The Tenant of Wildfell Hall (Penguin Classics)

by Brontë, Anne

  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 balked 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 farther 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.
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br />   ‘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.

  CHAPTER 46

  FRIENDLY COUNSELS

  I felt strongly tempted, at times, to enlighten my mother and sister on the real character and circumstances of the persecuted tenant of Wildfell Hall; and at first I greatly regretted having omitted to ask that lady’s permission to do so; but, on due reflection, I considered that if it were known to them, it could not long remain a secret to the Millwards and Wilsons, and such was my present appreciation of Eliza Millward’s disposition, that, if once she got a clue to the story, I should fear she would soon find means to enlighten Mr Huntingdon upon the place of his wife’s retreat. I would therefore wait patiently till these weary six months were over, and then, when the fugitive had found another home, and I was permitted to write to her, I would beg to be allowed to clear her name from these vile calumnies: at present I must content myself with simply asserting that I knew them to be false, and would prove it some day, to the shame of those who slandered her. I don’t think anybody believed me: but everybody soon learned to avoid insinuating a word against her, or even mentioning her name in my presence. They thought I was so madly infatuated by the seductions of that unhappy lady that I was determined to support her in the very face of reason; and meantime I grew insupportably morose and misanthropical from the idea that everyone I met was harbouring unworthy thoughts of the supposed Mrs Graham, and would express them if he dared. My poor mother was quite distressed about me; but I couldn’t help it – at least I thought I could not; though sometimes I felt a pang of remorse for my undutiful conduct to her, and made an effort to amend, attended with some partial success – and indeed I was generally more humanized in my demeanour to her than to anyone else, Mr Lawrence excepted. Rose and Fergus usually shunned my presence; and it was well they did, for I was not fit company for them, nor they for me, under the present circumstances.

  Mrs Huntingdon did not leave Wildfell Hall till above two months after our farewell interview. During that time she never appeared at church, and I never went near the house: I only knew she was still there by her brother’s brief answers to my many and varied enquiries respecting her. I was a very constant and attentive visitor to him throughout the whole period of his illness and convalescence; not only from the interest I took in his recovery, and my desire to cheer him up and make the utmost possible amends for my former ‘brutality,’ but from my growing attachment to himself, and the increasing pleasure I found in his society – partly, from his increased cordiality to me, but chiefly on account of his close connection – both in blood and in affection – with my adored Helen. I loved him for it better than I liked to express; and I took a secret delight in pressing those slender, white fingers, so marvellously like her own, considering he was not a woman, and in watching the passing changes in his fair, pale features, and observing the intonations of his voice – detecting resemblances which I wondered had never struck me before. He provoked me at times, indeed, by his evident reluctance to talk to me about his sister, though I did not question the friendliness of his motives in wishing to discourage my remembrance of her.

  His recovery was not quite so rapid as he had expected it to be: he was not able to mount his pony till a fortnight after the date of our reconciliation; and the first use he made of his returning strength, was to ride over by night to Wildfell Hall, to see his sister. It was a hazardous enterprise both for him and for her, but he thought it necessary to consult with her on the subject of her projected departure, if not to calm her apprehensions respecting his health, and the worst result was a slight relapse of his illness; for no one knew of the visit, but the inmates of the old Hall – except myself, and I believe it had not been his intention to mention it to me, for when I came to see him the next day, and observed he was not so well as he ought to have been, he merely said he had caught cold by being out too late in the evening.

  ‘You’ll never be able to see your sister, if you don’t take care of yourself,’ said I, a little provoked at the circumstance on her account, instead of commiserating him.

  ‘I’ve seen her already,’ said he, quietly.

  ‘You’ve seen her!’ cried I, in astonishment.

  ‘Yes.’ And then he told me what considerations had impelled him to make the venture, and with what precautions he had made it.

  ‘And how was she?’ I eagerly asked.

  ‘As usual,’ was the brief though sad reply.

  ‘As usual – that is, far from happy and far from strong.’

  ‘She is not positively ill,’ returned he; ‘and she will recover her spirits in a while I have no doubt – but so many trials have been almost too much for her. How threatening those clouds look!’ continued he, turning towards the window. ‘We shall have thunder showers before night, I imagine; and they are just in the midst of stacking my corn. Have you got yours all in yet?’

  ‘No. – And Lawrence, did she – did your sister mention me?’

  ‘She asked if I had seen you lately.’

  ‘And what else did she say?’

  ‘I cannot tell you all she said,’ replied he with a slight smile, ‘for we talked a good deal, though my stay was but short; but our conversation was chiefly on the subject of her intended departure, which I begged her to delay till I was better able to assist her in her search after another home.’

  ‘But did she say no more about me?’

  ‘She did not say much about you, Markham. I should not have encouraged her to do so, had she been inclined; but happily she was not she only asked a few questions concerning you, and seemed satisfied with my brief answers; wherein she showed herself wiser than her friend – and I may tell you too, that she seemed to be far more anxious lest you should think too much of her, than lest you should forget her.’

  ‘She was right.’

  ‘But I fear your anxiety is quite the other way, respecting her.’

  ‘No, it is not: I wish her to be happy; but I don’t wish her to forget me altogether. She knows it is impossible that I should forget her; and she is right to wish me not to remember her too well. I should not desire her to regret me too deeply; but I can scarcely imagine she will make herself very unhappy about me, because I know I am not worthy of it, except in my appreciation of her.’

  ‘You are neither of you worthy of a broken heart, – nor of all the sighs, and tears, and sorrowful thoughts that have been, and I fear will be wasted upon you both; but at present, each has a more exalted opinion of the other than, I fear, he or she deserves; and my sister’s feelings are naturally full as keen as yours, and I believe more constant; but she has the good sense and fortitude to strive against them in this particular; and I trust she will not rest till she has entirely weaned her thoughts –’ he hesitated.

  ‘From me,’ said I.

  ‘And I wish you would make the like exertions,’ continued he.

  ‘Did she tell you that that was her intention?’

  ‘No; the question was not broached between us: there was no necessity for it, for I had no doubt that such was her determination.’

  ‘To forget me?’

  ‘Yes Markham! Why not?’

  ‘Oh! well,’ was my only audible reply; but I internally answered, –’No, Lawrence, you’re wrong there, she is not determined to forget me. It would be wrong to forget one so
deeply and fondly devoted to her, who can so thoroughly appreciate her excellencies and sympathize with all her thoughts as I can do, and it would be wrong in me to forget so excellent and divine a piece of God’s creation as she, when I have once so truly loved and known her.’ But I said no more to him on that subject. I instantly started a new topic of conversation, and soon took leave of my companion, with a feeling of less cordiality towards him than usual. Perhaps I had no right to be annoyed at him, but I was so nevertheless.

  In little more than a week after this, I met him returning from a visit to the Wilsons; and I now resolved to do him a good turn, though at the expense of his feelings, and, perhaps, at the risk of incurring that displeasure which is so commonly the reward of those who give disagreeable information or tender their advice unasked. In this, believe me, I was actuated by no motives of revenge for the occasional annoyances I had lately sustained from him, – nor yet by any feeling of malevolent enmity towards Miss Wilson, but purely by the fact that I could not endure that such a woman should be Mrs Huntingdon’s sister, and that, as well for his own sake as for hers, I could not bear to think of his being deceived into a union with one so unworthy of him, and so utterly unfitted to be the partner of his quiet home, and the companion of his life. He had had uncomfortable suspicions on that head himself, I imagined, but such was his inexperience, and such were the lady’s powers of attraction and her skill in bringing them to bear upon his young imagination, that they had not disturbed him long, and I believe the only effectual causes of the vacillating indecision that had preserved him hitherto from making an actual declaration of love, was the consideration of her connections, and especially of her mother, whom he could not abide. Had they lived at a distance, he might have surmounted the objection, but within two or three miles of Woodford, it was really no light matter.