The Tenant of Wildfell Hall

hen all were gone, I learnt that the vile slander had indeed been
circulated throughout the company, in the very presence of the victim.
Rose, however, vowed she did not and would not believe it, and my
mother made the same declaration, though not, I fear, with the same
amount of real, unwavering incredulity. It seemed to dwell continually
on her mind, and she kept irritating me from time to time by such
expressions as—“Dear, dear, who would have thought it!—Well! I always
thought there was something odd about her.—You see what it is for women
to affect to be different to other people.” And once it was,—

“I misdoubted that appearance of mystery from the very first—I
thought there would no good come of it; but this is a sad, sad
business, to be sure!”

“Why, mother, you said you didn’t believe these tales,” said Fergus.

“No more I do, my dear; but then, you know, there must be some
foundation.”

“The foundation is in the wickedness and falsehood of the world,” said
I, “and in the fact that Mr. Lawrence has been seen to go that way once
or twice of an evening—and the village gossips say he goes to pay his
addresses to the strange lady, and the scandal-mongers have greedily
seized the rumour, to make it the basis of their own infernal
structure.”

“Well, but, Gilbert, there must be something in her manner to
countenance such reports.”

“Did you see anything in her manner?”

“No, certainly; but then, you know, I always said there was something
strange about her.”

I believe it was on that very evening that I ventured on another
invasion of Wildfell Hall. From the time of our party, which was
upwards of a week ago, I had been making daily efforts to meet its
mistress in her walks; and always disappointed (she must have managed
it so on purpose), had nightly kept revolving in my mind some pretext
for another call. At length I concluded that the separation could be
endured no longer (by this time, you will see, I was pretty far gone);
and, taking from the book-case an old volume that I thought she might
be interested in, though, from its unsightly and somewhat dilapidated
condition, I had not yet ventured to offer it for perusal, I hastened
away,—but not without sundry misgivings as to how she would receive me,
or how I could summon courage to present myself with so slight an
excuse. But, perhaps, I might see her in the field or the garden, and
then there would be no great difficulty: it was the formal knocking at
the door, with the prospect of being gravely ushered in by Rachel, to
the presence of a surprised, uncordial mistress, that so greatly
disturbed me.

My wish, however, was not gratified. Mrs. Graham herself was not to be
seen; but there was Arthur playing with his frolicsome little dog in
the garden. I looked over the gate and called him to me. He wanted me
to come in; but I told him I could not without his mother’s leave.

“I’ll go and ask her,” said the child.

“No, no, Arthur, you mustn’t do that; but if she’s not engaged, just
ask her to come here a minute. Tell her I want to speak to her.”

He ran to perform my bidding, and quickly returned with his mother. How
lovely she looked with her dark ringlets streaming in the light summer
breeze, her fair cheek slightly flushed, and her countenance radiant
with smiles. Dear Arthur! what did I not owe to you for this and every
other happy meeting? Through him I was at once delivered from all
formality, and terror, and constraint. In love affairs, there is no
mediator like a merry, simple-hearted child—ever ready to cement
divided hearts, to span the unfriendly gulf of custom, to melt the ice
of cold reserve, and overthrow the separating walls of dread formality
and pride.

“Well, Mr. Markham, what is it?” said the young mother, accosting me
with a pleasant smile.

“I want you to look at this book, and, if you please, to take it, and
peruse it at your leisure. I make no apology for calling you out on
such a lovely evening, though it be for a matter of no greater
importance.”

“Tell him to come in, mamma,” said Arthur.

“Would you like to come in?” asked the lady.

“Yes; I should like to see your improvements in the garden.”

“And how your sister’s roots have prospered in my charge,” added she,
as she opened the gate.

And we sauntered through the garden, and talked of the flowers, the
trees, and the book, and then of other things. The evening was kind and
genial, and so was my companion. By degrees I waxed more warm and
tender than, perhaps, I had ever been before; but still I said nothing
tangible, and she attempted no repulse, until, in passing a moss
rose-tree that I had brought her some weeks since, in my sister’s name,
she plucked a beautiful half-open bud and bade me give it to Rose.

“May I not keep it myself?” I asked.

“No; but here is another for you.”

Instead of taking it quietly, I likewise took the hand that offered it,
and looked into her face. She let me hold it for a moment, and I saw a
flash of ecstatic brilliance in her eye, a glow of glad excitement on
her face—I thought my hour of victory was come—but instantly a painful
recollection seemed to flash upon her; a cloud of anguish darkened her
brow, a marble paleness blanched her cheek and lip; there seemed a
moment of inward conflict, and, with a sudden effort, she withdrew her
hand, and retreated a step or two back.

“Now, Mr. Markham,” said she, with a kind of desperate calmness, “I
must tell you plainly that I cannot do with this. I like your company,
because I am alone here, and your conversation pleases me more than
that of any other person; but if you cannot be content to regard me as
a friend—a plain, cold, motherly, or sisterly friend—I must beg you to
leave me now, and let me alone hereafter: in fact, we must be strangers
for the future.”

“I will, then—be your friend, or brother, or anything you wish, if you
will only let me continue to see you; but tell me why I cannot be
anything more?”

There was a perplexed and thoughtful pause.

“Is it in consequence of some rash vow?”

“It is something of the kind,” she answered. “Some day I may tell you,
but at present you had better leave me; and never, Gilbert, put me to
the painful necessity of repeating what I have just now said to you,”
she earnestly added, giving me her hand in serious kindness. How sweet,
how musical my own name sounded in her mouth!

“I will not,” I replied. “But you pardon this offence?”

“On condition that you never repeat it.”

“And may I come to see you now and then?”

“Perhaps—occasionally; provided you never abuse the privilege.”

“I make no empty promises, but you shall see.”

“The moment you do our intimacy is at an end, that’s all.”

“And will you always call me Gilbert? It sounds more sisterly, and it
will serve to remind me of our contract.”

She smiled, and once more bid me go; and at length I judged it prudent
to obey, and she re-entered the house and I went down the hill. But as
I went the tramp of horses’ hoofs fell on my ear, and broke the
stillness of the dewy evening; and, looking towards the lane, I saw a
solitary equestrian coming up. Inclining to dusk as it was, I knew him
at a glance: it was Mr. Lawrence on his grey pony. I flew across the
field, leaped the stone fence, and then walked down the lane to meet
him. On seeing me, he suddenly drew in his little steed, and seemed
inclined to turn back, but on second thought apparently judged it
better to continue his course as before. He accosted me with a slight
bow, and, edging close to the wall, endeavoured to pass on; but I was
not so minded. Seizing his horse by the bridle, I exclaimed,—“Now,
Lawrence, I will have this mystery explained! Tell me where you are
going, and what you mean to do—at once, and distinctly!”

“Will you take your hand off the bridle?” said he, quietly—“you’re
hurting my pony’s mouth.”

“You and your pony be—”

“What makes you so coarse and brutal, Markham? I’m quite ashamed of
you.”

“You answer my questions—before you leave this spot! I will know what
you mean by this perfidious duplicity!”

“I shall answer no questions till you let go the bridle,—if you stand
till morning.”

“Now then,” said I, unclosing my hand, but still standing before him.

“Ask me some other time, when you can speak like a gentleman,” returned
he, and he made an effort to pass me again; but I quickly re-captured
the pony, scarce less astonished than its master at such uncivil usage.

“Really, Mr. Markham, this is too much!” said the latter. “Can I not
go to see my tenant on matters of business, without being assaulted in
this manner by—?”

“This is no time for business, sir!—I’ll tell you, now, what I think of
your conduct.”

“You’d better defer your opinion to a more convenient season,”
interrupted he in a low tone—“here’s the vicar.” And, in truth, the
vicar was just behind me, plodding homeward from some remote corner of
his parish. I immediately released the squire; and he went on his way,
saluting Mr. Millward as he passed.

“What! quarrelling, Markham?” cried the latter, addressing himself to
me,—“and about that young widow, I doubt?” he added, reproachfully
shaking his head. “But let me tell you, young man” (here he put his
face into mine with an important, confidential air), “she’s not worth
it!” and he confirmed the assertion by a solemn nod.

“MR. MILLWARD,” I exclaimed, in a tone of wrathful menace that made the
reverend gentleman look round—aghast—astounded at such unwonted
insolence, and stare me in the face, with a look that plainly said,
“What, this to me!” But I was too indignant to apologise, or to speak
another word to him: I turned away, and hastened homewards, descending
with rapid strides the steep, rough lane, and leaving him to follow as
he pleased.