CHAPTER XLVII

The Tenent of Windfell Hall

by Anne Bronte

CHAPTER XLVII, THE TENENT OF WINDFELL HALL by Anne Bronte
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One morning, about the beginning of November, while I was inditing
some business letters, shortly after breakfast, Eliza Millward came
to call upon my sister. Rose had neither the discrimination nor
the virulence to regard the little demon as I did, and they still
preserved their former intimacy. At the moment of her arrival,
however, there was no one in the room but Fergus and myself, my
mother and sister being both of them absent, 'on household cares
intent'; but I was not going to lay myself out for her amusement,
whoever else might so incline: I merely honoured her with a
careless salutation and a few words of course, and then went on
with my writing, leaving my brother to be more polite if he chose.
But she wanted to tease me.

'What a pleasure it is to find you at home, Mr. Markham!' said she,
with a disingenuously malicious smile. 'I so seldom see you now,
for you never come to the vicarage. Papa, is quite offended, I can
tell you,' she added playfully, looking into my face with an
impertinent laugh, as she seated herself, half beside and half
before my desk, off the corner of the table.

'I have had a good deal to do of late,' said I, without looking up
from my letter.

'Have you, indeed! Somebody said you had been strangely neglecting
your business these last few months.'

'Somebody said wrong, for, these last two months especially, I have
been particularly plodding and diligent.'

'Ah! well, there's nothing like active employment, I suppose, to
console the afflicted; - and, excuse me, Mr. Markham, but you look
so very far from well, and have been, by all accounts, so moody and
thoughtful of late, - I could almost think you have some secret
care preying on your spirits. Formerly,' said she timidly, 'I
could have ventured to ask you what it was, and what I could do to
comfort you: I dare not do it now.'

'You're very kind, Miss Eliza. When I think you can do anything to
comfort me, I'll make bold to tell you.'

'Pray do! - I suppose I mayn't guess what it is that troubles you?'

'There's no necessity, for I'll tell you plainly. The thing that
troubles me the most at present is a young lady sitting at my
elbow, and preventing me from finishing my letter, and, thereafter,
repairing to my daily business.'

Before she could reply to this ungallant speech, Rose entered the
room; and Miss Eliza rising to greet her, they both seated
themselves near the fire, where that idle lad Fergus was standing,
leaning his shoulder against the corner of the chimney-piece, with
his legs crossed and his hands in his breeches-pockets.

'Now, Rose, I'll tell you a piece of news - I hope you have not
heard it before: for good, bad, or indifferent, one always likes
to be the first to tell. It's about that sad Mrs. Graham - '

'Hush-sh-sh!' whispered Fergus, in a tone of solemn import. '"We
never mention her; her name is never heard."' And glancing up, I
caught him with his eye askance on me, and his finger pointed to
his forehead; then, winking at the young lady with a doleful shake
of the head, be whispered - 'A monomania - but don't mention it -
all right but that.'

'I should be sorry to injure any one's feelings,' returned she,
speaking below her breath. 'Another time, perhaps.'

'Speak out, Miss Eliza!' said I, not deigning to notice the other's
buffooneries: 'you needn't fear to say anything in my presence.'

'Well,' answered she, 'perhaps you know already that Mrs. Graham's
husband is not really dead, and that she had run away from him?' I
started, and felt my face glow; but I bent it over my letter, and
went on folding it up as she proceeded. 'But perhaps you did not
know that she is now gone back to him again, and that a perfect
reconciliation has taken place between them? Only think,' she
continued, turning to the confounded Rose, 'what a fool the man
must be!'

'And who gave you this piece of intelligence, Miss Eliza?' said I,
interrupting my sister's exclamations.

'I had it from a very authentic source.'

'From whom, may I ask?'

'From one of the servants at Woodford.'

'Oh! I was not aware that you were on such intimate terms with Mr.
Lawrence's household.'

'It was not from the man himself that I heard it, but he told it in
confidence to our maid Sarah, and Sarah told it to me.'

'In confidence, I suppose? And you tell it in confidence to us?
But I can tell you that it is but a lame story after all, and
scarcely one-half of it true.'

While I spoke I completed the sealing and direction of my letters,
with a somewhat unsteady hand, in spite of all my efforts to retain
composure, and in spite of my firm conviction that the story was a
lame one - that the supposed Mrs. Graham, most certainly, had not
voluntarily gone back to her husband, or dreamt of a
reconciliation. Most likely she was gone away, and the tale-
bearing servant, not knowing what was become of her, had
conjectured that such was the case, and our fair visitor had
detailed it as a certainty, delighted with such an opportunity of
tormenting me. But it was possible - barely possible - that some
one might have betrayed her, and she had been taken away by force.
Determined to know the worst, I hastily pocketed my two letters,
and muttered something about being too late for the post, left the
room, rushed into the yard, and vociferously called for my horse.
No one being there, I dragged him out of the stable myself,
strapped the saddle on to his back and the bridle on to his head,
mounted, and speedily galloped away to Woodford. I found its owner
pensively strolling in the grounds.

'Is your sister gone?' were my first words as I grasped his hand,
instead of the usual inquiry after his health.

'Yes, she's gone,' was his answer, so calmly spoken that my terror
was at once removed.

'I suppose I mayn't know where she is?' said I, as I dismounted,
and relinquished my horse to the gardener, who, being the only
servant within call, had been summoned by his master, from his
employment of raking up the dead leaves on the lawn, to take him to
the stables.

My companion gravely took my arm, and leading me away to the
garden, thus answered my question, - 'She is at Grassdale Manor, in
-shire.'

'Where?' cried I, with a convulsive start.

'At Grassdale Manor.'

'How was it?' I gasped. 'Who betrayed her?'

'She went of her own accord.'

'Impossible, Lawrence! She could not be so frantic!' exclaimed I,
vehemently grasping his arm, as if to force him to unsay those
hateful words.

'She did,' persisted he in the same grave, collected manner as
before; 'and not without reason,' he continued, gently disengaging
himself from my grasp. 'Mr. Huntingdon is ill.'

'And so she went to nurse him?'

'Yes.'

'Fool!' I could not help exclaiming, and Lawrence looked up with a
rather reproachful glance. 'Is he dying, then?'

'I think not, Markham.'

'And how many more nurses has he? How many ladies are there
besides to take care of him?'

'None; he was alone, or she would not have gone.'

'Oh, confound it! This is intolerable!'

'What is? That he should be alone?'

I attempted no reply, for I was not sure that this circumstance did
not partly conduce to my distraction. I therefore continued to
pace the walk in silent anguish, with my hand pressed to my
forehead; then suddenly pausing and turning to my companion, I
impatiently exclaimed, 'Why did she take this infatuated step?
What fiend persuaded her to it?'

'Nothing persuaded her but her own sense of duty.'

'Humbug!'

'I was half inclined to say so myself, Markham, at first. I assure
you it was not by my advice that she went, for I detest that man as
fervently as you can do, - except, indeed, that his reformation
would give me much greater pleasure than his death; but all I did
was to inform her of the circumstance of his illness (the
consequence of a fall from his horse in hunting), and to tell her
that that unhappy person, Miss Myers, had left him some time ago.'

'It was ill done! Now, when he finds the convenience of her
presence, he will make all manner of lying speeches and false, fair
promises for the future, and she will believe him, and then her
condition will be ten times worse and ten times more irremediable
than before.'

'There does not appear to be much ground for such apprehensions at
present,' said he, producing a letter from his pocket. 'From the
account I received this morning, I should say - '

It was her writing! By an irresistible impulse I held out my hand,
and the words, 'Let me see it,' involuntarily passed my lips. He
was evidently reluctant to grant the request, but while he
hesitated I snatched it from his hand. Recollecting myself,
however, the minute after, I offered to restore it.

'Here, take it,' said I, 'if you don't want me to read it.'

'No,' replied he, 'you may read it if you like.'

I read it, and so may you.


Grassdale, Nov. 4th.

Dear Frederick, - I know you will be anxious to hear from me, and I
will tell you all I can. Mr. Huntingdon is very ill, but not
dying, or in any immediate danger; and he is rather better at
present than he was when I came. I found the house in sad
confusion: Mrs. Greaves, Benson, every decent servant had left,
and those that were come to supply their places were a negligent,
disorderly set, to say no worse - I must change them again, if I
stay. A professional nurse, a grim, hard old woman, had been hired
to attend the wretched invalid. He suffers much, and has no
fortitude to bear him through. The immediate injuries he sustained
from the accident, however, were not very severe, and would, as the
doctor says, have been but trifling to a man of temperate habits,
but with him it is very different. On the night of my arrival,
when I first entered his room, he was lying in a kind of half
delirium. He did not notice me till I spoke, and then he mistook
me for another.

'Is it you, Alice, come again?' he murmured. 'What did you leave
me for?'

'It is I, Arthur - it is Helen, your wife,' I replied.

'My wife!' said he, with a start. 'For heaven's sake, don't
mention her - I have none. Devil take her,' he cried, a moment
after, 'and you, too! What did you do it for?'

I said no more; but observing that he kept gazing towards the foot
of the bed, I went and sat there, placing the light so as to shine
full upon me, for I thought he might be dying, and I wanted him to
know me. For a long time he lay silently looking upon me, first
with a vacant stare, then with a fixed gaze of strange growing
intensity. At last he startled me by suddenly raising himself on
his elbow and demanding in a horrified whisper, with his eyes still
fixed upon me, 'Who is it?'

'It is Helen Huntingdon,' said I, quietly rising at the same time,
and removing to a less conspicuous position.

'I must be going mad,' cried he, 'or something - delirious,
perhaps; but leave me, whoever you are. I can't bear that white
face, and those eyes. For God's sake go, and send me somebody else
that doesn't look like that!'

I went at once, and sent the hired nurse; but next morning I
ventured to enter his chamber again, and, taking the nurse's place
by his bedside, I watched him and waited on him for several hours,
showing myself as little as possible, and only speaking when
necessary, and then not above my breath. At first he addressed me
as the nurse, but, on my crossing the room to draw up the window-
blinds, in obedience to his directions, he said, 'No, it isn't
nurse; it's Alice. Stay with me, do! That old hag will be the
death of me.'

'I mean to stay with you,' said I. And after that he would call me
Alice, or some other name almost equally repugnant to my feelings.
I forced myself to endure it for a while, fearing a contradiction
might disturb him too much; but when, having asked for a glass of
water, while I held it to his lips, he murmured, 'Thanks, dearest!'
I could not help distinctly observing, 'You would not say so if you
knew me,' intending to follow that up with another declaration of
my identity; but he merely muttered an incoherent reply, so I
dropped it again, till some time after, when, as I was bathing his
forehead and temples with vinegar and water to relieve the heat and
pain in his head, he observed, after looking earnestly upon me for
some minutes, 'I have such strange fancies - I can't get rid of
them, and they won't let me rest; and the most singular and
pertinacious of them all is your face and voice - they seem just
like hers. I could swear at this moment that she was by my side.'

'She is,' said I.

'That seems comfortable,' continued he, without noticing my words;
'and while you do it, the other fancies fade away - but this only
strengthens. - Go on - go on, till it vanishes, too. I can't stand
such a mania as this; it would kill me!'

'It never will vanish,' said I, distinctly, 'for it is the truth!'

'The truth!' he cried, starting, as if an asp had stung him. 'You
don't mean to say that you are really she?'

'I do; but you needn't shrink away from me, as if I were your
greatest enemy: I am come to take care of you, and do what none of
them would do.'

'For God's sake, don't torment me now!' cried he in pitiable
agitation; and then he began to mutter bitter curses against me, or
the evil fortune that had brought me there; while I put down the
sponge and basin, and resumed my seat at the bed-side.

'Where are they?' said he: 'have they all left me - servants and
all?'

'There are servants within call if you want them; but you had
better lie down now and be quiet: none of them could or would
attend you as carefully as I shall do.'

'I can't understand it at all,' said he, in bewildered perplexity.
'Was it a dream that - ' and he covered his eyes with his hands, as
if trying to unravel the mystery.

'No, Arthur, it was not a dream, that your conduct was such as to
oblige me to leave you; but I heard that you were ill and alone,
and I am come back to nurse you. You need not fear to trust me
tell me all your wants, and I will try to satisfy them. There is
no one else to care for you; and I shall not upbraid you now.'

'Oh! I see,' said he, with a bitter smile; 'it's an act of
Christian charity, whereby you hope to gain a higher seat in heaven
for yourself, and scoop a deeper pit in hell for me.'

'No; I came to offer you that comfort and assistance your situation
required; and if I could benefit your soul as well as your body,
and awaken some sense of contrition and - '

'Oh, yes; if you could overwhelm me with remorse and confusion of
face, now's the time. What have you done with my son?'

'He is well, and you may see him some time, if you will compose
yourself, but not now.'

'Where is he?'

'He is safe.'

'Is he here?'

'Wherever he is, you will not see him till you have promised to
leave him entirely under my care and protection, and to let me take
him away whenever and wherever I please, if I should hereafter
judge it necessary to remove him again. But we will talk of that
to-morrow: you must be quiet now.'

'No, let me see him now, I promise, if it must be so.'

'No - '

'I swear it, as God is in heaven! Now, then, let me see him.'

'But I cannot trust your oaths and promises: I must have a written
agreement, and you must sign it in presence of a witness: but not
to-day - to-morrow.'

'No, to-day; now,' persisted he: and he was in such a state of
feverish excitement, and so bent upon the immediate gratification
of his wish, that I thought it better to grant it at once, as I saw
he would not rest till I did. But I was determined my son's
interest should not be forgotten; and having clearly written out
the promise I wished Mr. Huntingdon to give upon a slip of paper, I
deliberately read it over to him, and made him sign it in the
presence of Rachel. He begged I would not insist upon this: it
was a useless exposure of my want of faith in his word to the
servant. I told him I was sorry, but since he had forfeited my
confidence, he must take the consequence. He next pleaded
inability to hold the pen. 'Then we must wait until you can hold
it,' said I. Upon which he said he would try; but then he could
not see to write. I placed my finger where the signature was to
be, and told him he might write his name in the dark, if he only
knew where to put it. But he had not power to form the letters.
'In that case, you must be too ill to see the child,' said I; and
finding me inexorable, he at length managed to ratify the
agreement; and I bade Rachel send the boy.

All this may strike you as harsh, but I felt I must not lose my
present advantage, and my son's future welfare should not be
sacrificed to any mistaken tenderness for this man's feelings.
Little Arthur had not forgotten his father, but thirteen months of
absence, during which he had seldom been permitted to hear a word
about him, or hardly to whisper his name, had rendered him somewhat
shy; and when he was ushered into the darkened room where the sick
man lay, so altered from his former self, with fiercely flushed
face and wildly-gleaming eyes - he instinctively clung to me, and
stood looking on his father with a countenance expressive of far
more awe than pleasure.

'Come here, Arthur,' said the latter, extending his hand towards
him. The child went, and timidly touched that burning hand, but
almost started in alarm, when his father suddenly clutched his arm
and drew him nearer to his side.

'Do you know me?' asked Mr. Huntingdon, intently perusing his
features.

'Yes.'

'Who am I?'

'Papa.'

'Are you glad to see me?'

'Yes.'

'You're not!' replied the disappointed parent, relaxing his hold,
and darting a vindictive glance at me.

Arthur, thus released, crept back to me and put his hand in mine.
His father swore I had made the child hate him, and abused and
cursed me bitterly. The instant he began I sent our son out of the
room; and when he paused to breathe, I calmly assured him that he
was entirely mistaken; I had never once attempted to prejudice his
child against him.

'I did indeed desire him to forget you,' I said, 'and especially to
forget the lessons you taught him; and for that cause, and to
lessen the danger of discovery, I own I have generally discouraged
his inclination to talk about you; but no one can blame me for
that, I think.'

The invalid only replied by groaning aloud, and rolling his head on
a pillow in a paroxysm of impatience.

'I am in hell, already!' cried he. 'This cursed thirst is burning
my heart to ashes! Will nobody -?'

Before he could finish the sentence I had poured out a glass of
some acidulated, cooling drink that was on the table, and brought
it to him. He drank it greedily, but muttered, as I took away the
glass, - 'I suppose you're heaping coals of fire on my head, you
think?'

Not noticing this speech, I asked if there was anything else I
could do for him.

'Yes; I'll give you another opportunity of showing your Christian
magnanimity,' sneered he: 'set my pillow straight, and these
confounded bed-clothes.' I did so. 'There: now get me another
glass of that slop.' I complied. 'This is delightful, isn't it?'
said he with a malicious grin, as I held it to his lips; 'you never
hoped for such a glorious opportunity?'

'Now, shall I stay with you?' said I, as I replaced the glass on
the table: 'or will you be more quiet if I go and send the nurse?'

'Oh, yes, you're wondrous gentle and obliging! But you've driven
me mad with it all!' responded he, with an impatient toss.

'I'll leave you, then,' said I; and I withdrew, and did not trouble
him with my presence again that day, except for a minute or two at
a time, just to see how he was and what he wanted.

Next morning the doctor ordered him to be bled; and after that he
was more subdued and tranquil. I passed half the day in his room
at different intervals. My presence did not appear to agitate or
irritate him as before, and he accepted my services quietly,
without any bitter remarks: indeed, he scarcely spoke at all,
except to make known his wants, and hardly then. But on the
morrow, that is to say, in proportion as he recovered from the
state of exhaustion and stupefaction, his ill-nature appeared to
revive.

'Oh, this sweet revenge!' cried he, when I had been doing all I
could to make him comfortable and to remedy the carelessness of his
nurse. 'And you can enjoy it with such a quiet conscience too,
because it's all in the way of duty.'

'It is well for me that I am doing my duty,' said I, with a
bitterness I could not repress, 'for it is the only comfort I have;
and the satisfaction of my own conscience, it seems, is the only
reward I need look for!'

He looked rather surprised at the earnestness of my manner.

'What reward did you look for?' he asked.

'You will think me a liar if I tell you; but I did hope to benefit
you: as well to better your mind as to alleviate your present
sufferings; but it appears I am to do neither; your own bad spirit
will not let me. As far as you are concerned, I have sacrificed my
own feelings, and all the little earthly comfort that was left me,
to no purpose; and every little thing I do for you is ascribed to
self-righteous malice and refined revenge!'

'It's all very fine, I daresay,' said he, eyeing me with stupid
amazement; 'and of course I ought to be melted to tears of
penitence and admiration at the sight of so much generosity and
superhuman goodness; but you see I can't manage it. However, pray
do me all the good you can, if you do really find any pleasure in
it; for you perceive I am almost as miserable just now as you need
wish to see me. Since you came, I confess, I have had better
attendance than before, for these wretches neglected me shamefully,
and all my old friends seem to have fairly forsaken me. I've had a
dreadful time of it, I assure you: I sometimes thought I should
have died: do you think there's any chance?'

'There's always a chance of death; and it is always well to live
with such a chance in view.'

'Yes, yes! but do you think there's any likelihood that this
illness will have a fatal termination?'

'I cannot tell; but, supposing it should, how are you prepared to
meet the event?'

'Why, the doctor told me I wasn't to think about it, for I was sure
to get better if I stuck to his regimen and prescriptions.'

'I hope you may, Arthur; but neither the doctor nor I can speak
with certainty in such a case; there is internal injury, and it is
difficult to know to what extent.'

'There now! you want to scare me to death.'

'No; but I don't want to lull you to false security. If a
consciousness of the uncertainty of life can dispose you to serious
and useful thoughts, I would not deprive you of the benefit of such
reflections, whether you do eventually recover or not. Does the
idea of death appal you very much?'

'It's just the only thing I can't bear to think of; so if you've
any - '

'But it must come some time,' interrupted I, 'and if it be years
hence, it will as certainly overtake you as if it came to-day, -
and no doubt be as unwelcome then as now, unless you - '

'Oh, hang it! don't torment me with your preachments now, unless
you want to kill me outright. I can't stand it, I tell you. I've
sufferings enough without that. If you think there's danger, save
me from it; and then, in gratitude, I'll hear whatever you like to
say.'

I accordingly dropped the unwelcome topic. And now, Frederick, I
think I may bring my letter to a close. From these details you may
form your own judgment of the state of my patient, and of my own
position and future prospects. Let me hear from you soon, and I
will write again to tell you how we get on; but now that my
presence is tolerated, and even required, in the sick-room, I shall
have but little time to spare between my husband and my son, - for
I must not entirely neglect the latter: it would not do to keep
him always with Rachel, and I dare not leave him for a moment with
any of the other servants, or suffer him to be alone, lest he
should meet them. If his father get worse, I shall ask Esther
Hargrave to take charge of him for a time, till I have reorganised
the household at least; but I greatly prefer keeping him under my
own eye.

I find myself in rather a singular position: I am exerting my
utmost endeavours to promote the recovery and reformation of my
husband, and if I succeed, what shall I do? My duty, of course, -
but how? No matter; I can perform the task that is before me now,
and God will give me strength to do whatever He requires hereafter.
Good-by, dear Frederick.

HELEN HUNTINGDON.


'What do you think of it?' said Lawrence, as I silently refolded
the letter.

'It seems to me,' returned I, 'that she is casting her pearls
before swine. May they be satisfied with trampling them under
their feet, and not turn again and rend her! But I shall say no
more against her: I see that she was actuated by the best and
noblest motives in what she has done; and if the act is not a wise
one, may heaven protect her from its consequences! May I keep this
letter, Lawrence? - you see she has never once mentioned me
throughout - or made the most distant allusion to me; therefore,
there can be no impropriety or harm in it.'

'And, therefore, why should you wish to keep it?'

'Were not these characters written by her hand? and were not these
words conceived in her mind, and many of them spoken by her lips?'

'Well,' said he. And so I kept it; otherwise, Halford, you could
never have become so thoroughly acquainted with its contents.

'And when you write,' said I, 'will you have the goodness to ask
her if I may be permitted to enlighten my mother and sister on her
real history and circumstance, just so far as is necessary to make
the neighbourhood sensible of the shameful injustice they have done
her? I want no tender messages, but just ask her that, and tell
her it is the greatest favour she could do me; and tell her - no,
nothing more. You see I know the address, and I might write to her
myself, but I am so virtuous as to refrain.'

'Well, I'll do this for you, Markham.'

'And as soon as you receive an answer, you'll let me know?'

'If all be well, I'll come myself and tell you immediately.'