The Tenant of Wildfell Hall
“That’s right! I’ll leave you, then, to prepare for your departure.”
“I’ve done that already, while you were reading the letter, and before
you came; and the carriage is now coming round to the door.”
Inly approving his promptitude, I bade him good-morning, and withdrew.
He gave me a searching glance as we pressed each other’s hands at
parting; but whatever he sought in my countenance, he saw there nothing
but the most becoming gravity—it might be mingled with a little
sternness in momentary resentment at what I suspected to be passing in
his mind.
Had I forgotten my own prospects, my ardent love, my pertinacious
hopes? It seemed like sacrilege to revert to them now, but I had not
forgotten them. It was, however, with a gloomy sense of the darkness of
those prospects, the fallacy of those hopes, and the vanity of that
affection, that I reflected on those things as I remounted my horse and
slowly journeyed homewards. Mrs. Huntingdon was free now; it was no
longer a crime to think of her—but did she ever think of _me?_ Not
_now_—of course it was not to be expected—but would she when this shock
was over? In all the course of her correspondence with her brother (our
mutual friend, as she herself had called him) she had never mentioned
me but once—and that was from necessity. This alone afforded strong
presumption that I was already forgotten; yet this was not the worst:
it might have been her sense of duty that had kept her silent: she
might be only _trying_ to forget; but in addition to this, I had a
gloomy conviction that the awful realities she had seen and felt, her
reconciliation with the man she had once loved, his dreadful sufferings
and death, must eventually efface from her mind all traces of her
passing love for me. She might recover from these horrors so far as to
be restored to her former health, her tranquillity, her cheerfulness
even—but never to those feelings which would appear to her, henceforth,
as a fleeting fancy, a vain, illusive dream; especially as there was no
one to remind her of my existence—no means of assuring her of my
fervent constancy, now that we were so far apart, and delicacy forbade
me to see her or to write to her, for months to come at least. And how
could I engage her brother in my behalf? how could I break that icy
crust of shy reserve? Perhaps he would disapprove of my attachment now
as highly as before; perhaps he would think me too poor—too lowly born,
to match with his sister. Yes, there was another barrier: doubtless
there was a wide distinction between the rank and circumstances of Mrs.
Huntingdon, the lady of Grassdale Manor, and those of Mrs. Graham, the
artist, the tenant of Wildfell Hall. And it might be deemed presumption
in me to offer my hand to the former, by the world, by her friends, if
not by herself; a penalty I might brave, if I were certain she loved
me; but otherwise, how could I? And, finally, her deceased husband,
with his usual selfishness, might have so constructed his will as to
place restrictions upon her marrying again. So that you see I had
reasons enough for despair if I chose to indulge it.
Nevertheless, it was with no small degree of impatience that I looked
forward to Mr. Lawrence’s return from Grassdale: impatience that
increased in proportion as his absence was prolonged. He stayed away
some ten or twelve days. All very right that he should remain to
comfort and help his sister, but he might have written to tell me how
she was, or at least to tell me when to expect his return; for he might
have known I was suffering tortures of anxiety for her, and uncertainty
for my own future prospects. And when he did return, all he told me
about her was, that she had been greatly exhausted and worn by her
unremitting exertions in behalf of that man who had been the scourge of
her life, and had dragged her with him nearly to the portals of the
grave, and was still much shaken and depressed by his melancholy end
and the circumstances attendant upon it; but no word in reference to
me; no intimation that my name had ever passed her lips, or even been
spoken in her presence. To be sure, I asked no questions on the
subject; I could not bring my mind to do so, believing, as I did, that
Lawrence was indeed averse to the idea of my union with his sister.
I saw that he expected to be further questioned concerning his visit,
and I saw too, with the keen perception of awakened jealousy, or
alarmed self-esteem, or by whatever name I ought to call it, that he
rather shrank from that impending scrutiny, and was no less pleased
than surprised to find it did not come. Of course, I was burning with
anger, but pride obliged me to suppress my feelings, and preserve a
smooth face, or at least a stoic calmness, throughout the interview. It
was well it did, for, reviewing the matter in my sober judgment, I must
say it would have been highly absurd and improper to have quarrelled
with him on such an occasion. I must confess, too, that I wronged him
in my heart: the truth was, he liked me very well, but he was fully
aware that a union between Mrs. Huntingdon and me would be what the
world calls a mésalliance; and it was not in his nature to set the
world at defiance; especially in such a case as this, for its dread
laugh, or ill opinion, would be far more terrible to him directed
against his sister than himself. Had he believed that a union was
necessary to the happiness of both, or of either, or had he known how
fervently I loved her, he would have acted differently; but seeing me
so calm and cool, he would not for the world disturb my philosophy; and
though refraining entirely from any active opposition to the match, he
would yet do nothing to bring it about, and would much rather take the
part of prudence, in aiding us to overcome our mutual predilections,
than that of feeling, to encourage them. “And he was in the right of
it,” you will say. Perhaps he was; at any rate, I had no business to
feel so bitterly against him as I did; but I could not then regard the
matter in such a moderate light; and, after a brief conversation upon
indifferent topics, I went away, suffering all the pangs of wounded
pride and injured friendship, in addition to those resulting from the
fear that I was indeed forgotten, and the knowledge that she I loved
was alone and afflicted, suffering from injured health and dejected
spirits, and I was forbidden to console or assist her: forbidden even
to assure her of my sympathy, for the transmission of any such message
through Mr. Lawrence was now completely out of the question.
But what should I do? I would wait, and see if she would notice me,
which of course she would not, unless by some kind message intrusted to
her brother, that, in all probability, he would not deliver, and then,
dreadful thought! she would think me cooled and changed for not
returning it, or, perhaps, he had already given her to understand that
I had ceased to think of her. I would wait, however, till the six
months after our parting were fairly passed (which would be about the
close of February), and then I would send her a letter, modestly
reminding her of her former permission to write to her at the close of
that period, and hoping I might avail myself of it—at least to express
my heartfelt sorrow for her late afflictions, my just appreciation of
her generous conduct, and my hope that her health was now completely
re-established, and that she would, some time, be permitted to enjoy
those blessings of a peaceful, happy life, which had been denied her so
long, but which none could more truly be said to merit than
herself—adding a few words of kind remembrance to my little friend
Arthur, with a hope that he had not forgotten me, and perhaps a few
more in reference to bygone times, to the delightful hours I had passed
in her society, and my unfading recollection of them, which was the
salt and solace of my life, and a hope that her recent troubles had not
entirely banished me from her mind. If she did not answer this, of
course I should write no more: if she did (as surely she would, in some
fashion), my future proceedings should be regulated by her reply.
Ten weeks was long to wait in such a miserable state of uncertainty;
but courage! it must be endured! and meantime I would continue to see
Lawrence now and then, though not so often as before, and I would still
pursue my habitual inquiries after his sister, if he had lately heard
from her, and how she was, but nothing more.
I did so, and the answers I received were always provokingly limited to
the letter of the inquiry: she was much as usual: she made no
complaints, but the tone of her last letter evinced great depression of
mind: she said she was better: and, finally, she said she was well, and
very busy with her son’s education, and with the management of her late
husband’s property, and the regulation of his affairs. The rascal had
never told me how that property was disposed, or whether Mr. Huntingdon
had died intestate or not; and I would sooner die than ask him, lest he
should misconstrue into covetousness my desire to know. He never
offered to show me his sister’s letters now, and I never hinted a wish
to see them. February, however, was approaching; December was past;
January, at length, was almost over—a few more weeks, and then, certain
despair or renewal of hope would put an end to this long agony of
suspense.
But alas! it was just about that time she was called to sustain another
blow in the death of her uncle—a worthless old fellow enough in
himself, I daresay, but he had always shown more kindness and affection
to her than to any other creature, and she had always been accustomed
to regard him as a parent. She was with him when he died, and had
assisted her aunt to nurse him during the last stage of his illness.
Her brother went to Staningley to attend the funeral, and told me, upon
his return, that she was still there, endeavouring to cheer her aunt
with her presence, and likely to remain some time. This was bad news
for me, for while she continued there I could not write to her, as I
did not know the address, and would not ask it of him. But week
followed week, and every time I inquired about her she was still at
Staningley.
“Where _is_ Staningley?” I asked at last.
“In ——shire,” was the brief reply; and there was something so cold and
dry in the manner of it, that I was effectually deterred from
requesting a more definite account.
“When will she return to Grassdale?” was my next question.
“I don’t know.”
“Confound it!” I muttered.
“Why, Markham?” asked my companion, with an air of innocent surprise.
But I did not deign to answer him, save by a look of silent, sullen
contempt, at which he turned away, and contemplated the carpet with a
slight smile, half pensive, half amused; but quickly looking up, he
began to talk of other subjects, trying to draw me into a cheerful and
friendly conversation, but I was too much irritated to discourse with
him, and soon took leave.
You see Lawrence and I somehow could not manage to get on very well
together. The fact is, I believe, we were both of us a little too
touchy. It is a troublesome thing, Halford, this susceptibility to
affronts where none are intended. I am no martyr to it now, as you can
bear me witness: I have learned to be merry and wise, to be more easy
with myself and more indulgent to my neighbours, and I can afford to
laugh at both Lawrence and you.
Partly from accident, partly from wilful negligence on my part (for I
was really beginning to dislike him), several weeks elapsed before I
saw my friend again. When we did meet, it was _he_ that sought _me_
out. One bright morning, early in June, he came into the field, where I
was just commencing my hay harvest.