Chương Chương 50 · Chapter L Doubts and Disappointments

. Chapter L Doubts and Disappointments

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 mésalliance; 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 may 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.