THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL
PART 24
CHAPTER LII
The 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.
CHAPTER LIII
While
standing thus, absorbed in my gloomy reverie, a gentleman’s carriage came round
the corner of the road. I did not look at it; and had it rolled quietly
by me, I should not have remembered the fact of its appearance at all; but a
tiny voice from within it roused me by exclaiming, ‘Mamma, mamma, here’s Mr.
Markham!’
I did not
hear the reply, but presently the same voice answered, ‘It is indeed,
mamma—look for yourself.’
I did not
raise my eyes, but I suppose mamma looked, for a clear melodious voice, whose
tones thrilled through my nerves, exclaimed, ‘Oh, aunt! here’s Mr. Markham,
Arthur’s friend! Stop, Richard!’
There was
such evidence of joyous though suppressed excitement in the utterance of those
few words—especially that tremulous, ‘Oh, aunt’—that it threw me almost off my
guard. The carriage stopped immediately, and I looked up and met the eye
of a pale, grave, elderly lady surveying me from the open window. She
bowed, and so did I, and then she withdrew her head, while Arthur screamed to
the footman to let him out; but before that functionary could descend from his
box a hand was silently put forth from the carriage window. I knew that
hand, though a black glove concealed its delicate whiteness and half its fair
proportions, and quickly seizing it, I pressed it in my own—ardently for a
moment, but instantly recollecting myself, I dropped it, and it was immediately
withdrawn.
‘Were you
coming to see us, or only passing by?’ asked the low voice of its owner, who, I
felt, was attentively surveying my countenance from behind the thick black veil
which, with the shadowing panels, entirely concealed her own from me.
‘I—I came
to see the place,’ faltered I.
‘The
place,’ repeated she, in a tone which betokened more displeasure or
disappointment than surprise.
‘Will you
not enter it, then?’
‘If you
wish it.’
‘Can you
doubt?’
‘Yes, yes!
he must enter,’ cried Arthur, running round from the other door; and seizing my
hand in both his, he shook it heartily.
‘Do you
remember me, sir?’ said he.
‘Yes, full
well, my little man, altered though you are,’ replied I, surveying the
comparatively tall, slim young gentleman, with his mother’s image visibly
stamped upon his fair, intelligent features, in spite of the blue eyes beaming
with gladness, and the bright locks clustering beneath his cap.
‘Am I not
grown?’ said he, stretching himself up to his full height.
‘Grown!
three inches, upon my word!’
‘I was
seven last birthday,’ was the proud rejoinder. ‘In seven years more I
shall be as tall as you nearly.’
‘Arthur,’
said his mother, ‘tell him to come in. Go on, Richard.’
There was
a touch of sadness as well as coldness in her voice, but I knew not to what to
ascribe it. The carriage drove on and entered the gates before us.
My little companion led me up the park, discoursing merrily all the way.
Arrived at the hall-door, I paused on the steps and looked round me, waiting to
recover my composure, if possible—or, at any rate, to remember my new-formed
resolutions and the principles on which they were founded; and it was not till
Arthur had been for some time gently pulling my coat, and repeating his
invitations to enter, that I at length consented to accompany him into the
apartment where the ladies awaited us.
Helen eyed
me as I entered with a kind of gentle, serious scrutiny, and politely asked
after Mrs. Markham and Rose. I respectfully answered her inquiries.
Mrs. Maxwell begged me to be seated, observing it was rather cold, but she
supposed I had not travelled far that morning.
‘Not quite
twenty miles,’ I answered.
‘Not on
foot!’
‘No,
Madam, by coach.’
‘Here’s
Rachel, sir,’ said Arthur, the only truly happy one amongst us, directing my
attention to that worthy individual, who had just entered to take her
mistress’s things. She vouchsafed me an almost friendly smile of
recognition—a favour that demanded, at least, a civil salutation on my part,
which was accordingly given and respectfully returned—she had seen the error of
her former estimation of my character.
When Helen
was divested of her lugubrious bonnet and veil, her heavy winter cloak,
&c., she looked so like herself that I knew not how to bear it. I was
particularly glad to see her beautiful black hair, unstinted still, and
unconcealed in its glossy luxuriance.
‘Mamma has
left off her widow’s cap in honour of uncle’s marriage,’ observed Arthur,
reading my looks with a child’s mingled simplicity and quickness of
observation. Mamma looked grave and Mrs. Maxwell shook her head.
‘And aunt Maxwell is never going to leave off hers,’ persisted the naughty boy;
but when he saw that his pertness was seriously displeasing and painful to his
aunt, he went and silently put his arm round her neck, kissed her cheek, and
withdrew to the recess of one of the great bay-windows, where he quietly amused
himself with his dog, while Mrs. Maxwell gravely discussed with me the
interesting topics of the weather, the season, and the roads. I
considered her presence very useful as a check upon my natural impulses—an
antidote to those emotions of tumultuous excitement which would otherwise have
carried me away against my reason and my will; but just then I felt the
restraint almost intolerable, and I had the greatest difficulty in forcing
myself to attend to her remarks and answer them with ordinary politeness; for I
was sensible that Helen was standing within a few feet of me beside the
fire. I dared not look at her, but I felt her eye was upon me, and from
one hasty, furtive glance, I thought her cheek was slightly flushed, and that
her fingers, as she played with her watch-chain, were agitated with that
restless, trembling motion which betokens high excitement.
‘Tell me,’
said she, availing herself of the first pause in the attempted conversation
between her aunt and me, and speaking fast and low, with her eyes bent on the
gold chain—for I now ventured another glance—‘Tell me how you all are at
Linden-hope—has nothing happened since I left you?’
‘I believe
not.’
‘Nobody
dead? nobody married?’
‘No.’
‘Or—or
expecting to marry?—No old ties dissolved or new ones formed? no old friends forgotten
or supplanted?’
She
dropped her voice so low in the last sentence that no one could have caught the
concluding words but myself, and at the same time turned her eyes upon me with
a dawning smile, most sweetly melancholy, and a look of timid though keen
inquiry that made my cheeks tingle with inexpressible emotions.
‘I believe
not,’ I answered. ‘Certainly not, if others are as little changed as
I.’ Her face glowed in sympathy with mine.
‘And you
really did not mean to call?’ she exclaimed.
‘I feared
to intrude.’
‘To
intrude!’ cried she, with an impatient gesture. ‘What—‘ but as if
suddenly recollecting her aunt’s presence, she checked herself, and, turning to
that lady, continued—‘Why, aunt, this man is my brother’s close friend, and was
my own intimate acquaintance (for a few short months at least), and professed a
great attachment to my boy—and when he passes the house, so many scores of
miles from his home, he declines to look in for fear of intruding!’
‘Mr.
Markham is over-modest,’ observed Mrs. Maxwell.
‘Over-ceremonious
rather,’ said her niece—‘over—well, it’s no matter.’ And turning from me,
she seated herself in a chair beside the table, and pulling a book to her by
the cover, began to turn over the leaves in an energetic kind of abstraction.
‘If I had
known,’ said I, ‘that you would have honoured me by remembering me as an
intimate acquaintance, I most likely should not have denied myself the pleasure
of calling upon you, but I thought you had forgotten me long ago.’
‘You
judged of others by yourself,’ muttered she without raising her eyes from the
book, but reddening as she spoke, and hastily turning over a dozen leaves at
once.
There was
a pause, of which Arthur thought he might venture to avail himself to introduce
his handsome young setter, and show me how wonderfully it was grown and
improved, and to ask after the welfare of its father Sancho. Mrs. Maxwell
then withdrew to take off her things. Helen immediately pushed the book
from her, and after silently surveying her son, his friend, and his dog for a
few moments, she dismissed the former from the room under pretence of wishing
him to fetch his last new book to show me. The child obeyed with
alacrity; but I continued caressing the dog. The silence might have lasted
till its master’s return, had it depended on me to break it; but, in half a
minute or less, my hostess impatiently rose, and, taking her former station on
the rug between me and the chimney corner, earnestly exclaimed—
‘Gilbert,
what is the matter with you?—why are you so changed? It is a very
indiscreet question, I know,’ she hastened to add: ‘perhaps a very rude
one—don’t answer it if you think so—but I hate mysteries and concealments.’
‘I am not
changed, Helen—unfortunately I am as keen and passionate as ever—it is not I,
it is circumstances that are changed.’
‘What
circumstances? Do tell me!’ Her cheek was blanched with the very
anguish of anxiety—could it be with the fear that I had rashly pledged my faith
to another?
‘I’ll tell
you at once,’ said I. ‘I will confess that I came here for the purpose of
seeing you (not without some monitory misgivings at my own presumption, and
fears that I should be as little welcome as expected when I came), but I did
not know that this estate was yours until enlightened on the subject of your
inheritance by the conversation of two fellow-passengers in the last stage of
my journey; and then I saw at once the folly of the hopes I had cherished, and
the madness of retaining them a moment longer; and though I alighted at your
gates, I determined not to enter within them; I lingered a few minutes to see
the place, but was fully resolved to return to M— without seeing its mistress.’
‘And if my
aunt and I had not been just returning from our morning drive, I should have
seen and heard no more of you?’
‘I thought
it would be better for both that we should not meet,’ replied I, as calmly as I
could, but not daring to speak above my breath, from conscious inability to
steady my voice, and not daring to look in her face lest my firmness should
forsake me altogether. ‘I thought an interview would only disturb your
peace and madden me. But I am glad, now, of this opportunity of seeing
you once more and knowing that you have not forgotten me, and of assuring you
that I shall never cease to remember you.’
There was
a moment’s pause. Mrs. Huntingdon moved away, and stood in the recess of
the window. Did she regard this as an intimation that modesty alone
prevented me from asking her hand? and was she considering how to repulse me
with the smallest injury to my feelings? Before I could speak to relieve
her from such a perplexity, she broke the silence herself by suddenly turning
towards me and observing—
‘You might
have had such an opportunity before—as far, I mean, as regards assuring me of
your kindly recollections, and yourself of mine, if you had written to me.’
‘I would
have done so, but I did not know your address, and did not like to ask your
brother, because I thought he would object to my writing; but this would not
have deterred me for a moment, if I could have ventured to believe that you
expected to hear from me, or even wasted a thought upon your unhappy friend;
but your silence naturally led me to conclude myself forgotten.’
‘Did you
expect me to write to you, then?’
‘No,
Helen—Mrs. Huntingdon,’ said I, blushing at the implied imputation, ‘certainly
not; but if you had sent me a message through your brother, or even asked him
about me now and then—’
‘I did ask
about you frequently. I was not going to do more,’ continued she,
smiling, ‘so long as you continued to restrict yourself to a few polite
inquiries about my health.’
‘Your
brother never told me that you had mentioned my name.’
‘Did you
ever ask him?’
‘No; for I
saw he did not wish to be questioned about you, or to afford the slightest
encouragement or assistance to my too obstinate attachment.’ Helen did
not reply. ‘And he was perfectly right,’ added I. But she remained
in silence, looking out upon the snowy lawn. ‘Oh, I will relieve her of
my presence,’ thought I; and immediately I rose and advanced to take leave,
with a most heroic resolution—but pride was at the bottom of it, or it could
not have carried me through.
‘Are you
going already?’ said she, taking the hand I offered, and not immediately
letting it go.
‘Why
should I stay any longer?’
‘Wait till
Arthur comes, at least.’
Only too
glad to obey, I stood and leant against the opposite side of the window.
‘You told
me you were not changed,’ said my companion: ‘you are—very much so.’
‘No, Mrs.
Huntingdon, I only ought to be.’
‘Do you
mean to maintain that you have the same regard for me that you had when last we
met?’
‘I have;
but it would be wrong to talk of it now.’
‘It was
wrong to talk of it then, Gilbert; it would not now—unless to do so would be to
violate the truth.’
I was too
much agitated to speak; but, without waiting for an answer, she turned away her
glistening eye and crimson cheek, and threw up the window and looked out,
whether to calm her own, excited feelings, or to relieve her embarrassment, or
only to pluck that beautiful half-blown Christmas-rose that grew upon the
little shrub without, just peeping from the snow that had hitherto, no doubt,
defended it from the frost, and was now melting away in the sun. Pluck
it, however, she did, and having gently dashed the glittering powder from its
leaves, approached it to her lips and said:
‘This rose
is not so fragrant as a summer flower, but it has stood through hardships none
of them could bear: the cold rain of winter has sufficed to nourish it, and its
faint sun to warm it; the bleak winds have not blanched it, or broken its stem,
and the keen frost has not blighted it. Look, Gilbert, it is still fresh
and blooming as a flower can be, with the cold snow even now on its
petals.—Will you have it?’
I held out
my hand: I dared not speak lest my emotion should overmaster me. She laid
the rose across my palm, but I scarcely closed my fingers upon it, so deeply
was I absorbed in thinking what might be the meaning of her words, and what I
ought to do or say upon the occasion; whether to give way to my feelings or
restrain them still. Misconstruing this hesitation into indifference—or
reluctance even—to accept her gift, Helen suddenly snatched it from my hand,
threw it out on to the snow, shut down the window with an emphasis, and
withdrew to the fire.
‘Helen,
what means this?’ I cried, electrified at this startling change in her
demeanour.
‘You did
not understand my gift,’ said she—‘or, what is worse, you despised it.
I’m sorry I gave it you; but since I did make such a mistake, the only remedy I
could think of was to take it away.’
‘You
misunderstood me cruelly,’ I replied, and in a minute I had opened the window
again, leaped out, picked up the flower, brought it in, and presented it to
her, imploring her to give it me again, and I would keep it for ever for her
sake, and prize it more highly than anything in the world I possessed.
‘And will
this content you?’ said she, as she took it in her hand.
‘It
shall,’ I answered.
‘There,
then; take it.’
I pressed
it earnestly to my lips, and put it in my bosom, Mrs. Huntingdon looking on
with a half-sarcastic smile.
‘Now, are
you going?’ said she.
‘I will
if—if I must.’
‘You are
changed,’ persisted she—‘you are grown either very proud or very indifferent.’
‘I am
neither, Helen—Mrs. Huntingdon. If you could see my heart—’
‘You must
be one,—if not both. And why Mrs. Huntingdon?—why not Helen, as before?’
‘Helen,
then—dear Helen!’ I murmured. I was in an agony of mingled love, hope,
delight, uncertainty, and suspense.
‘The rose
I gave you was an emblem of my heart,’ said she; ‘would you take it away and
leave me here alone?’
‘Would you
give me your hand too, if I asked it?’
‘Have I
not said enough?’ she answered, with a most enchanting smile. I snatched
her hand, and would have fervently kissed it, but suddenly checked myself, and
said,—
‘But have
you considered the consequences?’
‘Hardly, I
think, or I should not have offered myself to one too proud to take me, or too
indifferent to make his affection outweigh my worldly goods.’
Stupid
blockhead that I was!—I trembled to clasp her in my arms, but dared not believe
in so much joy, and yet restrained myself to say,—
‘But if
you should repent!’
‘It would
be your fault,’ she replied: ‘I never shall, unless you bitterly disappoint
me. If you have not sufficient confidence in my affection to believe
this, let me alone.’
‘My
darling angel—my own Helen,’ cried I, now passionately kissing the hand I still
retained, and throwing my left arm around her, ‘you never shall repent, if it
depend on me alone. But have you thought of your aunt?’ I trembled
for the answer, and clasped her closer to my heart in the instinctive dread of losing
my new-found treasure.
‘My aunt
must not know of it yet,’ said she. ‘She would think it a rash, wild
step, because she could not imagine how well I know you; but she must know you
herself, and learn to like you. You must leave us now, after lunch, and
come again in spring, and make a longer stay, and cultivate her acquaintance,
and I know you will like each other.’
‘And then
you will be mine,’ said I, printing a kiss upon her lips, and another, and
another; for I was as daring and impetuous now as I had been backward and
constrained before.
‘No—in
another year,’ replied she, gently disengaging herself from my embrace, but
still fondly clasping my hand.
‘Another
year! Oh, Helen, I could not wait so long!’
‘Where is
your fidelity?’
‘I mean I
could not endure the misery of so long a separation.’
‘It would
not be a separation: we will write every day: my spirit shall be always with
you, and sometimes you shall see me with your bodily eye. I will not be
such a hypocrite as to pretend that I desire to wait so long myself, but as my
marriage is to please myself, alone, I ought to consult my friends about the
time of it.’
‘Your
friends will disapprove.’
‘They will
not greatly disapprove, dear Gilbert,’ said she, earnestly kissing my hand;
‘they cannot, when they know you, or, if they could, they would not be true
friends—I should not care for their estrangement. Now are you
satisfied?’ She looked up in my face with a smile of ineffable
tenderness.
‘Can I be
otherwise, with your love? And you do love me, Helen?’ said I, not
doubting the fact, but wishing to hear it confirmed by her own
acknowledgment. ‘If you loved as I do,’ she earnestly replied, ‘you would
not have so nearly lost me—these scruples of false delicacy and pride would
never thus have troubled you—you would have seen that the greatest worldly
distinctions and discrepancies of rank, birth, and fortune are as dust in the
balance compared with the unity of accordant thoughts and feelings, and truly
loving, sympathising hearts and souls.’
‘But this
is too much happiness,’ said I, embracing her again; ‘I have not deserved it,
Helen—I dare not believe in such felicity: and the longer I have to wait, the
greater will be my dread that something will intervene to snatch you from
me—and think, a thousand things may happen in a year!—I shall be in one long
fever of restless terror and impatience all the time. And besides, winter
is such a dreary season.’
‘I thought
so too,’ replied she gravely: ‘I would not be married in winter—in December, at
least,’ she added, with a shudder—for in that month had occurred both the
ill-starred marriage that had bound her to her former husband, and the terrible
death that released her—‘and therefore I said another year, in spring.’
‘Next
spring?’
‘No,
no—next autumn, perhaps.’
‘Summer,
then?’
‘Well, the
close of summer. There now! be satisfied.’
While she
was speaking Arthur re-entered the room—good boy for keeping out so long.
‘Mamma, I
couldn’t find the book in either of the places you told me to look for it’ (there
was a conscious something in mamma’s smile that seemed to say, ‘No, dear, I
knew you could not’), ‘but Rachel got it for me at last. Look, Mr.
Markham, a natural history, with all kinds of birds and beasts in it, and the
reading as nice as the pictures!’
In great
good humour I sat down to examine the book, and drew the little fellow between
my knees. Had he come a minute before I should have received him less
graciously, but now I affectionately stroked his curling locks, and even kissed
his ivory forehead: he was my own Helen’s son, and therefore mine; and as such
I have ever since regarded him. That pretty child is now a fine young
man: he has realised his mother’s brightest expectations, and is at present
residing in Grassdale Manor with his young wife—the merry little Helen
Hattersley of yore.
I had not
looked through half the book before Mrs. Maxwell appeared to invite me into the
other room to lunch. That lady’s cool, distant manners rather chilled me
at first; but I did my best to propitiate her, and not entirely without
success, I think, even in that first short visit; for when I talked cheerfully
to her, she gradually became more kind and cordial, and when I departed she
bade me a gracious adieu, hoping ere long to have the pleasure of seeing me
again.
‘But you
must not go till you have seen the conservatory, my aunt’s winter garden,’ said
Helen, as I advanced to take leave of her, with as much philosophy and
self-command as I could summon to my aid.
I gladly
availed myself of such a respite, and followed her into a large and beautiful
conservatory, plentifully furnished with flowers, considering the season—but,
of course, I had little attention to spare for them. It was not, however,
for any tender colloquy that my companion had brought me there:—
‘My aunt
is particularly fond of flowers,’ she observed, ‘and she is fond of Staningley
too: I brought you here to offer a petition in her behalf, that this may be her
home as long as she lives, and—if it be not our home likewise—that I may often
see her and be with her; for I fear she will be sorry to lose me; and though
she leads a retired and contemplative life, she is apt to get low-spirited if
left too much alone.’
‘By all
means, dearest Helen!—do what you will with your own. I should not dream
of wishing your aunt to leave the place under any circumstances; and we will
live either here or elsewhere as you and she may determine, and you shall see
her as often as you like. I know she must be pained to part with you, and
I am willing to make any reparation in my power. I love her for your
sake, and her happiness shall be as dear to me as that of my own mother.’
‘Thank
you, darling! you shall have a kiss for that. Good-by. There
now—there, Gilbert—let me go—here’s Arthur; don’t astonish his infantile brain
with your madness.’
* * * * *
But it is
time to bring my narrative to a close. Any one but you would say I had
made it too long already. But for your satisfaction I will add a few
words more; because I know you will have a fellow-feeling for the old lady, and
will wish to know the last of her history. I did come again in spring,
and, agreeably to Helen’s injunctions, did my best to cultivate her
acquaintance. She received me very kindly, having been, doubtless,
already prepared to think highly of my character by her niece’s too favourable
report. I turned my best side out, of course, and we got along
marvellously well together. When my ambitious intentions were made known
to her, she took it more sensibly than I had ventured to hope. Her only
remark on the subject, in my hearing, was—
‘And so,
Mr. Markham, you are going to rob me of my niece, I understand.
Well! I hope God will prosper your union, and make my dear girl happy at
last. Could she have been contented to remain single, I own I should have
been better satisfied; but if she must marry again, I know of no one, now
living and of a suitable age, to whom I would more willingly resign her than
yourself, or who would be more likely to appreciate her worth and make, her truly
happy, as far as I can tell.’
Of course
I was delighted with the compliment, and hoped to show her that she was not
mistaken in her favourable judgment.
‘I have,
however, one request to offer,’ continued she. ‘It seems I am still to
look on Staningley as my home: I wish you to make it yours likewise, for Helen
is attached to the place and to me—as I am to her. There are painful
associations connected with Grassdale, which she cannot easily overcome; and I
shall not molest you with my company or interference here: I am a very quiet
person, and shall keep my own apartments, and attend to my own concerns, and
only see you now and then.’
Of course
I most readily consented to this; and we lived in the greatest harmony with our
dear aunt until the day of her death, which melancholy event took place a few
years after—melancholy, not to herself (for it came quietly upon her, and she
was glad to reach her journey’s end), but only to the few loving friends and
grateful dependents she left behind.
To return,
however, to my own affairs: I was married in summer, on a glorious August
morning. It took the whole eight months, and all Helen’s kindness and
goodness to boot, to overcome my mother’s prejudices against my bride-elect,
and to reconcile her to the idea of my leaving Linden Grange and living so far
away. Yet she was gratified at her son’s good fortune after all, and
proudly attributed it all to his own superior merits and endowments. I
bequeathed the farm to Fergus, with better hopes of its prosperity than I
should have had a year ago under similar circumstances; for he had lately
fallen in love with the Vicar of L—’s eldest daughter—a lady whose superiority
had roused his latent virtues, and stimulated him to the most surprising
exertions, not only to gain her affection and esteem, and to obtain a fortune
sufficient to aspire to her hand, but to render himself worthy of her, in his
own eyes, as well as in those of her parents; and in the end he was successful,
as you already know. As for myself, I need not tell you how happily my
Helen and I have lived together, and how blessed we still are in each other’s
society, and in the promising young scions that are growing up about us.
We are just now looking forward to the advent of you and Rose, for the time of
your annual visit draws nigh, when you must leave your dusty, smoky, noisy,
toiling, striving city for a season of invigorating relaxation and social
retirement with us.
Till then,
farewell,
Gilbert Markham.
Gilbert Markham.
Staningley: June 10th, 1847.
THE END
