The Tenant of Wildfell Hall
“But this is too much happiness,” said I, embracing her again; “I have
not deserved it, Helen—I dare not believe in such felicity: and the
longer I have to wait, the greater will be my dread that something will
intervene to snatch you from me—and think, a thousand things may happen
in a year!—I shall be in one long fever of restless terror and
impatience all the time. And besides, winter is such a dreary season.”
“I thought so too,” replied she gravely: “I would not be married in
winter—in December, at least,” she added, with a shudder—for in that
month had occurred both the ill-starred marriage that had bound her to
her former husband, and the terrible death that released her—“and
therefore I said another year, in spring.”
“_Next_ spring?”
“No, no—next autumn, perhaps.”
“Summer, then?”
“Well, the close of summer. There now! be satisfied.”
While she was speaking Arthur re-entered the room—good boy for keeping
out so long.
“Mamma, I couldn’t find the book in either of the places you told me to
look for it” (there was a conscious something in mamma’s smile that
seemed to say, “No, dear, I knew you could not”), “but Rachel got it
for me at last. Look, Mr. Markham, a natural history, with all kinds of
birds and beasts in it, and the reading as nice as the pictures!”
In great good humour I sat down to examine the book, and drew the
little fellow between my knees. Had he come a minute before I should
have received him less graciously, but now I affectionately stroked his
curling locks, and even kissed his ivory forehead: he was my own
Helen’s son, and therefore mine; and as such I have ever since regarded
him. That pretty child is now a fine young man: he has realised his
mother’s brightest expectations, and is at present residing in
Grassdale Manor with his young wife—the merry little Helen Hattersley
of yore.
I had not looked through half the book before Mrs. Maxwell appeared to
invite me into the other room to lunch. That lady’s cool, distant
manners rather chilled me at first; but I did my best to propitiate
her, and not entirely without success, I think, even in that first
short visit; for when I talked cheerfully to her, she gradually became
more kind and cordial, and when I departed she bade me a gracious
adieu, hoping ere long to have the pleasure of seeing me again.
“But you must not go till you have seen the conservatory, my aunt’s
winter garden,” said Helen, as I advanced to take leave of her, with as
much philosophy and self-command as I could summon to my aid.
I gladly availed myself of such a respite, and followed her into a
large and beautiful conservatory, plentifully furnished with flowers,
considering the season—but, of course, I had little attention to spare
for _them_. It was not, however, for any tender colloquy that my
companion had brought me there:—
“My aunt is particularly fond of flowers,” she observed, “and she is
fond of Staningley too: I brought you here to offer a petition in her
behalf, that this may be her home as long as she lives, and—if it be
not our home likewise—that I may often see her and be with her; for I
fear she will be sorry to lose me; and though she leads a retired and
contemplative life, she is apt to get low-spirited if left too much
alone.”
“By all means, dearest Helen!—do what you will with your own. I should
not dream of wishing your aunt to leave the place under any
circumstances; and we will live either here or elsewhere as you and she
may determine, and you shall see her as often as you like. I know she
must be pained to part with you, and I am willing to make any
reparation in my power. I love her for your sake, and her happiness
shall be as dear to me as that of my own mother.”
“Thank you, darling! you shall have a kiss for that. Good-by. There
now—there, Gilbert—let me go—here’s Arthur; don’t astonish his
infantile brain with your madness.”
* * * * *
But it is time to bring my narrative to a close. Any one but you would
say I had made it too long already. But for _your_ satisfaction I will
add a few words more; because I know you will have a fellow-feeling for
the old lady, and will wish to know the last of her history. I did come
again in spring, and, agreeably to Helen’s injunctions, did my best to
cultivate her acquaintance. She received me very kindly, having been,
doubtless, already prepared to think highly of my character by her
niece’s too favourable report. I turned my best side out, of course,
and we got along marvellously well together. When my ambitious
intentions were made known to her, she took it more sensibly than I had
ventured to hope. Her only remark on the subject, in my hearing, was—
“And so, Mr. Markham, you are going to rob me of my niece, I
understand. Well! I hope God will prosper your union, and make my dear
girl happy at last. Could she have been contented to remain single, I
own I should have been better satisfied; but if she must marry again, I
know of no one, now living and of a suitable age, to whom I would more
willingly resign her than yourself, or who would be more likely to
appreciate her worth and make, her truly happy, as far as I can tell.”
Of course I was delighted with the compliment, and hoped to show her
that she was not mistaken in her favourable judgment.
“I have, however, one request to offer,” continued she. “It seems I am
still to look on Staningley as my home: I wish you to make it yours
likewise, for Helen is attached to the place and to me—as I am to her.
There are painful associations connected with Grassdale, which she
cannot easily overcome; and I shall not molest you with my company or
interference here: I am a very quiet person, and shall keep my own
apartments, and attend to my own concerns, and only see you now and
then.”
Of course I most readily consented to this; and we lived in the
greatest harmony with our dear aunt until the day of her death, which
melancholy event took place a few years after—melancholy, not to
herself (for it came quietly upon her, and she was glad to reach her
journey’s end), but only to the few loving friends and grateful
dependents she left behind.
To return, however, to my own affairs: I was married in summer, on a
glorious August morning. It took the whole eight months, and all
Helen’s kindness and goodness to boot, to overcome my mother’s
prejudices against my bride-elect, and to reconcile her to the idea of
my leaving Linden Grange and living so far away. Yet she was gratified
at her son’s good fortune after all, and proudly attributed it all to
his own superior merits and endowments. I bequeathed the farm to
Fergus, with better hopes of its prosperity than I should have had a
year ago under similar circumstances; for he had lately fallen in love
with the Vicar of L——’s eldest daughter—a lady whose superiority had
roused his latent virtues, and stimulated him to the most surprising
exertions, not only to gain her affection and esteem, and to obtain a
fortune sufficient to aspire to her hand, but to render himself worthy
of her, in his own eyes, as well as in those of her parents; and in the
end he was successful, as you already know. As for myself, I need not
tell you how happily my Helen and I have lived together, and how
blessed we still are in each other’s society, and in the promising
young scions that are growing up about us. We are just now looking
forward to the advent of you and Rose, for the time of your annual
visit draws nigh, when you must leave your dusty, smoky, noisy,
toiling, striving city for a season of invigorating relaxation and
social retirement with us.
Till then, farewell,
GILBERT MARKHAM.
_Staningley_, _June_ 10_th_, 1847.
THE END
Printed by SPOTTISWOODE, BALLENTYNE & CO. LTD.
Colchester, London & Eton, England.
Footnotes:
[1] Introduction to _Wuthering Heights_, p. xl. “Still, as I mused the
naked room,” &c.
[2] This Preface is now printed here for the first time in a collected
edition of the works of the Brontë sisters.