‘“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 into his hand — but stop, I’m telling too much,’ muttered 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 applause. 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 cannot give himself up to drinking without being miserable one-half his days and mad the other; besides, I like to enjoy my life at all sides and ends, 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, with a most conceited smile that ought to have provoked me more than it did.
‘And did Lord Lowborough profit by your advice?’ I 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 desperate, 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 suddenly woke up, and vehemently grasping my arm, said, —
‘“Huntingdon, this won’t do! I’m resolved to have done with it.”
‘“What, are you 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 me; and I was such a fool I couldn’t live without you. But now I see what it is that keeps me back, and what’s wanted to save me; and I’d compass 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 — I?”
‘“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.
‘“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 certain; 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.”
‘“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 forward 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 destruction, 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 reputation 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 ladies had ceased to be afraid of him, and were beginning to think him quite interesting; but the mammas were still unrelenting. 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 intervention of his good angel, no doubt he would tell you, though he did not dare to fix his hopes on one so courted and admired, till after they were brought into closer contact here at Staningley, and she, in the absence of her other admirers, indubitably courted his notice and held out every encouragement 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 I chose to abandon the field in the pursuit of a brighter treasure. In a word, as I told you, he is fairly besotted. At first, he could dimly perceive her faults, and they gave him considerable uneasiness; but now his passion and her art together have blinded him to everything but her perfections and his amazing good fortune. Last night he came t
o me brimful of his new-found felicity:
‘“Huntingdon, I am not a castaway!” 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. Already, 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 do 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 be making my choice, and if I waited for some one capable of eliciting my esteem and affection, I should have to pass my life in single blessedness, for I detest you all!” Ha, ha! 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 companions; 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 Lowborough, 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 injured 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.’
‘I 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 praying for. Besides, she may keep up the deception to the end of the chapter; and then he will be just as happy in the illusion 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 require. 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 friends 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 surveying 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! And what besides do you hope?’
‘I hope you will both love each other, and both be happy.’
‘Thanks; and I hope you will make a very good wife to Mr. Huntingdon!’ said she, with a queenly bow, and retired.
‘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!’
‘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 downstairs. They were saying — ’
‘I know, Rachel. I’ve heard all about him; but he’s reformed 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 gets 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 for myself — it was for Arthur Huntingdon that they rose.
* * * * *
13th. — They are gone, and he is gone. We are to be parted for more than two months, above ten weeks! a long, long 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 oh! for the time when we shall be always together, and can exchange our thoughts without the intervention 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 liv
ely 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 of myself?
CHAPTER XXIII
Feb. 18, 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 tallies 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 sha’n’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, indeed, the admission gives me less pain than might be expected, 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 his, it is for his own sake, not for mine.
Delphi Complete Works of the Brontes Page 317