The Tenant of Wildfell Hall (Penguin Classics)

by Brontë, Anne

  I guessed what was coming, and checked the impertinent conjecture with, – ‘Perhaps you’ll be so good as to be quiet a moment. I’m busy.’

  ‘Busy, sir?’

  ‘Yes, in my mind, and don’t want to have my cogitations disturbed.’

  ‘Indeed, sir!’

  You will see that my disappointment had not very greatly affected me, or I should not have been able so quietly to bear with the fellow’s impertinence. The fact is I thought it as well – nay better, all things considered, that I should not see her today, – that I should have time to compose my mind for the interview – to prepare it for a heavier disappointment, after the intoxicating delight experienced by this sudden removal of my former apprehensions; not to mention that, after travelling a night and a day without intermission, and rushing in hot haste through six miles of new-fallen snow, I could not possibly be in a very presentable condition.

  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 dispatch 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 weatherbeaten 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 platitude2by 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 realize 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.’

  ‘Aye,’ responded the other – a gruff elderly man, with a drab great coat 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.’

  ‘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 dare say 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 reunion 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 whichso-ever 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, for ever! – 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 farther; and then lost in melancholy musings, paused again and leant my back against a rough old tree that grew beside the road.

  CHAPTER 53

  CONCLUSION

  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 enquiries. 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 respectively returned1 – 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 etc., 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 enquiry 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 in an energetic kind of abstraction.

  ‘If I had known,’ said I, ‘that you would have honoured me by remembering me as
an intimate acquaintance, I most likely should not have denied myself the pleasure of calling upon you, but I thought you had forgotten me long ago.’

  ‘You judged of others by yourself,’ muttered she without raising her eyes from the book, but reddening as she spoke and hastily turning over a dozen leaves at once.

  There was a pause of which Arthur thought he might venture to avail himself to introduce his handsome young setter and show me how wonderfully it was grown and improved, and to ask after the welfare of its father Sancho. Mrs Maxwell then withdrew to take off her things. Helen immediately pushed the book from her and after silently surveying her son, his friend, and his dog for a few moments, she dismissed the former from the room under pretence of wishing him to fetch his last new book to show me. The child obeyed with alacrity; but I continued caressing the dog. The silence might have lasted till its master’s return had it depended on me to break it, but, in half a minute or less, my hostess impatiently rose, and taking her former station on the rug between me and the chimney corner, earnestly exclaimed –

  ‘Gilbert, what is the matter with you? – why are you so changed? – It is a very indiscreet question I know,’ she hastened to add: ‘perhaps, a very rude one – don’t answer it if you think so – but I hate mysteries and concealments.’

  ‘I am not changed, Helen – unfortunately I am as keen and passionate as ever – it is not I, it is circumstances that are changed.’

  ‘What circumstances? Do tell me!’ Her cheek was blanched with the very anguish of anxiety – could it be with the fear that I had rashly pledged my faith to another?

  ‘I’ll tell you at once,’ said I. ‘I will confess that I came here for the purpose of seeing you (not without some monitory misgivings at my own presumption, and fears that I should be as little welcome as expected when I came), but I did not know that this estate was yours, until enlightened on the subject of your inheritance by the conversation of two fellow passengers in the last stage of my journey; and then, I saw at once the folly of the hopes I had cherished and the madness of retaining them a moment longer; and though I alighted at your gates, I determined not to enter within them; I lingered a few minutes to see the place, but was fully resolved to return to M— without seeing its mistress.’