The Tenant of Wildfell Hall
“It’s strange, sir!”
“It is, sir; and she wasn’t his own niece neither. But he had no near
relations of his own—none but a nephew he’d quarrelled with; and he
always had a partiality for this one. And then his wife advised him to
it, they say: she’d brought most of the property, and it was her wish
that this lady should have it.”
“Humph! She’ll be a fine catch for somebody.”
“She will so. She’s a widow, but quite young yet, and uncommon
handsome: a fortune of her own, besides, and only one child, and she’s
nursing a fine estate for him in ——. There’ll be lots to speak for her!
’fraid there’s no chance for uz”—(facetiously jogging me with his
elbow, as well as his companion)—“ha, ha, ha! No offence, sir, I
hope?”—(to me). “Ahem! I should think she’ll marry none but a nobleman
myself. Look ye, sir,” resumed he, turning to his other neighbour, and
pointing past me with his umbrella, “that’s the Hall: grand park, you
see, and all them woods—plenty of timber there, and lots of game.
Hallo! what now?”
This exclamation was occasioned by the sudden stoppage of the coach at
the park-gates.
“Gen’leman for Staningley Hall?” cried the coachman and I rose and
threw my carpet-bag on to the ground, preparatory to dropping myself
down after it.
“Sickly, sir?” asked my talkative neighbour, staring me in the face. I
daresay it was white enough.
“No. Here, coachman!”
“Thank’ee, sir.—All right!”
The coachman pocketed his fee and drove away, leaving me, not walking
up the park, but pacing to and fro before its gates, with folded arms,
and eyes fixed upon the ground, an overwhelming force of images,
thoughts, impressions crowding on my mind, and nothing tangibly
distinct but this: My love had been cherished in vain—my hope was gone
for ever; I must tear myself away at once, and banish or suppress all
thoughts of her, like the remembrance of a wild, mad dream. Gladly
would I have lingered round the place for hours, in the hope of
catching at least one distant glimpse of her before I went, but it must
not be—I must not suffer her to see me; for what could have brought me
hither but the hope of reviving her attachment, with a view hereafter
to obtain her hand? And could I bear that she should think me capable
of such a thing?—of presuming upon the acquaintance—the _love_, if you
will—accidentally contracted, or rather forced upon her against her
will, when she was an unknown fugitive, toiling for her own support,
apparently without fortune, family, or connections; to come upon her
now, when she was reinstated in her proper sphere, and claim a share in
her prosperity, which, had it never failed her, would most certainly
have kept her unknown to me for ever? And this, too, when we had parted
sixteen months ago, and she had expressly forbidden me to hope for a
re-union in this world, and never sent me a line or a message from that
day to this. No! The very idea was intolerable.
And even if she should have a lingering affection for me still, ought I
to disturb her peace by awakening those feelings? to subject her to the
struggles of conflicting duty and inclination—to whichsoever side the
latter might allure, or the former imperatively call her—whether she
should deem it her duty to risk the slights and censures of the world,
the sorrow and displeasure of those she loved, for a romantic idea of
truth and constancy to me, or to sacrifice her individual wishes to the
feelings of her friends and her own sense of prudence and the fitness
of things? No—and I would not! I would go at once, and she should never
know that I had approached the place of her abode: for though I might
disclaim all idea of ever aspiring to her hand, or even of soliciting a
place in her friendly regard, her peace should not be broken by my
presence, nor her heart afflicted by the sight of my fidelity.
“Adieu then, dear Helen, forever! Forever adieu!”
So said I—and yet I could not tear myself away. I moved a few paces,
and then looked back, for one last view of her stately home, that I
might have its outward form, at least, impressed upon my mind as
indelibly as her own image, which, alas! I must not see again—then
walked a few steps further; and then, lost in melancholy musings,
paused again and leant my back against a rough old tree that grew
beside the road.
CHAPTER LIII
While standing thus, absorbed in my gloomy reverie, a gentleman’s
carriage came round the corner of the road. I did not look at it; and
had it rolled quietly by me, I should not have remembered the fact of
its appearance at all; but a tiny voice from within it roused me by
exclaiming, “Mamma, mamma, here’s Mr. Markham!”
I did not hear the reply, but presently the same voice answered, “It is
indeed, mamma—look for yourself.”
I did not raise my eyes, but I suppose mamma looked, for a clear
melodious voice, whose tones thrilled through my nerves, exclaimed,
“Oh, aunt! here’s Mr. Markham, Arthur’s friend! Stop, Richard!”
There was such evidence of joyous though suppressed excitement in the
utterance of those few words—especially that tremulous, “Oh, aunt”—that
it threw me almost off my guard. The carriage stopped immediately, and
I looked up and met the eye of a pale, grave, elderly lady surveying me
from the open window. She bowed, and so did I, and then she withdrew
her head, while Arthur screamed to the footman to let him out; but
before that functionary could descend from his box a hand was silently
put forth from the carriage window. I knew that hand, though a black
glove concealed its delicate whiteness and half its fair proportions,
and quickly seizing it, I pressed it in my own—ardently for a moment,
but instantly recollecting myself, I dropped it, and it was immediately
withdrawn.
“Were you coming to see us, or only passing by?” asked the low voice of
its owner, who, I felt, was attentively surveying my countenance from
behind the thick black veil which, with the shadowing panels, entirely
concealed her own from me.
“I—I came to see the place,” faltered I.
“The _place_,” repeated she, in a tone which betokened more displeasure
or disappointment than surprise.
“Will you not enter it, then?”
“If you wish it.”
“Can you doubt?”
“Yes, yes! he _must_ enter,” cried Arthur, running round from the other
door; and seizing my hand in both his, he shook it heartily.
“Do you remember me, sir?” said he.
“Yes, full well, my little man, altered though you are,” replied I,
surveying the comparatively tall, slim young gentleman, with his
mother’s image visibly stamped upon his fair, intelligent features, in
spite of the blue eyes beaming with gladness, and the bright locks
clustering beneath his cap.
“Am I not grown?” said he, stretching himself up to his full height.
“Grown! three inches, upon my word!”
“I was _seven_ last birthday,” was the proud rejoinder. “In seven years
more I shall be as tall as you nearly.”
“Arthur,” said his mother, “tell him to come in. Go on, Richard.”
There was a touch of sadness as well as coldness in her voice, but I
knew not to what to ascribe it. The carriage drove on and entered the
gates before us. My little companion led me up the park, discoursing
merrily all the way. Arrived at the hall-door, I paused on the steps
and looked round me, waiting to recover my composure, if possible—or,
at any rate, to remember my new-formed resolutions and the principles
on which they were founded; and it was not till Arthur had been for
some time gently pulling my coat, and repeating his invitations to
enter, that I at length consented to accompany him into the apartment
where the ladies awaited us.
Helen eyed me as I entered with a kind of gentle, serious scrutiny, and
politely asked after Mrs. Markham and Rose. I respectfully answered her
inquiries. Mrs. Maxwell begged me to be seated, observing it was rather
cold, but she supposed I had not travelled far that morning.
“Not quite twenty miles,” I answered.
“Not on foot!”
“No, Madam, by coach.”
“Here’s Rachel, sir,” said Arthur, the only truly happy one amongst us,
directing my attention to that worthy individual, who had just entered
to take her mistress’s things. She vouchsafed me an almost friendly
smile of recognition—a favour that demanded, at least, a civil
salutation on my part, which was accordingly given and respectfully
returned—she had seen the error of her former estimation of my
character.
When Helen was divested of her lugubrious bonnet and veil, her heavy
winter cloak, &c., she looked so like herself that I knew not how to
bear it. I was particularly glad to see her beautiful black hair,
unstinted still, and unconcealed in its glossy luxuriance.
“Mamma has left off her widow’s cap in honour of uncle’s marriage,”
observed Arthur, reading my looks with a child’s mingled simplicity and
quickness of observation. Mamma looked grave and Mrs. Maxwell shook her
head. “And aunt Maxwell is never going to leave off hers,” persisted
the naughty boy; but when he saw that his pertness was seriously
displeasing and painful to his aunt, he went and silently put his arm
round her neck, kissed her cheek, and withdrew to the recess of one of
the great bay-windows, where he quietly amused himself with his dog,
while Mrs. Maxwell gravely discussed with me the interesting topics of
the weather, the season, and the roads. I considered her presence very
useful as a check upon my natural impulses—an antidote to those
emotions of tumultuous excitement which would otherwise have carried me
away against my reason and my will; but _just then_ I felt the
restraint almost intolerable, and I had the greatest difficulty in
forcing myself to attend to her remarks and answer them with ordinary
politeness; for I was sensible that Helen was standing within a few
feet of me beside the fire. I dared not look at her, but I felt her eye
was upon me, and from one hasty, furtive glance, I thought her cheek
was slightly flushed, and that her fingers, as she played with her
watch-chain, were agitated with that restless, trembling motion which
betokens high excitement.
“Tell me,” said she, availing herself of the first pause in the
attempted conversation between her aunt and me, and speaking fast and
low, with her eyes bent on the gold chain—for I now ventured another
glance—“Tell me how you all are at Lindenhope—has nothing happened
since I left you?”
“I believe not.”
“Nobody dead? nobody married?”
“No.”
“Or—or expecting to marry?—No old ties dissolved or new ones formed? no
old friends forgotten or supplanted?”
She dropped her voice so low in the last sentence that no one could
have caught the concluding words but myself, and at the same time
turned her eyes upon me with a dawning smile, most sweetly melancholy,
and a look of timid though keen inquiry that made my cheeks tingle with
inexpressible emotions.
“I believe not,” I answered. “Certainly not, if others are as little
changed as I.” Her face glowed in sympathy with mine.
“And you really did not mean to call?” she exclaimed.
“I feared to intrude.”
“To intrude!” cried she, with an impatient gesture. “What—” but as if
suddenly recollecting her aunt’s presence, she checked herself, and,
turning to that lady, continued—“Why, aunt, this man is my brother’s
close friend, and was my own intimate acquaintance (for a few short
months at least), and professed a great attachment to my boy—and when
he passes the house, so many scores of miles from his home, he declines
to look in for fear of intruding!”
“Mr. Markham is over-modest,” observed Mrs. Maxwell.
“Over-ceremonious rather,” said her niece—“over—well, it’s no matter.”
And turning from me, she seated herself in a chair beside the table,
and pulling a book to her by the cover, began to turn over the leaves