Hello.
Welcome to Sleep Stories with Steph,
A romantic bedtime podcast guaranteed to help you drift off into a calm,
Relaxing sleep.
Come with me as we travel back to a time long ago where Helen Huntingdon is sacrificing everything she knows in order to protect her son.
But before we begin let us take a moment to focus on where we are now.
Take a deep breath in through your nose then let it out on a long sigh.
It is time to relax and really let go.
Feel your shoulders melt away from your ears as you sink into the support beneath you.
Feel the pressure seep away from your cheeks as your breath drops into a natural rhythm.
There is nothing you need to be doing right now and nowhere you need to go.
We are together and it is time for sleep.
The Tenant of Wildfelm Hall by Stephenie Poppins Chapter 51 An Unexpected Occurrence 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 rusts and footsteps of men and horses impressed in the now petrified mire of last month's drenching rains.
I remember it well for I was walking home from the vicarage with no less remarkable a personage than Miss Eliza Millwood.
I had been to call upon her father,
A sacrifice of 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 Huntingdon.
He still maintained she had done wrong to leave her husband.
It was a violation of her sacred duties as a wife,
He said,
An attempting of providence by laying herself open to temptation.
But it was not of him I intended to speak.
It was of his daughter,
Eliza.
I was just coming to see your sister,
Mr Markham,
Said she,
So if you have no objection I'll accompany you home.
I like company when I'm walking out,
Don't you?
Yes,
I said,
Well it's agreeable.
Shall I find Rose at home,
Do you think,
Added she as we closed the garden gate.
I believe so.
Do you know what Mr Lawrence has gone for?
She looked up anxiously for my reply.
Is he gone,
Said I,
And her face brightened.
Yes,
He hasn't told you about his sister then?
What of her?
I demanded in terror,
Lest some evil should have befallen her.
Oh,
Mr Markham,
How you blush,
Cried Eliza with a tormenting laugh.
Have you not forgotten her yet?
But you'd better be quick about it,
I can tell you,
For alas,
She's going to be married next Thursday.
No,
Miss Eliza,
That is false.
Do you charge me with a falsehood,
Sir?
You are misinformed.
Am I?
You know better then.
I think I do.
What makes you look so pale,
Said she,
Smiling with delight at my emotion.
Is it anger at poor me for telling such a fib?
Well,
I only tell the tale it was told to me.
I don't vouch for 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 that the footman told her,
That Mrs Huntingdon 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'd forgotten that.
Perhaps you can assist me to remember it.
Is it,
Um,
A Mr,
Oh dear,
Hargrave,
Suggested I with a bitter smile.
You're right,
Cried she,
That was the very name.
Impossible,
Miss Eliza,
I exclaimed in a tone that made her start.
Well,
You know,
That's what they told me,
Said she,
Composedly staring me in the face,
And then she broke out into a long shrill laugh that put me to my wits end with fury.
Oh,
Really,
You must excuse me,
Cried she,
I know it's very rude.
Did you think to marry her yourself?
What a pity.
Gracious Mr Markham,
Are you going to faint?
Oh,
Mercy,
Shall I call his 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 shrank into herself.
What can I do for you?
Will you have some water,
Some brandy?
She continued.
I dare say they have some in the public house down there,
If you'll let me run.
Have you done with this nonsense,
Eliza?
Cried I,
Sternly.
Then she looked confounded.
You know,
I hate such jests,
I continued.
I wasn't jesting.
You were laughing at all events,
And I don't like to be laughed at,
Returned I,
And since you're 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.
And with that,
I left her,
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 far as my legs could carry me.
Never till now had I known the full fervour of my love,
The full strength of my hopes,
Not wholly crushed even in my hour of deepest despondency,
Always tenaciously clinging to the thought that one day Helen Huntington may be mine.
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.
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?
To Grasdale,
Sir.
Wasn't you aware?
He's very close,
Is master,
Said the fellow,
With a foolish simpering grin.
I turned and left 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?
Could it be possible she'd left me for that man?
I could not believe it.
Me,
She might forsake,
But not to give herself to him.
Well,
I would know the truth.
To no concerns of daily life could I attend while this tempest of doubt and dread from jealousy and rage distracted me.
I would take the morning coach.
I would fly to Grasdale.
I must be there before the marriage.
A thought struck me I might prevent it.
It struck me someone else might have belied me to her,
Perhaps her brother.
No doubt her brother had persuaded her I was false and faithless,
And taking advantage of her natural indignation and perhaps her desponding carelessness about her future life,
He had urged her,
Artfully,
Cruelly on,
To this other marriage in order to secure her from me.
If this was the case,
And if she should only discover her mistake when it was too late to repair it,
To what a life of misery and vain regret might she be doomed?
Oh,
I must see her.
She must know the truth,
Even if I taught it at the church door.
So,
Winged by this hope and goaded by these fears,
I hurried homewards to prepare for my departure on the morrow.
That night there came a heavy fall of snow,
Which so retarded the progress of the coaches on the following day,
I was almost driven to distraction.
I travelled all night,
Of course,
For this was Wednesday.
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 consummately lazy,
The coachmen most cautious,
The passengers confoundedly apathetic.
Instead of assisting me to bully the several coachmen and urge them forward,
They merely stared and grinned at my impatience.
It was broad daylight when at last we drew up at the Rosen Crown.
I alighted and called aloud for a post chaise to Grassedale.
There was none to be had.
The only one in town was under repair.
A gig,
Then,
I begged.
A fly,
A car,
Anything.
Be quick.
There was a gig,
But not a horse to spare,
So I went into the town to seek one.
They were such an intolerable time about it,
I could wait no longer.
I thought my own fears would carry me sooner,
And bidding them send the confounded 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 enquire my way.
At length,
However,
I entered the neighbourhood of Grassedale.
I approached the little rural church,
But lo,
There stood a train of carriages before it.
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 the merry voices of the village idlers,
And I was about to enter the churchyard gate when a group of ragged urchins cried,
It's over!
They're coming out!
I grasped the gatepost for support,
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 heart.
I was certain then to a life of misery and hollow vain repining,
But what happiness could she enjoy with him?
Forth came the bride and bridegroom.
A long veil shrouded her,
But did not hide her graceful form.
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 a crimson blush,
But every feature was radiant with smiles.
Then,
Gleaming through the misty whiteness of her veil,
I saw clusters of golden ringlets.
This was not my Helen.
The first glimpse made me start,
But my eyes were darkened with exhaustion.
Dare I trust them?
Yes,
It was not she.
It was a younger,
Slighter,
Rosier beauty.
Lovely indeed,
But with far less dignity and depth of soul.
I looked at the bridegroom.
It was Frederick Lawrence.
I wiped away the cold drips that were trickling down my forehead and stepped back as he approached,
But his eye fell upon me,
And he knew me,
Altered as my appearance must have been.
