The Tenant of Wildfell Hall (Penguin Classics) (55 page)

He followed me into the library. I sought out and put into his hands two of Milicent’s letters; one dated from London and written during one of his wildest seasons of reckless dissipation; the other in the country during a lucid interval. The former was full of trouble and anguish; not accusing
him
, but deeply regretting his connection with his profligate companions, abusing Mr Grimsby and others, insinuating 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 joy, 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,
³
– which fall had shortly after taken place, as 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?
⁴
When he had done, there was an interval spent in clearing his throat and staring out of the window, and then, after whistling a few bars of a favourite 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 for it – G—d 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 before now – and you
cannot
make amends for the past by doing your duty for the future, in as much 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 blessing, his mercy, and his aid; not his curse.’

‘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 wife’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, exclaiming, –

‘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 predisposed to amendment before I added my mite
⁵
of exhortation and encouragement, and that I had only done what she might – and ought to – have done herself.

‘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.’

‘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 full of present bliss and pleasing anticipations for the future; but no particular temptation has yet occurred to put his virtue to the test. Henceforth, however, she will doubtless be somewhat less timid and reserved, and he more kind and thoughtful – Surely, then, her hopes are not unfounded; and I have one bright spot, at least, whereon to rest my thoughts.
⁶

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 governess for little Arthur: I told him it was quite unnecessary, not to say ridiculous, at the present season: I thought I was fully competent to the task of teaching him myself – for some years to come, at least: the child’s education was the only pleasure and business of my life; and since he had deprived me of every other occupation, he might surely leave me that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I did not mention my suspicions to Rachel; but she, having sojourned for half a century in this land of sin and sorrow, has learned to be suspicious herself. She told me from the first she was ‘down of that new governess,’
²
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
³
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’m, but with you,’ she replied; ‘and if I leave you, I’ll never go into place again as long as I live.’

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

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

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

‘Oh, fiddle!’ ejaculated she.

‘And besides, my future way of living will be so widely different to the past – so different to all you have been accustomed to –’

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

‘But I’m young, Rachel; I 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 loved like my own barns
⁴
– for all I’m too old to bide the thought o’ leaving ‘em in trouble and danger, and going amongst strangers myself.’

‘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.’

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

‘So think I,’ was my answer; – and so that point was settled.

By that morning’s post, I despatched a few hasty lines to Frederick, beseeching him to prepare my asylum for my immediate reception – for I should probably come to claim it within a day after the receipt of that note, – and telling him, in few words, the cause of my sudden resolution. I then wrote three letters of adieu: the first to Esther Hargrave, in which I told her that I found it impossible to stay any longer at Grassdale, or to leave my son under his father’s protection; and, as it was of the last importance
⁵
that our future abode should be
unknown to him and his acquaintance, I should disclose it to no one but my brother, through the medium of whom I hoped still to correspond with my friends. I then gave her his address, exhorted her to write frequently, reiterated some of my former admonitions regarding her own concerns, and bade her a fond farewell.

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

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