บทที่ บทที่ 52 · Chapter LII Fluctuations

. Chapter LII Fluctuations

The tardy gig had overtaken me at last. I entered it, and bade the man

who brought it drive to Grassdale Manor—I was too busy with my own

thoughts to care to drive it myself. I would see Mrs. Huntingdon—there

could be no impropriety in that now that her husband had been dead

above a year—and by her indifference or her joy at my unexpected

arrival I could soon tell whether her heart was truly mine. But my

companion, a loquacious, forward fellow, was not disposed to leave me

to the indulgence of my private cogitations.

“There they go!” said he, as the carriages filed away before us.

“There’ll be brave doings on yonder _to-day_, as what come

to-morra.—Know anything of that family, sir? or you’re a stranger in

these parts?”

“I know them by report.”

“Humph! There’s the best of ’em gone, anyhow. And I suppose the old

missis is agoing to leave after this stir’s gotten overed, and take

herself off, somewhere, to live on her bit of a jointure; and the young

’un—at least the new ’un (she’s none so very young)—is coming down to

live at the Grove.”

“Is Mr. Hargrave married, then?”

“Ay, sir, a few months since. He should a been wed afore, to a widow

lady, but they couldn’t agree over the money: she’d a rare long purse,

and Mr. Hargrave wanted it all to hisself; but she wouldn’t let it go,

and so then they fell out. This one isn’t quite as rich, nor as

handsome either, but she hasn’t been married before. She’s very plain,

they say, and getting on to forty or past, and so, you know, if she

didn’t jump at this hopportunity, she thought she’d never get a better.

I guess she thought such a handsome young husband was worth all ’at

ever she had, and he might take it and welcome, but I lay she’ll rue

her bargain afore long. They say she begins already to see ’at he isn’t

not altogether that nice, generous, perlite, delightful gentleman ’at

she thought him afore marriage—he begins a being careless and masterful

already. Ay, and she’ll find him harder and carelesser nor she thinks

on.”

“You seem to be well acquainted with him,” I observed.

“I am, sir; I’ve known him since he was quite a young gentleman; and a

proud ’un he was, and a wilful. I was servant yonder for several years;

but I couldn’t stand their niggardly ways—she got ever longer and

worse, did missis, with her nipping and screwing, and watching and

grudging; so I thought I’d find another place.”

“Are we not near the house?” said I, interrupting him.

“Yes, sir; yond’s the park.”

My heart sank within me to behold that stately mansion in the midst of

its expansive grounds. The park as beautiful now, in its wintry garb,

as it could be in its summer glory: the majestic sweep, the undulating

swell and fall, displayed to full advantage in that robe of dazzling

purity, stainless and printless—save one long, winding track left by

the trooping deer—the stately timber-trees with their heavy-laden

branches gleaming white against the dull, grey sky; the deep,

encircling woods; the broad expanse of water sleeping in frozen quiet;

and the weeping ash and willow drooping their snow-clad boughs above

it—all presented a picture, striking indeed, and pleasing to an

unencumbered mind, but by no means encouraging to me. There was one

comfort, however,—all this was entailed upon little Arthur, and could

not under any circumstances, strictly speaking, be his mother’s. But

how was she situated? Overcoming with a sudden effort my repugnance to

mention her name to my garrulous companion, I asked him if he knew

whether her late husband had left a will, and how the property had been

disposed of. Oh, yes, he knew all about it; and I was quickly informed

that to her had been left the full control and management of the estate

during her son’s minority, besides the absolute, unconditional

possession of her own fortune (but I knew that her father had not given

her much), and the small additional sum that had been settled upon her

before marriage.

Before the close of the explanation we drew up at the park-gates. Now

for the trial. If I should find her within—but alas! she might be still

at Staningley: her brother had given me no intimation to the contrary.

I inquired at the porter’s lodge if Mrs. Huntingdon were at home. No,

she was with her aunt in ——shire, but was expected to return before

Christmas. She usually spent most of her time at Staningley, only

coming to Grassdale occasionally, when the management of affairs, or

the interest of her tenants and dependents, required her presence.

“Near what town is Staningley situated?” I asked. The requisite

information was soon obtained. “Now then, my man, give me the reins,

and we’ll return to M——. I must have some breakfast at the ‘Rose and

Crown,’ and then away to Staningley by the first coach for ——.”

At M—— I had time before the coach started to replenish my forces with

a hearty breakfast, and to obtain the refreshment of my usual morning’s

ablutions, and the amelioration of some slight change in my toilet, and

also to despatch a short note to my mother (excellent son that I was),

to assure her that I was still in existence, and to excuse my

non-appearance at the expected time. It was a long journey to

Staningley for those slow-travelling days, but I did not deny myself

needful refreshment on the road, nor even a night’s rest at a wayside

inn, choosing rather to brook a little delay than to present myself

worn, wild, and weather-beaten before my mistress and her aunt, who

would be astonished enough to see me without that. Next morning,

therefore, I not only fortified myself with as substantial a breakfast

as my excited feelings would allow me to swallow, but I bestowed a

little more than usual time and care upon my toilet; and, furnished

with a change of linen from my small carpet-bag, well-brushed clothes,

well-polished boots, and neat new gloves, I mounted “The Lightning,”

and resumed my journey. I had nearly two stages yet before me, but the

coach, I was informed, passed through the neighbourhood of Staningley,

and having desired to be set down as near the Hall as possible, I had

nothing to do but to sit with folded arms and speculate upon the coming

hour.

It was a clear, frosty morning. The very fact of sitting exalted aloft,

surveying the snowy landscape and sweet sunny sky, inhaling the pure,

bracing air, and crunching away over the crisp frozen snow, was

exhilarating enough in itself; but add to this the idea of to what goal

I was hastening, and whom I expected to meet, and you may have some

faint conception of my frame of mind at the time—only a _faint_ one,

though, for my heart swelled with unspeakable delight, and my spirits

rose almost to madness, in spite of my prudent endeavours to bind them

down to a reasonable platitude by thinking of the undeniable difference

between Helen’s rank and mine; of all that she had passed through since

our parting; of her long, unbroken silence; and, above all, of her

cool, cautious aunt, whose counsels she would doubtless be careful not

to slight again. These considerations made my heart flutter with

anxiety, and my chest heave with impatience to get the crisis over; but

they could not dim her image in my mind, or mar the vivid recollection

of what had been said and felt between us, or destroy the keen

anticipation of what was to be: in fact, I could not realise their

terrors now. Towards the close of the journey, however, a couple of my

fellow-passengers kindly came to my assistance, and brought me low

enough.

“Fine land this,” said one of them, pointing with his umbrella to the

wide fields on the right, conspicuous for their compact hedgerows,

deep, well-cut ditches, and fine timber-trees, growing sometimes on the

borders, sometimes in the midst of the enclosure: “_very_ fine land, if

you saw it in the summer or spring.”

“Ay,” responded the other, a gruff elderly man, with a drab greatcoat

buttoned up to the chin, and a cotton umbrella between his knees. “It’s

old Maxwell’s, I suppose.”

“It _was_ his, sir; but he’s dead now, you’re aware, and has left it

all to his niece.”

“All?”

“Every rood of it, and the mansion-house and all! every hatom of his

worldly goods, except just a trifle, by way of remembrance, to his

nephew down in ——shire, and an annuity to his wife.”

“It’s strange, sir!”

“It is, sir; and she wasn’t his own niece neither. But he had no near

relations of his own—none but a nephew he’d quarrelled with; and he

always had a partiality for this one. And then his wife advised him to

it, they say: she’d brought most of the property, and it was her wish

that this lady should have it.”

“Humph! She’ll be a fine catch for somebody.”

“She will so. She’s a widow, but quite young yet, and uncommon

handsome: a fortune of her own, besides, and only one child, and she’s

nursing a fine estate for him in ——. There’ll be lots to speak for her!

’fraid there’s no chance for uz”—(facetiously jogging me with his

elbow, as well as his companion)—“ha, ha, ha! No offence, sir, I

hope?”—(to me). “Ahem! I should think she’ll marry none but a nobleman

myself. Look ye, sir,” resumed he, turning to his other neighbour, and

pointing past me with his umbrella, “that’s the Hall: grand park, you

see, and all them woods—plenty of timber there, and lots of game.

Hallo! what now?”

This exclamation was occasioned by the sudden stoppage of the coach at

the park-gates.

“Gen’leman for Staningley Hall?” cried the coachman and I rose and

threw my carpet-bag on to the ground, preparatory to dropping myself

down after it.

“Sickly, sir?” asked my talkative neighbour, staring me in the face. I

daresay it was white enough.

“No. Here, coachman!”

“Thank’ee, sir.—All right!”

The coachman pocketed his fee and drove away, leaving me, not walking

up the park, but pacing to and fro before its gates, with folded arms,

and eyes fixed upon the ground, an overwhelming force of images,

thoughts, impressions crowding on my mind, and nothing tangibly

distinct but this: My love had been cherished in vain—my hope was gone

for ever; I must tear myself away at once, and banish or suppress all

thoughts of her, like the remembrance of a wild, mad dream. Gladly

would I have lingered round the place for hours, in the hope of

catching at least one distant glimpse of her before I went, but it must

not be—I must not suffer her to see me; for what could have brought me

hither but the hope of reviving her attachment, with a view hereafter

to obtain her hand? And could I bear that she should think me capable

of such a thing?—of presuming upon the acquaintance—the _love_, if you

will—accidentally contracted, or rather forced upon her against her

will, when she was an unknown fugitive, toiling for her own support,

apparently without fortune, family, or connections; to come upon her

now, when she was reinstated in her proper sphere, and claim a share in

her prosperity, which, had it never failed her, would most certainly

have kept her unknown to me for ever? And this, too, when we had parted

sixteen months ago, and she had expressly forbidden me to hope for a

re-union in this world, and never sent me a line or a message from that

day to this. No! The very idea was intolerable.

And even if she should have a lingering affection for me still, ought I

to disturb her peace by awakening those feelings? to subject her to the

struggles of conflicting duty and inclination—to whichsoever side the

latter might allure, or the former imperatively call her—whether she

should deem it her duty to risk the slights and censures of the world,

the sorrow and displeasure of those she loved, for a romantic idea of

truth and constancy to me, or to sacrifice her individual wishes to the

feelings of her friends and her own sense of prudence and the fitness

of things? No—and I would not! I would go at once, and she should never

know that I had approached the place of her abode: for though I might

disclaim all idea of ever aspiring to her hand, or even of soliciting a

place in her friendly regard, her peace should not be broken by my

presence, nor her heart afflicted by the sight of my fidelity.

“Adieu then, dear Helen, forever! Forever adieu!”

So said I—and yet I could not tear myself away. I moved a few paces,

and then looked back, for one last view of her stately home, that I

might have its outward form, at least, impressed upon my mind as

indelibly as her own image, which, alas! I must not see again—then

walked a few steps further; and then, lost in melancholy musings,

paused again and leant my back against a rough old tree that grew

beside the road.