CHAPTER XVII

The Tenent of Windfell Hall

by Anne Bronte

CHAPTER XVII, THE TENENT OF WINDFELL HALL by Anne Bronte
An eText from LiteratureClassics.com.

Please see the eText readme for important copyright information (available from the options menu above if you are browsing online or as a separate file in the archive if you are browsing offline.)





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 married, 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 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 mentioned
the party: it was for the sake of another of Mr. Wilmot'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. Grimsby, a
friend of 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 demeanour, that I could not away
with. What a tiresome custom that is, by-the-by - one among the
many sources of factitious 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 selection. It is quite
possible he might have chosen Miss Wilmot; for she seemed bent upon
engrossing his attention to herself, and he seemed nothing loth 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
neglect 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 another lady, and he
answered the summons with alacrity, and decided the question
without a moment's hesitation in her favour - 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 opposite 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 composed, 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 assuring 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.

'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 my hand, successively 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
remarks, 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 series 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 portfolio, I left
them to their TETE-E-TETE, 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 unfortunate 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 hospitality; and I was no hand at a polite but
determined rejection, nor would it have greatly availed me if I
had, for he was too 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 repulsively warm, and
I was driven to the very verge of desperation, and about to say I
know not what, when I felt my hand, that hung over the arm of the
sofa, suddenly taken by another 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 picture. Mr.
Wilmot will excuse you a moment, 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 profligate 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 kindness to
you; it is partly from a feeling of spite to your tormentors 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,' said the distinct, low voice of my
aunt, close beside us. And I left him, muttering maledictions
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 be seen,'
returned she, severely regarding me; 'but please to stay here a
little, till that shocking colour is somewhat abated, and your eyes
have recovered something of their natural expression. I should be
ashamed for anyone 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 no 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?' inquired 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 interrupted
him.'

'And would you have accepted him, Helen, if he had proposed?'

'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 moment, 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 I 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: '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 possession, and fixing
your affections where approbation did not go before, and where
reason and judgment withheld their sanction?'

'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 deficient 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 - were 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 is right - '

'He would soon learn, you think - and you yourself would willingly
undertake to be his teacher? But, my dear, he is, I believe, full
ten years older than you - how is it that you are so beforehand 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 reflection.'

'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 a 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, and I should
think my life well spent in the effort to preserve so noble a
nature from destruction. He always listens attentively now when I
speak seriously to him (and I often venture 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 he
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 goodness. 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, well-conducted young man?'

'I know nothing positive respecting his character. I only know
that I have heard nothing definite 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 I 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; and thoughtless girls may be
glad to win the smiles of so handsome 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.'

'Well, 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
is 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.'

'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. If he has done amiss, I shall consider my life well
spent in saving him from the consequences 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 advantage 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
hurried 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 flatters 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?