24 Tenant Of Wildfell Hall- By Stephanie Poppins

Hello.

Welcome to Sleep Stories with Steph,

A romantic bedtime podcast guaranteed to help you drift off into a calm,

Relaxing sleep.

Come with me as we travel back to a time long ago,

Where Helen Huntington is sacrificing everything she knows in order to protect her son.

But before we begin,

Let us take a moment to focus on where we are now.

Take a deep breath in through your nose.

Then let it out on a long sigh.

That's it.

It is time to relax and really let go.

Feel your shoulders melt away from your ears as you sink into the support beneath you.

Feel the pressure seep away from your cheeks as your breath drops into a natural rhythm.

There is nothing you need to be doing right now and nowhere you need to go.

We are together and it is time for sleep.

The Tenant of Wildfelm Hall by Anne Bronte Read and abridged by Stephanie Poppins Chapter 24 First Quarrel March 25th Arthur is getting tired.

Not of me,

I trust,

But of the idle,

Quiet life he leads.

And no wonder,

For he has so few sources of amusement.

He never reads anything but newspapers and sporting magazines,

And when he sees me occupied with a book,

He won't let me rest until I close it.

In fine weather he generally manages to get through the time pretty well,

But on rainy days of which we have had a good many of late,

It is quite painful to witness his ennui.

I do all I can to amuse him,

But it is impossible to get him fully interested in what I am most like to talk about,

While,

On the other hand,

He likes to talk about things that cannot interest me,

Or even that annoy me.

And these amuse him the most of all.

For his favourite amusement is to sit all long beside me on the sofa and tell me stories of his former amours,

Always turning upon the ruin of some confiding girl or the cozening of some unsuspecting husband.

And when I express my horror and indignation,

He lays it all to the charge of jealousy and laughs till the tears run down his cheeks.

I used to fly into passions or melt into tears at first,

But seeing that his delight increased in proportion to my anger and agitation,

I have since endeavoured to suppress my feelings and receive his revelations in the silence of calm contempt.

But still he reads the inward struggle in my face and misconstrues my bitterness of soul for his unworthiness into the pangs of wounded jealousy.

And when he has sufficiently diverted himself with that,

Or fears my displeasure will become too serious for his comfort,

He tries to kiss and soothe me into smiles again.

Never were his caresses so welcome as then.

This is double selfishness,

Displayed to me and to the victims of his former love.

There are times when I ask myself,

Helen,

What have you done?

But I rebuke the inward questioner and repel the obtrusive thoughts that crowd upon me.

For were he ten times as sensual,

I well know I have no right to complain.

And I don't and won't complain.

I do and will love him still,

And I do not and will not regret I've linked my fate with his.

April 4th We have had a downright quarrel.

The particulars are as follows.

Arthur told me at different intervals the whole story of his intrigue with Lady F,

Which I would not believe before.

It was some consolation,

However,

To find,

In this instance,

The Lady had been more to blame than he,

For he was very young at the time,

And she had decidedly made the first advances,

If what he said was true.

I hated her for it,

For it seemed as if she chiefly contributed to his corruption.

And when he was beginning to talk about her the other day,

I bet he would not mention her,

For I detested the very sound of her name.

Not because you loved her,

Arthur mind,

But because she injured you and deceived her husband,

Whom you ought to be ashamed to mention.

But he defended her by saying she had a doting old husband,

Whom it was impossible to love.

Then why did she marry him?

Said I.

For his money,

Was the reply.

Then that was another crime,

And her solemn promise to love and honour him was another that only increased the enormity of the last.

You are too severe upon the young lady,

Laughed he,

But never mind,

Helen,

I don't care for her now,

And I never loved any of them,

Half as much as I do you.

If you had told me these things before,

Arthur,

I should never have given you the chance,

Said I.

Wouldn't you,

My darling?

Most certainly not.

Then he laughed incredulously.

I wish I could convince you of it now,

Cried I,

Starting up from beside him,

And for the first time in my life,

And I hope the last,

I wish I had not married him.

Helen,

He said more gravely,

Do you know if I believe you now,

I should be very angry?

But thank heaven I don't,

Though you stand there with your white face and flashing eyes,

Looking at me like a tigress.

I know the heart within you,

Perhaps a trifle better than you know it yourself.

Without another word,

I left the room and locked myself in my own chamber.

In about half an hour,

He came to the door,

Knocked,

Tried the handle,

And knocked again.

Won't you let me in,

Helen,

Said he.

No,

I won't,

Said I.

You have displeased me,

I replied,

And I don't want to see your face or hear your voice again until the morning.

He paused a moment as if dumbfounded,

Or uncertain how to answer such a speech,

And then he turned and walked away.

This was only an hour after dinner.

I knew he would find it very dull to sit alone all the evening,

And this considerably softened my resentment,

Though it did not make me relent.

I was determined to show him my heart was not his slave,

And I could live without him if I chose,

And I sat down and wrote a long letter to my aunt,

Of course telling her nothing of all this.

Soon after ten o'clock,

I heard him come up again,

But he passed my door and went straight to his own dressing room,

Where he shut himself in for the night.

I was rather anxious to see how he would meet me in the morning,

And not a little disappointed to behold him enter the breakfast room with a careless smile.

Are you still cross,

Helen?

Said he,

Approaching as if to salute me.

I coldly turned to the table and began to pour out the coffee,

Observing he was rather late.

He uttered a low whistle and sauntered away to the window,

Where he stood for some minutes,

Looking out upon the pleasing prospect of sullen grey clouds,

Streaming rain,

Soaking lawn and dripping leafless trees.

While taking his coffee,

He muttered it was damned cold.

You should not have left it so long,

Said I.

He made no answer and the meal was concluded in silence.

It was a relief to both when the letter bag was brought in.

It contained upon examination a newspaper and one or two letters for him,

And a couple of letters for me,

Which he tossed across the table without a remark.

One was from my brother,

The other from Millicent Hargrave,

Who was now in London with her mother.

His,

I think,

Were business letters and apparently not much to his mind,

For he crushed them into his pocket with muttered expletives.

The paper he set before him and pretended to be deeply absorbed in its contents.

The reading and answering of my letters and the direction of household concerns afforded me ample employment for the morning.

After lunch,

I got my drawing and from dinner till bedtime I read.

Meanwhile,

Poor Arthur was sadly at a loss for something to amuse him or occupy his time.

He wanted to appear as busy and unconcerned as I did.

He had,

Had the weather at all permitted,

He would have doubtless ordered his horse and set off to some distant region immediately after breakfast and not return till night.

Had there been a lady anywhere within reach of any age between 15 and 45,

He would have sought revenge and found employment in trying to get up a desperate flirtation with her.

But to my private satisfaction,

He was entirely cut off from both these sources of diversion.

When he had done yawning over his paper and scribbling short answers to his shorter letters,

He spent the remainder of the morning and the whole of the afternoon in fidgeting about from room to room,

Watching the clouds,

Cursing the rain,

Alternately petting and teasing and abusing his dogs,

Sometimes lounging on the sofa with a book,

And very often fixedly gazing at me.

I managed to preserve an undisturbed,

Though grave,

Serenity throughout the day.

I was not really angry,

I felt for him all the time and longed to be reconciled,

But I determined he should make the first advances or at least show some signs of a humble and contrite spirit.

He made a long stay in the dining room after dinner and I fear took an unusual quantity of time to recover.

And I fear took an unusual quantity of wine,

But not enough to loosen his tongue.

For when he came in and found me quietly occupied with my book,

Too busy to lift my head on his entrance,

He merely murmured an expression of suppressed disappropriation and,

Shutting the door with a bang,

Went and stretched himself at full length on the sofa and composed himself to sleep.

But his favourite cock-a-dash that had been lying at my feet took the liberty of jumping upon him and beginning to lick his face.

Arthur struck it off with a smart blow and the poor dog squeaked and ran cowering to me.

When he woke up about half an hour later,

He called it to him again,

But Dash only looked sheepish and wagged the tip of his tail.

Arthur called again more sharply,

But Dash only clung the closer to me and licked my hand as if imploring protection.

Enraged at this,

His master snatched up a heavy book and hurled it at his head.

The poor dog set up a piteous outcry and ran to the door.

I let him out and then quietly took up the book again.

Give that book to me,

Said Arthur in no very courteous tone,

So I gave it to him.

Why did you let the dog out,

He asked,

You knew I wanted him.

By what token,

I replied,

By throwing your book at him?

Perhaps it was intended for me.

No,

But I see you've got the taste of it,

Said he,

Looking at my hand that had also been struck and was rather severely grazed.

I returned to my reading,

And he endeavoured to occupy himself in the same manner,

But in a little while,

After several portentous yawns,

He pronounced his book to be cursed trash and threw it onto the table.

Then followed eight or ten minutes of silence,

During the greater part of which I believe he was staring at me.

At last his patience was tired out.

What is that book,

Helen?

He exclaimed.

Is it interesting?

Yes,

Very.

I went on reading,

Or pretending to read,

I cannot say there was much communication between my eyes and my brain,

For while the former ran over the pages,

The latter was earnestly wondering when Arthur would speak next and what he would say.

But he did not speak again till I rose to make the tea.

And then it was only to say he should not take any.

He continued lounging on the sofa and alternately closing his eyes and looking at his watch and at me until bedtime,

When I rose,

Took my candle and retired.

Helen,

Cried he the moment I left the room.

I turned back and stood awaiting his commands.

What do you want,

Arthur?

I said at length.

Nothing,

Replied he.

Go.

I went,

But hearing him mutter something as I was closing the door,

I turned again.

It sounded very like confounded slut,

But I was quite willing it should be something else.

Were you speaking,

Arthur?

I asked.

No,

Was his answer.

And I shut the door and departed.