The Tenant of Wildfell Hall

n reading this I had no reason to disguise my joy and hope from
Frederick Lawrence, for I had none to be ashamed of. I felt no joy but
that his sister was at length released from her afflictive,
overwhelming toil—no hope but that she would in time recover from the
effects of it, and be suffered to rest in peace and quietness, at
least, for the remainder of her life. I experienced a painful
commiseration for her unhappy husband (though fully aware that he had
brought every particle of his sufferings upon himself, and but too well
deserved them all), and a profound sympathy for her own afflictions,
and deep anxiety for the consequences of those harassing cares, those
dreadful vigils, that incessant and deleterious confinement beside a
living corpse—for I was persuaded she had not hinted half the
sufferings she had had to endure.

“You will go to her, Lawrence?” said I, as I put the letter into his
hand.

“Yes, immediately.”

“That’s right! I’ll leave you, then, to prepare for your departure.”

“I’ve done that already, while you were reading the letter, and before
you came; and the carriage is now coming round to the door.”

Inly approving his promptitude, I bade him good-morning, and withdrew.
He gave me a searching glance as we pressed each other’s hands at
parting; but whatever he sought in my countenance, he saw there nothing
but the most becoming gravity—it might be mingled with a little
sternness in momentary resentment at what I suspected to be passing in
his mind.

Had I forgotten my own prospects, my ardent love, my pertinacious
hopes? It seemed like sacrilege to revert to them now, but I had not
forgotten them. It was, however, with a gloomy sense of the darkness of
those prospects, the fallacy of those hopes, and the vanity of that
affection, that I reflected on those things as I remounted my horse and
slowly journeyed homewards. Mrs. Huntingdon was free now; it was no
longer a crime to think of her—but did she ever think of me? Not
now—of course it was not to be expected—but would she when this shock
was over? In all the course of her correspondence with her brother (our
mutual friend, as she herself had called him) she had never mentioned
me but once—and that was from necessity. This alone afforded strong
presumption that I was already forgotten; yet this was not the worst:
it might have been her sense of duty that had kept her silent: she
might be only trying to forget; but in addition to this, I had a
gloomy conviction that the awful realities she had seen and felt, her
reconciliation with the man she had once loved, his dreadful sufferings
and death, must eventually efface from her mind all traces of her
passing love for me. She might recover from these horrors so far as to
be restored to her former health, her tranquillity, her cheerfulness
even—but never to those feelings which would appear to her, henceforth,
as a fleeting fancy, a vain, illusive dream; especially as there was no
one to remind her of my existence—no means of assuring her of my
fervent constancy, now that we were so far apart, and delicacy forbade
me to see her or to write to her, for months to come at least. And how
could I engage her brother in my behalf? how could I break that icy
crust of shy reserve? Perhaps he would disapprove of my attachment now
as highly as before; perhaps he would think me too poor—too lowly born,
to match with his sister. Yes, there was another barrier: doubtless
there was a wide distinction between the rank and circumstances of Mrs.
Huntingdon, the lady of Grassdale Manor, and those of Mrs. Graham, the
artist, the tenant of Wildfell Hall. And it might be deemed presumption
in me to offer my hand to the former, by the world, by her friends, if
not by herself; a penalty I might brave, if I were certain she loved
me; but otherwise, how could I? And, finally, her deceased husband,
with his usual selfishness, might have so constructed his will as to
place restrictions upon her marrying again. So that you see I had
reasons enough for despair if I chose to indulge it.

Nevertheless, it was with no small degree of impatience that I looked
forward to Mr. Lawrence’s return from Grassdale: impatience that
increased in proportion as his absence was prolonged. He stayed away
some ten or twelve days. All very right that he should remain to
comfort and help his sister, but he might have written to tell me how
she was, or at least to tell me when to expect his return; for he might
have known I was suffering tortures of anxiety for her, and uncertainty
for my own future prospects. And when he did return, all he told me
about her was, that she had been greatly exhausted and worn by her
unremitting exertions in behalf of that man who had been the scourge of
her life, and had dragged her with him nearly to the portals of the
grave, and was still much shaken and depressed by his melancholy end
and the circumstances attendant upon it; but no word in reference to
me; no intimation that my name had ever passed her lips, or even been
spoken in her presence. To be sure, I asked no questions on the
subject; I could not bring my mind to do so, believing, as I did, that
Lawrence was indeed averse to the idea of my union with his sister.

I saw that he expected to be further questioned concerning his visit,
and I saw too, with the keen perception of awakened jealousy, or
alarmed self-esteem, or by whatever name I ought to call it, that he
rather shrank from that impending scrutiny, and was no less pleased
than surprised to find it did not come. Of course, I was burning with
anger, but pride obliged me to suppress my feelings, and preserve a
smooth face, or at least a stoic calmness, throughout the interview. It
was well it did, for, reviewing the matter in my sober judgment, I must
say it would have been highly absurd and improper to have quarrelled
with him on such an occasion. I must confess, too, that I wronged him
in my heart: the truth was, he liked me very well, but he was fully
aware that a union between Mrs. Huntingdon and me would be what the
world calls a mésalliance; and it was not in his nature to set the
world at defiance; especially in such a case as this, for its dread
laugh, or ill opinion, would be far more terrible to him directed
against his sister than himself. Had he believed that a union was
necessary to the happiness of both, or of either, or had he known how
fervently I loved her, he would have acted differently; but seeing me
so calm and cool, he would not for the world disturb my philosophy; and
though refraining entirely from any active opposition to the match, he
would yet do nothing to bring it about, and would much rather take the
part of prudence, in aiding us to overcome our mutual predilections,
than that of feeling, to encourage them. “And he was in the right of
it,” you will say. Perhaps he was; at any rate, I had no business to
feel so bitterly against him as I did; but I could not then regard the
matter in such a moderate light; and, after a brief conversation upon
indifferent topics, I went away, suffering all the pangs of wounded
pride and injured friendship, in addition to those resulting from the
fear that I was indeed forgotten, and the knowledge that she I loved
was alone and afflicted, suffering from injured health and dejected
spirits, and I was forbidden to console or assist her: forbidden even
to assure her of my sympathy, for the transmission of any such message
through Mr. Lawrence was now completely out of the question.

But what should I do? I would wait, and see if she would notice me,
which of course she would not, unless by some kind message intrusted to
her brother, that, in all probability, he would not deliver, and then,
dreadful thought! she would think me cooled and changed for not
returning it, or, perhaps, he had already given her to understand that
I had ceased to think of her. I would wait, however, till the six
months after our parting were fairly passed (which would be about the
close of February), and then I would send her a letter, modestly
reminding her of her former permission to write to her at the close of
that period, and hoping I might avail myself of it—at least to express
my heartfelt sorrow for her late afflictions, my just appreciation of
her generous conduct, and my hope that her health was now completely
re-established, and that she would, some time, be permitted to enjoy
those blessings of a peaceful, happy life, which had been denied her so
long, but which none could more truly be said to merit than
herself—adding a few words of kind remembrance to my little friend
Arthur, with a hope that he had not forgotten me, and perhaps a few
more in reference to bygone times, to the delightful hours I had passed
in her society, and my unfading recollection of them, which was the
salt and solace of my life, and a hope that her recent troubles had not
entirely banished me from her mind. If she did not answer this, of
course I should write no more: if she did (as surely she would, in some
fashion), my future proceedings should be regulated by her reply.

Ten weeks was long to wait in such a miserable state of uncertainty;
but courage! it must be endured! and meantime I would continue to see
Lawrence now and then, though not so often as before, and I would still
pursue my habitual inquiries after his sister, if he had lately heard
from her, and how she was, but nothing more.

I did so, and the answers I received were always provokingly limited to
the letter of the inquiry: she was much as usual: she made no
complaints, but the tone of her last letter evinced great depression of
mind: she said she was better: and, finally, she said she was well, and
very busy with her son’s education, and with the management of her late
husband’s property, and the regulation of his affairs. The rascal had
never told me how that property was disposed, or whether Mr. Huntingdon
had died intestate or not; and I would sooner die than ask him, lest he
should misconstrue into covetousness my desire to know. He never
offered to show me his sister’s letters now, and I never hinted a wish
to see them. February, however, was approaching; December was past;
January, at length, was almost over—a few more weeks, and then, certain
despair or renewal of hope would put an end to this long agony of
suspense.

But alas! it was just about that time she was called to sustain another
blow in the death of her uncle—a worthless old fellow enough in
himself, I daresay, but he had always shown more kindness and affection
to her than to any other creature, and she had always been accustomed
to regard him as a parent. She was with him when he died, and had
assisted her aunt to nurse him during the last stage of his illness.
Her brother went to Staningley to attend the funeral, and told me, upon
his return, that she was still there, endeavouring to cheer her aunt
with her presence, and likely to remain some time. This was bad news
for me, for while she continued there I could not write to her, as I
did not know the address, and would not ask it of him. But week
followed week, and every time I inquired about her she was still at
Staningley.

“Where is Staningley?” I asked at last.

“In ——shire,” was the brief reply; and there was something so cold and
dry in the manner of it, that I was effectually deterred from
requesting a more definite account.

“When will she return to Grassdale?” was my next question.

“I don’t know.”

“Confound it!” I muttered.

“Why, Markham?” asked my companion, with an air of innocent surprise.
But I did not deign to answer him, save by a look of silent, sullen
contempt, at which he turned away, and contemplated the carpet with a
slight smile, half pensive, half amused; but quickly looking up, he
began to talk of other subjects, trying to draw me into a cheerful and
friendly conversation, but I was too much irritated to discourse with
him, and soon took leave.

You see Lawrence and I somehow could not manage to get on very well
together. The fact is, I believe, we were both of us a little too
touchy. It is a troublesome thing, Halford, this susceptibility to
affronts where none are intended. I am no martyr to it now, as you can
bear me witness: I have learned to be merry and wise, to be more easy
with myself and more indulgent to my neighbours, and I can afford to
laugh at both Lawrence and you.

Partly from accident, partly from wilful negligence on my part (for I
was really beginning to dislike him), several weeks elapsed before I
saw my friend again. When we did meet, it was he that sought me
out. One bright morning, early in June, he came into the field, where I
was just commencing my hay harvest.

“It is long since I saw you, Markham,” said he, after the first few
words had passed between us. “Do you never mean to come to Woodford
again?”

“I called once, and you were out.”

“I was sorry, but that was long since; I hoped you would call again,
and now I have called, and you were out, which you generally are,
or I would do myself the pleasure of calling more frequently; but being
determined to see you this time, I have left my pony in the lane, and
come over hedge and ditch to join you; for I am about to leave Woodford
for a while, and may not have the pleasure of seeing you again for a
month or two.”

“Where are you going?”

“To Grassdale first,” said he, with a half-smile he would willingly
have suppressed if he could.

“To Grassdale! Is she there, then?”

“Yes, but in a day or two she will leave it to accompany Mrs. Maxwell
to F—— for the benefit of the sea air, and I shall go with them.” (F——
was at that time a quiet but respectable watering-place: it is
considerably more frequented now.)

Lawrence seemed to expect me to take advantage of this circumstance to
entrust him with some sort of a message to his sister; and I believe he
would have undertaken to deliver it without any material objections, if
I had had the sense to ask him, though of course he would not offer
to do so, if I was content to let it alone. But I could not bring
myself to make the request, and it was not till after he was gone, that
I saw how fair an opportunity I had lost; and then, indeed, I deeply
regretted my stupidity and my foolish pride, but it was now too late to
remedy the evil.

He did not return till towards the latter end of August. He wrote to me
twice or thrice from F——, but his letters were most provokingly
unsatisfactory, dealing in generalities or in trifles that I cared
nothing about, or replete with fancies and reflections equally
unwelcome to me at the time, saying next to nothing about his sister,
and little more about himself. I would wait, however, till he came
back; perhaps I could get something more out of him then. At all
events, I would not write to her now, while she was with him and her
aunt, who doubtless would be still more hostile to my presumptuous
aspirations than himself. When she was returned to the silence and
solitude of her own home, it would be my fittest opportunity.

When Lawrence came, however, he was as reserved as ever on the subject
of my keen anxiety. He told me that his sister had derived considerable
benefit from her stay at F—— that her son was quite well, and—alas!
that both of them were gone, with Mrs. Maxwell, back to Staningley, and
there they stayed at least three months. But instead of boring you with
my chagrin, my expectations and disappointments, my fluctuations of
dull despondency and flickering hope, my varying resolutions, now to
drop it, and now to persevere—now to make a bold push, and now to let
things pass and patiently abide my time,—I will employ myself in
settling the business of one or two of the characters introduced in the
course of this narrative, whom I may not have occasion to mention
again.

Some time before Mr. Huntingdon’s death Lady Lowborough eloped with
another gallant to the Continent, where, having lived a while in
reckless gaiety and dissipation, they quarrelled and parted. She went
dashing on for a season, but years came and money went: she sunk, at
length, in difficulty and debt, disgrace and misery; and died at last,
as I have heard, in penury, neglect, and utter wretchedness. But this
might be only a report: she may be living yet for anything I or any of
her relatives or former acquaintances can tell; for they have all lost
sight of her long years ago, and would as thoroughly forget her if they
could. Her husband, however, upon this second misdemeanour, immediately
sought and obtained a divorce, and, not long after, married again. It
was well he did, for Lord Lowborough, morose and moody as he seemed,
was not the man for a bachelor’s life. No public interests, no
ambitious projects, or active pursuits,—or ties of friendship even (if
he had had any friends), could compensate to him for the absence of
domestic comforts and endearments. He had a son and a nominal daughter,
it is true, but they too painfully reminded him of their mother, and
the unfortunate little Annabella was a source of perpetual bitterness
to his soul. He had obliged himself to treat her with paternal
kindness: he had forced himself not to hate her, and even, perhaps, to
feel some degree of kindly regard for her, at last, in return for her
artless and unsuspecting attachment to himself; but the bitterness of
his self-condemnation for his inward feelings towards that innocent
being, his constant struggles to subdue the evil promptings of his
nature (for it was not a generous one), though partly guessed at by
those who knew him, could be known to God and his own heart alone;—so
also was the hardness of his conflicts with the temptation to return to
the vice of his youth, and seek oblivion for past calamities, and
deadness to the present misery of a blighted heart a joyless,
friendless life, and a morbidly disconsolate mind, by yielding again to
that insidious foe to health, and sense, and virtue, which had so
deplorably enslaved and degraded him before.

The second object of his choice was widely different from the first.
Some wondered at his taste; some even ridiculed it—but in this their
folly was more apparent than his. The lady was about his own
age—i.e., between thirty and forty—remarkable neither for beauty, nor
wealth, nor brilliant accomplishments; nor any other thing that I ever
heard of, except genuine good sense, unswerving integrity, active
piety, warm-hearted benevolence, and a fund of cheerful spirits. These
qualities, however, as you may readily imagine, combined to render her
an excellent mother to the children, and an invaluable wife to his
lordship. He, with his usual self-depreciation, thought her a world
too good for him, and while he wondered at the kindness of Providence
in conferring such a gift upon him, and even at her taste in preferring
him to other men, he did his best to reciprocate the good she did him,
and so far succeeded that she was, and I believe still is, one of the
happiest and fondest wives in England; and all who question the good
taste of either partner may be thankful if their respective
selections afford them half the genuine satisfaction in the end, or
repay their preference with affection half as lasting and sincere.

If you are at all interested in the fate of that low scoundrel,
Grimsby, I can only tell you that he went from bad to worse, sinking
from bathos to bathos of vice and villainy, consorting only with the
worst members of his club and the lowest dregs of society—happily for
the rest of the world—and at last met his end in a drunken brawl, from
the hands, it is said, of some brother scoundrel he had cheated at
play.

As for Mr. Hattersley, he had never wholly forgotten his resolution to
“come out from among them,” and behave like a man and a Christian, and
the last illness and death of his once jolly friend Huntingdon so
deeply and seriously impressed him with the evil of their former
practices, that he never needed another lesson of the kind. Avoiding
the temptations of the town, he continued to pass his life in the
country, immersed in the usual pursuits of a hearty, active, country
gentleman; his occupations being those of farming, and breeding horses
and cattle, diversified with a little hunting and shooting, and
enlivened by the occasional companionship of his friends (better
friends than those of his youth), and the society of his happy little
wife (now cheerful and confiding as heart could wish), and his fine
family of stalwart sons and blooming daughters. His father, the banker,
having died some years ago and left him all his riches, he has now full
scope for the exercise of his prevailing tastes, and I need not tell
you that Ralph Hattersley, Esq., is celebrated throughout the country
for his noble breed of horses.