CHAPTER XIX Though Mr. Lawrence's health was now quite re-established, my visits to Woodford was as unremitting as ever, though often less protracted than before. We seldom talked about Mrs. Huntingdon, but yet we never met without mentioning her, for I never sought his company but with the hope of hearing something about her, and he never sought mine at all, because he saw me often enough without. But I always began to talk of other things, and waited first to see if he would introduce the subject. If he did not, I would casually ask, have you heard from your sister lately? If he said no, the merbous dropped. If he said yes, I would venture to inquire, how is she? But never, how is her husband, though I might be burning to know. Because I had not hypocrisied professed any anxiety for his recovery, and I had not faced to express any desire for contrary result, and I any such desire. I fear I must plead guilty, but since you have heard my confession, you must hear my justification as well. A few of the excuses, at least, were with I sought to pacify my own accusing conscience. In first place, you see, his life did harm to others, and eventually no good to himself, and though I wished it to terminate, I would not have hastened its close, if, by the lifting of a finger, I could have done so, or if a spirit had whispered in my ear that a single effort of the will would be enough. Unless, indeed, I had the power to exchange him for some other victim of the grave, whose life might be of service to his race, and whose death would be lamented by his friends. But was there any harm in wishing that, among many thousands, whose souls would certainly be required of them before the year was over, this wretched mortal might be one? I thought not, and therefore I wished it all my heart that it might please heaven to remove him to a better world, or, if that might not be, still to take him out of this. For if he were unfit to answer at summons now, after a warning sickness, and with such an angel by his side, it seemed but too certain that he never would be. That on the contrary, returning else would bring returning lust and villainy, and, as he grew more certain of recovery, more accustomed to a generous goodness, his feelings would become more callous, his heart more flinty and impervious to your persuavy arguments. But God knew best. Meantime, however, I could not but be anxious for the result of his degrees, knowing, as I did, that, leaving myself entirely out of question, however Ellen might feel interested in her husband's welfare, however she might deplore his fate, still while he lived she must be miserable. A fortnight passed away, and my inquiries were always answered in the negative. At length a welcome, yes, drew for me the second question. Lawrence divine my anxious thoughts, and appreciated my reserve. I feared at first he was going to torture me by unsatisfactory replies, and either leave me quite in the dark concerning what I wanted to know, or force me to drag the information out of him, morsel by morsel, by direct inquiries. And so we write, you will say. But he was more merciful, and in a little while he put his sister's letter into my hand. I silently read it, and restored it to him without comment or remark. This mother procedure suited him so well, that thereafter he always pursued the plan of showing me your letters at once, when inquired after her, if there were any to show. It was so much less trouble than to tell me their contents. And I received such confidence so quietly and discreetly that he was never induced to discontinue them. But I devoured those precious letters in my eyes, and never let them go till their contents were stamped upon my mind, and when I got home the most important passages were entered in my diary among remarkable events of the day. The first of these communications brought intelligence of a serious relapse in Mr. Antidan's illness, in Charlie the result of his own infatuation in persisting in the indulgence of his appetite for stimulating drink. In vain had she remonstrated. In vain she had mingled his wine with water. Her arguments and entreaties were nuisance. Her interference was an insult so insurable that, at length, unfinding, she had covertly diluted the pale port that was brought him. He threw the bottle out of window, swearing he would not be cheated like a baby, ordered a butler, on pain of instant dismissal, to bring a bottle of strongest wine in sailor, and the firm that he should have been well long ago if he had been led to have his own way. But she wanted to heap him weak in order that she might have him under her thumb. But, by the Lord Harry, he would have no more humbug, seized the glass in one hand and the bottle in the other, and never rested till he had drunk it dry. Alarming symptoms were the immediate result of this imprudence, as she mildly termed it. Symptoms which had rather increased than diminished since. And this was the cause of her delay in writing to her brother. Every former feature of his melody had returned it augmented violence. The slight external wound, half healed, had broken out afresh. Internal inflammation had taken place, which might terminate fatally if not soon removed. Of course, the wretched, sufferer's temper was not improved by this calamity. In fact, I suspect it was well nighting-supportable, though his kind nerve did not complain. But she said she had been obliged at last to give her son in charge to Esther Hargrave, as her presence was so constantly required in the sick room that she could not possibly attend to him herself. And though the child had begged to be allowed to continue with her there, and to help her to nurse his papa, and though she had no doubt he would have been very good and quiet, she could not think of subjecting his young and tender feelings to the sight of so much suffering. Or of allowing him to witness his father's impatience, or hear the dreadful language he was one to use in his paroxysm of pain or irritation. Later continued she. Most typically regrets the step that this occasion is relapsed. But as usual, he throws blame upon me. If I had reasoned with him like a rational creature, he says, it never would have happened. But to be treated like a baby or a fool was enough to put any man past his patience, and drive him to assert his independence even at sacrifice of his own interests. He forgets how often I had reasoned him past his patience before. He appears to be sensible of his danger, but nothing can induce him to behold it in the proper light. The other night, while I was waiting on him, and just as I had brought him a drop to his watch, his burning thirst, he observed, with the return of his former sarcastic bitterness, Yes, you're my tea-attentive now. I suppose there's nothing you wouldn't do for me now. You know, said I, a little surprised at this manner, that I am willing to do anything I can do to relieve you. Yes, now, my immaculate angel. But when once you have secured your reward, and find yourself safe in heaven, and me howling in hellfire, catch you lifting a finger to serve me then. No, you look complacently on, and not so much to dip the tip of your finger in water to cool my tongue. If so, it'll be because of the great gulf over which I cannot pass. And if I could look complacently on in such a case, it'll be only from the assurance that you were being purified from your sins, and feel it to enjoy the happen as I felt. But are you the human Arthur, that I shall not meet you in heaven? Hump, what should I do there I should like to know? Indeed, I cannot tell. And I fear it is too certain that your tastes and feelings must be widely altered before you can have any enjoyment there. But do you prefer sinking, without an effort, into the state of torment you picture to yourself? Oh, with solid fable, said he, contemptuously, are you sure, Arthur, are you quite sure? Because if there is any doubt, and if you should find yourself mistaken after all, when it is too late to turn, it would be rather awkward to be sure, said he.  I can't and won't." He added vehemently, as if suddenly struck with the appealing aspect of that terrible event. Helen, you must save me. And he earnestly seized my hand, and looked into my face with such imploring eagerness that my heart bled for him, and I could not speak for tears. The next letter brought intelligence that Melody was fast-increasing, and poor sufferer's horror of death was still more distressing than his impatience of bodily pain. All his friends had not forsaken him, for Mr. Arthur's ly, hearing of his danger, have come to see him from his distant home in the north. His wife had accompanied him, as much for the pleasure of seeing her dear friend, from whom she had been parted so long, as to visit her mother and sister. His hunting done expressed herself glad to see Millicent once more, and pleased to be holder so happy and well. She is now at grove, continued letter, but she often calls to see me. Mr. Hatterly spends much of his time at Arthur's bedside. With more good feeling than I gave him credit for, he evences considerable sympathy for his unhappy friend, and is far more willing than able to comfort him. Sometimes he tries to joke and laugh with him, but that will not do. Sometimes he endeavors to cheer him with talk about old times, and this at one time may serve to divert sufferer from his own sad thoughts. At another, it will only plunge him into deeper melancholy than before. And then Hatterly is confounded, and knows not what to say, unless it be a timid suggestion that a clear argument might be sent for. But Arthur will never consent to that. He knows he has rejected the clear argument's well-meant admonitions with scoffing levity at other times, and cannot remit churning to him for consolation now. Mr. Hatterly sometimes offers his services instead of mine, but Arthur will not let me go. That strange whim still increases, as his strength declines. The fancy to have me always by his side. I hardly ever leave him, except to go into the next room, where I sometimes snatch an hour or so of sleep when he is quiet. But even then the door is left ajar, that he may know me to be within call. I am with him now, while I write, and I fear my occupation annoys him, though I frequently break off to attend to him, and though Mr. Hatterly is also by his side. That gentleman came, as he'd said, to beg a holiday for me, that I might have a run in the park this fine frosty morning, with Millicent and Esther and little Arthur, whom he had driven over to see me. Our poor invalid evidently felt it a heartless position, and would have felt it still more heartless in me to receive to it. I therefore said I would only go and speak to them a minute, and then came back. I did but exchange a few words with them, just outside the portico, inhaling the fresh, breathing hair as I stood, and then, resisting the earnest and eloquent entreaties of all three to stay a little longer, and joined them in a walk round the garden, I tore myself away and returned to my patience. I had not been absent five minutes, but he reproached me bitterly for my levity and neglect. His friend disposed my cause. —Nay-nay, Huntingdon! — said he. You're too hard up on her. She must have food and sleep and mouthful a fresh hair now and then, or she can stand it, I tell you. Look at her, man! She's worn to a shadow already. —What are sufferings to mine? — said poor invalid. —You don't grudge me these attentions, do you, Ellen? —No, Arthur. If I could really serve you by them, I'd give my life to save you if I might. —Would you, indeed? —No. —Most willingly I would. —Ha! That's because you think yourself more fit to die. —There was a painful pause. He was evidently plunging gloomy reflections, but while I pondered for something to say that might benefit without alarming him, utterly, his mind had been pursuing almost the same course, broke silence with, —I say, Huntingdon, I listened for a portion of some sort. If you didn't like to vicar, you know, you could have obscured it or somebody else. —No, none of them can benefit me if she can't. —Was the answer. And the tears got from his eyes as he earnestly exclaimed, —Oh, Ellen, if I listened to you, it never would have come to this. And if I had heard you long ago, —Oh, God, how different it would have been! —Hear me now, then, Arthur, said I, gently pressing his hand. —It's too late now, said he, desplodingly. —And after that another paroxysm of pain came on, and then his mind began to wander, and we feared his death was approaching, but an opiate was administrated. His sufferings began to abate, he gradually became more composed, and at length sank into a kind of slumber. He has been quieter since, and now adversely has left him, expressing a hope that he shall find him better when he calls tomorrow. —Perhaps I may recover, —he replied. —Who knows? —This may have been the crisis. —What do you think, Ellen? Unwilling to depress him, I gave the most cheering answer I could, but still recommended him to prepare for the possibility of what I inly feared was but too certain. But he was determined to hope. Shortly after he relapsed into a kind of dose, but now he groans again. There is a change. Suddenly he called me to his side, with such a strange, excited manner, that I feared he was delirious, but he was not. —That was a crisis, Ellen! —said he delightedly. —I have an infernal pain here. It is quite gone now. I never so easy ceased to fall. Quite gone by heaven. And he clasped and kissed my hand in the very fullness of his heart. But finding I did not participate his joy, he quickly flung it from him and bitterly cursed my coldness and his sensibility. How could I reply? Kneeling beside him, I took his hand and fondly pressed it to my lips for the first time since our separation, and told him, as well as tears would let me speak, that it was not that that kept me silent. It was fear that this sudden cessation of pain was not so favorable a symptom that is supposed. I immediately sent for the doctor. We were now anxiously awaiting him. I will tell you what he says. There is still the same freedom from pain, the same deadness to all sensation where the suffering was most acute. My words' fears are realized, mortification as commenced. The doctor has told him there is no hope. No words can describe his anguish. I can't write no more. The next was still more distressing in the tenor of its contents. The sufferers was fast approaching the solution, dragged almost to the verge of that awful chasm he trembled to contemplate, from which no agony of prayers or tears could save him. Nothing could comfort him now. Out of his rough attempts at consolation were actually in vain. The world was nothing to him. Life and all its interests, its petty cares and transient pleasures were a cruel mockery. To talk of the past was to torture him with vain remorse. To refer to the future was to increase his anguish, and yet to be silent was to leave him upright with only grates and apprehensions. Often he dealt with shuddering minute-ness and fate of his perishing clay. To slow, please smell the solution already inviting his frame. The shroud, the coffin, the dark, lonely grave and all the horrors of corruption. If I try, said his afflicted wife, to divert him from these things, to raise his thoughts to higher themes, it is no better. Worse and worse, he groans. If there be really life beyond the chomping judgment after death, how can I face it? I cannot chew him any good. He will neither be enlightened nor roused nor comforted by anything I say. And yet he clings to me with unrelenting pertinacity with a kind of childish desperation as if I could save him from the fate he dreads. He keeps me night and day beside him. He is holding my left hand now while I write. He has held it thus for hours. Sometimes quietly with his pale face upturned to mine. Sometimes clutching my arm at violence. The big drops starting from his forehead are thoughts of what he sees or thinks he sees before him. If I withdraw my hand for a moment it stresses him. Stay with me, Helen. He says, Let me hold you so. It seems as if harm could not reach me while you are here. But death will come. It is coming. Death will come. It is coming now. Fast, fast. And, oh, if I could believe there was nothing after. Don't try to believe it, Arthur. There is joy and glory after. If you'll but try to reach it. What? For me? He said, With something like a left. Are we not to be judged according to the deeds done in the body? Whereas the use of a proper cherry existence, if a man may spend it as he pleases, just contrariate to God's degrees and then go to heaven or the best. If the violent sinner may win the reward of the holiest saint by merely saying I repent. But if you sincerely repent I can't repent. I only fear. You only regret the past for its consequences to yourself. Just so. Except that I'm sorry to have wronged you, Nell, because you're so good to me. Think of the goodness of God and you cannot but be grieved to have offended him. What is God? I cannot see him or hear him. God is only an idea. God is infinite wisdom and power and goodness and love.  But he only shook his head and sighed. Then, in another paroxysm of showering horror, he chartened his crest with hand and arm, and, groaning and lamenting, still clung to me with that wild desperate earnestness so harrowing to my soul because I know I cannot help him. I did my best to soothe and comfort him. That's so terrible! He cried. I cannot bear it.  If you don't bear it, you'll return to your old ways and be as happy as ever. An old world will go on just as busy and merry as if I had never been, while I... He burst into tears. He didn't let that distress you. I said, we shall all follow you soon enough. I wished God I could take you with me now. He exclaimed, you should plead for me. Or rather, nor make agreements unto God for him. I replied, it costs more to redeem their souls. It cost the blood of an incarnate God, profite and sinless in himself to redeem us from the bondage of the evil one. Let him plead for you. But I seemed to speak in vain. He does not now, as formerly, laugh this blessed truce to score. But still he cannot trust or will not comprehend them. He cannot linger long. He suffers dreadfully and so do those that wait up on him. But I will not arrest you with further details. I have said enough, I think, to convince you that I did well to go to him. Poor, poor Ellen. Dreadful indeed her trust must have been. And I could do nothing to lessen them. Nay, it almost seemed as if I had brought upon her myself my own secret desires. And whether I looked at her husband's sufferings or her own, it seemed almost like a judgment upon myself for having shared such a wish. The next day but one there came another letter. That, too, was put into my hands without remark. And these are its contents. December 5th He is gone at last. I sat beside him all night with my hand fast locked in his, watching the changes of his feature and listening to his failing breath. He had been silent a long time and I thought he would never speak again when he murmured faintly but distinctly. Pray for me, Ellen. I do pray for you every hour and every minute, Arthur, but you must pray for yourself. His lips moved, but he made no sound. Then his looks became unsettled and from the incoherent have uttered words that escaped him from time to time, supposing him to be now unconscious, I gently disengaged my hand from his, intending to still away from breath of air for I was almost ready to faint. But a convulsive movement of fingers and a faintly whispered, don't leave me. Immediately recalled me. I took his hand again and held it till he was no more and then I fainted. It was not grief, it was exhaustion that till then I had been unable successfully to combat. Oh, Frederick! None can imagine the miseries bodily and mental of that deathbed. How could I endure to think that that poor trembling soul was hurried away to everlasting torment? It would drive me mad. But, thank God, I have hope. Not only from a vague dependence on the possibility that penitence and pardon might have reached him at last, but from the blessed confidence that through whatever purging fires the airing spirit may be doomed to pass, whatever fate awaits it, still it is not lost and God, who hate with nothing that he hath made, will bless it in the end. His body will be consigned on Thursday to that dark grave he so much dreaded, but the coffin must be closed as soon as possible. If you'll attend the funeral, come quickly, for I need help. CHAPTER 49 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, aware that he had brought every particle of his suffering 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 that she had not hinted half the sufferings she had to endure. You will go to her, Lawrence, said I 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. In the approving his promptitude I bid 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 mangled with a little sternness and 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 avert 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 Mrs. Huntington 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 kept her silent. She might be only trying to forget, but in addition to this I had a gloomy conviction that the awful realities that 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 tranquility, her cheerfulness even, but never to those feelings which would appear to her henceforth as a fleeting fancy, a vain elusive dream, especially as there was no one to rewind 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. Huntington, 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 constricted 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 look 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 future prospects. And when he did return, all he told me about her was that she had been greatly exhausted and warned 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. I 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 reached her lips, or had 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 adverse 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 frank 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 who suppress my feelings and to 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 quarreled with him on such an occasion. Thus, 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. Huntington and me would be with the world calls a mess alliance, 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. 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 indifference 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 with health and ejected 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 entrusted to her brother that in all probability he would not deliver, and then she would be held 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, until the six months after our parting were fairly past, 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 that I might avail myself of it, at my just appreciation of her generous conduct, and my hope that her health was now completely reestablished, and that she would sometime 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 the hope that he had not forgotten me, and perhaps a few more in reference I had passed in her society, and my unfading recollection of them, which was the salt and solace of my life, and I 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 would 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 acquiries after his sister, if he had lately heard from her 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 was of 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. Huntington had died into state 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 that she was called to sustain another blow in the death of her uncle, a worthless old fellow enough in himself, 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 astaningly to attend the funeral, and told me, upon his return, that she was still there, endeavoring to cheer her aunt with her presence, and likely to remain some time. This was bad news for me, and while she continued there I could not write to her, as I did not know the address, and I would not ask it of him. But week followed week, and every time I inquired about her she was still at standingly. Where is standingly? I asked at last. 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 farewell? was my next question. I don't know. Confound it, I muttered. Why, Mr. Markham, as my companion with an air of innocent surprise, but I did not deign to answer him, saved by a look of silent, sullen contempt, in 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 to my neighbors, and I can afford to laugh at both Lawrence and you. Partly from accident, partly from willful 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 a long time since I saw you, 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, when 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, 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 a company 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 house. It is considerably more frequented now. Lawrence seemed to expect me to take advantage of this circumstance to entrust him with some sort of message to his sister, and I believe he would have undertaken it 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 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 still be 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 standingly, 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 in flickering hope, my varying resolutions, and now to drop it, and now to brussevere, 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. Huntington's death, Lady Lobru eloped with another galaunch to the continent, where, having lived a while in reckless gaiety and dissipation, they quarreled and parted. She went dashing on for a season, but years came, and money went. She sunk, at length, into difficulty and debt, disgrace and misery, and died at last, as I have heard, in penury, neglect, and utter wretchedness. But this might only be 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 misdemeanor immediately sought and obtained a divorce, and, not long after, married again. It was well he did, for Lord Lobru, morose and moody as he seemed, was not the man for a bachelor's life. No public interests, no ambitious projects, or active presuits, 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 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 past 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 parent than his. The lady was about his own age, i.e. between 30 and 40, 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 imagined, combined to render her an excellent mother to the children, an invaluable wife to his lordship. He, with his usual self-deprecation, thought her a world too good for him, and well 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 those 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 of vice and villainy, consorting only with the worst members of his club and the lowest dregs of society, well 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 Huntington 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 profiling tastes, and I need not tell you that Ralph Hattersley Esquire is celebrated throughout the country for his noble breed of horses. End of Chapter 50 of the Tenant of Wildfell Hall Chapter 51 of the Tenant of Wildfell Hall by Anne Bronte This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org This reading by Anne Bronte Chapter 51 of the Tenant of Wildfell Hall by Anne Bronte We will now turn to a certain still, cold, cloudy afternoon about the commencement of December, when the first fall of snow lay thinly scattered over the blighted fields and frozen roads, or stored more thickly in the hollows of the deep cart-ruts and footsteps of men and horses impressed in the now petrified mire of last month's drenching house. I remember it well for I was walking home from the vicarage with no less remarkable a personage than Miss Eliza Millward by my side. I had been to call upon her father, a sacrifice to civility undertaken entirely to please my mother, not myself, for I hated to go near the house, not merely on account of my antipathy to the once so bewitching Eliza, but because I had not half forgiven the old gentleman himself for his ill opinion of Mrs. Huntington. For though now constrained to acknowledge himself mistaken in his former judgment, he still maintained that she had done wrong to leave her husband. It was a violation of her sacred duties as a wife, an attempting of providence by laying herself open to temptation, a nothing short of bodily ill usage, and that of no trifling nature could excuse such a step. Nor even that, for in such a case she ought to appeal to the laws for protection. But it was not of him that I intended to speak. It was of his daughter Eliza. Just as I was taking leave of the vicar, she entered the room, ready equipped for a walk. I was just coming to see your sister, Mr. Markham, said she, and so, if you have no objection, I'll accompany you home. I like company when I'm walking out, don't you?" Yes, when it's agreeable. That, of course, rejoined at the young lady, smiling archly. So we proceeded together. Shall I find Rose at home, do you think? said she, as we closed the garden gate and set our faces towards Lyndon Carr. I believe so. I trust I shall, for I have a little bit of news for her, if you haven't forestalled me. I? Yes, do you know what Mr. Lawrence is gone for? she looked up anxiously for my reply. Is he gone? said I, and her face brightened. Then he hasn't told you about his sister? What of her, I demanded in terror, lest some evil should have befallen her. Oh, Mr. Markham, how you blush, cried she with a tormenting laugh. Ha, ha, you have not forgotten her yet, but you had better be quick about it, I can tell you for. Alas, alas, she's going to be married next Thursday. No, Miss Eliza, that's false. Do you charge me with a false hood, sir? You are misinformed. Am I? Do you know better than? I think I do. What makes you look so pale then? said she, smiling with delight at my emotion.  Well, I only tell the tale as to as told to me. I don't vouch the truth of it, but at the same time I don't see what reason Sarah should have for deceiving me, or her informant for deceiving her, and that was what she told me and told her. What Mrs. Huntington was going to be married on Thursday and Mr. Lawrence was gone to the wedding. She did tell me the name of the gentleman, but I have forgotten that. Perhaps you can assist me to remember it. Is there not someone that lives near or frequently visits the neighbourhood that has been long attached to her? Mr. Oh, dear, Mr. Hargrave suggested I with a bitter smile. You're right, cried she. That was the very name. Impossible, Eliza, I exclaimed in a tone that made her start. Well, you know that's what they told me, she said, composedly staring me in the face. And then she broke out in a long shrill laugh that put me to my wits end with fury. Really, you must excuse me, cried she. I know it's very rude, but ha ha ha! Did you think to marry her yourself? Dear, dear, what a pity! Ha ha ha! Mr. Markham, are you going to faint? Oh, mercy, shall I call this man here? Jacob! But checking the word on her lips, I seized her arm and gave it, I think, a pretty severe squeeze, for she shank into herself with a faint cry of pain or terror. But the spirit within her was not subdued. Instantly rallying, she continued with a well-famed concern. What can I do for you? Will you have some water? Some brandy? I daresay they have some in the public house down there, if you'll let me run. Have done with this nonsense, cried I sternly. She looked confounded, almost frightened again for a moment.  Just indeed! I wasn't justing! You were laughing at all events, and I don't like to be laughed at, returned I, making violent efforts to speak with proper dignity and composure, and to say nothing but what was coherent and sensible. And since you are in such a merry mood, Miss Eliza, you must be good enough company for yourself, and therefore I shall leave you to finish your walk alone, for now I think of it, I have business elsewhere, so good evening. With that I left her, smothering her malicious laughter, and turned aside into the fields, springing up the bank and pushing through the nearest gap in the hedge. Determined at once to prove the truth, or rather the falsehood of her story, I hastened to Woodford as fast as my legs could carry me. First veering round by a circuitous course, the moment I was out of sight of my fair tormentor, cutting away across the country just as a bird might fly over pastureland and fallow and stubble and lane, clearing hedges and ditches and hurdles till I came to the young squire's gates. Never till now had I known the full fervor of my love, the full strength of my hopes not wholly crushed even in my hours of deepest despondency, always tenaciously clinging to the thought that one day she might be mine, or, if not that, at least that something of my memory, some slight remembrance of our friendship and our love would be forever cherished in her heart. I marched up to the door, determined, if I saw the master to question him boldly concerning his sister, to wait and hesitate no longer, but cast false delicacy and stupid pride behind my back and know my fate at once. "'Is Mr. Lawrence at home?' I eagerly asked of the servant that opened the door. "'No, sir. Master went yesterday,' replied he, looking very alert. "'Went where?' "'In Grassdale, sir.' "'Wasn't you aware, sir?' "'He's very close, his master,' said the fellow with the foolish, simpering grin. "'I suppose, sir.' But I turned and left him without waiting to hear what he supposed. I was not going to stand there to expose my tortured feelings to the insolent laughter and impertinent curiosity of a fellow like that. "'But what was to be done now? Could it be possible that she had left me for that man?' I could not believe it. Me, she might forsake, but not off to him. Well, I would know the truth. To know concerns of daily life could I attend while this tempest of doubt and dread, of jealousy and rage, distracted me. I would take the morning coach from L. the evening one would be already gone, and fly to Grassdale, and must be there before the marriage. And why? Because it struck me that perhaps I might prevent it. That if I did not, she and I might both lament it to the latest moment of our lives. And why? Perhaps her brother. Yes, no doubt her brother had persuaded her that I was false and faithless, and taking advantage of her natural indignation, and perhaps her desponding carelessness about her future life, had urged her artfully, cruelly, unto this other marriage, in order to secure her from me. If this was the case, and if she should only discover her mistake when too late to repair it, to what a life of misery and vain regret might she be doomed as I think my foolish scruples had induced it all. Oh, I must see her. She must know my truth, even if I told it at the church door.  Even she might be offended at such an interruption, or at least might tell me it was now too late. But if I could save her, if she might be mine, it was too rapturous a thought. Winged by this hope, and goaded by these fears, I hurried homeworks to prepare for my departure on the morrow. To my mother, that urgent business which omitted no delay, but which I could not then explain, called me away. My deep anxiety and serious preoccupation could not be concealed from her maternal eyes, and I had much adieu to calm her apprehensions of some disastrous mystery. That night there came a heavy fall of snow, which sure retarded the progress of the coaches on the following day that I was almost driven to distraction. I travelled all night, of course, but tomorrow morning, doubtless, the marriage would take place. But the night was long and dark. The snow heavily clogged the wheels and balled the horse's feet. The animals were consumedly lazy. The coachmen most excruably cautious. The passengers confoundedly apathetic in their supine indifference to the rate of our progression. Indeed, instead of assisting me to bully the several coachmen and urge them forward, they merely stared and grinned at my impatience. One fellow even ventured to rally salience him with a look that quelled him for the rest of the journey, and when, at the last stage, I would have taken the reins into my own hand, they all with one accord opposed it. It was broad daylight when we entered and drew up at the rose and crown. I lighted and called aloud for a post-chase to the grass-dale. There was none to be had. The only one in town was under repair. A gig, then, a flight, car, anything! Only be quick! There was a gig, but not a horse to spare. I sent it to the town to seek one, but they were such an intolerable time about it that I could wait no longer. I thought my own feet could carry me sooner. Embitting them said the conveyance after me, if it were ready within an hour, I set off as fast as I could walk. The distance was little more than six miles, but the road was strange, and I had to keep stopping to inquire my way, alluming to carters and clodhoppers and frequently invading the cottages, in the morning.  I had no time to think of them, however, aching with weariness and desperation I hurried on. The gig did not overtake me, and it was well I had not waited for it, vexatious rather, that I had been fool enough to wait so long. I approached the little rural church, but lo, there stood a train of carriages before it. It needed not the white favours bedecking the servants and horses, nor the merry voices of the village idlers assembling to witness the show, to apprise me that there was a wedding within. I ran in among them, demanding, with breathless eagerness, had the ceremony long commenced. They only gaped and stared. In my desperation I pushed past them, and was about to enter the churchyard gate, when I had been hanging like bees to the window, suddenly dropped off and made a rush for the porch, reciprocating in the uncouth dialect of their country, something which signified it's over, they're coming out. If Eliza Melward had seen me then, she might indeed have been delighted. I grasped the gate post for support, and stood intently gazing towards the door to take my last look on my soul's delight, my first on that detested mortal who had torn her from my eye was certain, to a life of misery and hollow vein repining, for what happiness could she enjoy with him? I did not wish to shock her with my presence now, but I had not power to move away. Fourth came the bride and bridegroom. Him I saw not, I had eyes for none but her. A long veil shrouded half her graceful form, but did not hide it. I could see that while she carried her head erect, her eyes were bent upon the ground, and her face and neck were suffused with her, but every feature was radiant with smiles, and, gleaming through the misty whiteness of her veil, were clusters of golden ringlets. O heavens, it was not my Alan! The first glimpse made me start, but my eyes were darken with exhaustion and despair. Dare I trust them? Yes, it is not she. It was a younger, sleighter, rosier beauty, lovely indeed but with far less dignity and depth of soul, without that indefinable grace and keenly spiritual yet gentle charm that ineffable power to attract and subjugate the heart, my heart at least. I looked at the bridegroom. It was Frederick Lawrence. I wiped away the cold drops that were trickling down my forehead and stepped back as he approached, but his eyes fell upon me and he knew me, altered as my appearance must have been. Is that you, Markham? said he, startled and confounded at the apparition. Perhaps, too, at the door. Yes, Lawrence, is that you? I muster the presence of mine to reply. He smiled and colored, as if half proud and half ashamed of his identity, and if he had reason to be proud of the sweet lady on his arm, he had no less cause to be ashamed of having concealed his good fortune for so long. Allow me to introduce you to my bride, said he, endeavouring to hide his embarrassment by assumption of careless gaiting. Esther, this is Mr. Markham. Mrs. Lawrence, late Miss Hargave. I bowed to the bride, and am vehemently wrung the bridegroom's hand. Why did you not tell me of this, I said, reproachfully, pretending a resentment I did not feel? For, in truth, I was almost wild with joy to find myself so happily mistaken, and overflowing with affection to him for this, and for the base injustice I felt that I had done him in my mind. He might have wronged me, but not to that extent, and as I had hated him like a demon for the last forty hours, the reaction from such a feeling was so great that I could pardon all offenses for the moment, and love him in spite of them, too. I did tell you, said he, with an air of guilty confusion, you received my letter. What letter? The one announcing my intended marriage. I never received the most distant hint of such an intention. It must have crossed you on your way, then. It would have reached you yesterday morning. Rather late I acknowledged, but what brought you here, then, if you received no information? It was now my turn to be confounded, but the young lady who had been busily patting the snow with her foot during our short Sotovochi colloquy very opportunely came to my assistance by pinching her companion's arm and whispering a suggestion that his friends should be invited to step into the carriage and go with them. It being scarcely agreeable to stand there among so many gazers, and keeping their friends waiting into the bargain. And so cold as it is, too, said he, glancing with dismay at her slight drapery and immediately handing her into the carriage. Markham, will you come? We are going to Paris, but we can drop you anywhere between this and Dover. No, thank you. Goodbye. I didn't wish you a pleasant journey, but I shall expect a very handsome apology sometime mined and scores of letters before we meet again. He shook my hand, and hastened to take his place beside his lady. This was no time or place for explanation or discourse. We had already stood long enough to excite the wonder of the village sightseers, and perhaps the wrath of the attendant bridal party, though of course all this passed in a much shorter time than I have taken to relate, or even the new will take to read it. I stood beside the carriage, and, the window being down, I saw my happy friend fondly encircle his companion's waist with his arm, while she rested her glowing cheek on his shoulder, looking the very impersonation of loving, trusting bliss. In the interval between the footmen's closing the door taking his place behind, she raised her smiling brown eyes to his face observing playfully. I fear you must think me very insensible, Frederick. I notice the custom for ladies to cry on these occasions, but I couldn't squeeze a tear for my life. He only answered with a kiss, and pressed her still closer to his bosom. But what is this, he murmured, why Esther, you're crying now. Oh, it's nothing. It's only too much happiness. And the wish, sob she, that our dear Helen were as happy as ourselves. Bless you for that wish I inwardly responded as the carriage rolled away, and heaven grant it be not holy vain. I thought a cloud had suddenly darkened her husband's face as she spoke. What did he think? Could he grudge such happiness to his dear sister and his friend as he now felt himself? At such a moment it was impossible. The contrast between her fate and his must darken his bliss for a time. Perhaps, too, he thought of me. Perhaps he regretted the part he had had in preventing our union by omitting to help us if not by actually plotting against us. I exonerated him from that charge now, and deeply lamented my former ungenerous suspicions. But he had wronged us still. I hoped. I trusted that he had. He had not attempted to check the course of our love by actually damning the streams in their passage. He had passively watched the two currents wandering through life's arid wilderness, declining to clear away the obstructions that divided them, and secretly hoping that both would lose themselves in the sand before they could be joined at one. And meantime he had been quietly proceeding with his own affairs.  Doubtless he had made his first acquaintance at least, during his three-month sojourn at F. For I now recollected that he had once casually let fall an intimation that his aunt and sister had a young friend staying with them at the time, and this accounted for at least one half his silence about all transactions there. Now, too, I saw reason for many little things that had slightly puzzled me before, among the rest, for sundry departures from Woodford, and absences more or less prolonged, for which he never satisfactorily accounted, and concerning which he hated to be questioned on his return. Well, might the servant say his master was very close. But why this strange reserve to me? Partly from that remarkable idiosyncrasy to which I have before alluded, partly perhaps from tenderness to my feelings, or fear to disturb my philosophy by touching upon the infectious theme of love. End of Chapter 51 of the Tenant of Wildfell Hall by Anne Bronte. Chapter 52 of the Tenant of Wildfell Hall by Anne Bronte. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This recording by Psuke Berea. Chapter 52 of the Tenant of Wildfell Hall. The tardy gig had overtaken me at last. I entered it, and made 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. Huntington. 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 carriage is filed away before us. They'll be brave do-ins on yonder today as to what come to mara.  I know them by report. There's the best of them gone anyhow, and I suppose the old Mrs. is going to leave after the stirs gotten over and take herself off somewhere to live on her bit of a jointer. No one, she's none so very young, is coming down to live at the grove. Is Mr. Hargrave married, then? I, sir, a few months since. He should have wed a four to a widow-lady, but they couldn't agree over the money. She'd a rare long person. Mr. Hargrave wanted all to himself, but she wouldn't let it go, and so 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, but she's never passed, and so, you know, if she didn't jump at this opportunity, she thought she'd never get a better. I guess she thought such a handsome young husband worth all that she had, and he might take it and welcome, but, alas, she'll rue her bargain for long. They say she begins already to see as he's not altogether that nice, generous, polite, delightful gentleman that she thought him at before marriage. He begins of being careless and masterful already. I, and she'll find him harder and carelesser than ever she thinks on. You seem well acquainted with him, I observed. I am, sir. I've known him since he's kind of young, gentlemen, and proud one he was, and willful. I was a servant yonder for several years, but I couldn't stand their niggerly ways. She got ever longer and worse did misses with her nippin' and screwin' and watchin' and grudgin', so I thought I'd find another place. Are we not near the house? said I, interrupting him. Yes, sir. Yon's the park. My heart sank within me to behold that stately mansion in the midst of its expansive grounds. The park is beautiful now when it's 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 with white against the dull gray sky. The deep and circling 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. How was she situated? Overcoming with a sudden effort, my repugnance to mention her name to my girl's 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. There was no 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 still be at standingly. Her brother had given me no intimation to the contrary. I inquired at the porter's lodge if Mrs. Huntington were home. No, she was with her aunt in Shire, but was expected to return before Christmas. Her husband, standingly, only coming to Grassdale occasionally with management of affairs or the interest of her tenants and dependents, required her presence. Near what town is standingly, is situated, I asked. The requisite information was soon obtained. Now, then, my man, give me the reins and we'll return to him. I must have some breakfast at the Rose and Crown and then await his standingly by the first quote for I had time before the coach for breakfast and to obtain the refreshment of my usual morning's ablutions and the amelioration of some slight change in my toilette and also to dispatch a short note to my mother, excellent son that I was, to assure her that I was still in existence and to excuse my nonappearance at the expected time. It was a long journey to standingly for those slow travelling days, but I did not deny myself needful refreshment on the road that I would decide in, choosing rather to 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 exciting feelings would allow me to swallow, but I bespilled a little more than usual time and care upon my toilette and rushed closed, 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 standingly and having desire to be set down near the halls possible, I had nothing to do but sit with folded arms and speculate upon the coming hour. It was a clear frosty morning, the very act 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 was expected to meet, and you may have some faint consumption 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 in 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 slide again. These considerations made my heart flutter with anxiety, and my chest he 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 temperaturies growing sometimes on the borders, sometimes in the midst of the enclosure. Very fine land if you saw it in the summer or spring. I, respond of 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 to his knees. All? Every root of it in the mansion house and all. Every hatem of his worldly glodes, except for just a trifle by way of remembrance, to his nephew John Chire, 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 quarreled with, and he has always had a partiality for this one. And then his wife advised him to it, and he said, she brought most of the property, and it was her wish that this lady should have it. She'll be a fine catch for somebody. She will so. She's a widow, but quite young yet, an uncommon handsome, a fortune of her own besides, and only one child. And she's nursing a fine estate form in. There'll be lots to speak for her, afraid there's no chance for her as facetiously jogging me with his elbow, as well as his companion. Ha! That's sir, I hope. I think she'd marry none but a nobleman me self. Look at ye, sir, resumed he, returning to his other neighbor, and pointing past me with his umbrella. That's the hall. Grand Park, you see, and all them woods, plenty of timber there, lots of game. Hello! What now? This exclamation was occasioned by the sudden stoppage of the coach at the park gates. Gentlemen, for Stanley Hall cried the coachman, and I rose a carpet bag on to the ground, preparatory to dropping myself down after it. Say, Cleeser, asked my talkative neighbor, staring me in the face. I daresay it was white enough. No. Here, coachman. Thank you, sir. All right. The coachman pocketed his feet 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 gone forever. 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. I must not suffer 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 twirling for her own support, apparently without fortune, family, or connections. To come upon her now when she was reinstated in her proper year, and claim a share in her prosperity which, had it never failed her, would most certainly have kept her unknown to me forever. And this too when we had parted sixteen months ago, and she had expressly forbidden me to hope for a reunion in this world and never sent me a line or 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 which so ever 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 in constancy to me, or to sacrifice her individual wishes to the feelings of her friends and her own sense of prudence and the fitness no, and I would not 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. I do then, dear Helen, forever forever I do. 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 lent my back against a rough old tree that grew beside the road. Chapter 52 of The Tenant of Wildfell Hall Chapter 53 of The Tenant of Wildfell Hall by Anne Bronte This is LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org This recording by Psuke Borea Chapter 53 of The Tenant of Wildfell Hall by Anne Bronte While standing this absorbed in my gloomy reverie a gentleman's carriage came round the corner of the road. I did not look at it, and had it rolled quietly by me I should not have remembered the fact of its appearance at all, but a tiny voice from within it roused me by exclaiming, Mama, Mama, here's Mr. Markham! I did not hear the reply, but presently the same voice answered, It is indeed, Mama, look for yourself! I did not raise my eyes, but I suppose Mama looked for a clear, melodious voice whose tones thrilled through my nerves, exclaimed, O aunt, here's Mr. Markham Arthur's friend, stop, Richard! There was such evidence of joyous, though suppressed excitement in the utterance of those few words. Especially that tremulous O aunt, that it threw me almost off my guard. The carriage stopped immediately, and I looked up and meant the eyes of a pale, grave, elderly lady surveying me from the open window. She bowed, and so did I. And then she withdrew her head while Arthur screamed to the footman to let him out, but before that functionary could descend from his box a hand was silently put forth from the carriage window. I knew that hand, though a black glove concealed its delicate whiteness and half its fair proportions, and quickly seizing it I pressed it in my own, ardently for a moment, but instantly recollecting myself I dropped it, and it was immediately withdrawn.  I came to see the place, faltered I. The place, repeated she, in a tone which betokened more displeasure or disappointment than surprise. Will you not enter it then? If you wish it. Can you doubt? Yes, yes, he must enter, cried Arthur, running round from the other door and seizing my hand in both his he shook it heartily. Do you remember me, sir? said he.  Am I not grown? said he, stretching himself up to his full height. Grown! Three inches upon my word. I was seven last birthday, was the commander, in seven years more I shall be as tall as you nearly. Arthur, said his mother, tell him to come in. Go on, Richard. There was a touch of sadness, as well as coldness in her voice, but I knew not what to ascribe it. The carriage drove on and entered the gates before us. My little companion led me up the park, discoursing merrily all the way. Arrived at the hall door, I paused on the steps and looked round me, to recover my composure if possible, or, at any rate, to remember my new formed resolutions and the principles on which they were founded. And it was not till Arthur had been for some time gently pulling my coat and repeating his invitations to enter, that I, at length, consented to accompany him into the apartment where the ladies awaited us. Helen eyed me as I entered with a kind of gentle, serious scrutiny, and politely asked after Mrs. Markham and Rose. I respectfully answered her inquiries. Mrs. Maxwell begged me to be seated, observing that it was rather cold, but she supposed that I had not travelled far that morning. Not quite twenty miles, I answered. Not on foot! No, madam, by coach. Here's Rachel, sir, said Arthur, the only truly happy one amongst us, directing my attention to that worthy individual who had just entered to take her mistress's things. She vouchsafed me an almost friendly smile of recognition, a favour that demanded, at least, a civil salutation on my part, which was accordingly given and respectfully returned. She had seen the error of her former estimation of my character. When Helen was divested of her legubrious bonnet and veil, her heavy winter cloak, etc., she looked so like herself that I knew not how to bear it. I was particularly glad to see her beautiful black hair unstinted still and concealed in its glossy luxuriance. Mama has left off her widow's cap in honour of Uncle's marriage, observed Arthur, reading my looks with a child's mingled simplicity and quickness of observation. Mama looked grave and Mrs. Maxwell shook her head.  But when he saw that his pertness was seriously displeasing and painful to his aunt, he went and silently put his arm round her neck, reached her cheek, and withdrew to the recess of one of the great bay windows where he quietly amused himself with his dog. While Mrs. Maxwell gravely discussed with me the interesting topics of the weather, the season, and the roads, I considered her presence very useful as a check upon my natural impulses and antidote to those emotions of tumultuous excitement which would otherwise have carried me away against my reason and my will. But just then I felt the restraint almost intolerable and I had the greatest difficulty in forcing myself to attend to her remarks and answer them with ordinary politeness. For I was sensible that Helen was standing within a few feet of me beside the fire. I dared not look at her, but I felt her eye was upon me, and from one hasty furtive glance I thought her cheek was slightly flushed, and that her fingers as she played with her watch-chain were agitated with that restless trembling motion which patokin's high excitement. Tell me, said she, availing herself of the first pause in the attempted conversation between her aunt and me, and speaking fast and low with her eyes bent upon the gold chain, for I now ventured another glance. Tell me how you all are at Linden Hope. Has nothing happened since I left you? I believe not. Nobody dead? Nobody married? No. Or expecting to marry? No old ties dissolved or new ones formed? No old friends forgotten or supplanted? She dropped her voice so low in the last sentence that no one could have caught the concluding words but myself, and at the same time turned her eyes upon me with a dawning smile, most sweetly melancholy and a look of timid though keen inquiry that made my cheeks tingle with inexpressible emotions. I believe not, I answered, certainly not if others are as little as I, her face glowed in sympathy with mine. And you really did not mean to call, she exclaimed. I feared to intrude. To intrude? cried she with an impatient gesture. What but as if suddenly recollecting her aunt's presence she checked herself and turning to that lady continued, why aunt, this man is my brother's close friend and was my own intimate acquaintance, for a few short months at least, and professed great attachment to my boy, and when he passes the house, so many scores of miles from his home, he declines to look in for fear of intruding. Mr. Markham is overmodest, observed Mrs. Maxwell. Over ceremonious, rather, said her niece, over well, it's no matter, and turning from me she seated herself in a chair beside the table and pulling a book to her by the cover began to turn over the leaves in an energetic kind of abstraction. If I had known, said I, that you would have honored me by remembering me as an intimate acquaintance, I most likely should not have denied myself the pleasure of calling upon you, but I thought you had forgotten me long ago. You judged of others by yourself, uttered she, without raising her eyes from the book, but reddening as she spoke and hastily turning over a dozen leaves at once. There was a pause, of which Arthur thought he might venture to avail himself to introduce his handsome daughter and show me how wonderfully it was grown and improved, and to ask after the welfare of its father's son-show. Mrs. Maxwell then withdrew to take off her things. Helen immediately pushed the book from her, and after silently surveying her son, his friend, and his dog for a few moments, she dismissed the former from the room under pretense of wishing him to fetch his last book to show me. The child obeyed with alacrity, but I continued caressing the dog. The silence might have lasted till Esther's return had it depended on me to break it, but in half a minute or less my hostess impatiently rose, and taking her former station on the rug between me and the chimney corner, earnestly exclaimed, Gilbert, what is the matter with you? Why are you so changed? It is a very indiscreet question I know, she hastened to add, and perhaps a very rude one don't answer it if you think so, but I hate mysteries and concealments. I am not changed, Helen. I am as keen and passionate as ever. It is not I, it is circumstances that are changed. What circumstances do tell me? Her cheek was blanched with a very anguish of anxiety. Could it be with the fear that I had rashly pledged my faith to another? I'll tell you it once, said I. I will confess that I came here for the purpose of seeing you, not without some monetary misgivings at my own presumption, and fears that I should be as little welcome to not know that this estate was yours until enlightened on the subject of your inheritance by the conversation of two fellow passengers in the last stage of my journey. And then I saw it once, the folly of the hopes I had cherished, and the badness of retaining them a moment longer, and though I alighted at your gates I determined not to enter within them. I lingered a few minutes to see the place, but was fully resolved to return to me, without seeing its mistress. And if my aunt and I had not been just returning from our morning drive, I should have seen and heard no more of you? I thought it would be better for both that we should not meet, replied I as calmly as I could, but not daring to speak above my breath, from conscious inability to steady my voice, and not daring to look her in the face lest my firmness should forsake me altogether. I thought an interview would only disturb your peace and madden me, but I am glad now of this opportunity of seeing you once more, and knowing that you have not forgotten me, and of assuring you that I shall never cease there was a moment's pause. Mrs. Huntington moved away and stood in the recess of the window. Did she regard this as an intimation that modesty alone prevented me from asking her hand, and was she considering how to repulse me with the smallest injury to my feelings? Before I could speak to relieve her from such a perplexity she broke the silence herself by suddenly turning towards me and observing. You might have had such an opportunity before, as far I mean as regards assuring me recollections and yourself of mine, if you had written to me. I would have done so, but I did not know your address, and did not like to ask your brother, because I thought he would object to my writing. But this would not have deterred me for a moment if I could have ventured to believe you expected to hear from me, or even wasted a thought upon your unhappy friend. But your silence had naturally led me to conclude myself forgotten. Did you expect me to write to you then? No, Helen. Mrs. Huntington, said I, blushing at the implied imputation, certainly not. But if you had sent me a message through your brother, or even asked him about me now and then. I did ask about you frequently. I was not going to do more, continued she smiling, so long as you continued to restrict yourself to a few polite inquiries about my health. Your brother never told me that you had mentioned my name. Did you ever ask him? No, for I saw he did not wish to be questioned about you, or to afford the slightest encouragement or assistance to my two obstinate attachment. Helen did not reply. And he was perfectly right, added I. But she remained in silence, looking out upon the snowy lawn. Oh, I will relieve her of my presence, thought I, and immediately I rose in advance to take leave with the most heroic resolution. But pride was at the bottom of it, or could not have carried me through. Are you going already? said she, taking the hand I offered and not immediately letting it go. Why should I stay any longer? Wait till Arthur comes at least. Only too glad to obey, I stood and lent against the opposite side of the window.  You are. Very much so. No, Mrs. Huntington, I only ought to be. Do you mean to maintain that you have the same regard for me that you had the last we met? I have, but it would be wrong to talk of it now. It was wrong to talk of it then, Gilbert. It would not now, unless to do so would be to violate the truth. I was too much agitated to speak, but without waiting for an answer she turned away her glistening eye and crimson cheek and threw up the window and looked out, whether to calm her own excited feelings or to relieve her embarrassment, or only to pluck that beautiful half-blown Christmas rose that grew upon the little shrub without. Just peeping from the snow that had hitherto no doubt defended it from the frost and was now melting away in the sun, pluck it however she did, and having gently dashed the glittering powder from its leaves, approached it to her lips and said, This rose is not so fragrant as a summer flower, but it has stood through hardships none of them could bear. The cold rain of winter has sufficed to nourish it the faint sun to warm it, the bleak winds have not blanched it or broken its stem, and the keen frost has not blighted it. Look, Gilbert, it is still fresh and blooming as a flower can be, with the cold snow even now on its petals. Well, you have it. I held out my hand. I dared not speak lest my emotion should overmaster me. She laid the rose across my palm, but I scarcely closed my fingers upon it, so deeply was I absorbed in thinking her words, and what I ought to do or say upon the occasion, whether to give way to my feelings or restrain them still. Misconstruing this hesitation into indifference or reluctance even, to accept her gift, Helen suddenly snatched it from my hand, threw it out onto the snow, shut down the window with an emphasis and withdrew to the fire. Helen, what means this? cried I, electrified at the startling change in her demeanor. You did not understand my gift, said she, or what is worse, you despised it. I'm sorry I gave it to you, but since I did make such a mistake, the only remedy I could think of was to take it away. You misunderstood me cruelly, I replied, and in a minute I had opened the window again, leapt out, picked up the flower, brought it in, and presented it to her, imploring her to give it to me again, and I would keep it forever for her sake and prize it more highly than anything in the world I possessed. And will this content you? said she as she took it in her hand. It shall, I answered. There then, take it. I pressed it earnestly to my lips and put it in my bosom, Mrs. Huntington looking on with a half-sarcastic smile. Now are you going? said she. I will if—if I must. You are changed, persisted she. You are grown either very proud or very indifferent. I am neither, Helen, Mrs. Huntington. If you could see my heart, you must be one, if not both. And why, Mrs. Huntington, why not Helen as before? Helen then, dear Helen, I murmured. I was in an agony of mingled love, hope, delight, uncertainty, and suspense. The rose I gave you was an emblem of my heart, said she. Would you take it away and leave me here alone? Would you give me your hand, too, if I asked it? Have I not said enough? She answered with a most enchanting smile. I snatched her hand and would have fervently kissed it but suddenly checked myself and said, But have you considered the consequences? Hardly, I think, or I would not have offered myself to one too proud to take me or too indifferent to make his affection outweigh my worldly goods.  I trembled the clasper in my arms but dared not believe in so much joy and yet restrained myself to say, But if you should repent, It would be your fault, she replied. I never shall, unless you bitterly disappoint me. If you have not sufficient confidence in my affection to believe this, let me alone. My darling angel, my own Helen! cried I, now passionately kissing the hand I still retained and throwing my left arm round her. You never shall repent if it depend on me alone. But have you thought of your aunt? I trembled for the answer and clasped her closer to my heart in the instinctive dread of losing my newfound treasure. My aunt must not know of it yet, said she. She would think it a rash wild step because she could not imagine how well I know you. But she must know you herself and learn to like you. You must leave us now after lunch and come again in spring and make a longer stay and cultivate her acquaintance. And I know you will like each other. And then you will be mine, said I, printing a kiss upon her lips and another and another. You must leave us now as I had been backward and constrained before. No. In another year, replied she, gently disengaging herself from my embrace but still fondly clasping my hand. Another year? Oh Helen, I could not wait so long! Where is your fidelity? I mean I could not endure the misery of so long a separation. It would not be a separation. We will write every day. My spirit shall always be with you and I will not be such a hypocrite as to pretend that I desire to wait so long myself. But as my marriage is to please myself alone I ought to consult my friends about the time of it. Your friends will disapprove. They will not greatly disapprove, dear Gilbert, said she, earnestly kissing my hand. They cannot when they know you or, if they could, they would not be true friends. I should not care for their estrangement. I looked up in my face with a smile of an effable tenderness. Can I be otherwise with your love? And you do love me, Helen, said I, not doubting the fact, but wishing to hear it confirmed by her own acknowledgement. If you loved as I do, she earnestly replied, you would not so nearly lost me. These scruples of false delicacy and pride would never thus have troubled you. You would have seen that the greatest worldly distinctions and discrepancy of rank, birth, and fortune dust in the balance compared with unity of accordant thoughts and feelings and truly loving, sympathizing hearts and souls. But this is too much happiness, said I, embracing her again. I have not deserved it, Helen. I dare not believe in such felicity, and the longer I have to wait, the greater will be my dread that something will intervene to snatch you from me. And think, a thousand things may happen in a year. I shall be in one long fever of restless terror and impatience all the time. And besides, winter is such a dreary season. I thought so too, replied she gravely. I would not be married in winter. In December, at least, she added with a shudder. For in that month had occurred both the ill-starred marriage that had bound her to her former husband, and the terrible death that released her. And therefore I set another year in spring. Next spring? No, no. Next autumn, perhaps. Summer, then. Well, the close of summer. There now, be satisfied. While she was speaking, Arthur re-entered the room. Good boy, for keeping out so long. Mama, I couldn't find the book in either of the places you told me to look for it. There was a conscious something in Mama's smile that seemed to say, No, dear, I knew you could not. But Rachel got it from me at last. Look, Mr. Markham, a natural history with all kinds of birds and beasts in it, and the reading as nice as the pictures. In great good humor, I sat down to examine the book and drew the little fellow between my knees. Had he come in a minute before, I should have received him less graciously. But now I affectionately stroked his curling locks and even kissed his ivory forehead. He was my own Helen's son, and therefore mine, and as such I have ever since regarded him. The pretty child is now a fine young man. He has realized his mother's brightest expectations and is at present residing in grass-dale manner with his young wife, the merry little Helen Hattersley of Yor. I had not looked through half the book before Mrs. Maxwell appeared to invite me into the other room to lunch. That lady's cool distant manners rather chilled me at first. But I did my best to propitiate her and not entirely without success, I think, even in that first short visit. For when I talked cheerfully to her, she gradually became more kind and cordial, and when I departed she bade me a gracious adieu, hoping ere long to have the pleasure of seeing me again. But you must not go until you have seen the conservatory, my aunt's winter garden, said Helen, as I advanced to take leave of her with as much philosophy and self-command as I could summon to my aid. I gladly availed myself of such a respite, and followed her into a large and beautiful conservatory, plentifully furnished with flowers considering the season. But, of course, I had little attention to spare for them. It was not, however, for any tender colloquy that my companion brought me there. My aunt is particularly fond of flowers, she observed, and she is fond of standingly, too. I brought you here to offer a petition in her behalf, that this may be her home as long as she lives, and if it be not our home likewise, then I might see her often and be with her, for I fear she will be very sorry to lose me, and though she leaves a retired and contemplative life, she is apt to get low-spirited if left too much alone. By all means, dearest Helen, do what you will with your own. I should not dream of wishing your aunt to leave the place under any circumstances, and we will live either here or elsewhere as you and she may determine, and you shall see her as often as you like. I know she must be pained to part with you, and I am willing to make any reparation in my power. I love her for your sake, and her happiness shall be as dear to me as that of my own mother. Thank you, darling. You shall have a kiss for that. Goodbye, there now. Let me go. Here's Arthur.  But it is time to bring my narrative to a close. Anyone but you would say I had made it too long already. But for your satisfaction I will add a few words more, because I know you will have a fellow feeling for the old lady, and will wish to know the last of her history. I did come again in spring, and agreeably to Helen's injunctions, did my best to cultivate her acquaintance. She received me very kindly, having been doubtless, already prepared to think highly of my character by her niece's too-favorable report. I turned my best side out, of course, and we got along marvelously well together. When my ambitious intentions were made known to her, she took it more sensibly than I had ventured to hope. Her only remark on the subject in my hearing was— And so, Mr. Markham, you are going to rob me of my niece, I understand. Well, I hope God will prosper your union and make my dear girl happy at last. Could she have been contented to remain single, I own I should have been better satisfied? But if she must marry again, I know of no one, now living in a suitable age to whom I would more willingly resign her than yourself, or who would be more likely to appreciate her worth and make her truly happy, as far as I can tell. Of course I was delighted with the compliment and hoped to show her that she was not mistaken in her favorable judgment. I have, however, one request to offer, continued she. It seems I am still to look on standingly as my home. I wish you to make it yours likewise, for Helen is attached to the place and to me, as I am to her. There are painful associations connected with Grassdale which she cannot easily overcome, and I shall not molest you with my company or interference here. I am a very quiet person, and shall keep my own apartments and attend to my own concerns, and only see you now and then. Of course I most readily consented to this, and we lived in the greatest harmony with our dear aunt until the day of her death, when the lovely event took place a few years after. Melancholy not to herself, for it came quietly upon her and she was glad to reach her journey's end, but only to the few loving friends and grateful dependents she left behind. To return, however, to my own affairs, I was married in summer on a glorious August morning. It took the whole eight months in all Helen's kindness and goodness to boot to overcome my mother's prejudices against my bride-elect, and to reconcile her to the idea of living so far away. Yet she was gratified at her son's good fortune, after all, and proudly attributed it all to his own superior merits and endowments. I bequeathed the farm to Fergus, with better hopes of its prosperity than I should have had a year ago in her similar circumstances, for he had lately fallen in love with the vicar of El's eldest daughter, a lady whose superiority had roused his latent virtues, and stimulated him to the most surprising exertions, of affection and esteem, and to obtain a fortune sufficient to aspire to her hand, but to render himself worthy of her in his own eyes, as well as in those of her parents, and in the end he was successful as you already know. As for myself, I need not tell you how happily my Helen and I have lived together, and how blessed we still are in each other's society, and in the promising young science that are growing up about us. We are just now looking forward as it draws nigh when you must leave your dusty, smoky, noisy, toiling, striving city for a season of invigorating relaxation and social retirement with us. Till then, farewell. Gilbert Markham, standingly, June 10th, 1847 End of Chapter 53 of The Tenant of Wildfell Hall End of The Tenant of Wildfell Hall by Anne Bronte