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 way 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.
|