
more  kindness  and  affection  to  her  than  to  any  other  creature, 
and  she  had  always  been  accustomed  to  regard  him  as  a  parent. 
She  was  with  him  when  he  died,  and  had  assisted  her  aunt  to 
nurse  him  during  the  last  stage  of  his  illness.  Her  brother 
went  to  Staningley  to  attend  the  funeral,  and  told  me,  upon 
his  return,  that  she  was  still  there,  endeavouring  to  cheer  her 
aunt  with  her  presence,  and  likely  to  remain  some  time.  This 
was  bad  news  for  me,  for  while  she  continued  there  I  could 
not  write  to  her,  as  I  did  not  know  the  address,  and  would 
not  ask  it  of  him.  But  week  followed  week,  and  every  time 
I  inquired  about  her  she  was  still  at  Staningley. 

"  Where  is  Staningley?"  I  asked  at  last. 

"In shire,"  was  the  brief  reply ;  and  there  was  some- 
thing so  cold  and  dry  in  the  manner  of  it,  that  I  was  ef- 
fectually deterred  from  requesting  a  more  definite  account. 


.544  THE  TENANT 

"  When  will  she  return  to  Grassdale  ?  "  was  my  next  ques- 
tion. 

"  I  don't  know. 

"  Confound  it !"  I  muttered. 

"Why,  Markham?"  asked  my  companion,  with  an  air  of 
innocent  surprise.  But  I  did  not  deign  to  answer  him,  save 
by  a  look  of  silent  sullen  contempt,  at  which  he  turned  away, 
and  contemplated  the  carpet  M'ith  a  slight  smile,  half  pensive, 
half  amused ;  but  quickly  looking  up,  he  began  to  talk  of 
other  subjects,  trying  to  draw  me  into  a  cheerful  and  friendly 
conversation,  but  I  was  too  much  irritated  to  discourse  with 
him,  and  soon  took  leave. 

You  see  Lawrence  and  I  somehow  could  not  manage  to  get 
on  very  well  together.  The  fact  is,  I  believe,  we  were  both 
of  us  a  little  too  touchy.  It  is  a  troublesome  thing,  Halford, 
this  susceptibility  to  affronts  where  none  are  intended.  I  am 
no  martyr  to  it  now,  as  you  can  bear  me  witness  :  I  have 
learned  to  be  merry  and  wise,  to  be  more  easy  with  myself 
and  more  indulgent  to  my  neighbours,  and  I  can  afford  to 
laugh  at  both  Lawrence  and  you. 

Partly  from  accident,  partly  from  wilful  negligence  on  my 
part  (for  I  was  really  beginning  to  dislike  him),  several  weeks 
elapsed  before  I  saw  my  friend  again.  When  we  did  meet,  it 
was  he  that  sought  me  out.  One  bright  morning,  early  in 
June,  he  came  into  the  field  where  I  was  just  commencing  my 
hay  harvest. 

"  It  is  long  since  I  saw  you,  Markham,"  said  he,  after  the 
first  few  words  had  passed  between  us.  "  Do  you  never  mean 
to  come  to  Woodford  again?" 

"  I  called  once,  and  you  were  out." 

u  I  was  sorry,  but  that  was  long  since  ;  I  hoped  you  would 
call  again,  and  now  I  have  called,  and  you  were  out,  which  you 
generally  are,  or  I  would  do  myself  the  pleasure  of  calling 
more  frequently  ;  but  being  determined  to  see  you  this  time, 
1  have  left  my  pony  in  the  lane,  and  come  over  hedge  and 
ditch  to  join  you ;  for  I  am  about  to  leave  Woodford  for  a 
while,  and  may  not  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  again  for 
a  month  or  two." 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?" 

"  To  Grassdale  first,"  said  he,  with  a  half-smile  he  would 
willingly  have  suppressed  if  he  could. 

"  To  Grassdale  I     Is  she  there,  then  ?  " 

"  Yes,  but  in  a  day  or  two  she  will  leave  it  to  accompany 

Mrs.  Maxwell  to  F for  the  benefit  of  the  sea  air,  and  I  shall 

go  with  them."  (F was  at  that  time  a  quiet  but  respect- 
able watering  place  :  it  is  considerably  more  frequented  now.) 

Lawrence  seemed  to  expect  me  to  take  advantage  of  this 


OF  WILDFELL   HALL.  315 

circumstance  to  intrust  him  with  some  sort  of  a  message  to 
his  sister  ;  and  I  believe  he  would  have  undertaken  to  deliver 
it  without  any  material  objections,  if  I  had  had  the  sense  to 
ask  him,  though  of  course  he  would  not  offer  to  do  so,  if  I 
was  content  to  let  it  alone.  But  I  could  not  bring  myself  to 
make  the  request ;  and  it  was  not  till  after  he  was  gone,  that 
I  saw  how  fair  an  opportunity  I  had  lost ;  and  then,  indeed,  I 
deeply  regretted  my  stupidity  and  my  foolish  pride,  but  it  was 
now  too  late  to  remedy  the  evil. 

He  did  not  return  till  towards  the  latter  end  of  August. 

He  wrote  to  me  twice  or  thrice  from  F ,  but  his  letters 

were  most  provokingly  unsatisfactory,  dealing  in  generalities 
or  in  trifles  that  I  cared  nothing  about,  or  replete  with  fancies 
and  reflections  equally  unwelcome  to  me  at  the  time,  saying 
next  to  nothing  about  his  sister,  and  little  more  about  himself. 
I  would  wait,  however,  till  he  came  back ;  perhaps  I  could  get 
something  more  out  of  him  then.  At  all  events,  I  would  not 
write  to  her  now,  while  she  was  with  him  and  her  aunt,  who 
doubtless  would  be  still  more  hostile  to  my  presumptuous 
aspirations  than  himself.  When  she  was  returned  to  the 
silence  and  solitude  of  her  own  home  it  would  be  my  fittest 
opportunity. 

When  Lawrence  came,  however,  he  was  as  reserved  as  ever 
on  the  subject  of  my  keen  anxiety.  He  told  me  that  his  sister 

had  derived  considerable  benefit  from  her  stay  at  F ,  that 

her  son  was  quite  well,  and — alas !  that  both  of  them  were 
gone,  with  Mrs.  Maxwell,  back  to  Staningley,  and  there  they 
stayed  at  least  three  months.  But  instead  of  boring  you  with 
my  chagrin,  my  expectations  and  disappointments,  my  fluc- 
tuations of  dull  despondency  and  flickering  hope,  my  varying 
resolutions,  now  to  drop  it,  and  now  to  persevere — now  to 
make  a  bold  push,  and  nov/  to  let  things  pass  and  patiently 
abide  my  time, — I  will  employ  myself  in  settling  the  business  ol 
one  or  two  of  the  characters,  introduced  in  the  course  of  this 
narrative,  whom  I  may  not  have  occasion  to  mention  again. 

Some  time  before  Mr.  Huntingdon's  death,  Lady  Low- 
borough  eloped  with  another  gallant  to  the  Continent,  where, 
having  lived  awhile  in  reckless  gaiety  and  dissipation,  they 
quarrelled  and  parted.  She  went  dashing  on  for  a  season,  but 
years  came  and  money  went :  she  sunk,  at  length,  in  difficulty 
rtnd  debt,  disgrace  and  misery ;  and  died  at  last,  as  I  have 
heard,  in  penury,  neglect,  and  utter  wretchedness.  But  this 
might  be  only  a  report :  she  may  be  living  yet  for  anything  I 
or  any  of  her  relatives  or  former  acquaintances  can  tell ;  for 
they  have  all  lost  sight  of  her  long  years  ago,  and  would  as 
thoroughly  forget  her  if  they  could.  Her  husband,  however, 
upon  this  second  misdemeanor,  immediately  sought  and  ob- 


846  THE   TENANT 

tained  a  divorce,  and,  not  long  after,  married  again.  It  wai 
well  he  did,  for  Lord  Lowborough,  morose  and  moody  as  he 
seemed,  was  not  the  man  for  a  bachelor's  life.  No  public  in- 
terests, no  ambitious  projects,  or  active  pursuits, — or  ties  of 
friendship  even  (if  he  had  had  any  friends),  could  compen- 
sate to  him  for  the  absence  of  domestic  comforts  and  endear- 
ments. He  had  a  son  and  a  nominal  daughter,  it  is  true,  but 
they  too  painfully  reminded  him  of  their  mother,  and  the  un- 
fortunate little  Annabella  was  a  source  of  perpetual  bitter- 
ness to  his  soul.  He  had  obliged  himself  to  treat  her  with 
paternal  kindness :  he  had  forced  himself  not  to  hate  her,  and 
even,  perhaps,  to  feel  some  degree  of  kindly  regard  for  her, 
at  last,  in  return  for  her  artless  and  unsuspecting  attachment 
to  himself;  but  the  bitterness  of  his  self-condemnation  for  his 
inward  feelings  towards  that  innocent  being,  his  constant 
struggles  to  subdue  the  evil  promptings  of  his  nature  (for  it 
was  not  a  generous  one),  though  partly  guessed  at  by  those 
who  knew  him,  could  be  known  to  God  and  his  own  heart 
alone ; — so  also  was  the  hardness  of  his  conflicts  with  the 
temptation  to  return  to  the  vice  of  his  youth,  and  seek  obli- 
vion for  past  calamities,  and  deadness  to  the  present  misery 
of  a  blighted  heart,  a  joyless,  friendless  life,  and  a  morbidly 
disconsolate  mind,  by  yielding  again  to  that  insidious  foe  to 
health,  and  sense,  and  virtue,  which  had  so  deplorably  en- 
slaved and  degraded  him  before. 

The  second  object  of  his  choice  was  widely  different  from 
the  first.  Some  wondered  at  his  taste  ;  some  even  ridiculed 
it — but  in  this  their  folly  was  more  apparent  than  his.  The 
lady  was  about  his  own  age — i.  e.  between  thirty  and  forty 
— remarkable  neither  for  beauty,  nor  wealth,  nor  brilliant  ac- 
complishments ;  nor  any  other  thing  that  I  ever  heard  of, 
except  genuine  good  sense,  unswerving  integrity,  active  piety, 
warmhearted  benevolence,  and  a  fund  of  cheerful  spirits. 
These  qualities,  however,  as  you  may  readily  imagine,  com- 
bined to  render  her  an  excellent  mother  to  the  children,  and 
an  invaluable  wife  to  his  lordship.  He,  with  his  usual  self- 
depreciation,  thought  her  a  world  too  good  for  him,  and  while 
he  wondered  at  the  kindness  of  Providence  in  conferring  such 
a  gift  upon  him,  and  even  at  her  taste  in  preferring  him  to 
other  men,  he  did  his  best  to  reciprocate  the  good  she  did  him, 
and  so  far  succeeded,  that  she  was,  and  I  believe  still  is,  one 
of  the  happiest  and  fondest  wives  in  England ;  and  all  who 
question  the  good  taste  of  either  partner,  may  be  thankful  if 
their  respective  selections  afford  them  half  the  genuine  satis- 
faction in  the  end,  or  repay  their  preference  with  affection 
half  as  lasting  and  sincere. 

If  you  are  at  all  interested  in  the  fate  of  that  low  »coun« 


OF   WILUFELL   HALL.  34? 

drel,  Grimsby,  I  can  only  tell  you  that  he  went  from  bad  to 
worse,  sinking  from  bathos  to  bathos  of  vice  and  villany,  con- 
sorting only  with  the  worst  members  of  his  club  and  the  low- 
est dregs  oY  society — happily  for  the  rest  of  the  world — and 
at  last  met  his  end  in  a  drunken  brawl  from  the  hands,  it  is 
said,  of  some  brother  scoundrel  he  had  cheated  at  play. 

As  for  Mr.  Hattersley,  he  had  never  wholly  forgotten  his 
resolution  to  '  come  out  from  among  them,'  and  behave  like  a 
man  and  a  Christian,  and  the  last  illness  and  death  of  his  once 
jolly  friend  Huntingdon  so  deeply  and  seriously  impressed  him 
with  the  evil  of  their  former  practices,  that  he  never  needed 
another  lesson  of  the  kind.  Avoiding  the  temptations  of  the 
town,  he  continued  to  pass  his  life  in  the  country,  immersed  in 
the  usual  pursuits  of  a  hearty,  active,  country  gentleman ; 
his  occupations  being  those  of  farming,  and  breeding  horses 
and  cattle,  diversified  with  a  little  hunting  and  shooting,  and 
enlivened  by  the  occasional  companionship  of  his  friends  (bet- 
ter friends  than  those  of  his  youth),  and  the  society  of  his 
happy  little  wife  (now  cheerful  and  confiding  as  heart  could 
wish),  and  his  fine  family  of  stalwart  sons  and  blooming 
daughters.  His  father,  the  banker,  having  died  some  years  ago 
and  left  him  all  his  riches,  he  has  now  full  scope  for  the  exer- 
cise of  his  prevailing  tastes,  and  I  need  not  tell  you  that 
Ralph  Hattersley,  Esq.,  is  celebrated  throughout  the  country 
for  his  noble  breed  of  horses. 


CHAPTER  LI. 

WE  will  now  turn  to  a  certain  still,  cold,  cloudy  afternoon 
about  the  commencement  of  December,  when  the  first  fall  of 
snow  lay  thinly  scattered  over  the  blighted  fields  and  frozen 
roads,  or  stored  more  thickly  in  the  hollows  of  the  deep  cart- 
ruts  and  footsteps  of  men  and  horses  impressed  in  the  now 
petrified  mire  of  last  month's  drenching  rains.  I  remember 
it  well,  for  I  was  walking  home  from  the  vicarage,  with  no 
less  remarkable  a  personage  than  Miss  Eliza  Millward  by  my 
side.  I  had  been  to  call  upon  her  father, — a  sacrifice  to  civility 
undertaken  entirely  to  please  my  mother,  not  myself,  for  I 
hated  to  go  near  the  house  ;  not  merely  on  account  of  my  an- 
tipathy to  the  once  so  bewitching  Eliza,  but  because  I  had  not 
half  forgiven  the  old  gentleman  himself  for  his  ill  opinion  of 
Mrs.  Huntingdon ;  for  though  now  constrained  to  acknowledge 
himself  mistaken  in  his  former  judgment,  he  still  maintained 
that  she  had  done  wrong  to  leave  her  husband ;  it  was  a  vio- 
lation of  her  sacred  duties  as  a  wife,  and  a  tempting  of  Provi- 
dence by  laying  herself  open  to  temptation ;  and  nothing  short 


.°,48  THE   TENAXT 

of  bodily  ill-usage  (and  that  of  no  trifling  nature)  could  ex- 
cuse such  a  step — nor  even  that,  for  in  such  a  case  she  ought 
to  appeal  to  the  laws  for  protection.  But  it  was  not  of  him  1 
intended  to  speak ;  it  was  of  his  daughter  Eliza.  Just  as  I 
was  taking  leave  of  the  vicar,  she  entered  the  room,  ready 
equipped  for  a  walk. 

"  I  was  just  coming  to  see  your  sister,  Mr.  Markham,"  said 
she;  "and  so  if  you  have  no  objection,  I'll  accompany  you 
home.  I  like  company  when  I'm  walking  out — don't  you?  " 

u  Yes,  when  it's  agreeable." 

"  That  of  course,"  rejoined  the  young  lady,  smiling  archly. 
So  we  proceeded  together. 

"  Shall  I  find  Rose  at  home,  do  you  think?"  said  she,  as  we 
closed  the  garden  gate,  and  set  our  faces  towards  Linden-car. 

"  I  believe  so." 

"  I  trust  I  shall,  for  I've  a  little  bit  of  news  for  her — if  you 
haven't  forestalled  me." 

"I?" 

"Yes:  do  you  know  what  Mr.  Lawrence  is  gone  for?" 
She  looked  up  anxiously  for  my  reply. 

"  Is  he  gone  ?"  said  I ;  and  her  face  brightened. 

"  Ah  !  then  he  hasn't  told  you  about  his  sister  ?  " 

"What  of  her?"  I  demanded,  in  terror  lest  some  evil 
should  have  befallen  her. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Markham,  how  you  blush  !"  cried  she,  with  a 
tormenting  laugh.     "  Ha,  ha,  you  have  not  forgotten  her  yet ! 
But  you  had  better  be  quick  about  it,  I  can  tell  you,  for— alas, 
alas  ! — she's  going  to  be  married  next  Thursday  I " 
'  No,  Miss  Eliza !  that's  false." 
1  Do  you  charge  me  with  a  falsehood,  sir?" 
'  You  are  misinformed." 
Am  I  ?     Do  you  know  better  then  ?  " 
I  think  I  do." 

What  makes  you  look  so  pale  then?"  said  she,  smiling 
with  delight  at  my  emotion.  "  Is  it  anger  at  poor  me  for  tell- 
ing such  a  fib?  Well,  I  only  '  tell  the  tale  as  'twas  told  to  me  :' 
I  don't  vouch  for  the  truth  of  it ;  but  at  the  same  time,  I  don't 
see  what  reason  Sarah  should  have  for  deceiving  me,  or  her 
informant  for  deceiving  her ;  and  that  was  what  she  told  me 
the  footman  told  her: — that  Mrs.  Huntingdon  was  going  to  bo 
married  on  Thursday,  and  Mr.  Lawrence  was  gone  to  the  wed- 
ding. She  did  tell  me  the  name  of  the  gentleman,  but  I've 
forgotten  that.  Perhaps  you  can  assist  me  to  remember  it. 
Is  there  not  some  one  that  lives  near — or  frequently  visits  the 
neighbourhood,  that  has  long  been  attached  to  her?  a  Mr.— 
oh  dear !— Mr. " 

*'  Hargrare?"  suggested  I,  with  a  bitter  smile. 


OF   W1LDFELL  HALL  349 

"You're  right!"  cried  she,  "that  was  the  very  name." 

u  Impossible,  Miss  Eliza !"  I  exclaimed,  in  a  tone  that  made 
her  start. 

"  Well,  you  know,  that's  what  they  told  me,"  said  she,  com 
posedly  staring  me  in  the  face.  And  then  she  broke  out  into 
a  long  shrill  laugh  that  put  me  to  my  wits'  end  with  fury. 

"  Really  you  must  excuse  me,"  cried  she  :  "  I  know  it's  very 
rude,  but  ha,  ha,  ha, ! — did  you  think  to  marry  her  yourself? 
Dear,  dear,  what  a  pity !  ha,  ha,  ha  ! — Gracious,  Mr.  Mark  • 
ham!  are  you  going  to  faint?  O  mercy!  shall  I  call  this 
man  ?  Here,  Jacob — "  But  checking  the  word  on  her  lips, 
I  seized  her  arm  and  gave  it,  I  think,  a  pretty  severe  squeeze, 
for  she  shrank  into  herself  with  a  faint  cry  of  pain  or  terror  ; 
but  the  spirit  within  her  was  not  subdued :  instantly  rallying, 
she  continued,  with  well-feigned  concern, — 

"What  can  I  do  for  you?  Will  you  have  some  water — 
some  brandy  ? — I  dare  say  they  have  some  in  the  public  house 
down  there,  if  you'll  let  me  run." 

"Have  done  with  this  nonsense!"  cried  I,  sternly.  She 
looked  confounded — almost  frightened  again,  for  a  moment. 
"  You  know  I  hate  such  jests,"  I  continued. 

"  Jests  indeed !  I  wasn't  jesting!" 

"You  were  laughing,  at  all  events  ;  and  I  don't  like  to  be 
laughed  at,"  returned  I,  making  violent  efforts  to  speak  with 
proper  dignity  and  composure,  and  to  say  nothing  but  what 
was  coherent  and  sensible.  "  And  since  you  are  in  such  a 
merry  mood,  Miss  Eliza,  you  must  be  good  enough  company 
for  yourself;  and  therefore  I  shall  leave  you  to  finish  your 
walk  alone — for,  now  I  think  of  it,  I  have  business  elsewhere  ; 
so  good  evening." 

With  that  I  left  her  (smothering  her  malicious  laughter) 
and  turned  aside  into  the  fields,  springing  up  the  bank,  and 
pushing  through  the  nearest  gap  in  the  hedge.  Determined 
at  once  to  prove  the  truth — or  rather  the  falsehood — of  hei 
story,  I  hastened  to  Woodford  as  fast  as  my  legs  could  carry 
me — first,  veering  round  by  a  circuitous  course,  but  the  moment 
I  was  out  of  sight  of  my  fair  tormentor,  cutting  away  across 
the  country,  just  as  a  bird  might  fly— over  pasture-land  and 
fallow,  and  stubble,  and  lane — clearing  hedges  and  ditches, 
and  hurdles,  till  I  came  to  the  young  squire's  gates.  Never 
till  now  had  I  known  the  full  fervour  of  my  love — the  full 
strength  of  my  hopes,  not  wholly  crushed  even  in  my  hours 
of  deepest  despondency,  always  tenaciously  clinging  to  the 
thought  that  one  day  she  might  be  mine — or  if  not  that,  at  least 
that  something  of  my  memory,  some  slight  remembrance  of  our 
friendship  and  our  love  would  be  for  ever  cherished  in  hei 


350  THE  TENANT 

heart.  I  marched  up  to  the  door,  determined,  if  I  saw  the 
master,  to  question  him  boldly  concerning  his  sister,  to  wait 
and  hesitate  no  longer,  but  cast  false  delicacy  and  stupid  pride 
behind  my  back,  and  know  my  fate  at  once. 

"Is  Mr.  Lawrence  at  home  ?"  I  eagerly  asked  of  the  ser- 
vant that  opened  the  door. 

"  No,  sir,  master  went  yesterday,"  replied  he,  looking  very 
alert. 

"Went  where?" 

"  To  Grassdale,  sir — wasn't  you  aware,  sir  ?  He's  very 
close,  is  master,"  said  the  fellow,  with  a  foolish,  simpering 
grin.  "  I  suppose,  sir " 

But  I  turned  and  left  him,  without  waiting  to  hear  what  he 
supposed.  I  was  not  going  to  stand  there  to  expose  my  tor- 
tured feelings  to  the  insolent  laughter  and  impertinent  cu- 
riosity of  a  fellow  like  that. 

But  what  was  to  be  done  now  ?  Could  it  be  possible  that 
she  had  left  me  for  that  man  ?  I  could  not  believe  it.  Me 
she  might  forsake,  but  not  to  give  herself  to  him  I  Well,  I 
would  know  the  truth — to  no  concerns  of  daily  life  could  I 
attend,  while  this  tempest  of  doubt  and  dread,  of  jealousy 
and  rage,  distracted  me.  I  would  take  the  morning  coach  from 

L (the  evening  one  would  be  already  gone),  and  fly  to 

Grassdale — I  must  be  there  before  the  marriage.  And  why  ? 
Because  a  thought  struck  me,  that  perhaps  I  might  prevent  it 
— that  if  I  did  not,  she  and  I  might  both  lament  it  to  the 
latest  moment  of  our  lives.  It  struck  me  that  some  one 
might  have  belied  me  to  her  :  perhaps  her  brother — yes,  no 
doubt  her  brother  had  persuaded  her  that  I  was  false  and 
faithless,  and  taking  advantage  of  her  natural  indignation,  and 
perhaps  her  desponding  carelessness  about  her  future  life,  had 
urged  her,  artfully,  cruelly  on  to  this  other  marriage  in  order 
to  secure  her  from  me.  If  this  was  the  case,  and  ii  she  should 
only  discover  her  mistake  when  too  late  to  repair  it — to  what 
a  life  of  misery  and  vain  regret  might  she  be  doomed  as  well 
as  me  !  and  what  remorse  for  me,  to  think  my  foolish  scruples 
had  induced  it  all !  Oh,  I  must  see  her — she  must  know  my 
truth  even  if  I  told  it  at  the  church  door  !  I  might  pass  for  a 
madman  or  an  impertinent  fool — even  she  might  be  offended 
at  such  an  interruption,  or  at  least  might  tell  me  it  was  now 
too  late — but  if  I  could  save  her !  if  she  might  be  mine — it 
was  too  rapturous  a  thought  I 

Winged  by  this  hope,  and  goaded  by  these  fears,  I  hurried 
homewards  to  prepare  for  my  departure  on  the  morrow.  I 
told  my  mother  that  urgent  business  which  admitted  no  delay, 
fcut  which  I  could  not  then  explain,  called  me  away. 


OF  WILDFELL  HALL.  351 

My  deep  anxiety  and  serious  pre -occupation  could  nofc  be  con- 
cealed from  her  maternal  eyes  ;  and  I  had  much  ado  to  calm 
her  apprehensions  of  some  disastrous  mystery. 

That  night  there  came  a  heavy  fall  of  snow,  which  so  re- 
tarded the  progress  of  the  coaches  on  the  following  day,  that 
I  was  almost  driven  to  distraction.  I  travelled  all  night,  of 
'jourse,  for  this  was  Wednesday  :  to-morrow  morning,  doubt- 
less, the  marriage  would  take  place.  But  the  night  was  long 
and  dark :  the  snow  heavily  clogged  the  wheels  and  balled 
the  horses'  feet ;  the  animals  were  consumedly  lazy ;  the 
coachmen  most  execrably  cautious  ;  the  passengers  confound- 
edly apathetic  in  their  supine  indifference  to  the  rate  of  our 
progression.  Instead  of  assisting  me  to  bully  the  several 
coachmen  and  urge  them  forward,  they  merely  stared  and 
grinned  at  my  impatience  :  one  fellow  even  ventured  to  rally 
me  upon  it — but  I  silenced  him  with  a  look  that  quelled  him 
for  the  rest  of  the  journey ; — and  when,  at  the  last  stage,  I 
would  have  taken  the  reins  into  my  own  hand,  they  all  with 
one  accord  opposed  it. 

It  was  broad  daylight  when  we  entered  M and  drew  up 

at  the  Rose  and  Crown.  I  alighted  and  called  aloud  for  a 
post-chaise  to  Grassdale.  There  was  none  to  be  had :  the 
only  one  in  the  town  was  under  repair.  "  A  gig  then — a  fly 
— car — anything — only  be  quick!"  There  was  a  gig,  but 
not  a  horse  to  spare.  I  sent  into  the  town  to  seek  one  ;  but 
they  were  such  an  intolerable  time  about  it  that  I  could  wait 
no  longer :  I  thought  my  own  feet  could  carry  me  sooner ; 
and  bidding  them  send  the  conveyance  after  me,  if  it  were 
ready  within  an  hour,  I  set  off  as  fast  as  I  could  walk.  The 
distance  was  little  more  than  six  miles,  but  the  road  was 
strange,  and  I  had  to  keep  stopping  to  inquire  my  way — 
hallooing  to  carters  and  clod-hoppers,  and  frequently  in- 
vading the  cottages,  for  there  were  few  abroad  that  winter's 
morning, — sometimes  knocking  up  the  lazy  people  from  their 
beds,  for  where  so  little  work  was  to  be  done — perhaps  so 
little  food  and  fire  to  be  had,  they  cared  not  to  curtail  their 
slumbers.  I  had  no  time  to  think  of  them,  however  :  aching 
uith  weariness  and  desperation,  I  hurried  on.  The  gig  did 
not  overtake  me  :  and  it  was  well  I  had  not  waited  for  it — 
vexatious,  rather,  that  I  had  been  fool  enough  to  wait  so  long. 

At  length,  however,  I  entered  the  neighbourhood  of  Grass- 
dale.  I  approached  the  little  rural  church — but  lo !  there 
stood  a  train  of  carriages  before  it — it  needed  not  the  white 
favours  bedecking  the  servants  and  horses,  nor  the  merry 
voices  of  the  village  idlers  assembled  to  witness  the  show,  to 
apprise  me  that  there  was  a  wedding  within.  I  ran  in  among 
them.,  demanding,  with  breathless  eagerness,  had  the  cere- 


352  THE   TENANT 


iony  long  commenced  ?     They  only  gaped  and  stared.    In 
y  desperation,  I  pushed  past  them,  and  was  about  to  enter 


ni 

m 

the  church-yard  gate,  when  a  group  of  ragged  urchins,  that 

had  been  hanging  like  bees  to  the  windows,  suddenly  dropped 

off  and  made  a  rush  for  the  porch,  vociferating  in  the  uncouth 

dialect  of  their  country,  something  which  signified,  "  It's  over 

—  they're  coming  out  !  " 

If  Eliza  Millward  had  seen  me  then,  she  might  indeed  have 
been  delighted.  I  grasped  the  gate  post  for  support,  and 
stood  intently  gazing  towards  the  door  to  take  my  last  look 
on  my  soul's  delight,  my  first  on  that  detested  mortal  who 
had  torn  her  from  my  heart,  and  doomed  her,  I  was  certain, 
to  a  life  of  misery  and  hollow,  vain  repining  —  for  what  hap- 
piness could  she  enjoy  with  him  ?  I  did  not  wish  to  shock 
her  with  my  presence  now,  but  I  had  not  power  to  move 
away.  Forth  came  the  bride  and  bridegroom.  Him  I  saw 
not  ;  I  had  eyes  for  none  but  her.  A  long  veil  shrouded  half 
her  graceful  form,  but  did  not  hide  it  ;  I  could  see  that  while 
she  carried  her  head  erect,  her  eyes  were  bent  upon  the 
ground,  and  her  face  and  neck  were  suffused  with  a  crimson 
blush  ;  but  every  feature  was  radiant  with  smiles,  and  gleam- 
ing through  the  misty  whiteness  of  her  veil,  were  clusters  of 
golden  ringlets  !  Oh,  Heavens  !  it  was  not  my  Helen  !  The 
first  glimpse  made  me  start  —  but  my  eyes  were  darkened 
with  exhaustion  and  despair  —  dare  I  trust  them  ?  Yes  —  it 
is  not  she  !  It  was  a  younger,  slighter,  rosier  beauty  —  lovely, 
indeed,  but  with  far  less  dignity  and  depth  of  soul  —  without 
that  indefinable  grace,  that  keenly  spiritual  yet  gentle  charm, 
that  ineffable  power  to  attract  and  subjugate  the  heart  —  my 
heart  at  least.  I  looked  at  the  bridegroom  —  it  was  Frederick 
Lawrence  !  I  wiped  away  the  cold  drops  that  were  trickling 
down  my  forehead,  and  stepped  back  as  he  approached  ;  but 
his  eyes  fell  upon  me,  and  he  knew  me,  altered  as  my  ap- 
pearance must  have  been. 

"  Is  that  you,  Markham  ?"  said  he,  startled  and  confounded 
at  the  apparition  —  perhaps,  too,  at  the  wildness  of  my  looks. 

"Yes,  Lawrence  —  is  that  you?"  I  mustered  the  presence 
of  mind  to  reply. 

He  smiled  and  coloured,  as  if  half-proud  and  half-ashamed 
of  his  identity  ;  and  if  he  had  reason  to  be  proud  of  the  sweet 
lady  on  his  arm,  he  had  no  less  cause  to  be  ashamed  of  having 
concealed  his  good  fortune  so  long. 

u  Allow  me  to  introduce  you  to  my  bride,"  said  he,  endea- 
vouring to  hide  his  embarrassment  by  an  assumption  of  care- 
less gaiety.  "Esther,  this  is  Mr.  Markham;  my  friend 
M>arkham,  Mrs.  Lawrence,  late  Miss  Hargrave." 


OF   WILDFELL  HALL.  S5S 

I  bowed  to  the  bride,  and  vehemently  wrung  the  bride- 
groom's hand. 

"  Why  did  you  not  tell  me  of  this?"  I  said,  reproachfully, 
pretending  a  resentment  I  did  not  feel  (for  in  truth  I  was 
almost  wild  with  joy  to  find  myself  so  happily  mistaken,  and 
overflowing  with  affection  to  him  for  this  and  for  the  base 
injustice  I  felt  that  I  had  done  him  in  my  mind — he  might 
have  wronged  me,  but  not  to  that  extent ;  and  as  I  had  hated 
him  like  a  demon  for  the  last  forty  hours,  the  reaction  from 
such  a  feeling  was  so  great,  that  I  could  pardon  all  oftences 
lor  the  moment — and  love  him  in  spite  of  them  too). 

"  I  did  tell  you,"  said  he,  with  an  air  of  guilty  confusion ; 
"  you  received  my  letter  ?" 

"What  letter?" 

"  The  one  announcing  my  intended  marriage." 

"  I  never  received  the  most  distant  hint  of  such  an  in- 
tention." 

"  It  must  have  crossed  you  on  your  way  then — it  should 
have  reached  you  yesterday  morning — it  was  rather  late,  I 
acknowledge.  But  what  brought  you  here  then,  if  you  re- 
ceived no  information  ?  " 

It  was  now  my  turn  to  be  confounded  ;  but  the  young  lady, 
who  had  been  busily  patting  the  snow  with  her  "foot  during 
our  short,  sotto  voce  colloquy,  very  opportunely  came  to  my 
assistance  by  pinching  her  companion's  arm  and  whispering 
a  suggestion  that  his  friend  should  be  invited  to  step  into  the 
carriage  and  go  with  them ;  it  being  scarcely  agreeable  to 
stand  there  among  so  many  gazers,  and  keeping  their  friends 
waiting,  into  the  bargain. 

"And  so  cold  as  it  is  too  !"  said  he,  glancing  with  dismay 
at  her  slight  drapery,  and  immediately  handing  her  into  the 
carriage.  "Markham,  will  you  come?  We  are  going  to 
Paris,  but  we  can  drop  you  anywhere  between  this  and 
Dover." 

"  No,  thank  you.  Good-bye — I  needn't  wish  you  a  plea- 
sant journey ;  but  I  shall  expect  a  very  handsome  apology, 
some  time,  mind,  and  scores  of  letters,  before  we  meet  again." 

He  shook  my  hand,  and  hastened  to  take  his  place  beside 
his  lady.  This  was  no  time  or  place  for  explanation  or  dis- 
course :  we  had  already  stood  long  enough  to  excite  the 
wonder  of  the  village  sight-seers,  and  perhaps  the  wrath  of 
the  attendant  bridal  party ;  though,  of  course,  all  this  passed 
in  a  much  shorter  time  than  I  have  taken  to  relate,  or  even 
than  you  will  take  to  read  it.  I  stood  beside  the  carriage, 
and,  the  window  being  down,  I  saw  my  happy  friend  fondly 
encircle  his  companion's  Avaist  with  his  arm,  while  she  rested 
her  glowing  cheek  on  his  shoulder,  looking  the  very  imper- 


8M  THE   TENANT 

eonation  of  loving,  trusting  bliss.  In  the  interval  between 
the  footman's  closing  the  door  and  taking  his  place  behind, 
she  raised  her  smiling  brown  eyes  to  his  face,  observing,  play- 
fully,— 

"  I  fear  you  must  think  me  very  insensible,  Frederick :  I 
know  it  is  the  custom  for  ladies  to  cry  on  these  occasions,  bu 
I  couldn't  squeeze  a  tear  for  my  life." 

He  only  answered  with  a  kiss,  and  pressed  her  still  closer 
to  his  bosom. 

"  But  what  is  this  ?"  he  murmured.  "  Why,  Esther, 
you're  crying  now ! " 

"  Oh,  it's  nothing — it's  only  too  much  happiness — and  the 
wish,"  sobbed  she,  "  that  our  dear  Helen  were  as  happy  as 
ourselves." 

"Bless  you  for  that  wish!"  I  inwardly  responded  as  the 
carriage  rolled  away — "  and  Heaven  grant  it  be  not  wholly 
vain !" 

I  thought  a  cloud  had  suddenly  darkened  her  husband's 
lace  as  she  spoke.  What  did  he  think?  Could  he  grudge 
Rich  happiness  to  his  dear  sister  and  his  friend  as  he  now  felt 
himself?  At  such  a  moment  it  was  impossible.  The  contrast 
between  her  fate  and  his  must  darken  his  bliss  for  a  time. 
Perhaps,  too,  he  thought  of  me :  perhaps  he  regretted  the 
part  he  had  had  in  preventing  our  union,  by  omitting  to 
help  us,  ii  not  by  actually  plotting  against  us — I  exonerated 
him  from  that  charge,  now,  and  deeply  lamented  my  former 
ungenerous  suspicions ;  but  he  had  wronged  us,  still — I 
hoped,  I  trusted  that  he  had.  He  had  not  attempted  to 
check  the  course  of  our  love  by  actually  damming  up  the 
streams  in  their  passage,  but  he  had  passively  watched  the 
two  currents  wandering  through  life's  arid  wilderness,  declin- 
ing to  clear  away  the  obstructions  that  divided  them,  and 
secretly  hoping  that  both  would  lose  themselves  in  the  sand 
before  they  could  be  joined  in  one.  And  meantime,  he  had 
been  quietly  proceeding  with  his  own  affairs :  perhaps,  his 
heart  and  head  had  been  so  full  of  his  fair  lady  that  he  had 
had  but  little  thought  to  spare  for  others.  Doubtless  he  had 
made  his  first  acquaintance  with  her — his  first  intimate 
acquaintance  at  least— during  his  three  months'  sojourn  at 

F ,  for  I  now  recollected  that  he  had  once  casually  let 

fall  an  intimation  that  his  aunt  and  sister  had  a  young  friend 
staying  with  them  at  the  time,  and  this  accounted  tor  at  least 
one-half  his  silence  about  all  transactions  there.  Now,  too,  I 
saw  a  reason  for  many  little  things  that  had  slightly  puzzled 
me  before;  among  the  rest,  lor  sundry  departures  from 
Woodford,  and  absences  more  or  less  prolonged,  for  which 
he  never  satisfactorily  accounted,  and  concerning  which  he 


OF   WILDFKLL   HALL.  355 

hated  to  be  questioned  on  his  return.  Well  might  the 
servant  say  his  master  was  "  very  close."  But  why  this 
strange  reserve  to  me?  Partly,  from  that  remarkable 
idiosyncrasy  to  which  I  have  before  alluded ;  partly,  perhaps, 
from  tenderness  to  my  feelings,  or  fear  to  disturb  my  phi- 
losophy by  touching  upon  the  infectious  theme  of  love. 

CHAPTER  LIL 

THE  tardy  gig  had  overtaken  me  at  last.  I  entered  it,  and 
bade  the  man  who  brought  it  drive  to  Grassdale  Manor — I 
was  too  busy  with  my  own  thoughts  to  care  to  drive  it  myself. 
I  would  see  Mrs.  Huntingdon — there  could  be  no  impropriety 
in  that  now  that  her  husband  had  been  dead  above  a  year — 
and  by  her  indifference  or  her  joy  at  my  unexpected  arrival, 
I  could  soon  tell  whether  her  heart  was  truly  mine.  But  my 
companion,  a  loquacious,  forward  fellow,  was  not  disposed  to 
leave  me  to  the  indulgence  of  my  private  cogitations. 

"There  they  go!"  said  he,  as  the  carriages  filed  away 
before  us.  "There'll  be  brave  doings  on  yonder  to-day,  as 
what  come  to  morra. — Know  anything  of  that  family,  sir?  or 
you're  a  stranger  in  these  parts?" 

"  I  know  them  by  report." 

"  Humph  !  There's  the  best  of  'em  gone,  anyhow.  And  I 
suppose  the  old  missis  is  agoing  to  leave  after  this  stir's  gotten 
overed,  and  take  herself  off,  somewhere,  to  live  on  her  bit  of 
a  jointure ;  and  the  young  'un — at  least  the  new  'un  (she's 
none  so  very  young)  is  coming  down  to  live  at  the  Grove." 

"Is  Mr.  Hargrave  married,  then?" 

"Aye  sir,  a  few  months  since.  He  should  a  been  wed  afore, 
to  a  widow  lady,  but  they  couldn't  agree  over  the  money  : 
she'd  a  rare  long  purse,  and  Mr.  Hargrave  wanted  it  all  to 
his-self ;  but  she  wouldn't  let  it  go,  and  so  then  they  fell  out. 
This  one  isn't  quite  as  rich — nor  as  handsome  either,  but  she 
hasn't  been  married  before.  She's  very  plain,  they  say,  and 
getting  on  to  forty  or  past,  and  so,  you  know,  if  she  didn't 
jump  at  this  hopportuuity,  she  thought  she'd  never  get  a 
better.  I  guess  she  thought  such  a  handsome  young  husband 
was  worth  all  'at  ever  she  had,  and  he  might  take  it  and 
welcome  ;  but  I  lay  she'll  rue  her  bargain  'afore  long.  They 
say  she  begins  already  to  see  'at  he  isn't  not  altogether  that 
nice,  generous,  perlite,  delightful  gentleman  'at  she  thought 
him  afore  marriage — he  begins  a  being  careless,  and  masterful 
already.  Ay,  and  she'll  find  him  harder  and  carelesser  nor 
she  thinks  on." 

"  You  seem  to  be  well  acquainted  with  him,"  I  observed. 

"  I   am,    sir ;    I've   known   him   since   he  was   quite   a 


6  THE  TENANT 

young  gentleman ;  and  a  proud  'un  he  was,  and  a  wilful..  I 
was  servant  yonder  for  several  years ;  but  I  couldnTt  stand 
then  niggardly  ways — she  got  ever  longer  and  worse  did 
missis,  with  her  nipping  and  screwing,  and  watching  and 
grudging;  so  I  thought  I'd  find  another  place." 

"Are  we  not  near  the  house?"  said  I,  interrupting  him. 

*'  Yes,  sir ;  yond's  the  park." 

My  heart  sank  within  me  to  behold  that  stately  mansion  in 
the  midst  of  its  expansive  grounds — the  park  as  beautiful  no\v, 
in  its  wintry  garb,  as  it  could  be  in  its  summer  glory:  the 
majestic  sweep,  the  undulating  swell  and  fall,  displayed  to  full 
advantage  in  that  robe  of  dazzling  purity,  stainless  and 
printless — save  one  long,  winding  track  left  by  the  trooping 
deer — the  stately  timber-trees  with  their  heavy  laden  branches 
gleaming  white  against  the  dull,  grey  sky ;  the  deep,  encircling 
woods ;  the  broad  expanse  of  water  sleeping  in  frozen  quiet ; 
and  the  weeping  ash  and  willow  drooping  their  snow-clad 
boughs  above  it— all  presented  a  picture,  striking,  indeed,  and 
pleasing  to  an  unencumbered  mind,  but  by  no  means  encou- 
raging to  me.  There  was  one  comfort,  however, — all  this 
was  entailed  upon  little  Arthur,  and  could  not  under  any 
circumstances,  strictly  speaking,  be  his  mother's.  But  how 
was  she  situated?  Overcoming  with  a  sudden  effort  my 
repugnance  to  mention  her  name  to  my  garrulous  companion, 
I  asked  him  if  he  knew  whether  her  late  husband  had  left  a 
will,  and  how  the  property  had  been  disposed  of.  Oh,  yes, 
he  knew  all  about  it ;  and  I  was  quickly  informed  that  to  her 
had  been  left  the  full  control  and  management  of  the  estate 
during  her  son's  minority,  besides  the  absolute,  unconditional 
possession  of  her  own  fortune  (hut  I  knew  that  her  father  had 
not  given  her  much),  and  the  small  additional  sum  that  had 
been  settled  upon  her  before  marriage. 

Before  the  close  of  the  explanation,  we  drew  up  at  the  park 
gates.  Now  for  the  trial — if  I  should  find  her  within — but 
alas !  she  might  be  still  at  Staningley :  her  brother  had  given  me 
no  intimation  to  the  contrary.  I  inquired  at  the  porter's  lodgfe 
if  Mrs.  Huntingdon  were  at  home.  No,  she  was  with  her 

aunt  in shire,  but  was  expected  to  return  before  Christmas. 

She  usually  spent  most  of  her  time  at  Staningley,  only  coming 
to  Grassdale  occasionally,  when  the  management  of  affairs,  or 
»he  interest  of  her  tenants  and  dependants  required  her 
presence. 

"Near  what  town  is  Staningley  situated?"  I  asked.  The 
requisite  information  was  soon  obtained.  "Now  then,  my 

man,  give  me  the  reins,  and  we'll  return  to  M .  I  must 

have  some  breakfast  at  the  Rose  and  Crown,  and  then  away 
to  Staningley  by  the  first  coach  for ." 


OF   WILDFE1.L   HALL.  S./7 

At  M I  had  time  before  the  coach  started  to  replenish 

my  forces  with  a  hearty  breakfast,  and  to  obtain  the  refresh- 
ment of  my  usual  morning's  ablutions,  and  the  amelioration  ol 
some  slight  change  in  my  toilet, — and  also  to  dispatch  a  short 
note  to  my  mother  (excellent  son  that  I  was)  to  assure  her 
that  I  was  still  in  existence,  and  to  excuse  my  non-appearance 
at  the  expected  time.  It  was  a  long  journey  to  Staningley  for 
those  slow  travelling  days  ;  but  I  did  not  deny  myself  needful 
refreshment  on  the  road,  nor  even  a  night's  rest  at  a  way-side 
inn ;  choosing  rather  to  brook  a  little  delay  than  to  present 
myself  worn,  wild,  and  weatherbeaten  before  my  mistress  and 
her  aunt,  who  would  be  astonished  enough  to  see  me  without 
that.  Next  morning,  therefore,  I  not  only  fortified  mysell 
with  as  substantial  a  breakfast  as  my  excited  feelings  would 
allow  me  to  swallow,  but  I  bestowed  a  little  more  than  usual 
time  and  care  upon  my  toilet ;  and,  furnished  with  a  change  ol 
linen  from  my  small  carpet-bag,  well  brushed  clothes,  well 
polished  boots,  and  neat  new  gloves, — I  mounted  "The  Light- 
ning," and  resumed  my  journey.  I  had  nearly  two  stages  yet 
before  me,  but  the  coach,  I  was  informed,  passed  through  the 
neighbourhood  of  Staningley,  and,  having  desired  to  be  set 
down  as  near  the  Hall  as  possible,  I  had  nothing  to  do  but  to 
sit  with  folded  arms,  and  speculate  upon  the  coming  hour. 

It  was  a  clear,  frosty  morning.  The  very  fact  of  sitting 
exalted  aloft,  surveying  the  snowy  landscape,  and  sweet,  sunny 
sky,  inhaling  the  pure,  bracing  air,  and  crunching  away  over 
the  crisp,  frozen  snow,  was  exhilarating  enough  in  itself ;  but 
add  to  this  the  idea  of  to  what  goal  I  was  hastening,  and  whom 
I  expected  to  meet,  and  you  may  have  some  faint  conception 
of  my  frame  of  mind  at  the  time — only  a  faint  one,  though, 
for  my  heart  swelled  with  unspeakable  delight,  and  my  spirits 
rose  almost  to  madness,  in  spite  of  my  prudent  endeavours 
to  bind  then  down  to  a  reasonable  platitude  by  thinking  of  the 
undeniable  difference  between  Helen's  rank  and  mine ;  of  all 
that  she  had  passed  through  since  our  parting ;  of  her  long, 
unbroken  silence  ;  and,  above  all,  of  her  cool,  cautious  aunt, 
whose  counsels  she  would  doubtless  be  careful  not  to  slight 
again.  These  considerations  made  my  heart  flutter  with  anx- 
iety, and  my  chest  heave  with  impatience  to  get  the  crisis  over, 
but  they  could  not  dim  her  image  in  my  mind,  or  mar  the 
vivid  recollection  of  what  had  been  said  and  felt  between  us — 
or  destroy  the  keen  anticipation  of  what  was  to  be — in  fact,  I 
could  not  realise  their  terrors  now.  Towards  the  close  of  the 
journey,  however,  a  couple  of  my  fellow  passengers  kindly 
came  to  my  assistance,  and  brought  me  low  enough. 

41  Fine  land  this,"  said  one  of  them,  pointing  with  his  urn- 


858  THE   TENANT 

brella  to  the  wide  fields  on  the  right,  conspicuous  for  their 
compact  hedge-rows,  deep,  well-cut  ditches,  and  fine  timber- 
trees,  growing  sometimes  on  the  borders,  sometimes  in  the 
midst  of  the  enclosure ;— "  very  fine  land,  if  you  saw  it  in  the 
summer  or  spring." 

"  Ay,"  responded  the  other — a  gruff  elderly  man,  with  a 
drab  great  coat  buttoned  up  to  the  chin  and  a  cotton  umbrella 
between  his  knees.  "  It's  old  Maxwell's  I  suppose." 

"  It  was  his,  sir,  but  he's  dead  now,  you're  aware,  and  has 
left  it  all  to  his  niece." 

"All?" 

"Every  rood  of  it, — and  the  mansion-house  and  all, — every 
hatom  of  his  worldly  goods  ! — except  just  a  trifle,  by  way  of 

remembrance  to  his  nephew  down  in shire  and  an  annuity 

to  his  wife." 

"  It's  strange,  sir  !" 

"  It  is,  sir.  And  she  wasn't  his  own  niece  neither ;  but  he 
had  no  near  relations  of  his  own — none  but  a  nephew  he'd 
quarrelled  with — and  he  always  had  a  partiality  for  this  one. 
And  then  his  wife  advised  him  to  it,  they  say :  she'd  brought 
most  of  the  property,  and  it  was  her  wish  that  this  lady  should 
have  it." 

"  Humph ! — She'll  be  a  fine  catch  for  somebody." 

"  She  will  so.  She's  a  widow,  but  quite  young  yet,  and 
uncommon  handsome — a  fortune  of  her  own,  besides,  and  only 

one  child — and  she's  nursing  a  fine  estate  for  him  in 

There'll  be  lots  to  speak  for  her  ! — '  fraid  there's  no  chance 
lor  uz' — (facetiously  jogging  me  with  his  elbow,  as  well  as  his 
companion) — ha,  ha,  ha!  No  offence,  sir,  I  hope?"  (to  me) 
"Ahem  ! — I  should  think  she'll  marry  none  but  a  nobleman, 
myself.  Look  ye  sir,"  resumed  he,  turning  to  his  other  neigh- 
bour, and  pointing  past  me  with  his  umbrella,  "  that's  thr 
hall — grand  park,  you  see — and  all  them  woods — plenty  ot 
timber  there,  and  lots  of  game — hallo!  what  now?" 

This  exclamation  was  occasioned  by  the  sudden  stoppage  of 
the  coach  at  the  park  gates. 

"  Gen'leman  for  Staningley  Hall?"  cried  the  coachman, 
and  I  rose  and  threw  my  carpet  bag  on  to  the  ground,  prepa- 
tory  to  dropping  myself  down  after  it. 

"  Sickly,  sir  ?"  asked  my  talkative  neighbour,  staring  me  in 
the  face  (I  dare  say  it  was  white  enough). 

"No.     Here,  coachman." 

"Thank'ee,  sir.— All  right !" 

The  coachman  pocketed  his  fee  and  drove  away,  leaving  mo 
not  walking  up  the  park,  but  pacing  to  and  fro  before  its  gates, 
with  folded  arms  and  eyes  fixed  upon  the  ground— an  over- 


OF   WILDFEI.L   HALL.  369 

whelming  force  of  images,  thoughts,  impressions  crowding  on 
my  mind,  and  nothing  tangibly  distinct  but  this : — My  love 
had  been  cherished  in  vain  ;  my  hope  was  gone  for  ever ;  I 
must  tear  myself  away  at  once,  and  banish  or  suppress  all 
thoughts  of  her  like  the  remembrance  of  a  wild,  mad  dream. 
Gladly  would  I  have  lingered  round  the  place  for  hours,  in  the 
hope  of  catching,  at  least  one  distant  glimpse  of  her  before  I 
went,  but  it  must  not  be  :  I  must  not  suffer  her  to  see  me  ;  for 
what  could  have  brought  me  hither  but  the  hope  of  reviving  her 
attachment,  with  a  view,  hereafter  to  obtain  her  hand  ?  And 
could  I  bear  that  she  should  think  me  capable  of  such  a  thing  ? 
— of  presuming  upon  the  acquaintance — the  love  if  you  will 
— accidentally  contracted,  or  rather  forced  upon  her  against 
her  will,  when  she  was  an  unknown  fugitive,  toiling  for  her 
own  support,  apparently  without  fortune,  family  or  connections 
— to  come  upon  her  now,  when  she  was  reinstated  in  her  pro- 
per sphere,  and  claim  a  share  in  her  prosperity,  which,  had 
it  never  failed  her,  would  most  certainly  have  kept  her  un- 
known to  me  for  ever?  and  this  too,  when  we  had  parted  six- 
teen months  ago,  and  she  had  expressly  forbidden  me  to  hope 
for  a  re-union  in  this  world — and  never  sent  me  a  line  or  a 
message  from  that  day  to  this  ?  No  1  The  very  idea  was  in- 
tolerable. 

And  even  if  she  should  have  a  lingering  affection  for  me 
still,  ought  I  to  disturb  her  peace  by  awakening  those  feelings? 
to  subject  her  to  the  struggles  of  conflicting  duty  and  inclina- 
tion— to  whichsoever  side  the  latter  might  allure,  or  the 
former  imperatively  call  her — whether  she  should  deem  it  her 
duty  to  risk  the  slights  and  censures  of  the  world,  the  sorrow 
and  displeasure  of  those  she  loved,  for  a  romantic  idea  ot 
truth  and  constancy  to  me,  or  to  sacrifice  her  individual  wishes 
to  the  feelings  of  her  friends  and  her  own  sense  of  prudence 
and  the  fitness  of  things  ?  No — and  I  would  not  1  I  would  go 
at  once,  and  she  should  never  know  that  I  had  approached 
the  place  of  her  abode  ;  for  though  I  might  disclaim  all  idea 
of  ever  aspiring  to  her  hand,  or  even  of  soliciting  a  place  in 
her  friendly  regard,  her  peace  should  not  be  broken  by  my 
presence,  nor  her  heart  afflicted  by  the  sight  of  my  fidelity. 
"  Adieu  then,  dear  Helen,  for  ever !  For  ever  adieu  1" 
So  said  I — and  yet  I  could  not  tear  myself  away.  I  moved 
a  few  paces,  and  then  looked  back,  for  one  last  view  of  her 
stately  home,  that  I  might  have  its  outward  form,  at  least,  im- 
pressed upon  my  mind  as  indelibly  as  her  own  image,  which 
alas  !  I  must  not  see  again — then,  walked  a  few  steps  further ; 
and  then,  lost  in  melancholy  musings,  paused  again  and  leant 
my  back  against  a  rough  old  tree  that  grew  beside  the  road. 


THE   TENANT 


CHAFFER  LIII. 

WHILE  standing  thus,  absorbed  in  my  gloomy  reverie,  a  gen- 
tleman's carriage  came  round  the  corner  of  the  road.  1  did 
not  look  at  it ;  and  had  it  rolled  quietly  by  me,  I  should  not 
have  remembered  the  fact  of  its  appearance  at  all;  but  a  tiny 
voice  from  within  it  roused  me  by  exclaiming, — 

"Mamma,  mamma,  here's  Mr.  Markham!" 

I  did  not  hear  the  reply,  but  presently  the  same  voice 
answered, — 

"  It  is,  indeed,  mamma — look  for  yourself." 

I  did  not  raise  my  eyes,  but  I  suppose  mamma  looked,  for 
a  clear,  melodious  voice,  whose  tones  thrilled  through  my 
nerves,  exclaimed, — 

44  Oh,  aunt !  here's  Mr.  Markham — Arthur's  friend ! — Stop, 
Richard!" 

There  was  such  evidence  of  joyous  though  suppressed  ex- 
citement in  the  utterance  of  those  few  words — especially  that 
tremulous,  "  Oh,  aunt " — that  it  threw  me  almost  oiF  my 
guard.  The  carriage  stopped  immediately,  and  I  looked  up 
and  met  the  eye  of  a  pale,  grave,  elderly  lady  surveying  me 
from  the  open  window.  She  bowed  and  so  did  I,  and  then 
she  withdrew  her  head,  while  Arthur  screamed  to  the  foot- 
man to  let  him  out ;  but  before  that  functionary  could  descend 
from  his  box,  a  hand  was  silently  put  forth  from  the  carriage 
window.  I  knew  that  hand,  though  a  black  glove  concealed 
its  delicate  whiteness  and  half  its  fair  proportions,  and  quickly 
seizing  it,  I  pressed  it  in  my  own — ardently  for  a  moment, 
but  instantly  recollecting  myself,  I  dropped  it,  and  it  was  im- 
mediately withdrawn. 

"Were  you  coming  to  see  us,  or  only  passing  by?r'  asked 
the  low  voice  of  its  owner,  who,  I  felt,  was  attentively  sur- 
veying my  countenance  from  behind  the  thick,  black  veil 
which,  with  the  shadowing  panels,  entirely  concealed  her  own 
from  me. 

4 1 — I  came  to  see  the  place,"  faltered  I. 

4  The  place,"  repeated  she,  in  a  tone   which  betokened 
more  displeasure  or  disappointment  than  surprise. 
4  Will  you  not  enter  it  then?" 

4  If  you  wish  it." 
4  Can  you  doubt?" 

4  Yes,  yes !  he  must  enter,"  cried  Arthur  running  round 
from  the  other  door ;  and  seizing  my  hand  in  both  his,  Le 
bhook  it  heartily. 

"  Do  you  remember  me,  sir?"  said  he. 


OF   \VII.DKKIX   HALL.  361 

"  Yes,  full  well,  my  little  man,  altered  though  you  are," 
replied  I,  surveying  the  comparatively  tall,  slim  young  gen- 
tleman with  his  mother's  image  visibly  stamped  upon  his  fair, 
intelligent  features,  in  spite  of  the  blue  eyes  beaming  with 
gladness,  and  the  bright  locks  clustering  beneath  his  cap. 

"Am  I  not  grown?"  said  he,  stretching  himself  up  to  his 
full  height. 

"  Grown !  three  inches,  upon  my  word !" 

"  I  was  seven  last  birthday,"  was  the  proud  rejoinder.  "  In 
seven  years  more,  I  shall  be  as  tall  as  you,  nearly." 

"  Arthur,"  said  his  mother,  "  tell  him  to  come  in.  Go  on, 
Richard." 

There  was  a  touch  of  sadness  as  well  as  coldness  in  her 
voice,  but  I  knew  not  to  what  to  ascribe  it.  The  carriage 
drove  on  and  entered  the  gates  before  us.  My  little  com- 
panion led  me  up  the  park,  uiscoursing  merrily  all  the  way. 
Arrived  at  the  hall  door,  I  paused  on  the  steps  and  looked 
round  me,  waiting  to  recover  my  composure,  if  possible — or, 
at  any  rate,  to  remember  my  new  formed  resolutions  and  the 
principles  on  which  they  were  founded ;  and  it  was  not  till 
Arthur  had  been  for  some  time  gently  pulling  my  coat,  and 
repeating  his  invitations  to  enter,  that  I  at  length  consented 
to  accompany  him  into  the  apartment  where  the  ladies 
awaited  us. 

Helen  eyed  me  as  I  entered  with  a  kind  of  gentle,  serious 
scrutiny,  and  politely  asked  after  Mrs.  Markham  and  Rose.  I 
respectfully  answered  her  inquiries.  Mrs.  Maxwell  begged 
me  to  be  seated,  observing  it  was  rather  cold,  but  she  sup- 
posed I  had  not  travelled  far  that  morning. 

"  Not  quite  twenty  miles,"  I  answered. 

"  Not  on  foot ! " 

t;  No,  madam,  by  coach." 

"  Here's  Rachel,  sir,"  said  Arthur,  the  only  truly  happy 
one  amongst  us,  directing  my  attention  to  that  worthy  indi- 
vidual, who  had  just  entered  to  take  her  mistress's  things. 
She  vouchsafed  me  an  almost  friendly  smile  of  recognition — a 
favour  that  demanded,  at  least,  a  civil  salutation  on  my  part, 
which  was  accordingly  given  and  respectfully  returned — 
she  had  seen  the  error  of  her  former  estimation  of  my  cha- 
racter. 

When  Helen  was  divested  of  her  lugubrious  bonnet  and 
Veil,  her  heavy  winter  cloak,  &c.,  she  looked  so  like  herself 
that  I  knew  not  how  to  bear  it.  I  was  particularly  glad  to 
see  her  beautiful  black  hair  unstinted  still  and  unconcealed  in 
its  glossy  luxuriance. 

'"  Mamma  has  left  off  her  widow's  cap  in  honour  of  uncle's 
marriage,"  observed  Arthur,  reading  my  looks  with  a  child'i 


8C2  THE  TENANT 

mingled  simplicity  and  quickness  of  observation.  Mamma 
looked  grave  and  Mrs.  Maxwell  shook  her  head.  "  And  aunt 
Maxwell  is  never  going  to  leave  off  hers,"  persisted  the 
naughty  boy ;  but  when  he  saw  that  his  pertness  was  seriously 
displeasing  and  painful  to  his  aunt,  he  went  and  silently  put 
his  arm  round  her  neck,  kissed  her  cheek,  and  withdrew  to 
the  recess  of  one  of  the  great  bay  windows,  where  he  quietly 
amused  himself  with  his  dog  while  Mrs.  Maxwell  gravely  dis- 
cussed with  me  the  interesting  topics  of  the  weather,  the 
season,  and  the  roads.  I  considered  her  presence  very  useful 
as  a  check  upon  my  natural  impulses — an  antidote  to  those 
emotions  of  tumultuous  excitement  which  would  otherwise 
have  carried  me  away  against  my  reason  and  my  will,  but 
just  then  I  felt  the  restraint  almost  intolerable,  and  I  had  the 
greatest  difficulty  in  forcing  myself  to  attend  to  her  remarks 
and  answer  them  with  ordinary  politeness  ;  for  I  was  sensible 
that  Helen  was  standing  within  a  few  feet  of  me  beside  the 
fire.  I  dared  not  look  at  her,  but  I  felt  her  eye  was  upon  me, 
and  from  one  hasty,  furtive  glance,  I  thought  her  cheek  was 
slightly  flushed,  and  that  her  fingers,  as  she  played  with  her 
watch-chain,  were  agitated  with  that  restless,  trembling  mo- 
tion which  betokens  high  excitement. 

"Tell  me,"  said  she,  availing  herself  of  the  first  pause  in 
the  attempted  conversation  between  her  aunt  and  me,  and 
speaking  fast  and  low  with  her  eyes  bent  on  the  gold  chain — 
for  I  now  ventured  another  glance. — "  Tell  me  now  you  all 
are  at  Lindenhope — has  nothing  happened  since  I  left 
you?" 

"  I  believe  not." 

"  Nobody  dead  ?  nobody  married  ?" 

"No." 

"  Or — or  expecting  to  marry  ? — No  old  ties  dissolved  or 
new  ones  formed?  no  old  friends  forgotten  or  supplanted?" 

She  dropped  her  voice  so  low  in  the  last  sentence  that  no 
one  could  have  caught  the  concluding  words  but  myself,  and 
at  the  same  time  turned  her  eyes  upon  me  with  a  dawning 
smile,  most  sweetly  melancholy,  and  a  look  of  timid  though 
keen  inquiry  that  made  my  cheeks  tingle  with  inexpressible 
emotions. 

"  I  believe  not,"  I  answered — "  Certainly  not,  if  others 
are  as  little  changed  as  I."  Her  face  glowed  in  sympathy 
with  mine. 

"  And  you  really  did  not  mean  to  call  ?"  die  exclaimed. 

"  I  feared  to  intrude." 

"To  intrude!"  cried  she  with  an  impatient  gesture.— 
"What" — but  as  if  suddenly  recollecting  her  aunt's  presence, 
•he  checked  herself,  and,  turning  to  that  lady,  continued— 


OF  WILDFELL  HALL.  36S 

H  Why,  aunt,  this  man  is  my  brother's  close  fricnil  and  was 
my  own  intimate  acqaintance  (for  a  few  short  months  at  least), 
and  professed  a  great  attachment  to  my  boy— and  when  he 
passes  the  house,  so  many  scores  of  miles  from  his  home,  he 
declines  to  look  in  for  fear  of  intruding  ! " 

"  Mr.  Markham  is  over  modest,"  observed  Mrs.  Maxwell. 

"  Over  ceremonious  rather,"  said  her  niece — "over — well, 
it's  no  matter."  And  turning  from  me,  she  seated  herself  in 
a  chair  beside  the  table,  arid,  pulling  a  book  to  her  by  the 
cover,  began  to  turn  over  the  leaves  in  an  energetic  kind  of 
abstraction. 

"  If  I  had  known,"  said  T,  "  that  you  would  have  honoured 
me  by  remembering  me  as  an  intimate  acquaintance,  I  most 
likely  should  not  have  denied  myself  the  pleasure  of  calling 
upon  you,  but  I  thought  you  had  forgotten  me  long  ago." 

"  You  judged  of  others  by  yourself,"  muttered  she  without 
raising  her  eyes  from  the  book,  but  reddening  as  she  spoke, 
and  hastily  turning  over  a  dozen  leaves  at  once. 

There  was  a  pause,  of  which  Arthur  thought  he  might 
venture  to  avail  himself  to  introduce  his  handsome  young 
setter,  and  show  me  how  wonderfully  it  was  grown  and  im- 
proved, and  to  ask  after  the  welfare  of  its  father  Sancho. 
Mrs.  Maxwell  then  withdrew  to  take  off  her  things.  Helen 
immediately  pushed  the  book  from  her,  and  after  silently 
surveying  her  son,  his  friend,  and  his  dog  for  a  few  moments, 
she  dismissed  the  former  from  the  room  under  pretence  of 
wishing  him  to  fetch  his  last  new  book  to  show  me.  The 
child  obeyed  with  alacrity  ;  but  I  continued  caressing  the 
dog.  The  silence  might  have  lasted  till  its  master's  return 
had  it  depended  on  me  to  break  it,  but,  in  half  a  minute  or 
less,  my  hostess  impatiently  rose,  and,  taking  her  former 
station  on  the  rug  between  me  and  the  chimney  corner, 
earnestly  exclaimed — 

"  Gilbert,  what  is  the  matter  with  you  ? — why  are  you  so 
changed? — It  is  a  very  indiscreet  question,  I  know,"  she 
hastened  to  add  :  "perhaps  a  very  rude  one — don't  answer  it 
if  you  think  so — but  I  hate  mysteries  and  concealments." 

"  I  am  not  changed,  Helen — unfortunately  I  am  as  keen 
and  passionate  as  ever — it  is  not  I,  it  is  circumstances  that  are 
changed." 

"  What  circumstances  ?  Do  tell  me!"  Her  cheek  was 
blanched  with  the  very  anguish  of  anxiety — could  it  be  with 
the  fear  that  I  had  rashly  pledged  my  faith  to  another  ? 

"  I'll  tell  you  at  once,"  said  I.  "  I  will  confess  that  I  came 
here  for  the  purpose  of  seeing  you  (not  without  some  moni- 
tory misgivings  at  my  own  presumption,  and  fears  that  I 
should  be  us  little  weJcome  as  expected  when  I  came),  but  I 


864  THE   1'KXAXt 

did  not  know  that  this  estate  was  yours,  until  enlightened  on 
the  subject  of  your  inheritance  by  the  conversation  of  two 
fellow  passengers  in  the  last  stage  of  my  journey ;  and  then, 
I  saw  at  once  the  folly  of  the  hopes  I  had  cherished  and  the 
madness  of  retaining  them  a  moment  longer  ;  and  though  I 
alighted  at  your  gates,  I  determined  not  to  enter  within  them  ; 
I  lingered  a  few  minutes  to  see  the  place,  but  was  fully  re- 
solved to  return  to  M without  seeing  its  mistress." 

"  And  if  my  aunt  and  I  had  not  been  just  returning  from 
our  morning  drive,  I  should  have  seen  and  heard  no  more  of 
you  ?  " 

"  I  thought  it  would  be  better  for  both  that  we  should  not 
meet,"  replied  I,  as  calmly  as  I  could,  but  not  daring  to  speak 
above  my  breath,  from  conscious  inability  to  steady  my  voice, 
and  not  daring  to  look  in  her  face  lest  my  firmness  should 
forsake  me  altogether  :  "I  thought  an  interview  would  only 
disturb  your  peace  and  madden  me.  But  I  am  glad,  now,  of 
this  opportunity  of  seeing  you  once  more  and  knowing  that 
you  have  not  forgotten  me,  and  of  assuring  you  that  I  shall 
never  cease  to  remember  you." 

There  was  a  moment's  pause.  Mrs.  Huntingdon  moved 
away,  and  stood  in  the  recess  of  the  window.  Did  she  regard 
this  as  an  intimation  that  modesty  alone  prevented  me  from 
asking  her  hand  ?  and  was  she  considering  how  to  repulse  me 
with  the  smallest  injury  to  my  feelings?  Before  I  could  speak 
to  relieve  her  from  such  a  perplexity,  she  broke  the  silence 
herself  by  suddenly  turning  towards  me  and  observing — 

44  You  might  have  had  such  an  opportunity  before — as  far, 
I  mean,  as  regards  assuring  me  of  your  kindly  recollections, 
and  yourself  of  mine,  if  you  had  written  to  me." 

44  I  would  have  done  so,  but  I  did  not  know  your  address, 
and  did  not  like  to  ask  your  brother,  because  I  thought  he 
would  object  to  my  writing — but  this  would  not  have  deterred 
me  for  a  moment,  if  I  could  have  ventured  to  believe  that  you 
expected  to  hear  from  me,  or  even  wasted  a  thought  upon 
your  unhappy  friend ;  but  your  silence  naturally  led  me  to 
conclude  myself  forgotten." 

44  Did  you  expect  me  to  write  to  you  then?" 

44  No,  Helen — Mrs.  Huntingdon,"  said  I,  blushing  at  the 
implied  imputation,  "  certainly  not ;  but  if  you  had  sent  me  a 
message  through  your  brother,  or  even  asked  him  about  me 
now  and  then " 

44 1  did  ask  about  you  frequently.  I  was  not  going  to  do 
more,"  continued  she,  smiling,  4l  so  long  as  you  continued  to 
restrict  yourself  to  a  few  polite  inquiries  about  my  health." 

44  Your  brother  never  told  me  that  you  had  mentioned  my 


OF   W1LDFELL  IIAIX,.  365 

«'  l)id  you  ever  ask  him  ?" 

"  No ;  for  I  saw  he  did  not  wish  to  be  questioned  about 
you,  or  to  afford  the  slightest  encouragement  or  assistance  to 
my  too  obstinate  attachment."  Helen  did  not  reply.  "  And 
he  was  perfectly  right,"  added  I.  But  she  remained  in  silence, 
looking  out  upon  the  snowy  lawn.  "  Oh,  I  will  relieve  her 
of  my  presence,"  thought  I;  and  immediately  I  rose  and 
advanced  to  take  leave,  with  a  most  heroic  resolution — but 
pride  was  at  the  bottom  of  it,  or  it  could  not  have  carried  me 
through. 

"Are  you  going  already?"  said  she,  taking  the  hand  I 
offered,  and  not  immediately  letting  it  go. 


41  Why  should  I  stay  any  longer  ?" 
"  Wait  till  Arthur  comes,  at  least." 


Only  too  glad  to  obey,  I  stood  and  leant  against  the  oppo- 
site side  of  the  window. 

"  You  told  me  you  were  not  changed,"  said  my  compa- 
nion :  "  you  are — very  much  so." 

"  No,  Mrs.  Huntingdon,  I  only  ought  to  be." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  maintain  that  you  have  the  same  regard 
for  me  that  you  had  when  last  we  met  ?" 

"  I  have  ;  but  it  would  be  wrong  to  talk  of  it  now." 

"  It  was  wrong  to  talk  of  it  then,  Gilbert ;  it  would  not 
now — unless  to  do  so  would  be  to  violate  the  truth." 

I  was  too  much  agitated  to  speak  ;  but,  without  waiting  for 
an  answer,  she  turned  away  her  glistening  eye  and  crimson 
cheek,  and  threw  up  the  window  and  looked  out,  whether  to 
calm  her  own  excited  feelings  or  to  relieve  her  embarrass- 
ment, or  only  to  pluck  that  beautiful  half-blown  christmas 
rose  that  grew  upon  the  little  shrub  without,  just  peeping 
from  the  snow  that  had  hitherto,  no  doubt,  defended  it  from 
the  frost,  and  was  now  melting  away  in  the  sun.  Pluck  it, 
however,  she  did,  and  having  gently  dashed  the  glittering 
powder  from  its  leaves,  approached  it  to  her  lips  and  said, — 

u  This  rose  is  not  so  fragrant  as  a  summer  flower,  but  it 
has  stood  through  hardships  none  of  them  could  bear :  the 
cold  rain  of  winter  has  sufficed  to  nourish  it,  and  its  faint  sun 
to  warm  it ;  the  bleak  winds  have  not  blanched  it,  or  broken 
its  stem,  and  the  keen  frost  has  not  blighted  it.  Look,  Gil- 
bert, it  is  still  fresh  and  blooming  as  a  flower  can  be,  with  the 
cold  snow  even  now  on  its  petals. — Will  you  have  it?" 

I  held  out  my  hand :  I  dared  not  speak  lest  my  emotion 
should  overmaster  me.  She  laid  the  rose  across  my  palm, 
but  I  scarcely  closed  my  fingers  upon  it,  so  deeply  was  I  ab- 
sorbed in  thinking  what  might  be  the  meaning  of  her  words, 
and  what  I  ought  to  do  or  say  upon  the  occasion  ;  whether  to 
pive  wav  to  rny  feelings  or  restrain  them  still.  Misconstruing 


36G  THE  TENANT 

this  hesitation  into  indifference — or  reluctance  even— -to  ac- 
cept her  gift,  Helen  suddenly  snatched  it  from  my  hand, 
threw  it  out  on  to  the  snow,  shut  down  the  window  with  an 
emphasis,  and  withdrew  to  the  fire. 

u  Helen!  what  means  this?"  I  cried,  electrified  at  this 
startling  change  in  her  demeanour. 

"  You  did  not  understand  my  gift,"  said  she — "  or,  what  is 
worse,  you  despised  it :  I'm  sorry  I  gave  it  you  ;  but  since  I 
did  make  such  a  mistake,  the  only  remedy  I  could  think  of, 
was  to  take  it  away." 

"  You  misunderstood  me,  cruelly,"  I  replied,  and  in  a 
minute  I  had  opened  the  window  again,  leaped  out,  picked  up 
the  flower,  brought  it  in,  and  presented  it  to  her,  imploring 
her  to  give  it  me  again,  and  I  would  keep  it  for  ever  for  her 
sake,  and  prize  it  more  highly  than  anything  in  the  world  I 
possessed. 

"And  will  this  content  you?"  said  she,  as  she  took  it  in 
her  hand. 

"  It  shall,"  I  answered. 

"  There,  then  ;  take  it." 

I  pressed  it  earnestly  to  my  lips,  and  put  it  in  my  bosom, 
Mrs.  Huntingdon  looking  on  with  a  half-sarcastic  smile. 

"Now,  are  you  going?"  said  she. 

"I  will  if— if  I  must." 

"  You  are  changed,"  persisted  she — "  you  are  grown  either 
very  proud  or  very  indifferent." 

"I  am  neither,  Helen — Mrs.  Huntingdon.  If  you  could 
see  my  heart " 

"  You  must  be  one, — if  not  both.  And  why  Mrs.  Hun- 
tingdon?— why  not  Helen,  as  before?" 

"Helen,  then — dear  Helen!"  I  murmured.  I  was  in  an 
agony  of  mingled  love,  hope,  delight,  uncertainty,  and  sus- 
pense. 

u  The  rose  I  gave  you  was  an  emblem  of  my  heart,"  said 
she  ;  "  would  you  take  it  away  and  leave  me  here  alone  ?  " 

"  Would  you  give  me  your  hand  too,  if  I  asked  it  ?  " 

"Have  I  not  said  enough?"  she  answered,  with  a  most 
enchanting  smile.  I  snatched  her  hand,  and  would  have  fer- 
vently kissed  it,  but  suddenly  checked  myself  and  said, — 

"  But  have  you  considered  the  consequences?" 

"  Hardly,  I  think,  or  I  should  not  have  offered  myself  to 
one  too  proud  to  take  me,  or  too  indifferent  to  make  his  affec- 
tion outweigh  my  worldly  goods." 

Stupid  blockhead  that  I  was !— I  trembled  to  clasp  her  in 
my  arms,  but  dared  not  believe  in  so  much  joy,  and  yet  re- 
it  rained  myself  to  say, — 

"  But  if  yon  should  repent!" 


OF    WILDFELL  HALL.  S67 

"It  would  be  your  fault,"  she  replied:  "I  never  shall, 
unless  you  bitterly  disappoint  me.  If  you  have  not  sufficient 
confidence  in  my  affection  to  believe  this,  let  me  alone." 

"  My  darling  angel — my  own  Helen,''  cried  I,  now  pas- 
sionately kissing  the  hand  I  still  retained,  and  throwing  my 
left  arm  around  her,  "  you  never  shall  repent,  if  it  depend 
on  me  alone.  But  have  you  thought  of  your  aunt?"  I 
trembled  lor  the  answer,  and  clasped  her  closer  to  my  heart 
in  the  instinctive  dread  of  losing  my  new-found  treasure. 

"  My  aunt  must  not  know  of  it  yet,"  said  she.  "  She  would 
think  it  a  rash  wild  step,  because  she  could  not  imagine  how 
well  I  know  you ;  but  she  must  know  you  herself,  and  learn 
to  like  you.  You  must  leave  us  now,  after  lunch,  and  come 
again  in  spring,  and  make  a  longer  stay,  and  cultivate  her 
acquaintance,  and  I  know  you  will  like  each  other." 

"  And  then  you  will  be  mine,"  said  I,  printing  a  kiss  upon 
her  lips,  and  another,  and  another  ;  for  I  was  as  daring  and 
impetuous  now  as  I  had  been  backward  and  constrained 
before. 

"  No — in  another  year,"  replied  she,  gently  disengaging 
herself  from  my  embrace,  but  still  fondly  clasping  my  hand. 

"  Another  year  !     Oh,  Helen,  I  could  not  wait  so  long  1" 

"  Where  is  your  fidelity  ?  " 

"  I  mean  I  could  not  endure  the  misery  of  so  long  a  separa- 
tion." 

"  It  would  not  be  a  separation  :  we  will  write  every  day  ; 
my  spirit  shall  be  always  with  you,  and  sometimes  you  shall 
see  me  with  your  bodily  eye.  I  will  not  be  such  a  hypocrite 
as  to  pretend  that  I  desire  to  wait  so  long  myself,  but  as  my 
marriage  is  to  please  myself  alone,  I  ought  to  consult  my 
friends  about  the  time  of  it." 

"  Your  friends  will  disapprove." 

"  They  will  not  greatly  disapprove,  dear  Gilbert,"  said  she, 
earnestly  kissing  my  hand ;  "they  cannot,  when  they  know 
you,  or,  if  they  could,  they  would  not  be  true  friends — I 
should  not  care  for  their  estrangement.  Now  are  you  satis- 
fied?" She  looked  up  in  my  face  with  a  smile  of  ineffable 
tenderness. 

"  Can  I  be  otherwise,  with  your  love  ?  And  you  do  love 
me,  Helen?"  said  I,  not  doubting  the  fact,  but  wishing  to 
hear  it  confirmed  by  her  own  acknowledgment. 

" If  you  loved  as  I  do,"  she  earnestly  replied,  "you  would 
not  have  so  nearly  lost  me — these  scruples  of  false  delicacy 
and  pride  would  never  thus  have  troubled  you — you  would 
nave  seen  that  the  greatest  worldly  distinctions  and  discrepan- 
cies of  rank,  birth,  and  fortune  are  as  dust  in  the  balance 


368  THE  TENANT 

compared  with  the  unity  of  accordant  thoughts  and  feelings, 
and  truly  loving,  sympathizing  hearts  and  souls." 

"  But  this  is  too  much  happiness,"  said  I,  embracing  her 
again  ;  "1  have  not  deserved  it,  Helen— I  dare  not  believe  in 
such  felicity :  and  the  longer  I  have  to  wait,  the  greater  will 
be  my  dread  that  something  will  intervene  to  snatch  you  from 
me — and  think,  a  thousand  things  may  happen  in  a  year ! — I 
shall  be  in  one  long  fever  of  restless  terror  and  impatience  all 
the  time.  And  besides,  winter  is  such  a  dreary  season." 

"  I  thought  so  too,"  replied  she  gravely :  "  I  would  not  be 
married  in  winter — in  December,  at  least,"  she  added,  with  a 
shudder — for  in  that  month  had  occurred  both  the  ill-starred 
marriage  that  had  bound  her  to  her  former  husband  and  the 
terrible  death  that  released  her — "  and  therefore  I  said 
another  year,  in  spring." 

"Next  sprung?" 

"No,  no — next  autumn,  perhaps." 

"  Summer,  then." 

"  Well,  the  close  of  summer.     There  now !  be  satisfied." 

While  she  was  speaking,  Arthur  re-entered  the  room — good 
boy  for  keeping  out  so  long. 

"  Mamma,  I  couldn't  find  the  book  in  either  of  the  places 
you  told  me  to  look  for  it,"  (there  was  a  conscious  something 
in  mamma's  smile  that  seemed  to  say,  "  No,  dear,  I  knew  you 
could  not,")  "  but  Rachel  got  it  for  me  at  last.  Look,  Mr. 
Markham,  a  natural  history  with  all  kinds  of  birds  and  beasts 
in  it,  and  the  reading  as  nice  as  the  pictures !" 

In  great  good  humour,  I  sat  down  to  examine  the  book,  and 
drew  the  little  fellow  between  my  knees.  Had  he  come  a 
minute  before,  I  should  have  received  him  less  graciously,  but 
now  I  affectionately  stroked  his  curling  locks,  and  even  kissed 
his  ivory  forehead :  he  was  my  own  Helen's  son,  and  there- 
fore mine;  and  as  such  I  have  ever  since  regarded  him. 
That  pretty  child  is  now  a  fine  young  man :  he  has  realised 
his  mother's  brightest  expectations,  and  is  at  present  residing 
in  Grassdale  manor  with  his  young  wife,  the  merry  little 
Helen  Hattersley  of  yore. 

I  had  not  looked  through  half  the  book,  before  Mrs.  Max- 
well appeared  to  invite  me  into  the  other  room  to  lunch. 
That  lady's  cool,  distant  manners  rather  chilled  me  at  first ; 
but  I  did  my  best  to  propitiate  her,  and  not  entirely  without 
success,  1  think,  even  in  that  first  short  visit ;  lor  when  I  talked 
cheerfully  to  her,  she  gradually  became  more  kind  and  cordial, 
and  when  I  departed  she  bade  me  a  gracious  adieu,  hoping 
(  re  long  to  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  me  again. 

*'  But  you  must  not  go  till  you  have  seen  the  conservatory, 


OK    W1LDFELL   HAii.  .%9 

my  aunt's  whiter  garden,"  said  Helen,  as  I  advanced  to  take 
leave  of  her,  with  as  much  philosophy  and  self-command  as 
I  could  summon  to  my  aid. 

I  gladly  availed  myself  of  such  a  respite,  and  followed 
her  into  a  large  and  beautiful  conservatory,  plentifully  fur- 
nished with  flowers  considering  the  season — hut,  of  course, 
!  had  little  attention  to  spare  for  them.  It  was  not,  however, 
for  any  tender  colloquy  that  my  companion  had  brought  me 
there : — 

"My  aunt  is  particularly  fond  of  flowers,"  she  observed, 
"and  she  is  fond  of  Staningley  too:  I  brought  you  here  to 
offer  a  petition  in  her  behalf,  that  this  may  be  her  home  as 
long  as  she  lives,  and — if  it  be  not  our  home  likewise — that  I 
may  often  see  her  and  be  with  her;  for  I  fear  she  will  be 
sorry  to  lose  me ;  and  though  she  leads  a  retired  and  con- 
templative life,  she  is  apt  to  get  low-spirited  if  left  too  much 
alone." 

"  By  all  means,  dearest  Helen ! — do  what  you  will  with 
your  own.  I  should  not  dream  of  wishing  your  aunt  to  leave 
the  place  under  any  circumstances ;  and  we  will  live  either 
here  or  elsewhere  as  you  and  she  may  determine,  and  yon 
shall  see  her  as  often  as  you  like.  I  know  she  must  be  pained 
to  part  with  you,  and  I  am  willing  to  make  any  reparation  in 
my  power.  I  love  her  for  your  sake,  and  her  happiness  shall 
be  as  dear  to  me  as  that  of  my  own  mother." 

"  Thank  you,  darling !  you  shall  have  a  kiss  for  that.    Good 
bye.     There  now — there  Gilbert — let  me  go — here's  Arthur, 
don't  astonish  his  infantile  brain  with  your  madness." 
*#**#* 

But  it  is  time  to  bring  my  narrative  to  a  close — any  one 
but  you  would  say  I  had  made  it  too  long  already ;  but  for 
your  satisfaction,  I  will  add  a  few  words  more  ;  because  I 
know  you  will  have  a  fellow-feeling  for  the  old  lady,  and  will 
wish  to  know  the  last  of  her  history.  I  did  come  again  in 
spring,  and,  agreeably  to  Helen's  injunctions,  did  my  best  to 
cultivate  her  acquaintance.  She  received  me  very  kindly, 
having  been,  doubtless,  already  prepared  to  think  highly  of 
my  character,  by  her  niece's  too  favourable  report.  I  tui-ned 
my  best  side  out,  of  course,  and  we  got  along  marvellously 
well  together.  When  my  ambitious  intentions  were  made 
known  to  her,  she  took  it  more  sensibly  than  I  had  ventured 
to  hope.  Her  only  remark  on  the  subject,  in  my  hearing- 
was — 

"  And  so,  Mr.  Markham,  you  are  going  to  rob  me  of  my 
niece,  I  understand.  AVell !  I  hope  God  will  prosper  your 
union,  and  make  my  dear  girl  happy  at  last.  Could  she 

24 


370  TOE   TENANT 

have  been  contented  to  remain  single,  I  own  I  should  have 
been  better  satisfied  ;  but  if  she  must  marry  again,  I  know  ot 
no  one,  now  living  and  of  a  suitable  age,  to  whom  I  would 
more  willingly  resign  her  than  yourself,  or  who  would  be 
more  likely  to  appreciate  her  worth  and  make  her  truly 
happy,  as  far  as  I  can  tell." 

Of  course  I  was  delighted  with  the  compliment,  and  hoped 
to  show  her  that  she  was  not  mistaken  in  her  favourable 
judgment. 

"  I  have,  however,  one  request  to  offer,"  continued  she. 
"  It  seems  I  am  still  to  look  on  Staningley  as  my  home :  I 
wish  you  to  make  it  yours  likewise,  for  Helen  is  attached 
to  the  place  and  to  me — as  I  am  tc  her.  There  are  painful 
associations  connected  with  Grassdale,  which  she  cannot 
easily  overcome ;  and  I  shall  nut  molest  you  with  my  com- 
pany or  interference  here :  I  am  a  very  quiet  person,  and 
shall  keep  my  own  apartments,  and  attend  to  my  own  con- 
cerns, and  only  see  you  now  and  then." 

Of  course  I  most  readily  consented  to  thi? ;  and  we  lived 
in  the  greatest  harmony  with  our  dear  aunt  until  the  day 
of  her  death,  which  melancholy  event  took  place  a  few  years 
after — melancholy,  not  to  herself  (for  it  came  quietly  upon 
her,  and  she  was  glad  to  reach  her  journey's  end),  but  only 
to  the  few  loving  friends  and  grateful  dependents  she  left 
behind. 

To  return,  however,  to  ro.y  cwa  affairs :  I  was  married  in 
summer,  on  a  glorious  August  morning.  It  took  the  whole 
eight  months,  and  all  Helen's  kindness  and  goodness  to  boot, 
to  overcome  my  mother's  prejudices  against  my  bride  elect, 
and  to  reconcile  her  to  the  idea  of  my  leaving  Linden  Grange 
and  living  so  far  away.  Yet  she  was  gratified  at  her  son's 
good  fortune  after  all,  and  proudly  attributed  it  all  to  his  own 
superior  merits  and  endowments.  I  bequeathed  the  farm  to 
Fergus,  with  better  hopes  of  its  prosperity  than  I  should  have 
had  a  year  ago  under  similar  circumstances ;  for  he  had  lately 

fallen  in  love  with  the  vicar  of  L 's  eldest  daughter,  a 

lady,  whose  superiority  had  roused  his  latent  virtues,  and 
stimulated  him  to  the  most  surprising  exertions,  not  only  to 
gain  her  affection  and  esteem,  and  to  obtain  a  fortune  suffi- 
cient to  aspire  to  her  hand,  but  to  render  himself  worthy  of 
her,  in  his  own  eyes,  as  well  as  in  those  of  her  parents ;  and 
in  the  end  he  was  successful,  as  you  already  know.  As  for 
myself,  I  need  not  tell  you  how  happily  my  Helen  and  I  have 
lived  together,  and  how  blessed  we  still  are  in  each  other's 
society,  and  in.  the  promising  younj*  scions  that  are  growing 
up  about  ua.  We  are  just  now  looking  forward  to  the  advent 


OF   WILDFKLL   ITAIX.  371 

of  you  and  Rose,  for  the  time  of  your  annual  visit  draws 
nigh,  when  you  must  leave  your  dusty,  smoky,  noisy,  toiling, 
striving  city  for  a  season  of  invigorating  relaxation  and  social 
retirement  with  us. 

Till  then,  farewell, 

GILBERT  MAJUCHAM. 

June  10»h.  1847 


I'lUXTKD    BY 

SlWriiT-WOOUE    AND    CO.,    NEW-STREET    SQUAUB 
LONDON 


E  Z>  I T 1 0 1ST 

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HAND  AND    HEART. 


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LIZZIE    LEIGH. 


IE  DOOM   OF  THE  GRIFFITHS. 

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OR,   A    LESSON  TO  FATHERS. 

From  THE  SATURDAY  REVIEW.-' If  ever  there  was  a  book  m*de  up  from 
beginning  to  end  of  laughter,  and  yet  not  a  comic  book,  or  a  "merry"  book,  or  a  book 
of  jokes,  or  a  book  of  pictures,  or  a  jest  book,  or  a  tomfool  book,  but  a  perfectly  >ober 
and  serious  book,  in  the  reading  of  which  a  sober  man  may  laugh  without  shame  from 
beginning  to  end,  it  is  the  new  book  called  "Vice  Versa  ;  or,  a  Lesson  to  Fathers."  .  .  . 
We  close  the  book,  recommending  it  very  earnestly  to  all  fathers  in  the  first  instance, 
and  their  sons,  nephews,  uncles,  and  male  cousins  next.' 

CHEAP  EDITION.      Crown  8vo.  limp  red  cloth,  2s.  6d. 

A    FALLEN     IDOL. 

From  THE  TIMES. -'Mr.  Anstey's  new  story  will  delight  the  multitudinous 
public  that  laughed  over  "Vice  Versa.".  .  .  The  boy  who  brings  the  accursed  image 
to  Champion's  house,  Mr.  Bales,  the  artist's  factotum,  and  above  all  Mr.  Yarker,  the 
ex-butler  who  has  turned  policeman,  are  figures  whom  it  is  as  pleasant  to  meet  as  it  is 
impossible  to  forget.' 

London:  SMITH,  ELDER,  &  CO.,  15  Waterloo  Place. 


RURAL   ENGLAND. 


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WORKS  BY  THE  LATE  RICHARD  JEFFERIES. 

NEW  EDITION,  with  all  the  Illustrations  of  the  former  Edition.    Crown  8vo.  5*. 

THE    GAMEKEEPER    AT    HOME; 

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gathered  from  personal  observation.  This  is  so  obvious  from  every  page  that,  excepting  the 
"  Natural  History  of  Selborne,"  we  remember  nothing  that  has  impressed  us  so  certainly 
with  the  conviction  of  a  minute  and  vivid  exactness.  The  lover  of  the  country  can  hardly 
tail  to  be  fascinated  whenever  he  may  happen  to  open  the  pages.  It  is  a  book  to  read  and 
keep  for  reference,  and  should  be  on  the  shelves  of  every  country  gtntleman's  library." — 
SATURDAY  BEVIEW. 

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where  the  surroundings  of  life  remain  very  much  what  they  were  thirty  or  forty  years  ago. 
Mr.  Joft'eries  has  made  up  a  very  pleasant  volume." — THE  GLOBE. 

NEW  EDITION.    Crown  8vo.  6*. 

WILD  LIFE  IN  A  SOUTHERN  COUNTY. 

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vation, in  power  of  giving  a  picture  far  beyond  the  power  of  a  mere  word-painter,  he  is  the 
equal  of  the  Selborne  rector— perhaps  his  superior.  The  author's  observation  of  man  is  as 
:lose  and  as  true  as  his  observation  of  the  lower  animals.  This  is  a  book  to  read  and  to 
treasure.'— THK  ATHENAEUM. 

NEW  EDITION.    Crown  8vo.  5*. 

THE   AMATEUR    POACHER. 

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'  We  have  rarely  met  with  a  book  in  \vhich>o  ranch  that  is  entertaining  is  combined  with 
matter  of  real  practical  worth.  This  fascinating  and  interesting  volume  is  the  work  of  aman  of 
keen  and  cultured  observation,  and  will  afford  delight  and  instruction  to  all.'— THB  OBAPHIC. 
NEW  EDITION.  Crown  8vo.  7*.  6d. 

HODGE   AND   HIS  MASTERS. 

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•  graphic."  He  has  a  rare  power  of  description,  and  in  "  Hodge  and  his  Masters  "  we  find 
plenty  of  good  reading.'— STANDARD. 

'Mr  Jefferies  knows  his  ground  well  and  thoroughly,  and  writes  with  much  of  his  wonted 
itroightforwardness  and  assurance.  . . .  Pleasant  and  easy  reading  throughout.' — ATHKN^KUX. 


SECOND  EDITION.    Grown  8vo.  6t. 

WOODLAND,    MOOR,    AND    STREAM; 

BEING  THE  NOTES  OF  A  NATURALIST. 

EDITED  BY  J.  A.  OWEN. 

'  As  a  specimen  of  word-painting,  the  description  of  the  quaint  old  fishing  village  C!OM 
to  the  edge  of  the  North  Kent  marshes  can  hardly  be  surpassed.  .  .  The  book  is  capitally 
written,  full  of  good  stories. and  thoroughly  commeiidnMi-.'— THK  ATHKS^OM. 

London:  SMITH,   KLI^R.  &  CO..,    r^  W:it,-rlo.i  Place. 


W.  M.  THACKERAY'S  WORKS. 


THE    CHEAPER     ILLUSTRATED    EDITION, 


In   26    Volumes,    crown    8vo. 
3s.  6d.  each. 

Sets  in  cloth,  £4.  11s. ; 
or  handsomely  bound  in  half- 
morocco,  £8.  8s. 

Containing  nearly  all  the  small 

Woodcut  Illustrations  nf  the  former 

Editions. 

AND  MANY  NEW  ILLUSTRATIONS  Bt 
EMINENT   ARTISTS. 


THIS     EDITION    CONTAINS    ALTOGETHER     1,773     ILLUSTRATIONS    BY 


THE  AUTHOR. 
LUKE  FILDES,  A.R.A. 
Lady  BUTLER  (Miss  Eliza- 
beth Thompson). 
GEORGE  DU  MAURIER. 
RICHARD  DOYLE. 
FRKDK.  WALKER.  A.R.A. 
GEORGE  CRUIKSHANK. 

JOHN  LEECH. 
FRANK  DICKSEE. 
LINLEY  SAMBOURNB. 
F.  BARNARD. 
E.  J.  WHEELER. 
F.  A.  FRASER. 
CHARLES  KEENS. 
R.  B.  WALLACE. 

IT.  P.  ATKINSON. 
W.  J.  WEBB. 
;     T.  R.  MACQUOID. 
i    M.  FITZGERALD. 
W.  RALSTON. 
JOHN  COLLIER. 
H.  FURNISS. 

G.    G.    KlLBURNE,  &C. 


VANITY    FAIR.        Illustrated    by    the 
Author,    avols. 

PENDENNIS.    Illustrated  by  the  Author. 


Vols. 

THE    NEWCOMES.        Illustrated     by 
RICHARD  DOYLE,   z  vois. 

ESMOND.      Illustrated  by  GEORGE  DU 
MAURIER. 

TH£  VIRGINIANS.     Illustrated  by  the 
THE     ADVENTURES     OF    PHILIP. 

Illustrated    by    the    Author,      FREDERICK 

WALKER,  and  R.  B.  WALLACE.    2  vois. 
THE  GREAT  HOGGARTY  DIAMOND  ; 

A  LITTLE  DINNER  AT  TIMMINS  S  • 
CORNHILL  TO  CAIRO.  Illustrated  by 
the  Author,  J.  P.  ATKINSON,  and  W.  J. 

CHRISTMAS    BOOKS.      Illustrated  by 
the  Author  and  RICHARD  DOYLE. 

THE  BOOK  OF  SNOBS  ;  SKETCHES 

AND      TRAVELS.        Illustrated     by   the 
BURLESQUES.        Illustrated     by    the 

Author  and  GEORGE  CRUIKSHANK. 

PARIS    SKETCH    BOOK  ;     LITTLE 

TRAVELS  &  ROADSIDE  SKETCHES. 
Illustrated  by  the  Author.T.  R.  MACQUOID, 

and  J.  P.  ATKINSON. 
THE      YELLOWPLUSH      PAPERS  ; 

THE  FITZnOODLE  PAPERS;  COX'S 
DIARY;  CHARACTER  SKETCHES. 
Illustrated  by  the  Author  and  GEORGE 
CRUIKSHANK. 


THE    IRISH    SKETCH   BOOK;CRI- 

TICAL  REVIEWS.  Illustrated  by  the 
Author,  GEORGE  CRUIKSHANK,  JOHN 
LEECH,  and  M.  FITZGERALD. 

THE  MEMOIRS  of  BARRY  LYNDON  ; 

THE    FATAL    BOOTS.        Illustrate*    by 

GEORGE  CRUIKSHANK  and  w.  RALSTON. 
CATHERINE:    a    Story:    MEN  S 

WIVES  ;  THE  BEDFORD  ROW  CON- 
SPIRACY. Illustrated  by  the  Author,  L. 
FILDES,  A.R.A.,  and  R.  B.  WALLACE. 

BALLADS  :    THE   ROSE  AND  THE 

RING.  Illustrated  by  the  Author,  Lady 
BUTLER  I  Miss  Elizabeth  Thompson  I, 
GEORGE  DI;  MAURIER.  JOHN  COLLIER, 
H.  FURNISS,  G.  G.  KILBURNE,  M.  FITZ- 
GERALD, and  7.  P.  ATKINSON. 

ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS.     To  which 

is  added  THE  SECOND  FUNERAL  OF 
NAPOLEON.  Illustrated  by  the  Author, 

CHARLES  KEENE,  and  M.  FITZGERALD. 
THE    FOUR    GEORGES,   and    THE 

fNGLISH       HUMORISTS       OF      THK 
IGHTEENTH    CENTURY.      Illustrated 
by  the  Author.  FRANK  DICKSEE,  LINLEY 
SAMBOURNE.  FREDERICK  WALKER,  and 
F.  BARNARD. 
LOVEL      THE     WIDOWER:     THE 

WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB;  DENIS 
DUVAL.  Illustrated  by  the  Author  and 
FREDERICK  WALKER.  To  which  is  added 
an  Essay  on  the  Writings  of  W.  W. 
THACKERAY  by  LESLIE  STEPHEN. 

MISCELLANEOUS      ESSAYS, 

SKETCHES,  AND  REVIEWS.  With  Illus- 
trations by  the  Author. 

CONTRIBUTIONS     TO    'PUNCH.' 

With  132  Illustrations  by  the  Author. 


London:  SMITH,  ELDER,  &  CO.,  15  Waterloo  Place. 


W.  M.  TMACKERAY^S  WORKS. 

MISCELLANEOUS     VOLUMES, 
VANITY  FAIR.    Waterloo  Edition. 

Complete  in  One  Crown  8vo.  Volume  of  780  pages,  with  141  Illustrations, 
neatly  bound  in  cloth,  price  2s. 

VANITY  FAIR.    People's  Edition. 

Complete  in  One  Volume,  large  demy  8vo.  with  8  Full-page  Illustrations, 
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THE  FATAL  BOOTS;  and  COX'S  DIARY.  People's  Edition. 

Folio,  Sixpence. 

BALLADS. 

By  WILLIAM   MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY. 
With  56  Illustrations  by  the  AUTHOR,   Lady  I;i 
(Miss  Elizabeth   Thompson),    GEORGE   DU    MA. 
JOHN    COLLIER,    H.    FURNISS,     G.    G.    KILBLKM., 

M.  FITZGERALD,  and  J,  P.  ATKINSON. 

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and  elegantly  bound  in  cloth,  gilt  edges,  by  Burn. 

Small  410.  i6s. 

THE    ORPHAN   OF    PIMLICO. 

AND  OTHER  SKETCHES,  FRAGMENTS,  AND  DRAWINGS. 
With  a  Preface  and  Editorial  Notes  by  Miss  THACKERAY.     Royal  4to.  2U. 

LECTURES    ON   THE  ENGLISH  HUMORISTS  OF  THE 
EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY. 

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THE    ROSE   AND   THE   RING; 

OR,    THE   HISTORY  OF  PRINCE  GIGLIO   AND 
PRINCE  BULBO. 

A  Fireside  Pantomime  for  Great  and  Small  Children. 

WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS  BY  THE  AUTHOR. 

Square  i6mo.  5*. 

EXTRACTS  from  the  WRITINGS  of  W.  M.  THACKERAY. 

CHIEFLY  PHILOSOPHICAL  AND   REFLECTIVE. 
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A  COLLECTION  OF  LETTERS  OF  W.  M.  THACKERAY, 

1847-1855- 

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Second  Edition.     Imperial  8vo.  12s.  6</. 


London:  SMITH,  ELDER,  &  CO.,  15  Waterloo  Place. 


WORKS 
ELIZABETH    BARRETT   BROWNING, 

THE    POETICAL   WORKS    OF 
ELIZABETH    BARRETT   BROWNING. 

NEW    AND    UNIFORM    EDITION. 
Six.  Volumes,  in  set  binding,  small  crown  Svo.  5s.  earh. 

Volume6. — 'AURORA   LEIGH' — can   also   be    had    bound   as  a  separate 
volume. 

This  Edition  is  uniform  with  the  recently  published  edition  oj 
Mr.  Robert  Browning's  Works.  It  contains  the  ioll(nuing  Portraits 
and  Illustrations : — 

Portrait  of  Elizabeth  Barrett  Moulton-Barrett  at  the  age  of  nine. 

Coxhoe  Hall,  County  of  Durham. 

Portrait  of  Elizabeth  Barrett  Moulton-Barrett  in  early  youth. 

Portrait  of  Mrs.  Browning,  Rome,  February  1859. 

Hope  End,  Herefordshire. 

Sitting  Room  in  Casa  Guidi,  Florence. 

'  May's  Love,' — Facsimile  of  Mrs.  Browning's  Handwriting. 

Portrait  of  Mrs.  Browning,  Rome,  March  1859. 

Portrait  of  Mrs.  Browning,  Rome,  1861. 

The  Tomb  of  Mrs.  Browning  in  the  Cemetery  at  Florence. 


A  SELECTION   FROM  THE   POETRY  OF 
ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING. 

FIRST  SERIES  ;  crown  Svo.  3^.  6d.   SECOND  SERIES  ;  crown  Svo.  y.  6J. 


POEMS. 

Small  fcp.  Svo.  half-cloth,  cut  or  uncut  edges,  It. 
EXTRACT  FROM  PREFATORY  NOTE  BY  MR.  ROBERT  BROWNING. 

'  In  a  iccent  "  Memoir  of  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning,"  by  JOHN 
II.  INGRAM,  it  is  observed  that  "such  essays  on  her  personal  history 
as  have  appeared,  either  in  England  or  elsewhere,  are  replete  with 
mistakes  or  misstatements."  For  these  he  proposes  to  substitute  "  a 
correct  if  short  memoir:"  but,  kindly  and  appreciative  as  may  be 
Mr.  Ingram's  performance,  there  occur  not  a  few  passages  in  it  equally 
"mistaken  and  misstated.'" 

London:  SMITH,  ELDER,  &  CO.,  15  Waterloo  Place. 


ROBERT  BROWNING'S  WORKS. 

UNIFORM  EDITION   OF   THE  WORKS   OF 
ROBERT  BROWNING. 

Sixteen  Volumes,  small  crown,  Si'o.,  lettered  separately,  of 
in  set  binding,  price  5s.  each, 

This  Edition  contains  Thiee  Portraits  of  Mr.  Browning,  at  different 
periods  of  life,  and  a  few  Illustrations. 


«.  PAULINE  :  and  SGRDELLO. 

a.  PARACELSUS:  &  STRAFFORD. 

3.  PIPPA  PASSES:  KING  VICTOR 

AND  KING  CHARLES:  THE 
RETURN  OF  THE  DRUSES  : 
and  A  SOUL'S  TRAGEDY.  With 
a  Portrait  of  Mr.  Browning. 

4.  A  BLOT  IN  THE  'SCUTCHEON  : 

COLOMBE'S   BIRTHDAY:   and 
MEN  AND  WOMEN, 
j.  DRAMATIC     ROMANCES:     and 
CHRISTMAS  EVE  &  EASTER 
DAY. 

6.  DRAMATIC  LYRICS:  and  LURI  A. 

7.  IN  A  BALCONY:  and  DRAMATIS 

PERSON/E.  With  a  Portrait  of 
IMr.  Browning. 

8.  THE    RING  AND    THE    BOOK. 

Books  i  to  4.     With  Two  Illustra- 
tions. 
«.  THE   RING    AND    THE    BOOK. 

Books  5  to  8. 

•a  THE  RING  AND  THE  BOOK. 
Books  9  to  12.  With  a  Portrait  of 
Guido  Franceschini. 


ix.  BALAUSTION'S  ADVENTURE? 
PRINCE  HOHENSTIEL. 
SCHWANGAU,  Saviourof  Society: 
and  FIFINE  AT  THE  FAIR. 

12.  RED   COTTON    NIGHTCAP 

COUNTRY:  and  THE  INN 
ALBUM. 

13.  ARISTOPHANES'  APOLOGY,  in- 

eluding  a  Transcript  from  Euri- 
pides, being  the  Last  Adventure  of 
Balaustion:  and  THE  AGAMEM- 
NON  OF  AESCHYLUS. 

14.  PACCHIAROTTO,    and    How     he 

Worked  in  Distemper;  with  other 
Poems:  LA  SAIS1AZ:  and  1  HE 
TWO  POETS  OF  CROISIC. 

15.  DRAMATIC    IDYLS.    First  Series: 

DRAMATIC  IDYLS,  Second 
Series  :  and  JOCOSERIA. 

16.  FERISHTAH'S     FANCIES:      and 

PARLEY1NGS  WITH  CER- 
TAIN PEOPLE  OF  IMPORT- 
ANCE IN  THEIR  DAY.  With 
a  Portrait  of  Mr.  Browning. 


Also  Mr.  BROWNING'S  last  Volume, 

ASOLANDO:  Fancies  and  Facts.    FcP.  8vo.  $/. 

A  SELECTION  FROM  THE  POETICAL  WORKS 
OF  ROBERT  BROWNING. 

FIRST  SERIES.    Crown  8vo.  3*.  bJ.    SECOND  SERIES.    Crown  Bvo.  31.  6tL 


Small  fcp.  8vo.  bound  in  half-cloth,  with  cut  or  uncut  edges,  price  ONE  SHILLING 

POCKET   VOLUME    OF   SELECTIONS 

FROM    THE    POETICAL    WORKS    OF 

ROBERT    BROWNING. 


London:  SMITH,  ELDER,  &  CO.,  15  Waterloo  Place, 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


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