The Tenant of Wildfell Hall (Penguin Classics)

by Brontë, Anne

  ‘She is,’ said I.

  ‘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!’

  ‘It never will vanish,’ said I distinctly, ‘for it is the truth.’

  ‘The truth!’ he cried, starting as if an asp had stung him. ‘You don’t mean to say that you are really she!’

  ‘I 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 bedside.

  ‘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 perplexity. ‘Was it a dream that –’ and he covered his eyes with his hand, 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 done 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 have 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 tomorrow: 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 me see him.’

  ‘But I cannot trust your oaths and promises: I must have a written agreement,4 and you must sign it in presence of a witness – but not today, tomorrow.’

  ‘No, today – 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 determined 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 not 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 perusing his features.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who am I?’

  ‘Papa.’

  ‘Are you glad to see me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re not? replied the disappointed parent, relaxing his hold, and darting a vindictive glance at me.

  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 I 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 paroxysm 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,5 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 head6 – 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 I, 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 minute 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. I passed half the day in his room at different intervals. 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, today – in proportion 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 m
e 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.

  ‘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, I have sacrificed my own feelings, and all the little earthly 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 see 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 prepared 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 prescriptions.’

  ‘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; but I don’t want to lull you to false security. If a 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 sometime,’ interrupted I; ‘and if it be years hence, it will as certainly overtake you as if it came today, – and no doubt be as unwelcome then as now, unless you –’

  ‘Oh, hang it! don’t torment me with your preachments now, unless you want to kill me outright – I can’t stand it, I 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 father get worse, I shall ask Esther Hargrave to take charge of him for a time, till I have reorganized 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 reformation of my husband, and if I succeed what shall I do? My duty, of course, – but how? – No matter; I can perform the task that is before me now, and God will give me strength to do whatever he requires hereafter. – Goodbye, 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.7 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 consequences! May I keep this letter, Lawrence? – you see she has never once mentioned me throughout – or made the most distant allusion to me; therefore, there can be no impropriety 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, Halford, you could never have become so thoroughly acquainted with its contents.

  ‘And when you write,’ said I, ‘will you have the goodness 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 shameful injustice they have done her? I want no tender messages, 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.’

  ‘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 48

  FURTHER INTELLIGENCE

  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 concerning 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 deplorable to see how completely his past life has degenerated his once noble constitution, and vitiated the whole system of his organization. But the doctor says he may now be considered 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 elude1 my vigilance, and sometimes acts in open opposition 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 exorbitant demands. I do not generally sit up at nights, 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 presence. But he is manifestly afraid of my displeasure; and if at one time he tries my patience by his unreasonable exactions, 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 enfeebled 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 sufferings 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 “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 variety 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 subject, and never recur to it again. By what I have done for you, you may judge of what I will do – if it be not incompatible with the higher duty I owe to my son (higher, because he never forfeited his 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 that must purchase my affection and esteem.’