CHAPTER L

The Tenent of Windfell Hall

by Anne Bronte

CHAPTER L, THE TENENT OF WINDFELL HALL by Anne Bronte
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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.