THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL
PART 23
CHAPTER L
On reading
this I had no reason to disguise my joy and hope from Frederick Lawrence, for I
had none to be ashamed of. I felt no joy but that his sister was at
length released from her afflictive, overwhelming toil—no hope but that she
would in time recover from the effects of it, and be suffered to rest in peace
and quietness, at least, for the remainder of her life. I experienced a
painful commiseration for her unhappy husband (though fully aware that he had
brought every particle of his sufferings upon himself, and but too well
deserved them all), and a profound sympathy for her own afflictions, and deep
anxiety for the consequences of those harassing cares, those dreadful vigils,
that incessant and deleterious confinement beside a living corpse—for I was
persuaded she had not hinted half the sufferings she had had to endure.
‘You will
go to her, Lawrence?’ said I, as I put the letter into his hand.
‘Yes,
immediately.’
‘That’s
right! I’ll leave you, then, to prepare for your departure.’
‘I’ve done
that already, while you were reading the letter, and before you came; and the
carriage is now coming round to the door.’
Inly
approving his promptitude, I bade him good-morning, and withdrew. He gave
me a searching glance as we pressed each other’s hands at parting; but whatever
he sought in my countenance, he saw there nothing but the most becoming
gravity—it might be mingled with a little sternness in momentary resentment at
what I suspected to be passing in his mind.
Had I
forgotten my own prospects, my ardent love, my pertinacious hopes? It
seemed like sacrilege to revert to them now, but I had not forgotten
them. It was, however, with a gloomy sense of the darkness of those
prospects, the fallacy of those hopes, and the vanity of that affection, that I
reflected on those things as I remounted my horse and slowly journeyed
homewards. Mrs. Huntingdon was free now; it was no longer a crime to
think of her—but did she ever think of me? Not now—of course it was not
to be expected—but would she when this shock was over? In all the course
of her correspondence with her brother (our mutual friend, as she herself had
called him) she had never mentioned me but once—and that was from necessity.
This alone afforded strong presumption that I was already forgotten; yet this
was not the worst: it might have been her sense of duty that had kept her
silent: she might be only trying to forget; but in addition to this, I had a
gloomy conviction that the awful realities she had seen and felt, her
reconciliation with the man she had once loved, his dreadful sufferings and
death, must eventually efface from her mind all traces of her passing love for
me. She might recover from these horrors so far as to be restored to her
former health, her tranquillity, her cheerfulness even—but never to those
feelings which would appear to her, henceforth, as a fleeting fancy, a vain,
illusive dream; especially as there was no one to remind her of my existence—no
means of assuring her of my fervent constancy, now that we were so far apart,
and delicacy forbade me to see her or to write to her, for months to come at
least. And how could I engage her brother in my behalf? how could I break
that icy crust of shy reserve? Perhaps he would disapprove of my
attachment now as highly as before; perhaps he would think me too poor—too
lowly born, to match with his sister. Yes, there was another barrier:
doubtless there was a wide distinction between the rank and circumstances of Mrs.
Huntingdon, the lady of Grassdale Manor, and those of Mrs. Graham, the artist,
the tenant of Wildfell Hall. And it might be deemed presumption in me to
offer my hand to the former, by the world, by her friends, if not by herself; a
penalty I might brave, if I were certain she loved me; but otherwise, how could
I? And, finally, her deceased husband, with his usual selfishness, might
have so constructed his will as to place restrictions upon her marrying
again. So that you see I had reasons enough for despair if I chose to
indulge it.
Nevertheless,
it was with no small degree of impatience that I looked forward to Mr.
Lawrence’s return from Grassdale: impatience that increased in proportion as
his absence was prolonged. He stayed away some ten or twelve days.
All very right that he should remain to comfort and help his sister, but he
might have written to tell me how she was, or at least to tell me when to
expect his return; for he might have known I was suffering tortures of anxiety
for her, and uncertainty for my own future prospects. And when he did
return, all he told me about her was, that she had been greatly exhausted and
worn by her unremitting exertions in behalf of that man who had been the
scourge of her life, and had dragged her with him nearly to the portals of the
grave, and was still much shaken and depressed by his melancholy end and the
circumstances attendant upon it; but no word in reference to me; no intimation
that my name had ever passed her lips, or even been spoken in her presence.
To be sure, I asked no questions on the subject; I could not bring my mind to
do so, believing, as I did, that Lawrence was indeed averse to the idea of my
union with his sister.
I saw that
he expected to be further questioned concerning his visit, and I saw too, with
the keen perception of awakened jealousy, or alarmed self-esteem, or by
whatever name I ought to call it, that he rather shrank from that impending
scrutiny, and was no less pleased than surprised to find it did not come.
Of course, I was burning with anger, but pride obliged me to suppress my
feelings, and preserve a smooth face, or at least a stoic calmness, throughout
the interview. It was well it did, for, reviewing the matter in my sober
judgment, I must say it would have been highly absurd and improper to have
quarrelled with him on such an occasion. I must confess, too, that I
wronged him in my heart: the truth was, he liked me very well, but he was fully
aware that a union between Mrs. Huntingdon and me would be what the world calls
a mesalliance; and it was not in his nature to set the world at defiance;
especially in such a case as this, for its dread laugh, or ill opinion, would
be far more terrible to him directed against his sister than himself. Had
he believed that a union was necessary to the happiness of both, or of either,
or had he known how fervently I loved her, he would have acted differently; but
seeing me so calm and cool, he would not for the world disturb my philosophy;
and though refraining entirely from any active opposition to the match, he
would yet do nothing to bring it about, and would much rather take the part of
prudence, in aiding us to overcome our mutual predilections, than that of
feeling, to encourage them. ‘And he was in the right of it,’ you will say.
Perhaps he was; at any rate, I had no business to feel so bitterly against him
as I did; but I could not then regard the matter in such a moderate light; and,
after a brief conversation upon indifferent topics, I went away, suffering all
the pangs of wounded pride and injured friendship, in addition to those
resulting from the fear that I was indeed forgotten, and the knowledge that she
I loved was alone and afflicted, suffering from injured health and dejected
spirits, and I was forbidden to console or assist her: forbidden even to assure
her of my sympathy, for the transmission of any such message through Mr.
Lawrence was now completely out of the question.
But what
should I do? I would wait, and see if she would notice me, which of
course she would not, unless by some kind message intrusted to her brother,
that, in all probability, he would not deliver, and then, dreadful thought! she
would think me cooled and changed for not returning it, or, perhaps, he had
already given her to understand that I had ceased to think of her. I
would wait, however, till the six months after our parting were fairly passed
(which would be about the close of February), and then I would send her a
letter, modestly reminding her of her former permission to write to her at the
close of that period, and hoping I might avail myself of it—at least to express
my heartfelt sorrow for her late afflictions, my just appreciation of her
generous conduct, and my hope that her health was now completely
re-established, and that she would, some time, be permitted to enjoy those
blessings of a peaceful, happy life, which had been denied her so long, but
which none could more truly be said to merit than herself—adding a few words of
kind remembrance to my little friend Arthur, with a hope that he had not
forgotten me, and perhaps a few more in reference to bygone times, to the
delightful hours I had passed in her society, and my unfading recollection of
them, which was the salt and solace of my life, and a hope that her recent
troubles had not entirely banished me from her mind. If she did not
answer this, of course I should write no more: if she did (as surely she would,
in some fashion), my future proceedings should be regulated by her reply.
Ten weeks
was long to wait in such a miserable state of uncertainty; but courage! it must
be endured! and meantime I would continue to see Lawrence now and then, though
not so often as before, and I would still pursue my habitual inquiries after
his sister, if he had lately heard from her, and how she was, but nothing more.
I did so,
and the answers I received were always provokingly limited to the letter of the
inquiry: she was much as usual: she made no complaints, but the tone of her
last letter evinced great depression of mind: she said she was better: and,
finally, she said she was well, and very busy with her son’s education, and
with the management of her late husband’s property, and the regulation of his
affairs. The rascal had never told me how that property was disposed, or
whether Mr. Huntingdon had died intestate or not; and I would sooner die than
ask him, lest he should misconstrue into covetousness my desire to know.
He never offered to show me his sister’s letters now, and I never hinted a wish
to see them. February, however, was approaching; December was past;
January, at length, was almost over—a few more weeks, and then, certain despair
or renewal of hope would put an end to this long agony of suspense.
But alas!
it was just about that time she was called to sustain another blow in the death
of her uncle—a worthless old fellow enough in himself, I daresay, but he had
always shown more kindness and affection to her than to any other creature, and
she had always been accustomed to regard him as a parent. She was with
him when he died, and had assisted her aunt to nurse him during the last stage
of his illness. Her brother went to Staningley to attend the funeral, and
told me, upon his return, that she was still there, endeavouring to cheer her
aunt with her presence, and likely to remain some time. This was bad news
for me, for while she continued there I could not write to her, as I did not
know the address, and would not ask it of him. But week followed week,
and every time I inquired about her she was still at Staningley.
‘Where is
Staningley?’ I asked at last.
‘In
—shire,’ was the brief reply; and there was something so cold and dry in the
manner of it, that I was effectually deterred from requesting a more definite
account.
‘When will
she return to Grassdale?’ was my next question.
‘I don’t
know.’
‘Confound
it!’ I muttered.
‘Why,
Markham?’ asked my companion, with an air of innocent surprise. But I did
not deign to answer him, save by a look of silent, sullen contempt, at which he
turned away, and contemplated the carpet with a slight smile, half pensive,
half amused; but quickly looking up, he began to talk of other subjects, trying
to draw me into a cheerful and friendly conversation, but I was too much
irritated to discourse with him, and soon took leave.
You see
Lawrence and I somehow could not manage to get on very well together. The
fact is, I believe, we were both of us a little too touchy. It is a
troublesome thing, Halford, this susceptibility to affronts where none are
intended. I am no martyr to it now, as you can bear me witness: I have
learned to be merry and wise, to be more easy with myself and more indulgent to
my neighbours, and I can afford to laugh at both Lawrence and you.
Partly
from accident, partly from wilful negligence on my part (for I was really
beginning to dislike him), several weeks elapsed before I saw my friend
again. When we did meet, it was he that sought me out. One bright
morning, early in June, he came into the field, where I was just commencing my
hay harvest.
‘It is
long since I saw you, Markham,’ said he, after the first few words had passed
between us. ‘Do you never mean to come to Woodford again?’
‘I called
once, and you were out.’
‘I was
sorry, but that was long since; I hoped you would call again, and now I have
called, and you were out, which you generally are, or I would do myself the
pleasure of calling more frequently; but being determined to see you this time,
I have left my pony in the lane, and come over hedge and ditch to join you; for
I am about to leave Woodford for a while, and may not have the pleasure of
seeing you again for a month or two.’
‘Where are
you going?’
‘To
Grassdale first,’ said he, with a half-smile he would willingly have suppressed
if he could.
‘To
Grassdale! Is she there, then?’
‘Yes, but
in a day or two she will leave it to accompany Mrs. Maxwell to F— for the
benefit of the sea air, and I shall go with them.’ (F— was at that time a
quiet but respectable watering-place: it is considerably more frequented now.)
Lawrence
seemed to expect me to take advantage of this circumstance to entrust him with
some sort of a message to his sister; and I believe he would have undertaken to
deliver it without any material objections, if I had had the sense to ask him,
though of course he would not offer to do so, if I was content to let it
alone. But I could not bring myself to make the request, and it was not
till after he was gone, that I saw how fair an opportunity I had lost; and
then, indeed, I deeply regretted my stupidity and my foolish pride, but it was
now too late to remedy the evil.
He did not
return till towards the latter end of August. He wrote to me twice or
thrice from F—, but his letters were most provokingly unsatisfactory, dealing
in generalities or in trifles that I cared nothing about, or replete with fancies
and reflections equally unwelcome to me at the time, saying next to nothing
about his sister, and little more about himself. I would wait, however,
till he came back; perhaps I could get something more out of him then. At
all events, I would not write to her now, while she was with him and her aunt,
who doubtless would be still more hostile to my presumptuous aspirations than
himself. When she was returned to the silence and solitude of her own
home, it would be my fittest opportunity.
When
Lawrence came, however, he was as reserved as ever on the subject of my keen
anxiety. He told me that his sister had derived considerable benefit from
her stay at F— that her son was quite well, and—alas! that both of them were
gone, with Mrs. Maxwell, back to Staningley, and there they stayed at least
three months. But instead of boring you with my chagrin, my expectations
and disappointments, my fluctuations of dull despondency and flickering hope,
my varying resolutions, now to drop it, and now to persevere—now to make a bold
push, and now to let things pass and patiently abide my time,—I will employ
myself in settling the business of one or two of the characters introduced in
the course of this narrative, whom I may not have occasion to mention again.
Some time
before Mr. Huntingdon’s death Lady Lowborough eloped with another gallant to
the Continent, where, having lived a while in reckless gaiety and dissipation,
they quarrelled and parted. She went dashing on for a season, but years
came and money went: she sunk, at length, in difficulty and debt, disgrace and
misery; and died at last, as I have heard, in penury, neglect, and utter
wretchedness. But this might be only a report: she may be living yet for
anything I or any of her relatives or former acquaintances can tell; for they
have all lost sight of her long years ago, and would as thoroughly forget her
if they could. Her husband, however, upon this second misdemeanour,
immediately sought and obtained a divorce, and, not long after, married again.
It was well he did, for Lord Lowborough, morose and moody as he seemed, was not
the man for a bachelor’s life. No public interests, no ambitious
projects, or active pursuits,—or ties of friendship even (if he had had any
friends), could compensate to him for the absence of domestic comforts and
endearments. He had a son and a nominal daughter, it is true, but they
too painfully reminded him of their mother, and the unfortunate little
Annabella was a source of perpetual bitterness to his soul. He had
obliged himself to treat her with paternal kindness: he had forced himself not
to hate her, and even, perhaps, to feel some degree of kindly regard for her,
at last, in return for her artless and unsuspecting attachment to himself; but
the bitterness of his self-condemnation for his inward feelings towards that
innocent being, his constant struggles to subdue the evil promptings of his
nature (for it was not a generous one), though partly guessed at by those who
knew him, could be known to God and his own heart alone;—so also was the
hardness of his conflicts with the temptation to return to the vice of his
youth, and seek oblivion for past calamities, and deadness to the present
misery of a blighted heart a joyless, friendless life, and a morbidly
disconsolate mind, by yielding again to that insidious foe to health, and
sense, and virtue, which had so deplorably enslaved and degraded him before.
The second
object of his choice was widely different from the first. Some wondered
at his taste; some even ridiculed it—but in this their folly was more apparent
than his. The lady was about his own age—i.e., between thirty and
forty—remarkable neither for beauty, nor wealth, nor brilliant accomplishments;
nor any other thing that I ever heard of, except genuine good sense, unswerving
integrity, active piety, warm-hearted benevolence, and a fund of cheerful
spirits. These qualities, however, as you may readily imagine, combined
to render her an excellent mother to the children, and an invaluable wife to
his lordship. He, with his usual self-depreciation, thought her a world
too good for him, and while he wondered at the kindness of Providence in
conferring such a gift upon him, and even at her taste in preferring him to
other men, he did his best to reciprocate the good she did him, and so far
succeeded that she was, and I believe still is, one of the happiest and fondest
wives in England; and all who question the good taste of either partner may be
thankful if their respective selections afford them half the genuine satisfaction
in the end, or repay their preference with affection half as lasting and
sincere.
If you are
at all interested in the fate of that low scoundrel, Grimsby, I can only tell
you that he went from bad to worse, sinking from bathos to bathos of vice and villainy,
consorting only with the worst members of his club and the lowest dregs of
society—happily for the rest of the world—and at last met his end in a drunken
brawl, from the hands, it is said, of some brother scoundrel he had cheated at
play.
As for Mr.
Hattersley, he had never wholly forgotten his resolution to ‘come out from
among them,’ and behave like a man and a Christian, and the last illness and
death of his once jolly friend Huntingdon so deeply and seriously impressed him
with the evil of their former practices, that he never needed another lesson of
the kind. Avoiding the temptations of the town, he continued to pass his
life in the country, immersed in the usual pursuits of a hearty, active,
country gentleman; his occupations being those of farming, and breeding horses
and cattle, diversified with a little hunting and shooting, and enlivened by
the occasional companionship of his friends (better friends than those of his
youth), and the society of his happy little wife (now cheerful and confiding as
heart could wish), and his fine family of stalwart sons and blooming
daughters. His father, the banker, having died some years ago and left
him all his riches, he has now full scope for the exercise of his prevailing
tastes, and I need not tell you that Ralph Hattersley, Esq., is celebrated
throughout the country for his noble breed of horses.
CHAPTER LI
We will
now turn to a certain still, cold, cloudy afternoon about the commencement of
December, when the first fall of snow lay thinly scattered over the blighted
fields and frozen roads, or stored more thickly in the hollows of the deep
cart-ruts and footsteps of men and horses impressed in the now petrified mire
of last month’s drenching rains. I remember it well, for I was walking
home from the vicarage with no less remarkable a personage than Miss Eliza
Millward by my side. I had been to call upon her father,—a sacrifice to
civility undertaken entirely to please my mother, not myself, for I hated to go
near the house; not merely on account of my antipathy to the once so bewitching
Eliza, but because I had not half forgiven the old gentleman himself for his
ill opinion of Mrs. Huntingdon; for though now constrained to acknowledge
himself mistaken in his former judgment, he still maintained that she had done
wrong to leave her husband; it was a violation of her sacred duties as a wife,
and a tempting of Providence by laying herself open to temptation; and nothing
short of bodily ill-usage (and that of no trifling nature) could excuse such a
step—nor even that, for in such a case she ought to appeal to the laws for
protection. But it was not of him I intended to speak; it was of his
daughter Eliza. Just as I was taking leave of the vicar, she entered the
room, ready equipped for a walk.
‘I was just
coming to see, your sister, Mr. Markham,’ said she; ‘and so, if you have no
objection, I’ll accompany you home. I like company when I’m walking
out—don’t you?’
‘Yes, when
it’s agreeable.’
‘That of
course,’ rejoined the young lady, smiling archly.
So we
proceeded together.
‘Shall I
find Rose at home, do you think?’ said she, as we closed the garden gate, and
set our faces towards Linden-Car.
‘I believe
so.’
‘I trust I
shall, for I’ve a little bit of news for her—if you haven’t forestalled me.’
‘I?’
‘Yes: do
you know what Mr. Lawrence is gone for?’ She looked up anxiously for my
reply.
‘Is he
gone?’ said I; and her face brightened.
‘Ah! then
he hasn’t told you about his sister?’
‘What of
her?’ I demanded in terror, lest some evil should have befallen her.
‘Oh, Mr.
Markham, how you blush!’ cried she, with a tormenting laugh. ‘Ha, ha, you
have not forgotten her yet. But you had better be quick about it, I can
tell you, for—alas, alas!—she’s going to be married next Thursday!’
‘No, Miss
Eliza, that’s false.’
‘Do you
charge me with a falsehood, sir?’
‘You are
misinformed.’
‘Am
I? Do you know better, then?’
‘I think I
do.’
‘What
makes you look so pale then?’ said she, smiling with delight at my
emotion. ‘Is it anger at poor me for telling such a fib? Well, I
only “tell the tale as ’twas told to me:” I don’t vouch for the truth of it;
but at the same time, I don’t see what reason Sarah should have for deceiving
me, or her informant for deceiving her; and that was what she told me the
footman told her:—that Mrs. Huntingdon was going to be married on Thursday, and
Mr. Lawrence was gone to the wedding. She did tell me the name of the
gentleman, but I’ve forgotten that. Perhaps you can assist me to remember
it. Is there not some one that lives near—or frequently visits the
neighbourhood, that has long been attached to her?—a Mr.—oh, dear! Mr.—’
‘Hargrave?’
suggested I, with a bitter smile.
‘You’re
right,’ cried she; ‘that was the very name.’
‘Impossible,
Miss Eliza!’ I exclaimed, in a tone that made her start.
‘Well, you
know, that’s what they told me,’ said she, composedly staring me in the
face. And then she broke out into a long shrill laugh that put me to my
wit’s end with fury.
‘Really
you must excuse me,’ cried she. ‘I know it’s very rude, but ha, ha,
ha!—did you think to marry her yourself? Dear, dear, what a pity!—ha, ha,
ha! Gracious, Mr. Markham, are you going to faint? Oh, mercy! shall
I call this man? Here, Jacob—‘ But checking the word on her lips, I
seized her arm and gave it, I think, a pretty severe squeeze, for she shrank
into herself with a faint cry of pain or terror; but the spirit within her was
not subdued: instantly rallying, she continued, with well-feigned concern,
‘What can I do for you? Will you have some water—some brandy? I
daresay they have some in the public-house down there, if you’ll let me run.’
‘Have done
with this nonsense!’ cried I, sternly. She looked confounded—almost
frightened again, for a moment. ‘You know I hate such jests,’ I
continued.
‘Jests
indeed! I wasn’t jesting!’
‘You were
laughing, at all events; and I don’t like to be laughed at,’ returned I, making
violent efforts to speak with proper dignity and composure, and to say nothing
but what was coherent and sensible. ‘And since you are in such a merry
mood, Miss Eliza, you must be good enough company for yourself; and therefore I
shall leave you to finish your walk alone—for, now I think of it, I have
business elsewhere; so good-evening.’
With that
I left her (smothering her malicious laughter) and turned aside into the
fields, springing up the bank, and pushing through the nearest gap in the
hedge. Determined at once to prove the truth—or rather the falsehood—of
her story, I hastened to Woodford as fast as my legs could carry me; first
veering round by a circuitous course, but the moment I was out of sight of my
fair tormentor cutting away across the country, just as a bird might fly, over
pasture-land, and fallow, and stubble, and lane, clearing hedges and ditches
and hurdles, till I came to the young squire’s gates. Never till now had
I known the full fervour of my love—the full strength of my hopes, not wholly crushed
even in my hours of deepest despondency, always tenaciously clinging to the
thought that one day she might be mine, or, if not that, at least that
something of my memory, some slight remembrance of our friendship and our love,
would be for ever cherished in her heart. I marched up to the door,
determined, if I saw the master, to question him boldly concerning his sister,
to wait and hesitate no longer, but cast false delicacy and stupid pride behind
my back, and know my fate at once.
‘Is Mr.
Lawrence at home?’ I eagerly asked of the servant that opened the door.
‘No, sir,
master went yesterday,’ replied he, looking very alert.
‘Went
where?’
‘To
Grassdale, sir—wasn’t you aware, sir? He’s very close, is master,’ said
the fellow, with a foolish, simpering grin. ‘I suppose, sir—’
But I
turned and left him, without waiting to hear what he supposed. I was not
going to stand there to expose my tortured feelings to the insolent laughter
and impertinent curiosity of a fellow like that.
But what
was to be done now? Could it be possible that she had left me for that
man? I could not believe it. Me she might forsake, but not to give
herself to him! Well, I would know the truth; to no concerns of daily
life could I attend while this tempest of doubt and dread, of jealousy and
rage, distracted me. I would take the morning coach from L— (the evening
one would be already gone), and fly to Grassdale—I must be there before the
marriage. And why? Because a thought struck me that perhaps I might
prevent it—that if I did not, she and I might both lament it to the latest
moment of our lives. It struck me that someone might have belied me to
her: perhaps her brother; yes, no doubt her brother had persuaded her that I
was false and faithless, and taking advantage of her natural indignation, and
perhaps her desponding carelessness about her future life, had urged her,
artfully, cruelly, on to this other marriage, in order to secure her from
me. If this was the case, and if she should only discover her mistake when
too late to repair it—to what a life of misery and vain regret might she be
doomed as well as me; and what remorse for me to think my foolish scruples had
induced it all! Oh, I must see her—she must know my truth even if I told
it at the church door! I might pass for a madman or an impertinent
fool—even she might be offended at such an interruption, or at least might tell
me it was now too late. But if I could save her, if she might be mine!—it
was too rapturous a thought!
Winged by
this hope, and goaded by these fears, I hurried homewards to prepare for my
departure on the morrow. I told my mother that urgent business which
admitted no delay, but which I could not then explain, called me away.
My deep
anxiety and serious preoccupation could not be concealed from her maternal
eyes; and I had much ado to calm her apprehensions of some disastrous mystery.
That night
there came a heavy fall of snow, which so retarded the progress of the coaches
on the following day that I was almost driven to distraction. I travelled
all night, of course, for this was Wednesday: to-morrow morning, doubtless, the
marriage would take place. But the night was long and dark: the snow
heavily clogged the wheels and balled the horses’ feet; the animals were consumedly
lazy; the coachman most execrably cautious; the passengers confoundedly
apathetic in their supine indifference to the rate of our progression.
Instead of assisting me to bully the several coachmen and urge them forward,
they merely stared and grinned at my impatience: one fellow even ventured to
rally me upon it—but I silenced him with a look that quelled him for the rest
of the journey; and when, at the last stage, I would have taken the reins into
my own hand, they all with one accord opposed it.
It was broad
daylight when we entered M— and drew up at the ‘Rose and Crown.’ I
alighted and called aloud for a post-chaise to Grassdale. There was none
to be had: the only one in the town was under repair. ‘A gig, then—a
fly—car—anything—only be quick!’ There was a gig, but not a horse to
spare. I sent into the town to seek one: but they were such an
intolerable time about it that I could wait no longer—I thought my own feet
could carry me sooner; and bidding them send the conveyance after me, if it were
ready within an hour, I set off as fast as I could walk. The distance was
little more than six miles, but the road was strange, and I had to keep
stopping to inquire my way; hallooing to carters and clodhoppers, and
frequently invading the cottages, for there were few abroad that winter’s
morning; sometimes knocking up the lazy people from their beds, for where so
little work was to be done, perhaps so little food and fire to be had, they
cared not to curtail their slumbers. I had no time to think of them, however;
aching with weariness and desperation, I hurried on. The gig did not
overtake me: and it was well I had not waited for it; vexatious rather, that I
had been fool enough to wait so long.
At length,
however, I entered the neighbourhood of Grassdale. I approached the
little rural church—but lo! there stood a train of carriages before it; it
needed not the white favours bedecking the servants and horses, nor the merry
voices of the village idlers assembled to witness the show, to apprise me that
there was a wedding within. I ran in among them, demanding, with
breathless eagerness, had the ceremony long commenced? They only gaped
and stared. In my desperation, I pushed past them, and was about to enter
the churchyard gate, when a group of ragged urchins, that had been hanging like
bees to the window, suddenly dropped off and made a rush for the porch,
vociferating in the uncouth dialect of their country something which signified,
‘It’s over—they’re coming out!’
If Eliza
Millward had seen me then she might indeed have been delighted. I grasped
the gate-post for support, and stood intently gazing towards the door to take
my last look on my soul’s delight, my first on that detested mortal who had
torn her from my heart, and doomed her, I was certain, to a life of misery and
hollow, vain repining—for what happiness could she enjoy with him? I did
not wish to shock her with my presence now, but I had not power to move
away. Forth came the bride and bridegroom. Him I saw not; I had
eyes for none but her. A long veil shrouded half her graceful form, but
did not hide it; I could see that while she carried her head erect, her eyes
were bent upon the ground, and her face and neck were suffused with a crimson
blush; but every feature was radiant with smiles, and gleaming through the
misty whiteness of her veil were clusters of golden ringlets! Oh,
heavens! it was not my Helen! The first glimpse made me start—but my eyes
were darkened with exhaustion and despair. Dare I trust them? ‘Yes—it
is not she! It was a younger, slighter, rosier beauty—lovely indeed, but
with far less dignity and depth of soul—without that indefinable grace, that
keenly spiritual yet gentle charm, that ineffable power to attract and
subjugate the heart—my heart at least. I looked at the bridegroom—it was
Frederick Lawrence! I wiped away the cold drops that were trickling down
my forehead, and stepped back as he approached; but, his eyes fell upon me, and
he knew me, altered as my appearance must have been.
‘Is that
you, Markham?’ said he, startled and confounded at the apparition—perhaps, too,
at the wildness of my looks.
‘Yes,
Lawrence; is that you?’ I mustered the presence of mind to reply.
He smiled
and coloured, as if half-proud and half-ashamed of his identity; and if he had
reason to be proud of the sweet lady on his arm, he had no less cause to be
ashamed of having concealed his good fortune so long.
‘Allow me
to introduce you to my bride,’ said he, endeavouring to hide his embarrassment
by an assumption of careless gaiety. ‘Esther, this is Mr. Markham; my
friend Markham, Mrs. Lawrence, late Miss Hargrave.’
I bowed to
the bride, and vehemently wrung the bridegroom’s hand.
‘Why did
you not tell me of this?’ I said, reproachfully, pretending a resentment I did
not feel (for in truth I was almost wild with joy to find myself so happily
mistaken, and overflowing with affection to him for this and for the base
injustice I felt that I had done him in my mind—he might have wronged me, but
not to that extent; and as I had hated him like a demon for the last forty
hours, the reaction from such a feeling was so great that I could pardon all
offences for the moment—and love him in spite of them too).
‘I did
tell you,’ said he, with an air of guilty confusion; ‘you received my letter?’
‘What
letter?’
‘The one
announcing my intended marriage.’
‘I never
received the most distant hint of such an intention.’
‘It must
have crossed you on your way then—it should have reached you yesterday
morning—it was rather late, I acknowledge. But what brought you here,
then, if you received no information?’
It was now
my turn to be confounded; but the young lady, who had been busily patting the
snow with her foot during our short sotto-voce colloquy, very opportunely came
to my assistance by pinching her companion’s arm and whispering a suggestion
that his friend should be invited to step into the carriage and go with them;
it being scarcely agreeable to stand there among so many gazers, and keeping
their friends waiting into the bargain.
‘And so cold
as it is too!’ said he, glancing with dismay at her slight drapery, and
immediately handing her into the carriage. ‘Markham, will you come?
We are going to Paris, but we can drop you anywhere between this and Dover.’
‘No, thank
you. Good-by—I needn’t wish you a pleasant journey; but I shall expect a
very handsome apology, some time, mind, and scores of letters, before we meet
again.’
He shook
my hand, and hastened to take his place beside his lady. This was no time
or place for explanation or discourse: we had already stood long enough to
excite the wonder of the village sight-seers, and perhaps the wrath of the
attendant bridal party; though, of course, all this passed in a much shorter
time than I have taken to relate, or even than you will take to read it.
I stood beside the carriage, and, the window being down, I saw my happy friend
fondly encircle his companion’s waist with his arm, while she rested her
glowing cheek on his shoulder, looking the very impersonation of loving,
trusting bliss. In the interval between the footman’s closing the door
and taking his place behind she raised her smiling brown eyes to his face,
observing, playfully,—‘I fear you must think me very insensible, Frederick: I
know it is the custom for ladies to cry on these occasions, but I couldn’t
squeeze a tear for my life.’
He only
answered with a kiss, and pressed her still closer to his bosom.
‘But what
is this?’ he murmured. ‘Why, Esther, you’re crying now!’
‘Oh, it’s
nothing—it’s only too much happiness—and the wish,’ sobbed she, ‘that our dear
Helen were as happy as ourselves.’
‘Bless you
for that wish!’ I inwardly responded, as the carriage rolled away—‘and heaven
grant it be not wholly vain!’
I thought
a cloud had suddenly darkened her husband’s face as she spoke. What did
he think? Could he grudge such happiness to his dear sister and his
friend as he now felt himself? At such a moment it was impossible.
The contrast between her fate and his must darken his bliss for a time.
Perhaps, too, he thought of me: perhaps he regretted the part he had had in
preventing our union, by omitting to help us, if not by actually plotting
against us. I exonerated him from that charge now, and deeply lamented my
former ungenerous suspicions; but he had wronged us, still—I hoped, I trusted
that he had. He had not attempted to cheek the course of our love by
actually damming up the streams in their passage, but he had passively watched
the two currents wandering through life’s arid wilderness, declining to clear
away the obstructions that divided them, and secretly hoping that both would
lose themselves in the sand before they could be joined in one. And
meantime he had been quietly proceeding with his own affairs; perhaps, his
heart and head had been so full of his fair lady that he had had but little
thought to spare for others. Doubtless he had made his first acquaintance
with her—his first intimate acquaintance at least—during his three months’ sojourn
at F—, for I now recollected that he had once casually let fall an intimation
that his aunt and sister had a young friend staying with them at the time, and
this accounted for at least one-half his silence about all transactions
there. Now, too, I saw a reason for many little things that had slightly
puzzled me before; among the rest, for sundry departures from Woodford, and
absences more or less prolonged, for which he never satisfactorily accounted,
and concerning which he hated to be questioned on his return. Well might
the servant say his master was ‘very close.’ But why this strange reserve
to me? Partly, from that remarkable idiosyncrasy to which I have before
alluded; partly, perhaps, from tenderness to my feelings, or fear to disturb my
philosophy by touching upon the infectious theme of love.
To be concluded
