The Tenant of Wildfell Hall

little more than twenty minutes the journey was accomplished. I
paused at the gate to wipe my streaming forehead, and recover my breath
and some degree of composure. Already the rapid walking had somewhat
mitigated my excitement; and with a firm and steady tread I paced the
garden-walk. In passing the inhabited wing of the building, I caught a
sight of Mrs. Graham, through the open window, slowly pacing up and
down her lonely room.

She seemed agitated and even dismayed at my arrival, as if she thought
I too was coming to accuse her. I had entered her presence intending to
condole with her upon the wickedness of the world, and help her to
abuse the vicar and his vile informants, but now I felt positively
ashamed to mention the subject, and determined not to refer to it,
unless she led the way.

“I am come at an unseasonable hour,” said I, assuming a cheerfulness I
did not feel, in order to reassure her; “but I won’t stay many
minutes.”

She smiled upon me, faintly it is true, but most kindly—I had almost
said thankfully, as her apprehensions were removed.

“How dismal you are, Helen! Why have you no fire?” I said, looking
round on the gloomy apartment.

“It is summer yet,” she replied.

“But we always have a fire in the evenings, if we can bear it; and
you especially require one in this cold house and dreary room.”

“You should have come a little sooner, and I would have had one lighted
for you: but it is not worth while now—you won’t stay many minutes, you
say, and Arthur is gone to bed.”

“But I have a fancy for a fire, nevertheless. Will you order one, if I
ring?”

“Why, Gilbert, you don’t look cold!” said she, smilingly regarding my
face, which no doubt seemed warm enough.

“No,” replied I, “but I want to see you comfortable before I go.”

“Me comfortable!” repeated she, with a bitter laugh, as if there were
something amusingly absurd in the idea. “It suits me better as it is,”
she added, in a tone of mournful resignation.

But determined to have my own way, I pulled the bell.

“There now, Helen!” I said, as the approaching steps of Rachel were
heard in answer to the summons. There was nothing for it but to turn
round and desire the maid to light the fire.

I owe Rachel a grudge to this day for the look she cast upon me ere she
departed on her mission, the sour, suspicious, inquisitorial look that
plainly demanded, “What are you here for, I wonder?” Her mistress did
not fail to notice it, and a shade of uneasiness darkened her brow.

“You must not stay long, Gilbert,” said she, when the door was closed
upon us.

“I’m not going to,” said I, somewhat testily, though without a grain of
anger in my heart against any one but the meddling old woman. “But,
Helen, I’ve something to say to you before I go.”

“What is it?”

“No, not now—I don’t know yet precisely what it is, or how to say it,”
replied I, with more truth than wisdom; and then, fearing lest she
should turn me out of the house, I began talking about indifferent
matters in order to gain time. Meanwhile Rachel came in to kindle the
fire, which was soon effected by thrusting a red-hot poker between the
bars of the grate, where the fuel was already disposed for ignition.
She honoured me with another of her hard, inhospitable looks in
departing, but, little moved thereby, I went on talking; and setting a
chair for Mrs. Graham on one side of the hearth, and one for myself on
the other, I ventured to sit down, though half suspecting she would
rather see me go.

In a little while we both relapsed into silence, and continued for
several minutes gazing abstractedly into the fire—she intent upon her
own sad thoughts, and I reflecting how delightful it would be to be
seated thus beside her with no other presence to restrain our
intercourse—not even that of Arthur, our mutual friend, without whom we
had never met before—if only I could venture to speak my mind, and
disburden my full heart of the feelings that had so long oppressed it,
and which it now struggled to retain, with an effort that it seemed
impossible to continue much longer,—and revolving the pros and cons for
opening my heart to her there and then, and imploring a return of
affection, the permission to regard her thenceforth as my own, and the
right and the power to defend her from the calumnies of malicious
tongues. On the one hand, I felt a new-born confidence in my powers of
persuasion—a strong conviction that my own fervour of spirit would
grant me eloquence—that my very determination—the absolute necessity
for succeeding, that I felt must win me what I sought; while, on the
other, I feared to lose the ground I had already gained with so much
toil and skill, and destroy all future hope by one rash effort, when
time and patience might have won success. It was like setting my life
upon the cast of a die; and yet I was ready to resolve upon the
attempt. At any rate, I would entreat the explanation she had half
promised to give me before; I would demand the reason of this hateful
barrier, this mysterious impediment to my happiness, and, as I trusted,
to her own.

But while I considered in what manner I could best frame my request, my
companion, wakened from her reverie with a scarcely audible sigh, and
looking towards the window, where the blood-red harvest moon, just
rising over one of the grim, fantastic evergreens, was shining in upon
us, said,—“Gilbert, it is getting late.”

“I see,” said I. “You want me to go, I suppose?”

“I think you ought. If my kind neighbours get to know of this visit—as
no doubt they will—they will not turn it much to my advantage.” It was
with what the vicar would doubtless have called a savage sort of smile
that she said this.

“Let them turn it as they will,” said I. “What are their thoughts to
you or me, so long as we are satisfied with ourselves—and each other.
Let them go to the deuce with their vile constructions and their lying
inventions!”

This outburst brought a flush of colour to her face.

“You have heard, then, what they say of me?”

“I heard some detestable falsehoods; but none but fools would credit
them for a moment, Helen, so don’t let them trouble you.”

“I did not think Mr. Millward a fool, and he believes it all; but
however little you may value the opinions of those about you—however
little you may esteem them as individuals, it is not pleasant to be
looked upon as a liar and a hypocrite, to be thought to practise what
you abhor, and to encourage the vices you would discountenance, to find
your good intentions frustrated, and your hands crippled by your
supposed unworthiness, and to bring disgrace on the principles you
profess.”

“True; and if I, by my thoughtlessness and selfish disregard to
appearances, have at all assisted to expose you to these evils, let me
entreat you not only to pardon me, but to enable me to make reparation;
authorise me to clear your name from every imputation: give me the
right to identify your honour with my own, and to defend your
reputation as more precious than my life!”

“Are you hero enough to unite yourself to one whom you know to be
suspected and despised by all around you, and identify your interests
and your honour with hers? Think! it is a serious thing.”

“I should be proud to do it, Helen!—most happy—delighted beyond
expression!—and if that be all the obstacle to our union, it is
demolished, and you must—you shall be mine!”

And starting from my seat in a frenzy of ardour, I seized her hand and
would have pressed it to my lips, but she as suddenly caught it away,
exclaiming in the bitterness of intense affliction,—“No, no, it is not
all!”

“What is it, then? You promised I should know some time, and—”

“You shall know some time—but not now—my head aches terribly,” she
said, pressing her hand to her forehead, “and I must have some
repose—and surely I have had misery enough to-day!” she added, almost
wildly.

“But it could not harm you to tell it,” I persisted: “it would ease
your mind; and I should then know how to comfort you.”

She shook her head despondingly. “If you knew all, you, too, would
blame me—perhaps even more than I deserve—though I have cruelly wronged
you,” she added in a low murmur, as if she mused aloud.

“You, Helen? Impossible?”

“Yes, not willingly; for I did not know the strength and depth of your
attachment. I thought—at least I endeavoured to think your regard for
me was as cold and fraternal as you professed it to be.”

“Or as yours?”

“Or as mine—ought to have been—of such a light and selfish, superficial
nature, that—”

“There, indeed, you wronged me.”

[Illustration]

“I know I did; and, sometimes, I suspected it then; but I thought, upon
the whole, there could be no great harm in leaving your fancies and
your hopes to dream themselves to nothing—or flutter away to some more
fitting object, while your friendly sympathies remained with me; but if
I had known the depth of your regard, the generous, disinterested
affection you seem to feel—”

“Seem, Helen?”

“That you do feel, then, I would have acted differently.”

“How? You could not have given me less encouragement, or treated me
with greater severity than you did! And if you think you have wronged
me by giving me your friendship, and occasionally admitting me to the
enjoyment of your company and conversation, when all hopes of closer
intimacy were vain—as indeed you always gave me to understand—if you
think you have wronged me by this, you are mistaken; for such favours,
in themselves alone, are not only delightful to my heart, but
purifying, exalting, ennobling to my soul; and I would rather have your
friendship than the love of any other woman in the world!”

Little comforted by this, she clasped her hands upon her knee, and
glancing upward, seemed, in silent anguish, to implore divine
assistance; then, turning to me, she calmly said,—“To-morrow, if you
meet me on the moor about mid-day, I will tell you all you seek to
know; and perhaps you will then see the necessity of discontinuing our
intimacy—if, indeed, you do not willingly resign me as one no longer
worthy of regard.”

“I can safely answer no to that: you cannot have such grave confessions
to make—you must be trying my faith, Helen.”

“No, no, no,” she earnestly repeated—“I wish it were so! Thank heaven!”
she added, “I have no great crime to confess; but I have more than you
will like to hear, or, perhaps, can readily excuse,—and more than I can
tell you now; so let me entreat you to leave me!”

“I will; but answer me this one question first;—do you love me?”

“I will not answer it!”

“Then I will conclude you do; and so good-night.”

She turned from me to hide the emotion she could not quite control; but
I took her hand and fervently kissed it.

“Gilbert, do leave me!” she cried, in a tone of such thrilling
anguish that I felt it would be cruel to disobey.

But I gave one look back before I closed the door, and saw her leaning
forward on the table, with her hands pressed against her eyes, sobbing
convulsively; yet I withdrew in silence. I felt that to obtrude my
consolations on her then would only serve to aggravate her sufferings.

To tell you all the questionings and conjectures—the fears, and hopes,
and wild emotions that jostled and chased each other through my mind as
I descended the hill, would almost fill a volume in itself. But before
I was half-way down, a sentiment of strong sympathy for her I had left
behind me had displaced all other feelings, and seemed imperatively to
draw me back: I began to think, “Why am I hurrying so fast in this
direction? Can I find comfort or consolation—peace, certainty,
contentment, all—or anything that I want at home? and can I leave all
perturbation, sorrow, and anxiety behind me there?”

And I turned round to look at the old Hall. There was little besides
the chimneys visible above my contracted horizon. I walked back to get
a better view of it. When it rose in sight, I stood still a moment to
look, and then continued moving towards the gloomy object of
attraction. Something called me nearer—nearer still—and why not, pray?
Might I not find more benefit in the contemplation of that venerable
pile with the full moon in the cloudless heaven shining so calmly above
it—with that warm yellow lustre peculiar to an August night—and the
mistress of my soul within, than in returning to my home, where all
comparatively was light, and life, and cheerfulness, and therefore
inimical to me in my present frame of mind,—and the more so that its
inmates all were more or less imbued with that detestable belief, the
very thought of which made my blood boil in my veins—and how could I
endure to hear it openly declared, or cautiously insinuated—which was
worse?—I had had trouble enough already, with some babbling fiend that
would keep whispering in my ear, “It may be true,” till I had shouted
aloud, “It is false! I defy you to make me suppose it!”

I could see the red firelight dimly gleaming from her parlour window. I
went up to the garden wall, and stood leaning over it, with my eyes
fixed upon the lattice, wondering what she was doing, thinking, or
suffering now, and wishing I could speak to her but one word, or even
catch one glimpse of her, before I went.

I had not thus looked, and wished, and wondered long, before I vaulted
over the barrier, unable to resist the temptation of taking one glance
through the window, just to see if she were more composed than when we
parted;—and if I found her still in deep distress, perhaps I might
venture attempt a word of comfort—to utter one of the many things I
should have said before, instead of aggravating her sufferings by my
stupid impetuosity. I looked. Her chair was vacant: so was the room.
But at that moment some one opened the outer door, and a voice—her
voice—said,—“Come out—I want to see the moon, and breathe the evening
air: they will do me good—if anything will.”

Here, then, were she and Rachel coming to take a walk in the garden. I
wished myself safe back over the wall. I stood, however, in the shadow
of the tall holly-bush, which, standing between the window and the
porch, at present screened me from observation, but did not prevent me
from seeing two figures come forth into the moonlight: Mrs. Graham
followed by another—not Rachel, but a young man, slender and rather
tall. O heavens, how my temples throbbed! Intense anxiety darkened my
sight; but I thought—yes, and the voice confirmed it—it was Mr.
Lawrence!

“You should not let it worry you so much, Helen,” said he; “I will be
more cautious in future; and in time—”

I did not hear the rest of the sentence; for he walked close beside her
and spoke so gently that I could not catch the words. My heart was
splitting with hatred; but I listened intently for her reply. I heard
it plainly enough.

“But I must leave this place, Frederick,” she said—“I never can be
happy here,—nor anywhere else, indeed,” she added, with a mirthless
laugh,—“but I cannot rest here.”

“But where could you find a better place?” replied he, “so secluded—so
near me, if you think anything of that.”

“Yes,” interrupted she, “it is all I could wish, if they could only
have left me alone.”

“But wherever you go, Helen, there will be the same sources of
annoyance. I cannot consent to lose you: I must go with you, or come to
you; and there are meddling fools elsewhere, as well as here.”

While thus conversing they had sauntered slowly past me, down the walk,
and I heard no more of their discourse; but I saw him put his arm round
her waist, while she lovingly rested her hand on his shoulder;—and
then, a tremulous darkness obscured my sight, my heart sickened and my
head burned like fire: I half rushed, half staggered from the spot,
where horror had kept me rooted, and leaped or tumbled over the wall—I
hardly know which—but I know that, afterwards, like a passionate child,
I dashed myself on the ground and lay there in a paroxysm of anger and
despair—how long, I cannot undertake to say; but it must have been a
considerable time; for when, having partially relieved myself by a
torment of tears, and looked up at the moon, shining so calmly and
carelessly on, as little influenced by my misery as I was by its
peaceful radiance, and earnestly prayed for death or forgetfulness, I
had risen and journeyed homewards—little regarding the way, but carried
instinctively by my feet to the door, I found it bolted against me, and
every one in bed except my mother, who hastened to answer my impatient
knocking, and received me with a shower of questions and rebukes.

“Oh, Gilbert! how could you do so? Where have you been? Do come in
and take your supper. I’ve got it all ready, though you don’t deserve
it, for keeping me in such a fright, after the strange manner you left
the house this evening. Mr. Millward was quite—Bless the boy! how ill
he looks. Oh, gracious! what is the matter?”

“Nothing, nothing—give me a candle.”

“But won’t you take some supper?”

“No; I want to go to bed,” said I, taking a candle and lighting it at
the one she held in her hand.

“Oh, Gilbert, how you tremble!” exclaimed my anxious parent. “How white
you look! Do tell me what it is? Has anything happened?”

“It’s nothing,” cried I, ready to stamp with vexation because the
candle would not light. Then, suppressing my irritation, I added, “I’ve
been walking too fast, that’s all. Good-night,” and marched off to bed,
regardless of the “Walking too fast! where have you been?” that was
called after me from below.

My mother followed me to the very door of my room with her questionings
and advice concerning my health and my conduct; but I implored her to
let me alone till morning; and she withdrew, and at length I had the
satisfaction to hear her close her own door. There was no sleep for me,
however, that night as I thought; and instead of attempting to solicit
it, I employed myself in rapidly pacing the chamber, having first
removed my boots, lest my mother should hear me. But the boards
creaked, and she was watchful. I had not walked above a quarter of an
hour before she was at the door again.

“Gilbert, why are you not in bed—you said you wanted to go?”

“Confound it! I’m going,” said I.

“But why are you so long about it? You must have something on your
mind—”

“For heaven’s sake, let me alone, and get to bed yourself.”

“Can it be that Mrs. Graham that distresses you so?”

“No, no, I tell you—it’s nothing.”

“I wish to goodness it mayn’t,” murmured she, with a sigh, as she
returned to her own apartment, while I threw myself on the bed, feeling
most undutifully disaffected towards her for having deprived me of what
seemed the only shadow of a consolation that remained, and chained me
to that wretched couch of thorns.

Never did I endure so long, so miserable a night as that. And yet it
was not wholly sleepless. Towards morning my distracting thoughts began
to lose all pretensions to coherency, and shape themselves into
confused and feverish dreams, and, at length, there followed an
interval of unconscious slumber. But then the dawn of bitter
recollection that succeeded—the waking to find life a blank, and worse
than a blank, teeming with torment and misery—not a mere barren
wilderness, but full of thorns and briers—to find myself deceived,
duped, hopeless, my affections trampled upon, my angel not an angel,
and my friend a fiend incarnate—it was worse than if I had not slept at
all.

It was a dull, gloomy morning; the weather had changed like my
prospects, and the rain was pattering against the window. I rose,
nevertheless, and went out; not to look after the farm, though that
would serve as my excuse, but to cool my brain, and regain, if
possible, a sufficient degree of composure to meet the family at the
morning meal without exciting inconvenient remarks. If I got a wetting,
that, in conjunction with a pretended over-exertion before breakfast,
might excuse my sudden loss of appetite; and if a cold ensued, the
severer the better—it would help to account for the sullen moods and
moping melancholy likely to cloud my brow for long enough.