The Tenant of Wildfell Hall
which I approached the shrine of my former divinity—that spot teeming
with a thousand delightful recollections and glorious dreams—all
darkened now by one disastrous truth.
Rachel admitted me into the parlour, and went to call her mistress, for
she was not there: but there was her desk left open on the little round
table beside the high-backed chair, with a book laid upon it. Her
limited but choice collection of books was almost as familiar to me as
my own; but this volume I had not seen before. I took it up. It was Sir
Humphry Davy’s “Last Days of a Philosopher,” and on the first leaf was
written, “Frederick Lawrence.” I closed the book, but kept it in my
hand, and stood facing the door, with my back to the fire-place, calmly
waiting her arrival; for I did not doubt she would come. And soon I
heard her step in the hall. My heart was beginning to throb, but I
checked it with an internal rebuke, and maintained my
composure—outwardly at least. She entered, calm, pale, collected.
“To what am I indebted for this favour, Mr. Markham?” said she, with
such severe but quiet dignity as almost disconcerted me; but I answered
with a smile, and impudently enough,—
“Well, I am come to hear your explanation.”
“I told you I would not give it,” said she. “I said you were unworthy
of my confidence.”
“Oh, very well,” replied I, moving to the door.
“Stay a moment,” said she. “This is the last time I shall see you:
don’t go just yet.”
I remained, awaiting her further commands.
“Tell me,” resumed she, “on what grounds you believe these things
against me; who told you; and what did they say?”
I paused a moment. She met my eye as unflinchingly as if her bosom had
been steeled with conscious innocence. She was resolved to know the
worst, and determined to dare it too. “I can crush that bold spirit,”
thought I. But while I secretly exulted in my power, I felt disposed to
dally with my victim like a cat. Showing her the book that I still
held, in my hand, and pointing to the name on the fly-leaf, but fixing
my eye upon her face, I asked,—“Do you know that gentleman?”
“Of course I do,” replied she; and a sudden flush suffused her
features—whether of shame or anger I could not tell: it rather
resembled the latter. “What next, sir?”
“How long is it since you saw him?”
“Who gave you the right to catechize me on this or any other subject?”
“Oh, no one!—it’s quite at your option whether to answer or not. And
now, let me ask—have you heard what has lately befallen this friend of
yours?—because, if you have not—”
“I will not be insulted, Mr. Markham!” cried she, almost infuriated at
my manner. “So you had better leave the house at once, if you came only
for that.”
“I did not come to insult you: I came to hear your explanation.”
“And I tell you I won’t give it!” retorted she, pacing the room in a
state of strong excitement, with her hands clasped tightly together,
breathing short, and flashing fires of indignation from her eyes. “I
will not condescend to explain myself to one that can make a jest of
such horrible suspicions, and be so easily led to entertain them.”
“I do not make a jest of them, Mrs. Graham,” returned I, dropping at
once my tone of taunting sarcasm. “I heartily wish I could find them a
jesting matter. And as to being easily led to suspect, God only knows
what a blind, incredulous fool I have hitherto been, perseveringly
shutting my eyes and stopping my ears against everything that
threatened to shake my confidence in you, till proof itself confounded
my infatuation!”
“What proof, sir?”
“Well, I’ll tell you. You remember that evening when I was here last?”
“I do.”
“Even then you dropped some hints that might have opened the eyes of a
wiser man; but they had no such effect upon me: I went on trusting and
believing, hoping against hope, and adoring where I could not
comprehend. It so happened, however, that after I left you I turned
back—drawn by pure depth of sympathy and ardour of affection—not daring
to intrude my presence openly upon you, but unable to resist the
temptation of catching one glimpse through the window, just to see how
you were: for I had left you apparently in great affliction, and I
partly blamed my own want of forbearance and discretion as the cause of
it. If I did wrong, love alone was my incentive, and the punishment was
severe enough; for it was just as I had reached that tree, that you
came out into the garden with your friend. Not choosing to show myself,
under the circumstances, I stood still, in the shadow, till you had
both passed by.”
“And how much of our conversation did you hear?”
“I heard quite enough, Helen. And it was well for me that I did hear
it; for nothing less could have cured my infatuation. I always said and
thought, that I would never believe a word against you, unless I heard
it from your own lips. All the hints and affirmations of others I
treated as malignant, baseless slanders; your own self-accusations I
believed to be overstrained; and all that seemed unaccountable in your
position I trusted that you could account for if you chose.”
Mrs. Graham had discontinued her walk. She leant against one end of the
chimney-piece, opposite that near which I was standing, with her chin
resting on her closed hand, her eyes—no longer burning with anger, but
gleaming with restless excitement—sometimes glancing at me while I
spoke, then coursing the opposite wall, or fixed upon the carpet.
“You should have come to me after all,” said she, “and heard what I had
to say in my own justification. It was ungenerous and wrong to withdraw
yourself so secretly and suddenly, immediately after such ardent
protestations of attachment, without ever assigning a reason for the
change. You should have told me all—no matter _how_ bitterly. It would
have been better than this silence.”
“To what end should I have done so? You could not have enlightened me
further, on the subject which alone concerned me; nor could you have
made me discredit the evidence of my senses. I desired our intimacy to
be discontinued at once, as you yourself had acknowledged would
probably be the case if I knew all; but I did not wish to upbraid
you,—though (as you also acknowledged) you had deeply wronged me. Yes,
you have done me an injury you can never repair—or any other either—you
have blighted the freshness and promise of youth, and made my life a
wilderness! I might live a hundred years, but I could never recover
from the effects of this withering blow—and never forget it!
Hereafter—You smile, Mrs. Graham,” said I, suddenly stopping short,
checked in my passionate declamation by unutterable feelings to behold
her actually _smiling_ at the picture of the ruin she had wrought.
“Did I?” replied she, looking seriously up; “I was not aware of it. If
I did, it was not for pleasure at the thoughts of the harm I had done
you. Heaven knows I have had torment enough at the bare possibility of
that; it was for joy to find that you had some depth of soul and
feeling after all, and to hope that I had not been utterly mistaken in
your worth. But smiles and tears are so alike with me, they are neither
of them confined to any particular feelings: I often cry when I am
happy, and smile when I am sad.”
She looked at me again, and seemed to expect a reply; but I continued
silent.
“Would you be _very_ glad,” resumed she, “to find that you were
mistaken in your conclusions?”
“How can you ask it, Helen?”
“I don’t say I can clear myself altogether,” said she, speaking low and
fast, while her heart beat visibly and her bosom heaved with
excitement,—“but would you be glad to discover I was better than you
think me?”
“Anything that could in the least degree tend to restore my former
opinion of you, to excuse the regard I still feel for you, and
alleviate the pangs of unutterable regret that accompany it, would be
only too gladly, too eagerly received!” Her cheeks burned, and her
whole frame trembled, now, with excess of agitation. She did not speak,
but flew to her desk, and snatching thence what seemed a thick album or
manuscript volume, hastily tore away a few leaves from the end, and
thrust the rest into my hand, saying, “You needn’t read it all; but
take it home with you,” and hurried from the room. But when I had left
the house, and was proceeding down the walk, she opened the window and
called me back. It was only to say,—“Bring it back when you have read
it; and don’t breathe a word of what it tells you to any living being.
I trust to your honour.”
Before I could answer she had closed the casement and turned away. I
saw her cast herself back in the old oak chair, and cover her face with
her hands. Her feelings had been wrought to a pitch that rendered it
necessary to seek relief in tears.
Panting with eagerness, and struggling to suppress my hopes, I hurried
home, and rushed up-stairs to my room, having first provided myself
with a candle, though it was scarcely twilight yet—then, shut and
bolted the door, determined to tolerate no interruption; and sitting
down before the table, opened out my prize and delivered myself up to
its perusal—first hastily turning over the leaves and snatching a
sentence here and there, and then setting myself steadily to read it
through.
I have it now before me; and though you could not, of course, peruse it
with half the interest that I did, I know you would not be satisfied
with an abbreviation of its contents, and you shall have the whole,
save, perhaps, a few passages here and there of merely temporary
interest to the writer, or such as would serve to encumber the story
rather than elucidate it. It begins somewhat abruptly, thus—but we will
reserve its commencement for another chapter.
CHAPTER XVI
June 1st, 1821.—We have just returned to Staningley—that is, we
returned some days ago, and I am not yet settled, and feel as if I
never should be. We left town sooner than was intended, in consequence
of my uncle’s indisposition;—I wonder what would have been the result
if we had stayed the full time. I am quite ashamed of my new-sprung
distaste for country life. All my former occupations seem so tedious
and dull, my former amusements so insipid and unprofitable. I cannot
enjoy my music, because there is no one to hear it. I cannot enjoy my
walks, because there is no one to meet. I cannot enjoy my books,
because they have not power to arrest my attention: my head is so
haunted with the recollections of the last few weeks, that I cannot
attend to them. My drawing suits me best, for I can draw and think at
the same time; and if my productions cannot now be seen by any one but
myself, and those who do not care about them, they, possibly, may be,
hereafter. But, then, there is one face I am always trying to paint or
to sketch, and always without success; and that vexes me. As for the
owner of that face, I cannot get him out of my mind—and, indeed, I
never try. I wonder whether he ever thinks of me; and I wonder whether
I shall ever see him again. And then might follow a train of other
wonderments—questions for time and fate to answer—concluding
with—Supposing all the rest be answered in the affirmative, I wonder
whether I shall ever repent it? as my aunt would tell me I should, if
she knew what I was thinking about.
How distinctly I remember our conversation that evening before our
departure for town, when we were sitting together over the fire, my
uncle having gone to bed with a slight attack of the gout.
“Helen,” said she, after a thoughtful silence, “do you ever think about
marriage?”
“Yes, aunt, often.”
“And do you ever contemplate the possibility of being married yourself,
or engaged, before the season is over?”
“Sometimes; but I don’t think it at all likely that I _ever_ shall.”
“Why so?”