The Tenant of Wildfell Hall

elt strongly tempted, at times, to enlighten my mother and sister on
the real character and circumstances of the persecuted tenant of
Wildfell Hall, and at first I greatly regretted having omitted to ask
that lady’s permission to do so; but, on due reflection, I considered
that if it were known to them, it could not long remain a secret to the
Millwards and Wilsons, and such was my present appreciation of Eliza
Millward’s disposition, that, if once she got a clue to the story, I
should fear she would soon find means to enlighten Mr. Huntingdon upon
the place of his wife’s retreat. I would therefore wait patiently till
these weary six months were over, and then, when the fugitive had found
another home, and I was permitted to write to her, I would beg to be
allowed to clear her name from these vile calumnies: at present I must
content myself with simply asserting that I knew them to be false, and
would prove it some day, to the shame of those who slandered her. I
don’t think anybody believed me, but everybody soon learned to avoid
insinuating a word against her, or even mentioning her name in my
presence. They thought I was so madly infatuated by the seductions of
that unhappy lady that I was determined to support her in the very face
of reason; and meantime I grow insupportably morose and misanthropical
from the idea that every one I met was harbouring unworthy thoughts of
the supposed Mrs. Graham, and would express them if he dared. My poor
mother was quite distressed about me; but I couldn’t help it—at least I
thought I could not, though sometimes I felt a pang of remorse for my
undutiful conduct to her, and made an effort to amend, attended with
some partial success; and indeed I was generally more humanised in my
demeanour to her than to any one else, Mr. Lawrence excepted. Rose and
Fergus usually shunned my presence; and it was well they did, for I was
not fit company for them, nor they for me, under the present
circumstances.

Mrs. Huntingdon did not leave Wildfell Hall till above two months after
our farewell interview. During that time she never appeared at church,
and I never went near the house: I only knew she was still there by her
brother’s brief answers to my many and varied inquiries respecting her.
I was a very constant and attentive visitor to him throughout the whole
period of his illness and convalescence; not only from the interest I
took in his recovery, and my desire to cheer him up and make the utmost
possible amends for my former “brutality,” but from my growing
attachment to himself, and the increasing pleasure I found in his
society—partly from his increased cordiality to me, but chiefly on
account of his close connection, both in blood and in affection, with
my adored Helen. I loved him for it better than I liked to express: and
I took a secret delight in pressing those slender white fingers, so
marvellously like her own, considering he was not a woman, and in
watching the passing changes in his fair, pale features, and observing
the intonations of his voice, detecting resemblances which I wondered
had never struck me before. He provoked me at times, indeed, by his
evident reluctance to talk to me about his sister, though I did not
question the friendliness of his motives in wishing to discourage my
remembrance of her.

His recovery was not quite so rapid as he had expected it to be; he was
not able to mount his pony till a fortnight after the date of our
reconciliation; and the first use he made of his returning strength was
to ride over by night to Wildfell Hall, to see his sister. It was a
hazardous enterprise both for him and for her, but he thought it
necessary to consult with her on the subject of her projected
departure, if not to calm her apprehensions respecting his health, and
the worst result was a slight relapse of his illness, for no one knew
of the visit but the inmates of the old Hall, except myself; and I
believe it had not been his intention to mention it to me, for when I
came to see him the next day, and observed he was not so well as he
ought to have been, he merely said he had caught cold by being out too
late in the evening.

“You’ll never be able to see your sister, if you don’t take care of
yourself,” said I, a little provoked at the circumstance on her
account, instead of commiserating him.

“I’ve seen her already,” said he, quietly.

“You’ve seen her!” cried I, in astonishment.

“Yes.” And then he told me what considerations had impelled him to make
the venture, and with what precautions he had made it.

“And how was she?” I eagerly asked.

“As usual,” was the brief though sad reply.

“As usual—that is, far from happy and far from strong.”

“She is not positively ill,” returned he; “and she will recover her
spirits in a while, I have no doubt—but so many trials have been almost
too much for her. How threatening those clouds look,” continued he,
turning towards the window. “We shall have thunder-showers before
night, I imagine, and they are just in the midst of stacking my corn.
Have you got yours all in yet?”

“No. And, Lawrence, did she—did your sister mention me?”

“She asked if I had seen you lately.”

“And what else did she say?”

“I cannot tell you all she said,” replied he, with a slight smile; “for
we talked a good deal, though my stay was but short; but our
conversation was chiefly on the subject of her intended departure,
which I begged her to delay till I was better able to assist her in her
search after another home.”

“But did she say no more about me?”

“She did not say much about you, Markham. I should not have encouraged
her to do so, had she been inclined; but happily she was not: she only
asked a few questions concerning you, and seemed satisfied with my
brief answers, wherein she showed herself wiser than her friend; and I
may tell you, too, that she seemed to be far more anxious lest you
should think too much of her, than lest you should forget her.”

“She was right.”

“But I fear your anxiety is quite the other way respecting her.”

“No, it is not: I wish her to be happy; but I don’t wish her to forget
me altogether. She knows it is impossible that I should forget her;
and she is right to wish me not to remember her too well. I should not
desire her to regret me too deeply; but I can scarcely imagine she
will make herself very unhappy about me, because I know I am not worthy
of it, except in my appreciation of her.”

“You are neither of you worthy of a broken heart,—nor of all the sighs,
and tears, and sorrowful thoughts that have been, and I fear will be,
wasted upon you both; but, at present, each has a more exalted opinion
of the other than, I fear, he or she deserves; and my sister’s feelings
are naturally full as keen as yours, and I believe more constant; but
she has the good sense and fortitude to strive against them in this
particular; and I trust she will not rest till she has entirely weaned
her thoughts—” he hesitated.

“From me,” said I.

“And I wish you would make the like exertions,” continued he.

“Did she tell you that that was her intention?”

“No; the question was not broached between us: there was no necessity
for it, for I had no doubt that such was her determination.”

“To forget me?”

“Yes, Markham! Why not?”

“Oh, well!” was my only audible reply; but I internally answered,—“No,
Lawrence, you’re wrong there: she is not determined to forget me. It
would be wrong to forget one so deeply and fondly devoted to her, who
can so thoroughly appreciate her excellencies, and sympathise with all
her thoughts, as I can do, and it would be wrong in me to forget so
excellent and divine a piece of God’s creation as she, when I have once
so truly loved and known her.” But I said no more to him on that
subject. I instantly started a new topic of conversation, and soon took
leave of my companion, with a feeling of less cordiality towards him
than usual. Perhaps I had no right to be annoyed at him, but I was so
nevertheless.

In little more than a week after this I met him returning from a visit
to the Wilsons’; and I now resolved to do him a good turn, though at
the expense of his feelings, and perhaps at the risk of incurring that
displeasure which is so commonly the reward of those who give
disagreeable information, or tender their advice unasked. In this,
believe me, I was actuated by no motives of revenge for the occasional
annoyances I had lately sustained from him,—nor yet by any feeling of
malevolent enmity towards Miss Wilson, but purely by the fact that I
could not endure that such a woman should be Mrs. Huntingdon’s sister,
and that, as well for his own sake as for hers, I could not bear to
think of his being deceived into a union with one so unworthy of him,
and so utterly unfitted to be the partner of his quiet home, and the
companion of his life. He had had uncomfortable suspicions on that head
himself, I imagined; but such was his inexperience, and such were the
lady’s powers of attraction, and her skill in bringing them to bear
upon his young imagination, that they had not disturbed him long; and I
believe the only effectual causes of the vacillating indecision that
had preserved him hitherto from making an actual declaration of love,
was the consideration of her connections, and especially of her mother,
whom he could not abide. Had they lived at a distance, he might have
surmounted the objection, but within two or three miles of Woodford it
was really no light matter.

“You’ve been to call on the Wilsons, Lawrence,” said I, as I walked
beside his pony.

“Yes,” replied he, slightly averting his face: “I thought it but civil
to take the first opportunity of returning their kind attentions, since
they have been so very particular and constant in their inquiries
throughout the whole course of my illness.”

“It’s all Miss Wilson’s doing.”

“And if it is,” returned he, with a very perceptible blush, “is that
any reason why I should not make a suitable acknowledgment?”

“It is a reason why you should not make the acknowledgment she looks
for.”

“Let us drop that subject if you please,” said he, in evident
displeasure.

“No, Lawrence, with your leave we’ll continue it a while longer; and
I’ll tell you something, now we’re about it, which you may believe or
not as you choose—only please to remember that it is not my custom to
speak falsely, and that in this case I can have no motive for
misrepresenting the truth—”

“Well, Markham, what now?”

“Miss Wilson hates your sister. It may be natural enough that, in her
ignorance of the relationship, she should feel some degree of enmity
against her, but no good or amiable woman would be capable of evincing
that bitter, cold-blooded, designing malice towards a fancied rival
that I have observed in her.”

“Markham!”

“Yes—and it is my belief that Eliza Millward and she, if not the very
originators of the slanderous reports that have been propagated, were
designedly the encouragers and chief disseminators of them. She was not
desirous to mix up your name in the matter, of course, but her
delight was, and still is, to blacken your sister’s character to the
utmost of her power, without risking too greatly the exposure of her
own malevolence!”

“I cannot believe it,” interrupted my companion, his face burning with
indignation.

“Well, as I cannot prove it, I must content myself with asserting that
it is so to the best of my belief; but as you would not willingly marry
Miss Wilson if it were so, you will do well to be cautious, till you
have proved it to be otherwise.”

“I never told you, Markham, that I intended to marry Miss Wilson,”
said he, proudly.

“No, but whether you do or not, she intends to marry you.”

“Did she tell you so?”

“No, but—”

“Then you have no right to make such an assertion respecting her.” He
slightly quickened his pony’s pace, but I laid my hand on its mane,
determined he should not leave me yet.

“Wait a moment, Lawrence, and let me explain myself; and don’t be so
very—I don’t know what to call it—inaccessible as you are.—I know
what you think of Jane Wilson; and I believe I know how far you are
mistaken in your opinion: you think she is singularly charming,
elegant, sensible, and refined: you are not aware that she is selfish,
cold-hearted, ambitious, artful, shallow-minded—”

“Enough, Markham—enough!”

“No; let me finish:—you don’t know that, if you married her, your home
would be rayless and comfortless; and it would break your heart at last
to find yourself united to one so wholly incapable of sharing your
tastes, feelings, and ideas—so utterly destitute of sensibility, good
feeling, and true nobility of soul.”

“Have you done?” asked my companion quietly.

“Yes;—I know you hate me for my impertinence, but I don’t care if it
only conduces to preserve you from that fatal mistake.”

“Well!” returned he, with a rather wintry smile—“I’m glad you have
overcome or forgotten your own afflictions so far as to be able to
study so deeply the affairs of others, and trouble your head so
unnecessarily about the fancied or possible calamities of their future
life.”

We parted—somewhat coldly again: but still we did not cease to be
friends; and my well-meant warning, though it might have been more
judiciously delivered, as well as more thankfully received, was not
wholly unproductive of the desired effect: his visit to the Wilsons was
not repeated, and though, in our subsequent interviews, he never
mentioned her name to me, nor I to him,—I have reason to believe he
pondered my words in his mind, eagerly though covertly sought
information respecting the fair lady from other quarters, secretly
compared my character of her with what he had himself observed and what
he heard from others, and finally came to the conclusion that, all
things considered, she had much better remain Miss Wilson of Ryecote
Farm than be transmuted into Mrs. Lawrence of Woodford Hall. I believe,
too, that he soon learned to contemplate with secret amazement his
former predilection, and to congratulate himself on the lucky escape he
had made; but he never confessed it to me, or hinted one word of
acknowledgment for the part I had had in his deliverance, but this was
not surprising to any one that knew him as I did.

As for Jane Wilson, she, of course, was disappointed and embittered by
the sudden cold neglect and ultimate desertion of her former admirer.
Had I done wrong to blight her cherished hopes? I think not; and
certainly my conscience has never accused me, from that day to this, of
any evil design in the matter.