The Tenant of Wildfell Hall

shall expect a very handsome apology, some time, mind, and scores of letters, before we meet again.” He shook my hand, and hastened to take his place beside his lady. This was no time or place for explanation or discourse: we had already stood long enough to excite the wonder of the village sight-seers, and perhaps the wrath of the attendant bridal party; though, of course, all this passed in a much shorter time than I have taken to relate, or even than you will take to read it. I stood beside the carriage, and, the window being down, I saw my happy friend fondly encircle his companion’s waist with his arm, while she rested her glowing cheek on his shoulder, looking the very impersonation of loving, trusting bliss. In the interval between the footman’s closing the door and taking his place behind she raised her smiling brown eyes to his face, observing, playfully,—“I fear you must think me very insensible, Frederick: I know it is the custom for ladies to cry on these occasions, but I couldn’t squeeze a tear for my life.” He only answered with a kiss, and pressed her still closer to his bosom. “But what is this?” he murmured. “Why, Esther, you’re crying now!” “Oh, it’s nothing—it’s only too much happiness—and the wish,” sobbed she, “that our dear Helen were as happy as ourselves.” “Bless you for that wish!” I inwardly responded, as the carriage rolled away—“and heaven grant it be not wholly vain!” I thought a cloud had suddenly darkened her husband’s face as she spoke. What did he think? Could he grudge such happiness to his dear sister and his friend as he now felt himself? At _such_ a moment it was impossible. The contrast between her fate and his _must_ darken his bliss for a time. Perhaps, too, he thought of me: perhaps he regretted the part he had had in preventing our union, by omitting to help us, if not by actually plotting against us. I exonerated him from _that_ charge now, and deeply lamented my former ungenerous suspicions; but he _had_ wronged us, still—I hoped, I trusted that he had. He had not attempted to check the course of our love by actually damming up the streams in their passage, but he had passively watched the two currents wandering through life’s arid wilderness, declining to clear away the obstructions that divided them, and secretly hoping that both would lose themselves in the sand before they could be joined in one. And meantime he had been quietly proceeding with his own affairs; perhaps, his heart and head had been so full of his fair lady that he had had but little thought to spare for others. Doubtless he had made his first acquaintance with her—his first intimate acquaintance at least—during his three months’ sojourn at F——, for I now recollected that he had once casually let fall an intimation that his aunt and sister had a young friend staying with them at the time, and this accounted for at least one-half his silence about all transactions there. Now, too, I saw a reason for many little things that had slightly puzzled me before; among the rest, for sundry departures from Woodford, and absences more or less prolonged, for which he never satisfactorily accounted, and concerning which he hated to be questioned on his return. Well might the servant say his master was “very close.” But why this strange reserve to _me?_ Partly, from that remarkable idiosyncrasy to which I have before alluded; partly, perhaps, from tenderness to my feelings, or fear to disturb my philosophy by touching upon the infectious theme of love. CHAPTER LII The tardy gig had overtaken me at last. I entered it, and bade the man who brought it drive to Grassdale Manor—I was too busy with my own thoughts to care to drive it myself. I would see Mrs. Huntingdon—there could be no impropriety in that now that her husband had been dead above a year—and by her indifference or her joy at my unexpected arrival I could soon tell whether her heart was truly mine. But my companion, a loquacious, forward fellow, was not disposed to leave me to the indulgence of my private cogitations. “There they go!” said he, as the carriages filed away before us. “There’ll be brave doings on yonder _to-day_, as what come to-morra.—Know anything of that family, sir? or you’re a stranger in these parts?” “I know them by report.” “Humph! There’s the best of ’em gone, anyhow. And I suppose the old missis is agoing to leave after this stir’s gotten overed, and take herself off, somewhere, to live on her bit of a jointure; and the young ’un—at least the new ’un (she’s none so very young)—is coming down to live at the Grove.” “Is Mr. Hargrave married, then?” “Ay, sir, a few months since. He should a been wed afore, to a widow lady, but they couldn’t agree over the money: she’d a rare long purse, and Mr. Hargrave wanted it all to hisself; but she wouldn’t let it go, and so then they fell out. This one isn’t quite as rich, nor as handsome either, but she hasn’t been married before. She’s very plain, they say, and getting on to forty or past, and so, you know, if she didn’t jump at this hopportunity, she thought she’d never get a better. I guess she thought such a handsome young husband was worth all ’at ever she had, and he might take it and welcome, but I lay she’ll rue her bargain afore long. They say she begins already to see ’at he isn’t not altogether that nice, generous, perlite, delightful gentleman ’at she thought him afore marriage—he begins a being careless and masterful already. Ay, and she’ll find him harder and carelesser nor she thinks on.” “You seem to be well acquainted with him,” I observed. “I am, sir; I’ve known him since he was quite a young gentleman; and a proud ’un he was, and a wilful. I was servant yonder for several years; but I couldn’t stand their niggardly ways—she got ever longer and worse, did missis, with her nipping and screwing, and watching and grudging; so I thought I’d find another place.” “Are we not near the house?” said I, interrupting him. “Yes, sir; yond’s the park.” My heart sank within me to behold that stately mansion in the midst of its expansive grounds. The park as beautiful now, in its wintry garb, as it could be in its summer glory: the majestic sweep, the undulating swell and fall, displayed to full advantage in that robe of dazzling purity, stainless and printless—save one long, winding track left by the trooping deer—the stately timber-trees with their heavy-laden branches gleaming white against the dull, grey sky; the deep, encircling woods; the broad expanse of water sleeping in frozen quiet; and the weeping ash and willow drooping their snow-clad boughs above it—all presented a picture, striking indeed, and pleasing to an unencumbered mind, but by no means encouraging to me. There was one comfort, however,—all this was entailed upon little Arthur, and could not under any circumstances, strictly speaking, be his mother’s. But how was she situated? Overcoming with a sudden effort my repugnance to mention her name to my garrulous companion, I asked him if he knew whether her late husband had left a will, and how the property had been disposed of. Oh, yes, he knew all about it; and I was quickly informed that to her had been left the full control and management of the estate during her son’s minority, besides the absolute, unconditional possession of her own fortune (but I knew that her father had not given her much), and the small additional sum that had been settled upon her before marriage. Before the close of the explanation we drew up at the park-gates. Now for the trial. If I should find her within—but alas! she might be still at Staningley: her brother had given me no intimation to the contrary. I inquired at the porter’s lodge if Mrs. Huntingdon were at home. No, she was with her aunt in ——shire, but was expected to return before Christmas. She usually spent most of her time at Staningley, only coming to Grassdale occasionally, when the management of affairs, or the interest of her tenants and dependents, required her presence. “Near what town is Staningley situated?” I asked. The requisite information was soon obtained. “Now then, my man, give me the reins, and we’ll return to M——. I must have some breakfast at the ‘Rose and Crown,’ and then away to Staningley by the first coach for ——.” At M—— I had time before the coach started to replenish my forces with a hearty breakfast, and to obtain the refreshment of my usual morning’s ablutions, and the amelioration of some slight change in my toilet, and also to despatch a short note to my mother (excellent son that I was), to assure her that I was still in existence, and to excuse my non-appearance at the expected time. It was a long journey to Staningley for those slow-travelling days, but I did not deny myself needful refreshment on the road, nor even a night’s rest at a wayside inn, choosing rather to brook a little delay than to present myself worn, wild, and weather-beaten before my mistress and her aunt, who would be astonished enough to see me without that. Next morning, therefore, I not only fortified myself with as substantial a breakfast as my excited feelings would allow me to swallow, but I bestowed a little more than usual time and care upon my toilet; and, furnished with a change of linen from my small carpet-bag, well-brushed clothes, well-polished boots, and neat new gloves, I mounted “The Lightning,” and resumed my journey. I had nearly two stages yet before me, but the coach, I was informed, passed through the neighbourhood of Staningley, and having desired to be set down as near the Hall as possible, I had nothing to do but to sit with folded arms and speculate upon the coming hour. It was a clear, frosty morning. The very fact of sitting exalted aloft, surveying the snowy landscape and sweet sunny sky, inhaling the pure, bracing air, and crunching away over the crisp frozen snow, was exhilarating enough in itself; but add to this the idea of to what goal I was hastening, and whom I expected to meet, and you may have some faint conception of my frame of mind at the time—only a _faint_ one, though, for my heart swelled with unspeakable delight, and my spirits rose almost to madness, in spite of my prudent endeavours to bind them down to a reasonable platitude by thinking of the undeniable difference between Helen’s rank and mine; of all that she had passed through since our parting; of her long, unbroken silence; and, above all, of her cool, cautious aunt, whose counsels she would doubtless be careful not to slight again. These considerations made my heart flutter with anxiety, and my chest heave with impatience to get the crisis over; but they could not dim her image in my mind, or mar the vivid recollection of what had been said and felt between us, or destroy the keen anticipation of what was to be: in fact, I could not realise their terrors now. Towards the close of the journey, however, a couple of my fellow-passengers kindly came to my assistance, and brought me low enough. “Fine land this,” said one of them, pointing with his umbrella to the wide fields on the right, conspicuous for their compact hedgerows, deep, well-cut ditches, and fine timber-trees, growing sometimes on the borders, sometimes in the midst of the enclosure: “_very_ fine land, if you saw it in the summer or spring.” “Ay,” responded the other, a gruff elderly man, with a drab greatcoat buttoned up to the chin, and a cotton umbrella between his knees. “It’s old Maxwell’s, I suppose.” “It _was_ his, sir; but he’s dead now, you’re aware, and has left it all to his niece.” “All?” “Every rood of it, and the mansion-house and all! every hatom of his worldly goods, except just a trifle, by way of remembrance, to his nephew down in ——shire, and an annuity to his wife.”