THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL
PART 10
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 consent, 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 hymns of gratitude and praise to
heaven.
But I had
not wandered far before my solitude was interrupted 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?’
‘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 so, 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 expenses and live like a
Christian—not to speak of all the prudence 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.’
‘What, a
man of “decided piety”?—ahem!—Well, come, I’ll manage that too! It’s
Sunday to-day, isn’t it? I’ll go to church 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
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 such uninteresting subjects. I was
glad of this proof of disinterested affection; for Annabella Wilmot is the probable
heiress to all her uncle’s wealth, in addition to her late father’s property,
which she has already in possession.
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. ‘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 mother’s, 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 judgment—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, misguided
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 opportunities 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 opportunity of shaking off the adventitious evil got
from contact with others worse than himself, and shining out in the unclouded
light of his own genuine goodness—to do my utmost to help his better self
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 infidel?”’
‘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 “if he
hear not them, neither will he hear though one rose from the dead.” And
remember, 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 comfort—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 things to Himself, whether they be things in
earth or things in heaven.”’
‘Oh,
Helen! where did you learn all this?’
‘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 falsity of such a belief?’
‘No: I
found, indeed, some passages that, taken by themselves, 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 of the belief, I would not publish
it abroad if I thought any poor wretch would be likely to presume upon it to
his own destruction, 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
cribbage. In the afternoon Miss Wilmot and Lord Lowborough likewise
excused themselves from attending; but Mr. Huntingdon 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 right, 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, if 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 observed 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 of 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 of modest, serious discrimination that tempted me to
believe he had really attended to and profited by the discourse.
Just
before dinner my uncle called me into the library for the discussion of a very
important matter, which was dismissed in few words.
‘Now,
Nell,’ 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 hesitation; for I had thoroughly
made up my mind on the subject.
‘Very
good!’ cried he. ‘Now that’s a good honest answer—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 believe.
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
anything of that sort?’
‘I don’t
think I should.’
‘Well, be
thankful, then, that you’ve wiser heads to think for you. I haven’t had
time, yet, to examine thoroughly into this young rascal’s affairs, 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 back.
‘Stop,
stop!’ cried he; ‘we haven’t mentioned the time yet. When must it
be? Your aunt would put it off till the Lord 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 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 compromise 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 provoked 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. Well, 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 predominate. 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—the warm, pinky tint of
the whole harmonising with the deeper colour of the cheeks, exactly as it ought
to do. I 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 expected 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 thus 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 impunity.’
Miss
Wilmot expressed her feelings on the subject almost as openly.
‘And so,
Helen,’ said she, coming up to me with a smile of no amiable import, ‘you are
to be Mrs. Huntingdon, I suppose?’
‘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
of disappointment shadowed her face. ‘And does he love you—I mean, does
he idolise 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 idolised,’ 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 gentlemen were united in one—that Lord
Lowborough had Huntingdon’s handsome face and good temper, and all his wit, and
mirth and charm, or else that Huntingdon had Lowborough’s pedigree, and title,
and delightful old family seat, and I had him; and you might have the other and
welcome.’
‘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 contrast 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 morning’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 loitering through the room, previous to settling to their various
morning avocations, he came and leant over the back of my chair, with his face
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 of a bundle of congratulations, I’ve got a
pocketful 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 belong, to speak politely. But if you
saw how they abuse me, Helen, you would love me all the more for having
ventured so 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! He doesn’t say much, to be sure,
but his very silence implies more than all the others’ words, and the less 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 have 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 Lowborough’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 the 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
accompany 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 tease 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?
To be continued
