CHAPTER LIII

The Tenent of Windfell Hall

by Anne Bronte

CHAPTER LIII, THE TENENT OF WINDFELL HALL by Anne Bronte
An eText from LiteratureClassics.com.

Please see the eText readme for important copyright information (available from the options menu above if you are browsing online or as a separate file in the archive if you are browsing offline.)





While standing thus, 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, 'Mamma, mamma, here's Mr. Markham!'

I did not hear the reply, but presently the same voice answered,
'It is indeed, mamma - look for yourself.'

I did not raise my eyes, but I suppose mamma looked, for a clear
melodious voice, whose tones thrilled through my nerves, exclaimed,
'Oh, 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, 'Oh,
aunt' - that it threw me almost off my guard. The carriage stopped
immediately, and I looked up and met the eye 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withdrawn.

'Were you coming to see us, or only passing by?' asked the low
voice of its owner, who, I felt, was attentively surveying my
countenance from behind the thick black veil which, with the
shadowing panels, entirely concealed her own from me.

'I - 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.

'Yes, full well, my little man, altered though you are,' replied I,
surveying the comparatively tall, slim young gentleman, with his
mother's image visibly stamped upon his fair, intelligent features,
in spite of the blue eyes beaming with gladness, and the bright
locks clustering beneath his cap.

'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 proud rejoinder. '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 to 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, waiting 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 it was rather cold, but she supposed 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 lugubrious bonnet and veil, her
heavy winter cloak, &c., 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 unconcealed in its glossy luxuriance.

'Mamma 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. Mamma looked grave and Mrs. Maxwell
shook her head. 'And aunt Maxwell is never going to leave off
hers,' persisted the naughty boy; 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, kissed 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 - an 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 betokens 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 on 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 - 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 changed 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 a
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 over-modest,' 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 honoured 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,' muttered 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 young setter, and show me
how wonderfully it was grown and improved, and to ask after the
welfare of its father Sancho. 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 pretence of
wishing him to fetch his last new book to show me. The child
obeyed with alacrity; but I continued caressing the dog. The
silence might have lasted till its master'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:
'perhaps a very rude one - don't answer it if you think so - but I
hate mysteries and concealments.'

'I am not changed, Helen - unfortunately 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 the
very anguish of anxiety - could it be with the fear that I had
rashly pledged my faith to another?

'I'll tell you at once,' said I. 'I will confess that I came here
for the purpose of seeing you (not without some monitory misgivings
at my own presumption, and fears that I should be as little welcome
as expected when I came), but I did 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 at once the folly of the hopes I had
cherished, and the madness 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 M- 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 in her 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 to remember you.'

There was a moment's pause. Mrs. Huntingdon 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 of your kindly 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 that you expected to hear from me,
or even wasted a thought upon your unhappy friend; but your silence
naturally led me to conclude myself forgotten.'

'Did you expect me to write to you, then?'

'No, Helen - Mrs. Huntingdon,' 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 too
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 and advanced to take leave, with a most
heroic resolution - but pride was at the bottom of it, or it 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 leant against the opposite side
of the window.

'You told me you were not changed,' said my companion: 'you are -
very much so.'

'No, Mrs. Huntingdon, I only ought to be.'

'Do you mean to maintain that you have the same regard for me that
you had when 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, and its 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. -
Will 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
what might be the meaning of 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 on to the snow,
shut down the window with an emphasis, and withdrew to the fire.

'Helen, what means this?' I cried, electrified at this startling
change in her demeanour.

'You did not understand my gift,' said she - 'or, what is worse,
you despised it. I'm sorry I gave it 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, leaped out, picked up the flower, brought
it in, and presented it to her, imploring her to give it me again,
and I would keep it for ever 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.
Huntingdon 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. Huntingdon. If you could see my heart
- '

'You must be one, - if not both. And why Mrs. Huntingdon? - 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 should not have offered myself to one too
proud to take me, or too indifferent to make his affection outweigh
my worldly goods.'

Stupid blockhead that I was! - I trembled to clasp her 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 around
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 new-
found 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; for I was as daring and impetuous 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 be always with you, and sometimes you shall see me with your
bodily eye. 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. Now are you satisfied?' She looked up in my
face with a smile of ineffable 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 acknowledgment.

'If you loved as I do,' she earnestly replied, 'you would not have
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 discrepancies of rank, birth, and
fortune are as dust in the balance compared with the unity of
accordant thoughts and feelings, and truly loving, sympathising
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 said 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.

'Mamma, I couldn't find the book in either of the places you told
me to look for it' (there was a conscious something in mamma's
smile that seemed to say, 'No, dear, I knew you could not'), 'but
Rachel got it for 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 humour I sat down to examine the book, and drew the
little fellow between my knees. Had he come a minute before I
should have received him less graciously, but now I affectionately
stroked his curling looks, 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. That pretty child is now a fine young man: he
has realised his mother's brightest expectations, and is at present
residing in Grassdale Manor with his young wife - the merry little
Helen Hattersley of yore.

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 till 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 had brought me there:-

'My aunt is particularly fond of flowers,' she observed, 'and she
is fond of Staningley 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 - that I may often see her and be
with her; for I fear she will be sorry to lose me; and though she
leads 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. Good-by.
There now - there, Gilbert - let me go - here's Arthur; don't
astonish his infantile brain with your madness.'

* * * * *

But it is time to bring my narrative to a close. Any one 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
favourable report. I turned my best side out, of course, and we
got along marvellously 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 and of 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 favourable judgment.

'I have, however, one request to offer,' continued she. 'It seems
I am still to look on Staningley 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,
which melancholy 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, and 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 my leaving Linden Grange and 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 under similar circumstances; for
he had lately fallen in love with the Vicar of L-'s eldest daughter
- a lady whose superiority had roused his latent virtues, and
stimulated him to the most surprising exertions, not only to gain
her 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
scions that are growing up about us. We are just now looking
forward to the advent of you and Rose, for the time of your annual
visit 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.

STANINGLEY: June 10TH, 1847.