The Tenant of Wildfell Hall

he tardy gig had overtaken me at last. I entered it, and bade the man
who brought it drive to Grassdale Manor—I was too busy with my own
thoughts to care to drive it myself. I would see Mrs. Huntingdon—there
could be no impropriety in that now that her husband had been dead
above a year—and by her indifference or her joy at my unexpected
arrival I could soon tell whether her heart was truly mine. But my
companion, a loquacious, forward fellow, was not disposed to leave me
to the indulgence of my private cogitations.

“There they go!” said he, as the carriages filed away before us.
“There’ll be brave doings on yonder to-day, as what come
to-morra.—Know anything of that family, sir? or you’re a stranger in
these parts?”

“I know them by report.”

“Humph! There’s the best of ’em gone, anyhow. And I suppose the old
missis is agoing to leave after this stir’s gotten overed, and take
herself off, somewhere, to live on her bit of a jointure; and the young
’un—at least the new ’un (she’s none so very young)—is coming down to
live at the Grove.”

“Is Mr. Hargrave married, then?”

“Ay, sir, a few months since. He should a been wed afore, to a widow
lady, but they couldn’t agree over the money: she’d a rare long purse,
and Mr. Hargrave wanted it all to hisself; but she wouldn’t let it go,
and so then they fell out. This one isn’t quite as rich, nor as
handsome either, but she hasn’t been married before. She’s very plain,
they say, and getting on to forty or past, and so, you know, if she
didn’t jump at this hopportunity, she thought she’d never get a better.
I guess she thought such a handsome young husband was worth all ’at
ever she had, and he might take it and welcome, but I lay she’ll rue
her bargain afore long. They say she begins already to see ’at he isn’t
not altogether that nice, generous, perlite, delightful gentleman ’at
she thought him afore marriage—he begins a being careless and masterful
already. Ay, and she’ll find him harder and carelesser nor she thinks
on.”

“You seem to be well acquainted with him,” I observed.

“I am, sir; I’ve known him since he was quite a young gentleman; and a
proud ’un he was, and a wilful. I was servant yonder for several years;
but I couldn’t stand their niggardly ways—she got ever longer and
worse, did missis, with her nipping and screwing, and watching and
grudging; so I thought I’d find another place.”

“Are we not near the house?” said I, interrupting him.

“Yes, sir; yond’s the park.”

My heart sank within me to behold that stately mansion in the midst of
its expansive grounds. The park as beautiful now, in its wintry garb,
as it could be in its summer glory: the majestic sweep, the undulating
swell and fall, displayed to full advantage in that robe of dazzling
purity, stainless and printless—save one long, winding track left by
the trooping deer—the stately timber-trees with their heavy-laden
branches gleaming white against the dull, grey sky; the deep,
encircling woods; the broad expanse of water sleeping in frozen quiet;
and the weeping ash and willow drooping their snow-clad boughs above
it—all presented a picture, striking indeed, and pleasing to an
unencumbered mind, but by no means encouraging to me. There was one
comfort, however,—all this was entailed upon little Arthur, and could
not under any circumstances, strictly speaking, be his mother’s. But
how was she situated? Overcoming with a sudden effort my repugnance to
mention her name to my garrulous companion, I asked him if he knew
whether her late husband had left a will, and how the property had been
disposed of. Oh, yes, he knew all about it; and I was quickly informed
that to her had been left the full control and management of the estate
during her son’s minority, besides the absolute, unconditional
possession of her own fortune (but I knew that her father had not given
her much), and the small additional sum that had been settled upon her
before marriage.

Before the close of the explanation we drew up at the park-gates. Now
for the trial. If I should find her within—but alas! she might be still
at Staningley: her brother had given me no intimation to the contrary.
I inquired at the porter’s lodge if Mrs. Huntingdon were at home. No,
she was with her aunt in ——shire, but was expected to return before
Christmas. She usually spent most of her time at Staningley, only
coming to Grassdale occasionally, when the management of affairs, or
the interest of her tenants and dependents, required her presence.

“Near what town is Staningley situated?” I asked. The requisite
information was soon obtained. “Now then, my man, give me the reins,
and we’ll return to M——. I must have some breakfast at the ‘Rose and
Crown,’ and then away to Staningley by the first coach for ——.”

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 despatch 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 weather-beaten 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 platitude by 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 realise 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.”

“Ay,” responded the other, a gruff elderly man, with a drab greatcoat
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
daresay 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
re-union 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 whichsoever 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, forever! 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 further; and then, lost in melancholy musings,
paused again and leant my back against a rough old tree that grew
beside the road.