THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL
PART 20
CHAPTER XLIV
October
24th.—Thank heaven, I am free and safe at last. Early we rose, swiftly
and quietly dressed, slowly and stealthily descended to the hall, where Benson
stood ready with a light, to open the door and fasten it after us. We
were obliged to let one man into our secret on account of the boxes,
&c. All the servants were but too well acquainted with their master’s
conduct, and either Benson or John would have been willing to serve me; but as
the former was more staid and elderly, and a crony of Rachel’s besides, I of
course directed her to make choice of him as her assistant and confidant on the
occasion, as far as necessity demanded, I only hope he may not be brought into
trouble thereby, and only wish I could reward him for the perilous service he
was so ready to undertake. I slipped two guineas into his hand, by way of
remembrance, as he stood in the doorway, holding the candle to light our
departure, with a tear in his honest grey eye, and a host of good wishes
depicted on his solemn countenance. Alas! I could offer no more: I
had barely sufficient remaining for the probable expenses of the journey.
What
trembling joy it was when the little wicket closed behind us, as we issued from
the park! Then, for one moment, I paused, to inhale one draught of that
cool, bracing air, and venture one look back upon the house. All was dark
and still: no light glimmered in the windows, no wreath of smoke obscured the
stars that sparkled above it in the frosty sky. As I bade farewell for
ever to that place, the scene of so much guilt and misery, I felt glad that I
had not left it before, for now there was no doubt about the propriety of such
a step—no shadow of remorse for him I left behind. There was nothing to disturb
my joy but the fear of detection; and every step removed us further from the
chance of that.
We had
left Grassdale many miles behind us before the round red sun arose to welcome
our deliverance; and if any inhabitant of its vicinity had chanced to see us
then, as we bowled along on the top of the coach, I scarcely think they would
have suspected our identity. As I intend to be taken for a widow, I
thought it advisable to enter my new abode in mourning: I was, therefore,
attired in a plain black silk dress and mantle, a black veil (which I kept
carefully over my face for the first twenty or thirty miles of the journey),
and a black silk bonnet, which I had been constrained to borrow of Rachel, for
want of such an article myself. It was not in the newest fashion, of
course; but none the worse for that, under present circumstances. Arthur
was clad in his plainest clothes, and wrapped in a coarse woollen shawl; and
Rachel was muffled in a grey cloak and hood that had seen better days, and gave
her more the appearance of an ordinary though decent old woman, than of a
lady’s-maid.
Oh, what
delight it was to be thus seated aloft, rumbling along the broad, sunshiny
road, with the fresh morning breeze in my face, surrounded by an unknown
country, all smiling—cheerfully, gloriously smiling in the yellow lustre of
those early beams; with my darling child in my arms, almost as happy as myself,
and my faithful friend beside me: a prison and despair behind me, receding
further, further back at every clatter of the horses’ feet; and liberty and
hope before! I could hardly refrain from praising God aloud for my
deliverance, or astonishing my fellow-passengers by some surprising outburst of
hilarity.
But the
journey was a very long one, and we were all weary enough before the close of
it. It was far into the night when we reached the town of L—, and still
we were seven miles from our journey’s end; and there was no more coaching, nor
any conveyance to be had, except a common cart, and that with the greatest
difficulty, for half the town was in bed. And a dreary ride we had of it,
that last stage of the journey, cold and weary as we were; sitting on our
boxes, with nothing to cling to, nothing to lean against, slowly dragged and
cruelly shaken over the rough, hilly roads. But Arthur was asleep in
Rachel’s lap, and between us we managed pretty well to shield him from the cold
night air.
At last we
began to ascend a terribly steep and stony lane, which, in spite of the
darkness, Rachel said she remembered well: she had often walked there with me
in her arms, and little thought to come again so many years after, under such
circumstances as the present. Arthur being now awakened by the jolting
and the stoppages, we all got out and walked. We had not far to go; but
what if Frederick should not have received my letter? or if he should not have
had time to prepare the rooms for our reception, and we should find them all
dark, damp, and comfortless, destitute of food, fire, and furniture, after all
our toil?
At length
the grim, dark pile appeared before us. The lane conducted us round by
the back way. We entered the desolate court, and in breathless anxiety
surveyed the ruinous mass. Was it all blackness and desolation? No;
one faint red glimmer cheered us from a window where the lattice was in good
repair. The door was fastened, but after due knocking and waiting, and
some parleying with a voice from an upper window, we were admitted by an old
woman who had been commissioned to air and keep the house till our arrival,
into a tolerably snug little apartment, formerly the scullery of the mansion,
which Frederick had now fitted up as a kitchen. Here she procured us a
light, roused the fire to a cheerful blaze, and soon prepared a simple repast
for our refreshment; while we disencumbered ourselves of our travelling-gear,
and took a hasty survey of our new abode. Besides the kitchen, there were
two bedrooms, a good-sized parlour, and another smaller one, which I destined
for my studio, all well aired and seemingly in good repair, but only partly
furnished with a few old articles, chiefly of ponderous black oak, the
veritable ones that had been there before, and which had been kept as
antiquarian relics in my brother’s present residence, and now, in all haste,
transported back again.
The old
woman brought my supper and Arthur’s into the parlour, and told me, with all
due formality, that ‘the master desired his compliments to Mrs. Graham, and he
had prepared the rooms as well as he could upon so short a notice; but he would
do himself the pleasure of calling upon her to-morrow, to receive her further
commands.’
I was glad
to ascend the stern-looking stone staircase, and lie down in the gloomy,
old-fashioned bed, beside my little Arthur. He was asleep in a minute;
but, weary as I was, my excited feelings and restless cogitations kept me awake
till dawn began to struggle with the darkness; but sleep was sweet and
refreshing when it came, and the waking was delightful beyond expression.
It was little Arthur that roused me, with his gentle kisses. He was here,
then, safely clasped in my arms, and many leagues away from his unworthy
father! Broad daylight illumined the apartment, for the sun was high in
heaven, though obscured by rolling masses of autumnal vapour.
The scene,
indeed, was not remarkably cheerful in itself, either within or without.
The large bare room, with its grim old furniture, the narrow, latticed windows,
revealing the dull, grey sky above and the desolate wilderness below, where the
dark stone walls and iron gate, the rank growth of grass and weeds, and the
hardy evergreens of preternatural forms, alone remained to tell that there had
been once a garden,—and the bleak and barren fields beyond might have struck me
as gloomy enough at another time; but now, each separate object seemed to echo
back my own exhilarating sense of hope and freedom: indefinite dreams of the
far past and bright anticipations of the future seemed to greet me at every
turn. I should rejoice with more security, to be sure, had the broad sea
rolled between my present and my former homes; but surely in this lonely spot I
might remain unknown; and then I had my brother here to cheer my solitude with
his occasional visits.
He came
that morning; and I have had several interviews with him since; but he is
obliged to be very cautious when and how he comes; not even his servants or his
best friends must know of his visits to Wildfell—except on such occasions as a
landlord might be expected to call upon a stranger tenant—lest suspicion should
be excited against me, whether of the truth or of some slanderous falsehood.
I have now
been here nearly a fortnight, and, but for one disturbing care, the haunting
dread of discovery, I am comfortably settled in my new home: Frederick has
supplied me with all requisite furniture and painting materials: Rachel has
sold most of my clothes for me, in a distant town, and procured me a wardrobe
more suitable to my present position: I have a second-hand piano, and a
tolerably well-stocked bookcase in my parlour; and my other room has assumed
quite a professional, business-like appearance already. I am working hard
to repay my brother for all his expenses on my account; not that there is the
slightest necessity for anything of the kind, but it pleases me to do so: I
shall have so much more pleasure in my labour, my earnings, my frugal fare, and
household economy, when I know that I am paying my way honestly, and that what
little I possess is legitimately all my own; and that no one suffers for my
folly—in a pecuniary way at least. I shall make him take the last penny I
owe him, if I can possibly effect it without offending him too deeply. I
have a few pictures already done, for I told Rachel to pack up all I had; and
she executed her commission but too well—for among the rest, she put up a
portrait of Mr. Huntingdon that I had painted in the first year of my
marriage. It struck me with dismay, at the moment, when I took it from
the box and beheld those eyes fixed upon me in their mocking mirth, as if
exulting still in his power to control my fate, and deriding my efforts to
escape.
How widely
different had been my feelings in painting that portrait to what they now were
in looking upon it! How I had studied and toiled to produce something, as
I thought, worthy of the original! what mingled pleasure and dissatisfaction I
had had in the result of my labours!—pleasure for the likeness I had caught;
dissatisfaction, because I had not made it handsome enough. Now, I see no
beauty in it—nothing pleasing in any part of its expression; and yet it is far
handsomer and far more agreeable—far less repulsive I should rather say—than he
is now: for these six years have wrought almost as great a change upon himself
as on my feelings regarding him. The frame, however, is handsome enough;
it will serve for another painting. The picture itself I have not
destroyed, as I had first intended; I have put it aside; not, I think, from any
lurking tenderness for the memory of past affection, nor yet to remind me of my
former folly, but chiefly that I may compare my son’s features and countenance
with this, as he grows up, and thus be enabled to judge how much or how little
he resembles his father—if I may be allowed to keep him with me still, and
never to behold that father’s face again—a blessing I hardly dare reckon upon.
It seems
Mr. Huntingdon is making every exertion to discover the place of my
retreat. He has been in person to Staningley, seeking redress for his
grievances—expecting to hear of his victims, if not to find them there—and has
told so many lies, and with such unblushing coolness, that my uncle more than
half believes him, and strongly advocates my going back to him and being
friends again. But my aunt knows better: she is too cool and cautious,
and too well acquainted with both my husband’s character and my own to be
imposed upon by any specious falsehoods the former could invent. But he
does not want me back; he wants my child; and gives my friends to understand
that if I prefer living apart from him, he will indulge the whim and let me do
so unmolested, and even settle a reasonable allowance on me, provided I will
immediately deliver up his son. But heaven help me! I am not going
to sell my child for gold, though it were to save both him and me from
starving: it would be better that he should die with me than that he should live
with his father.
Frederick
showed me a letter he had received from that gentleman, full of cool impudence
such as would astonish any one who did not know him, but such as, I am
convinced, none would know better how to answer than my brother. He gave
me no account of his reply, except to tell me that he had not acknowledged his
acquaintance with my place of refuge, but rather left it to be inferred that it
was quite unknown to him, by saying it was useless to apply to him, or any
other of my relations, for information on the subject, as it appeared I had
been driven to such extremity that I had concealed my retreat even from my best
friends; but that if he had known it, or should at any time be made aware of
it, most certainly Mr. Huntingdon would be the last person to whom he should
communicate the intelligence; and that he need not trouble himself to bargain
for the child, for he (Frederick) fancied he knew enough of his sister to
enable him to declare, that wherever she might be, or however situated, no
consideration would induce her to deliver him up.
30th.—Alas!
my kind neighbours will not let me alone. By some means they have
ferreted me out, and I have had to sustain visits from three different
families, all more or less bent upon discovering who and what I am, whence I
came, and why I have chosen such a home as this. Their society is
unnecessary to me, to say the least, and their curiosity annoys and alarms me:
if I gratify it, it may lead to the ruin of my son, and if I am too mysterious
it will only excite their suspicions, invite conjecture, and rouse them to
greater exertions—and perhaps be the means of spreading my fame from parish to
parish, till it reach the ears of some one who will carry it to the Lord of
Grassdale Manor.
I shall be
expected to return their calls, but if, upon inquiry, I find that any of them
live too far away for Arthur to accompany me, they must expect in vain for a
while, for I cannot bear to leave him, unless it be to go to church, and I have
not attempted that yet: for—it may be foolish weakness, but I am under such
constant dread of his being snatched away, that I am never easy when he is not
by my side; and I fear these nervous terrors would so entirely disturb my
devotions, that I should obtain no benefit from the attendance. I mean,
however, to make the experiment next Sunday, and oblige myself to leave him in
charge of Rachel for a few hours. It will be a hard task, but surely no
imprudence; and the vicar has been to scold me for my neglect of the ordinances
of religion. I had no sufficient excuse to offer, and I promised, if all
were well, he should see me in my pew next Sunday; for I do not wish to be set
down as an infidel; and, besides, I know I should derive great comfort and
benefit from an occasional attendance at public worship, if I could only have
faith and fortitude to compose my thoughts in conformity with the solemn
occasion, and forbid them to be for ever dwelling on my absent child, and on
the dreadful possibility of finding him gone when I return; and surely God in
His mercy will preserve me from so severe a trial: for my child’s own sake, if
not for mine, He will not suffer him to be torn away.
November
3rd.—I have made some further acquaintance with my neighbours. The fine
gentleman and beau of the parish and its vicinity (in his own estimation, at
least) is a young . . . .
* * * * *
Here it
ended. The rest was torn away. How cruel, just when she was going
to mention me! for I could not doubt it was your humble servant she was about
to mention, though not very favourably, of course. I could tell that, as
well by those few words as by the recollection of her whole aspect and
demeanour towards me in the commencement of our acquaintance. Well!
I could readily forgive her prejudice against me, and her hard thoughts of our
sex in general, when I saw to what brilliant specimens her experience had been
limited.
Respecting
me, however, she had long since seen her error, and perhaps fallen into another
in the opposite extreme: for if, at first, her opinion of me had been lower
than I deserved, I was convinced that now my deserts were lower than her
opinion; and if the former part of this continuation had been torn away to
avoid wounding my feelings, perhaps the latter portion had been removed for
fear of ministering too much to my self-conceit. At any rate, I would
have given much to have seen it all—to have witnessed the gradual change, and
watched the progress of her esteem and friendship for me, and whatever warmer
feeling she might have; to have seen how much of love there was in her regard,
and how it had grown upon her in spite of her virtuous resolutions and
strenuous exertions to—but no, I had no right to see it: all this was too
sacred for any eyes but her own, and she had done well to keep it from me.
CHAPTER XLV
Well,
Halford, what do you think of all this? and while you read it, did you ever
picture to yourself what my feelings would probably be during its
perusal? Most likely not; but I am not going to descant upon them now: I
will only make this acknowledgment, little honourable as it may be to human
nature, and especially to myself,—that the former half of the narrative was, to
me, more painful than the latter, not that I was at all insensible to Mrs.
Huntingdon’s wrongs or unmoved by her sufferings, but, I must confess, I felt a
kind of selfish gratification in watching her husband’s gradual decline in her
good graces, and seeing how completely he extinguished all her affection at
last. The effect of the whole, however, in spite of all my sympathy for
her, and my fury against him, was to relieve my mind of an intolerable burden,
and fill my heart with joy, as if some friend had roused me from a dreadful
nightmare.
It was now
near eight o’clock in the morning, for my candle had expired in the midst of my
perusal, leaving me no alternative but to get another, at the expense of
alarming the house, or to go to bed, and wait the return of daylight. On
my mother’s account, I chose the latter; but how willingly I sought my pillow,
and how much sleep it brought me, I leave you to imagine.
At the
first appearance of dawn, I rose, and brought the manuscript to the window, but
it was impossible to read it yet. I devoted half an hour to dressing, and
then returned to it again. Now, with a little difficulty, I could manage;
and with intense and eager interest, I devoured the remainder of its
contents. When it was ended, and my transient regret at its abrupt
conclusion was over, I opened the window and put out my head to catch the
cooling breeze, and imbibe deep draughts of the pure morning air. A
splendid morning it was; the half-frozen dew lay thick on the grass, the
swallows were twittering round me, the rooks cawing, and cows lowing in the
distance; and early frost and summer sunshine mingled their sweetness in the
air. But I did not think of that: a confusion of countless thoughts and
varied emotions crowded upon me while I gazed abstractedly on the lovely face
of nature. Soon, however, this chaos of thoughts and passions cleared
away, giving place to two distinct emotions: joy unspeakable that my adored
Helen was all I wished to think her—that through the noisome vapours of the
world’s aspersions and my own fancied convictions, her character shone bright,
and clear, and stainless as that sun I could not bear to look on; and shame and
deep remorse for my own conduct.
Immediately
after breakfast I hurried over to Wildfell Hall. Rachel had risen many
degrees in my estimation since yesterday. I was ready to greet her quite
as an old friend; but every kindly impulse was checked by the look of cold
distrust she cast upon me on opening the door. The old virgin had
constituted herself the guardian of her lady’s honour, I suppose, and doubtless
she saw in me another Mr. Hargrave, only the more dangerous in being more
esteemed and trusted by her mistress.
‘Missis
can’t see any one to-day, sir—she’s poorly,’ said she, in answer to my inquiry
for Mrs. Graham.
‘But I
must see her, Rachel,’ said I, placing my hand on the door to prevent its being
shut against me.
‘Indeed,
sir, you can’t,’ replied she, settling her countenance in still more iron
frigidity than before.
‘Be so
good as to announce me.’
‘It’s no
manner of use, Mr. Markham; she’s poorly, I tell you.’
Just in
time to prevent me from committing the impropriety of taking the citadel by
storm, and pushing forward unannounced, an inner door opened, and little Arthur
appeared with his frolicsome playfellow, the dog. He seized my hand
between both his, and smilingly drew me forward.
‘Mamma
says you’re to come in, Mr. Markham,’ said he, ‘and I am to go out and play
with Rover.’
Rachel
retired with a sigh, and I stepped into the parlour and shut the door.
There, before the fire-place, stood the tall, graceful figure, wasted with many
sorrows. I cast the manuscript on the table, and looked in her
face. Anxious and pale, it was turned towards me; her clear, dark eyes
were fixed on mine with a gaze so intensely earnest that they bound me like a
spell.
‘Have you
looked it over?’ she murmured. The spell was broken.
‘I’ve read
it through,’ said I, advancing into the room,—‘and I want to know if you’ll
forgive me—if you can forgive me?’
She did
not answer, but her eyes glistened, and a faint red mantled on her lip and
cheek. As I approached, she abruptly turned away, and went to the
window. It was not in anger, I was well assured, but only to conceal or
control her emotion. I therefore ventured to follow and stand beside her
there,—but not to speak. She gave me her hand, without turning her head,
and murmured in a voice she strove in vain to steady,—‘Can you forgive me?’
It might
be deemed a breach of trust, I thought, to convey that lily hand to my lips, so
I only gently pressed it between my own, and smilingly replied,—‘I hardly
can. You should have told me this before. It shows a want of
confidence—’
‘Oh, no,’
cried she, eagerly interrupting me; ‘it was not that. It was no want of
confidence in you; but if I had told you anything of my history, I must have
told you all, in order to excuse my conduct; and I might well shrink from such
a disclosure, till necessity obliged me to make it. But you forgive me?—I
have done very, very wrong, I know; but, as usual, I have reaped the bitter
fruits of my own error,—and must reap them to the end.’
Bitter, indeed,
was the tone of anguish, repressed by resolute firmness, in which this was
spoken. Now, I raised her hand to my lips, and fervently kissed it again
and again; for tears prevented any other reply. She suffered these wild
caresses without resistance or resentment; then, suddenly turning from me, she
paced twice or thrice through the room. I knew by the contraction of her
brow, the tight compression of her lips, and wringing of her hands, that
meantime a violent conflict between reason and passion was silently passing
within. At length she paused before the empty fire-place, and turning to
me, said calmly—if that might be called calmness which was so evidently the
result of a violent effort,—‘Now, Gilbert, you must leave me—not this moment, but
soon—and you must never come again.’
‘Never
again, Helen? just when I love you more than ever.’
‘For that
very reason, if it be so, we should not meet again. I thought this
interview was necessary—at least, I persuaded myself it was so—that we might
severally ask and receive each other’s pardon for the past; but there can be no
excuse for another. I shall leave this place, as soon as I have means to
seek another asylum; but our intercourse must end here.’
‘End
here!’ echoed I; and approaching the high, carved chimney-piece, I leant my
hand against its heavy mouldings, and dropped my forehead upon it in silent,
sullen despondency.
‘You must
not come again,’ continued she. There was a slight tremor in her voice,
but I thought her whole manner was provokingly composed, considering the
dreadful sentence she pronounced. ‘You must know why I tell you so,’ she
resumed; ‘and you must see that it is better to part at once: —if it be hard to
say adieu for ever, you ought to help me.’ She paused. I did not
answer. ‘Will you promise not to come?—if you won’t, and if you do come
here again, you will drive me away before I know where to find another place of
refuge—or how to seek it.’
‘Helen,’
said I, turning impatiently towards her, ‘I cannot discuss the matter of eternal
separation calmly and dispassionately as you can do. It is no question of
mere expedience with me; it is a question of life and death!’
She was
silent. Her pale lips quivered, and her fingers trembled with agitation,
as she nervously entwined them in the hair-chain to which was appended her
small gold watch—the only thing of value she had permitted herself to
keep. I had said an unjust and cruel thing; but I must needs follow it up
with something worse.
‘But,
Helen!’ I began in a soft, low tone, not daring to raise my eyes to her face,
‘that man is not your husband: in the sight of heaven he has forfeited all
claim to—‘ She seized my arm with a grasp of startling energy.
‘Gilbert,
don’t!’ she cried, in a tone that would have pierced a heart of adamant.
‘For God’s sake, don’t you attempt these arguments! No fiend could
torture me like this!’
‘I won’t,
I won’t!’ said I, gently laying my hand on hers; almost as much alarmed at her
vehemence as ashamed of my own misconduct.
‘Instead
of acting like a true friend,’ continued she, breaking from me, and throwing
herself into the old arm-chair, ‘and helping me with all your might—or rather
taking your own part in the struggle of right against passion—you leave all the
burden to me;—and not satisfied with that, you do your utmost to fight against
me—when you know that!—‘ she paused, and hid her face in her handkerchief.
‘Forgive
me, Helen!’ pleaded I. ‘I will never utter another word on the
subject. But may we not still meet as friends?’
‘It will not
do,’ she replied, mournfully shaking her head; and then she raised her eyes to
mine, with a mildly reproachful look that seemed to say, ‘You must know that as
well as I.’
‘Then what
must we do?’ cried I, passionately. But immediately I added in a quieter
tone—‘I’ll do whatever you desire; only don’t say that this meeting is to be
our last.’
‘And why
not? Don’t you know that every time we meet the thoughts of the final
parting will become more painful? Don’t you feel that every interview
makes us dearer to each other than the last?’
The
utterance of this last question was hurried and low, and the downcast eyes and
burning blush too plainly showed that she, at least, had felt it. It was
scarcely prudent to make such an admission, or to add—as she presently did—‘I
have power to bid you go, now: another time it might be different,’—but I was
not base enough to attempt to take advantage of her candour.
‘But we
may write,’ I timidly suggested. ‘You will not deny me that consolation?’
‘We can
hear of each other through my brother.’
‘Your
brother!’ A pang of remorse and shame shot through me. She had not
heard of the injury he had sustained at my hands; and I had not the courage to
tell her. ‘Your brother will not help us,’ I said: ‘he would have all
communion between us to be entirely at an end.’
‘And he
would be right, I suppose. As a friend of both, he would wish us both
well; and every friend would tell us it was our interest, as well as our duty,
to forget each other, though we might not see it ourselves. But don’t be
afraid, Gilbert,’ she added, smiling sadly at my manifest discomposure; ‘there
is little chance of my forgetting you. But I did not mean that Frederick
should be the means of transmitting messages between us—only that each might
know, through him, of the other’s welfare;—and more than this ought not to be:
for you are young, Gilbert, and you ought to marry—and will some time, though
you may think it impossible now: and though I hardly can say I wish you to
forget me, I know it is right that you should, both for your own happiness, and
that of your future wife;—and therefore I must and will wish it,’ she added
resolutely.
‘And you
are young too, Helen,’ I boldly replied; ‘and when that profligate scoundrel
has run through his career, you will give your hand to me—I’ll wait till then.’
But she
would not leave me this support. Independently of the moral evil of
basing our hopes upon the death of another, who, if unfit for this world, was
at least no less so for the next, and whose amelioration would thus become our
bane and his greatest transgression our greatest benefit,—she maintained it to
be madness: many men of Mr. Huntingdon’s habits had lived to a ripe though
miserable old age. ‘And if I,’ said she, ‘am young in years, I am old in
sorrow; but even if trouble should fail to kill me before vice destroys him,
think, if he reached but fifty years or so, would you wait twenty or fifteen—in
vague uncertainty and suspense—through all the prime of youth and manhood—and
marry at last a woman faded and worn as I shall be—without ever having seen me
from this day to that?—You would not,’ she continued, interrupting my earnest
protestations of unfailing constancy,—‘or if you would, you should not.
Trust me, Gilbert; in this matter I know better than you. You think me
cold and stony-hearted, and you may, but—’
‘I don’t,
Helen.’
‘Well,
never mind: you might if you would: but I have not spent my solitude in utter
idleness, and I am not speaking now from the impulse of the moment, as you do.
I have thought of all these matters again and again; I have argued these
questions with myself, and pondered well our past, and present, and future
career; and, believe me, I have come to the right conclusion at last.
Trust my words rather than your own feelings now, and in a few years you will
see that I was right—though at present I hardly can see it myself,’ she
murmured with a sigh as she rested her head on her hand. ‘And don’t argue
against me any more: all you can say has been already said by my own heart and
refuted by my reason. It was hard enough to combat those suggestions as
they were whispered within me; in your mouth they are ten times worse, and if
you knew how much they pain me you would cease at once, I know. If you
knew my present feelings, you would even try to relieve them at the expense of
your own.’
‘I will
go—in a minute, if that can relieve you—and never return!’ said
I, with bitter emphasis. ‘But, if we may never meet, and never hope to
meet again, is it a crime to exchange our thoughts by letter? May not
kindred spirits meet, and mingle in communion, whatever be the fate and
circumstances of their earthly tenements?’
‘They may,
they may!’ cried she, with a momentary burst of glad enthusiasm. ‘I
thought of that too, Gilbert, but I feared to mention it, because I feared you
would not understand my views upon the subject. I fear it even now—I fear
any kind friend would tell us we are both deluding ourselves with the idea of
keeping up a spiritual intercourse without hope or prospect of anything
further—without fostering vain regrets and hurtful aspirations, and feeding
thoughts that should be sternly and pitilessly left to perish of inanition.’
‘Never
mind our kind friends: if they can part our bodies, it is enough; in God’s
name, let them not sunder our souls!’ cried I, in terror lest she should deem
it her duty to deny us this last remaining consolation.
‘But no
letters can pass between us here,’ said she, ‘without giving fresh food for
scandal; and when I departed, I had intended that my new abode should be
unknown to you as to the rest of the world; not that I should doubt your word
if you promised not to visit me, but I thought you would be more tranquil in
your own mind if you knew you could not do it, and likely to find less
difficulty in abstracting yourself from me if you could not picture my
situation to your mind. But listen,’ said she, smilingly putting up her
finger to check my impatient reply: ‘in six months you shall hear from
Frederick precisely where I am; and if you still retain your wish to write to
me, and think you can maintain a correspondence all thought, all spirit—such as
disembodied souls or unimpassioned friends, at least, might hold,—write, and I
will answer you.’
‘Six
months!’
‘Yes, to
give your present ardour time to cool, and try the truth and constancy of your
soul’s love for mine. And now, enough has been said between us. Why
can’t we part at once?’ exclaimed she, almost wildly, after a moment’s pause,
as she suddenly rose from her chair, with her hands resolutely clasped
together. I thought it was my duty to go without delay; and I approached
and half extended my hand as if to take leave—she grasped it in silence.
But this thought of final separation was too intolerable: it seemed to squeeze
the blood out of my heart; and my feet were glued to the floor.
‘And must
we never meet again?’ I murmured, in the anguish of my soul.
‘We shall
meet in heaven. Let us think of that,’ said she in a tone of desperate
calmness; but her eyes glittered wildly, and her face was deadly pale.
‘But not
as we are now,’ I could not help replying. ‘It gives me little
consolation to think I shall next behold you as a disembodied spirit, or an
altered being, with a frame perfect and glorious, but not like this!—and a
heart, perhaps, entirely estranged from me.’
‘No,
Gilbert, there is perfect love in heaven!’
‘So
perfect, I suppose, that it soars above distinctions, and you will have no
closer sympathy with me than with any one of the ten thousand thousand angels
and the innumerable multitude of happy spirits round us.’
‘Whatever
I am, you will be the same, and, therefore, cannot possibly regret it; and
whatever that change may be we know it must be for the better.’
‘But if I
am to be so changed that I shall cease to adore you with my whole heart and
soul, and love you beyond every other creature, I shall not be myself; and
though, if ever I win heaven at all, I must, I know, be infinitely better and
happier than I am now, my earthly nature cannot rejoice in the anticipation of
such beatitude, from which itself and its chief joy must be excluded.’
‘Is your
love all earthly, then?’
‘No, but I
am supposing we shall have no more intimate communion with each other than with
the rest.’
‘If so, it
will be because we love them more, and not each other less. Increase of
love brings increase of happiness, when it is mutual, and pure as that will
be.’
‘But can
you, Helen, contemplate with delight this prospect of losing me in a sea of
glory?’
‘I own I
cannot; but we know not that it will be so;—and I do know that to regret the
exchange of earthly pleasures for the joys of heaven, is as if the grovelling
caterpillar should lament that it must one day quit the nibbled leaf to soar
aloft and flutter through the air, roving at will from flower to flower,
sipping sweet honey from their cups, or basking in their sunny petals. If
these little creatures knew how great a change awaited them, no doubt they
would regret it; but would not all such sorrow be misplaced? And if that
illustration will not move you, here is another:—We are children now; we feel
as children, and we understand as children; and when we are told that men and
women do not play with toys, and that our companions will one day weary of the
trivial sports and occupations that interest them and us so deeply now, we
cannot help being saddened at the thoughts of such an alteration, because we
cannot conceive that as we grow up our own minds will become so enlarged and
elevated that we ourselves shall then regard as trifling those objects and
pursuits we now so fondly cherish, and that, though our companions will no
longer join us in those childish pastimes, they will drink with us at other
fountains of delight, and mingle their souls with ours in higher aims and nobler
occupations beyond our present comprehension, but not less deeply relished or
less truly good for that, while yet both we and they remain essentially the
same individuals as before. But, Gilbert, can you really derive no
consolation from the thought that we may meet together where there is no more
pain and sorrow, no more striving against sin, and struggling of the spirit
against the flesh; where both will behold the same glorious truths, and drink
exalted and supreme felicity from the same fountain of light and goodness—that
Being whom both will worship with the same intensity of holy ardour—and where
pure and happy creatures both will love with the same divine affection?
If you cannot, never write to me!’
‘Helen, I
can! if faith would never fail.’
‘Now,
then,’ exclaimed she, ‘while this hope is strong within us—’
‘We will
part,’ I cried. ‘You shall not have the pain of another effort to dismiss
me. I will go at once; but—’
I did not
put my request in words: she understood it instinctively, and this time she
yielded too—or rather, there was nothing so deliberate as requesting or
yielding in the matter: there was a sudden impulse that neither could
resist. One moment I stood and looked into her face, the next I held her
to my heart, and we seemed to grow together in a close embrace from which no
physical or mental force could rend us. A whispered ‘God bless you!’ and
‘Go—go!’ was all she said; but while she spoke she held me so fast that,
without violence, I could not have obeyed her. At length, however, by
some heroic effort, we tore ourselves apart, and I rushed from the house.
I have a
confused remembrance of seeing little Arthur running up the garden-walk to meet
me, and of bolting over the wall to avoid him—and subsequently running down the
steep fields, clearing the stone fences and hedges as they came in my way, till
I got completely out of sight of the old hall and down to the bottom of the
hill; and then of long hours spent in bitter tears and lamentations, and
melancholy musings in the lonely valley, with the eternal music in my ears, of
the west wind rushing through the overshadowing trees, and the brook babbling
and gurgling along its stony bed; my eyes, for the most part, vacantly fixed on
the deep, chequered shades restlessly playing over the bright sunny grass at my
feet, where now and then a withered leaf or two would come dancing to share the
revelry; but my heart was away up the hill in that dark room where she was
weeping desolate and alone—she whom I was not to comfort, not to see again,
till years or suffering had overcome us both, and torn our spirits from their
perishing abodes of clay.
There was
little business done that day, you may be sure. The farm was abandoned to
the labourers, and the labourers were left to their own devices. But one
duty must be attended to; I had not forgotten my assault upon Frederick
Lawrence; and I must see him to apologise for the unhappy deed. I would
fain have put it off till the morrow; but what if he should denounce me to his
sister in the meantime? No, no! I must ask his pardon to-day, and
entreat him to be lenient in his accusation, if the revelation must be
made. I deferred it, however, till the evening, when my spirits were more
composed, and when—oh, wonderful perversity of human nature!—some faint germs
of indefinite hopes were beginning to rise in my mind; not that I intended to
cherish them, after all that had been said on the subject, but there they must
lie for a while, uncrushed though not encouraged, till I had learnt to live without
them.
Arrived at
Woodford, the young squire’s abode, I found no little difficulty in obtaining
admission to his presence. The servant that opened the door told me his
master was very ill, and seemed to think it doubtful whether he would be able
to see me. I was not going to be baulked, however. I waited calmly
in the hall to be announced, but inwardly determined to take no denial.
The message was such as I expected—a polite intimation that Mr. Lawrence could
see no one; he was feverish, and must not be disturbed.
‘I shall
not disturb him long,’ said I; ‘but I must see him for a moment: it is on
business of importance that I wish to speak to him.’
‘I’ll tell
him, sir,’ said the man. And I advanced further into the hall and
followed him nearly to the door of the apartment where his master was—for it
seemed he was not in bed. The answer returned was that Mr. Lawrence hoped
I would be so good as to leave a message or a note with the servant, as he
could attend to no business at present.
‘He may as
well see me as you,’ said I; and, stepping past the astonished footman, I
boldly rapped at the door, entered, and closed it behind me. The room was
spacious and handsomely furnished—very comfortably, too, for a bachelor.
A clear, red fire was burning in the polished grate: a superannuated greyhound,
given up to idleness and good living, lay basking before it on the thick, soft
rug, on one corner of which, beside the sofa, sat a smart young springer,
looking wistfully up in its master’s face—perhaps asking permission to share
his couch, or, it might be, only soliciting a caress from his hand or a kind
word from his lips. The invalid himself looked very interesting as he lay
reclining there, in his elegant dressing-gown, with a silk handkerchief bound
across his temples. His usually pale face was flushed and feverish; his
eyes were half closed, until he became sensible of my presence—and then he
opened them wide enough: one hand was thrown listlessly over the back of the
sofa, and held a small volume, with which, apparently, he had been vainly
attempting to beguile the weary hours. He dropped it, however, in his
start of indignant surprise as I advanced into the room and stood before him on
the rug. He raised himself on his pillows, and gazed upon me with equal
degrees of nervous horror, anger, and amazement depicted on his countenance.
‘Mr.
Markham, I scarcely expected this!’ he said; and the blood left his cheek as he
spoke.
‘I know
you didn’t,’ answered I; ‘but be quiet a minute, and I’ll tell you what I came
for.’ Unthinkingly, I advanced a step or two nearer. He winced at
my approach, with an expression of aversion and instinctive physical fear
anything but conciliatory to my feelings. I stepped back, however.
‘Make your
story a short one,’ said he, putting his hand on the small silver bell that
stood on the table beside him, ‘or I shall be obliged to call for
assistance. I am in no state to bear your brutalities now, or your
presence either.’ And in truth the moisture started from his pores and
stood on his pale forehead like dew.
Such a
reception was hardly calculated to diminish the difficulties of my unenviable
task. It must be performed however, in some fashion; and so I plunged
into it at once, and floundered through it as I could.
‘The truth
is, Lawrence,’ said I, ‘I have not acted quite correctly towards you of
late—especially on this last occasion; and I’m come to—in short, to express my
regret for what has been done, and to beg your pardon. If you don’t
choose to grant it,’ I added hastily, not liking the aspect of his face, ‘it’s
no matter; only I’ve done my duty—that’s all.’
‘It’s
easily done,’ replied he, with a faint smile bordering on a sneer: ‘to abuse
your friend and knock him on the head without any assignable cause, and then
tell him the deed was not quite correct, but it’s no matter whether he pardons
it or not.’
‘I forgot
to tell you that it was in consequence of a mistake,’—muttered I. ‘I
should have made a very handsome apology, but you provoked me so confoundedly
with your—. Well, I suppose it’s my fault. The fact is, I didn’t
know that you were Mrs. Graham’s brother, and I saw and heard some things
respecting your conduct towards her which were calculated to awaken unpleasant
suspicions, that, allow me to say, a little candour and confidence on your part
might have removed; and, at last, I chanced to overhear a part of a
conversation between you and her that made me think I had a right to hate you.’
‘And how
came you to know that I was her brother?’ asked he, in some anxiety.
‘She told
me herself. She told me all. She knew I might be trusted. But
you needn’t disturb yourself about that, Mr. Lawrence, for I’ve seen the last
of her!’
‘The
last! Is she gone, then?’
‘No; but
she has bid adieu to me, and I have promised never to go near that house again
while she inhabits it.’ I could have groaned aloud at the bitter thoughts
awakened by this turn in the discourse. But I only clenched my hands and
stamped my foot upon the rug. My companion, however, was evidently relieved.
‘You have
done right,’ he said, in a tone of unqualified approbation, while his face
brightened into almost a sunny expression. ‘And as for the mistake, I am
sorry for both our sakes that it should have occurred. Perhaps you can
forgive my want of candour, and remember, as some partial mitigation of the
offence, how little encouragement to friendly confidence you have given me of
late.’
‘Yes,
yes—I remember it all: nobody can blame me more than I blame myself in my own
heart; at any rate, nobody can regret more sincerely than I do the result of my
brutality, as you rightly term it.’
‘Never
mind that,’ said he, faintly smiling; ‘let us forget all unpleasant words on
both sides, as well as deeds, and consign to oblivion everything that we have cause
to regret. Have you any objection to take my hand, or you’d rather
not?’ It trembled through weakness as he held it out, and dropped before
I had time to catch it and give it a hearty squeeze, which he had not the
strength to return.
‘How dry
and burning your hand is, Lawrence,’ said I. ‘You are really ill, and I
have made you worse by all this talk.’
‘Oh, it is
nothing; only a cold got by the rain.’
‘My doing,
too.’
‘Never
mind that. But tell me, did you mention this affair to my sister?’
‘To
confess the truth, I had not the courage to do so; but when you tell her, will
you just say that I deeply regret it, and—?’
‘Oh, never
fear! I shall say nothing against you, as long as you keep your good
resolution of remaining aloof from her. She has not heard of my illness,
then, that you are aware of?’
‘I think
not.’
‘I’m glad
of that, for I have been all this time tormenting myself with the fear that
somebody would tell her I was dying, or desperately ill, and she would be
either distressing herself on account of her inability to hear from me or do me
any good, or perhaps committing the madness of coming to see me. I must
contrive to let her know something about it, if I can,’ continued he,
reflectively, ‘or she will be hearing some such story. Many would be glad
to tell her such news, just to see how she would take it; and then she might
expose herself to fresh scandal.’
‘I wish I
had told her,’ said I. ‘If it were not for my promise, I would tell her
now.’
‘By no
means! I am not dreaming of that;—but if I were to write a short note,
now, not mentioning you, Markham, but just giving a slight account of my
illness, by way of excuse for my not coming to see her, and to put her on her
guard against any exaggerated reports she may hear,—and address it in a
disguised hand—would you do me the favour to slip it into the post-office as
you pass? for I dare not trust any of the servants in such a case.’
Most
willingly I consented, and immediately brought him his desk. There was
little need to disguise his hand, for the poor fellow seemed to have
considerable difficulty in writing at all, so as to be legible. When the
note was done, I thought it time to retire, and took leave, after asking if
there was anything in the world I could do for him, little or great, in the way
of alleviating his sufferings, and repairing the injury I had done.
‘No,’ said
he; ‘you have already done much towards it; you have done more for me than the
most skilful physician could do: for you have relieved my mind of two great burdens—anxiety
on my sister’s account, and deep regret upon your own: for I do believe these
two sources of torment have had more effect in working me up into a fever than
anything else; and I am persuaded I shall soon recover now. There is one
more thing you can do for me, and that is, come and see me now and then—for you
see I am very lonely here, and I promise your entrance shall not be disputed
again.’
I engaged
to do so, and departed with a cordial pressure of the hand. I posted the
letter on my way home, most manfully resisting the temptation of dropping in a
word from myself at the same time.
To be continued
