The Tenant of Wildfell Hall

ext morning, I bethought me, I, too, had business at L——; so I mounted
my horse, and set forth on the expedition soon after breakfast. It was
a dull, drizzly day; but that was no matter: it was all the more
suitable to my frame of mind. It was likely to be a lonely journey; for
it was no market-day, and the road I traversed was little frequented at
any other time; but that suited me all the better too.

As I trotted along, however, chewing the cud of—bitter fancies, I
heard another horse at no great distance behind me; but I never
conjectured who the rider might be, or troubled my head about him,
till, on slackening my pace to ascend a gentle acclivity, or rather,
suffering my horse to slacken his pace into a lazy walk—for, rapt in my
own reflections, I was letting it jog on as leisurely as it thought
proper—I lost ground, and my fellow-traveller overtook me. He accosted
me by name, for it was no stranger—it was Mr. Lawrence! Instinctively
the fingers of my whip-hand tingled, and grasped their charge with
convulsive energy; but I restrained the impulse, and answering his
salutation with a nod, attempted to push on; but he pushed on beside
me, and began to talk about the weather and the crops. I gave the
briefest possible answers to his queries and observations, and fell
back. He fell back too, and asked if my horse was lame. I replied with
a look, at which he placidly smiled.

I was as much astonished as exasperated at this singular pertinacity
and imperturbable assurance on his part. I had thought the
circumstances of our last meeting would have left such an impression on
his mind as to render him cold and distant ever after: instead of that,
he appeared not only to have forgotten all former offences, but to be
impenetrable to all present incivilities. Formerly, the slightest hint,
or mere fancied coldness in tone or glance, had sufficed to repulse
him: now, positive rudeness could not drive him away. Had he heard of
my disappointment; and was he come to witness the result, and triumph
in my despair? I grasped my whip with more determined energy than
before—but still forbore to raise it, and rode on in silence, waiting
for some more tangible cause of offence, before I opened the floodgates
of my soul and poured out the dammed-up fury that was foaming and
swelling within.

“Markham,” said he, in his usual quiet tone, “why do you quarrel with
your friends, because you have been disappointed in one quarter? You
have found your hopes defeated; but how am I to blame for it? I
warned you beforehand, you know, but you would not—”

He said no more; for, impelled by some fiend at my elbow, I had seized
my whip by the small end, and—swift and sudden as a flash of
lightning—brought the other down upon his head. It was not without a
feeling of savage satisfaction that I beheld the instant, deadly pallor
that overspread his face, and the few red drops that trickled down his
forehead, while he reeled a moment in his saddle, and then fell
backward to the ground. The pony, surprised to be so strangely relieved
of its burden, started and capered, and kicked a little, and then made
use of its freedom to go and crop the grass of the hedge-bank: while
its master lay as still and silent as a corpse. Had I killed him?—an
icy hand seemed to grasp my heart and check its pulsation, as I bent
over him, gazing with breathless intensity upon the ghastly, upturned
face. But no; he moved his eyelids and uttered a slight groan. I
breathed again—he was only stunned by the fall. It served him right—it
would teach him better manners in future. Should I help him to his
horse? No. For any other combination of offences I would; but his were
too unpardonable. He might mount it himself, if he liked—in a while:
already he was beginning to stir and look about him—and there it was
for him, quietly browsing on the road-side.

So with a muttered execration I left the fellow to his fate, and
clapping spurs to my own horse, galloped away, excited by a combination
of feelings it would not be easy to analyse; and perhaps, if I did so,
the result would not be very creditable to my disposition; for I am not
sure that a species of exultation in what I had done was not one
principal concomitant.

Shortly, however, the effervescence began to abate, and not many
minutes elapsed before I had turned and gone back to look after the
fate of my victim. It was no generous impulse—no kind relentings that
led me to this—nor even the fear of what might be the consequences to
myself, if I finished my assault upon the squire by leaving him thus
neglected, and exposed to further injury; it was, simply, the voice of
conscience; and I took great credit to myself for attending so promptly
to its dictates—and judging the merit of the deed by the sacrifice it
cost, I was not far wrong.

Mr. Lawrence and his pony had both altered their positions in some
degree. The pony had wandered eight or ten yards further away; and he
had managed, somehow, to remove himself from the middle of the road: I
found him seated in a recumbent position on the bank,—looking very
white and sickly still, and holding his cambric handkerchief (now more
red than white) to his head. It must have been a powerful blow; but
half the credit—or the blame of it (which you please) must be
attributed to the whip, which was garnished with a massive horse’s head
of plated metal. The grass, being sodden with rain, afforded the young
gentleman a rather inhospitable couch; his clothes were considerably
bemired; and his hat was rolling in the mud on the other side of the
road. But his thoughts seemed chiefly bent upon his pony, on which he
was wistfully gazing—half in helpless anxiety, and half in hopeless
abandonment to his fate.

I dismounted, however, and having fastened my own animal to the nearest
tree, first picked up his hat, intending to clap it on his head; but
either he considered his head unfit for a hat, or the hat, in its
present condition, unfit for his head; for shrinking away the one, he
took the other from my hand, and scornfully cast it aside.

“It’s good enough for you,” I muttered.

My next good office was to catch his pony and bring it to him, which
was soon accomplished; for the beast was quiet enough in the main, and
only winced and flirted a trifle till I got hold of the bridle—but
then, I must see him in the saddle.

“Here, you fellow—scoundrel—dog—give me your hand, and I’ll help you to
mount.”

No; he turned from me in disgust. I attempted to take him by the arm.
He shrank away as if there had been contamination in my touch.

“What, you won’t! Well! you may sit there till doomsday, for what I
care. But I suppose you don’t want to lose all the blood in your
body—I’ll just condescend to bind that up for you.”

“Let me alone, if you please.”

“Humph; with all my heart. You may go to the d—l, if you choose—and say
I sent you.”

But before I abandoned him to his fate I flung his pony’s bridle over a
stake in the hedge, and threw him my handkerchief, as his own was now
saturated with blood. He took it and cast it back to me in abhorrence
and contempt, with all the strength he could muster. It wanted but this
to fill the measure of his offences. With execrations not loud but deep
I left him to live or die as he could, well satisfied that I had done
my duty in attempting to save him—but forgetting how I had erred in
bringing him into such a condition, and how insultingly my
after-services had been offered—and sullenly prepared to meet the
consequences if he should choose to say I had attempted to murder
him—which I thought not unlikely, as it seemed probable he was actuated
by such spiteful motives in so perseveringly refusing my assistance.

Having remounted my horse, I just looked back to see how he was getting
on, before I rode away. He had risen from the ground, and grasping his
pony’s mane, was attempting to resume his seat in the saddle; but
scarcely had he put his foot in the stirrup, when a sickness or
dizziness seemed to overpower him: he leant forward a moment, with his
head drooped on the animal’s back, and then made one more effort, which
proving ineffectual, he sank back on the bank, where I left him,
reposing his head on the oozy turf, and to all appearance, as calmly
reclining as if he had been taking his rest on his sofa at home.

I ought to have helped him in spite of himself—to have bound up the
wound he was unable to staunch, and insisted upon getting him on his
horse and seeing him safe home; but, besides my bitter indignation
against himself, there was the question what to say to his servants—and
what to my own family. Either I should have to acknowledge the deed,
which would set me down as a madman, unless I acknowledged the motive
too—and that seemed impossible—or I must get up a lie, which seemed
equally out of the question—especially as Mr. Lawrence would probably
reveal the whole truth, and thereby bring me to tenfold disgrace—unless
I were villain enough, presuming on the absence of witnesses, to
persist in my own version of the case, and make him out a still greater
scoundrel than he was. No; he had only received a cut above the temple,
and perhaps a few bruises from the fall, or the hoofs of his own pony:
that could not kill him if he lay there half the day; and, if he could
not help himself, surely some one would be coming by: it would be
impossible that a whole day should pass and no one traverse the road
but ourselves. As for what he might choose to say hereafter, I would
take my chance about it: if he told lies, I would contradict him; if he
told the truth, I would bear it as best I could. I was not obliged to
enter into explanations further than I thought proper. Perhaps he might
choose to be silent on the subject, for fear of raising inquiries as to
the cause of the quarrel, and drawing the public attention to his
connection with Mrs. Graham, which, whether for her sake or his own, he
seemed so very desirous to conceal.

Thus reasoning, I trotted away to the town, where I duly transacted my
business, and performed various little commissions for my mother and
Rose, with very laudable exactitude, considering the different
circumstances of the case. In returning home, I was troubled with
sundry misgivings about the unfortunate Lawrence. The question, What if
I should find him lying still on the damp earth, fairly dying of cold
and exhaustion—or already stark and chill? thrust itself most
unpleasantly upon my mind, and the appalling possibility pictured
itself with painful vividness to my imagination as I approached the
spot where I had left him. But no, thank heaven, both man and horse
were gone, and nothing was left to witness against me but two
objects—unpleasant enough in themselves to be sure, and presenting a
very ugly, not to say murderous appearance—in one place, the hat
saturated with rain and coated with mud, indented and broken above the
brim by that villainous whip-handle; in another, the crimson
handkerchief, soaking in a deeply tinctured pool of water—for much rain
had fallen in the interim.

Bad news flies fast: it was hardly four o’clock when I got home, but my
mother gravely accosted me with—“Oh, Gilbert!—Such an accident! Rose
has been shopping in the village, and she’s heard that Mr. Lawrence has
been thrown from his horse and brought home dying!”

This shocked me a trifle, as you may suppose; but I was comforted to
hear that he had frightfully fractured his skull and broken a leg; for,
assured of the falsehood of this, I trusted the rest of the story was
equally exaggerated; and when I heard my mother and sister so feelingly
deploring his condition, I had considerable difficulty in preventing
myself from telling them the real extent of the injuries, as far as I
knew them.

“You must go and see him to-morrow,” said my mother.

“Or to-day,” suggested Rose: “there’s plenty of time; and you can have
the pony, as your horse is tired. Won’t you, Gilbert—as soon as you’ve
had something to eat?”

“No, no—how can we tell that it isn’t all a false report? It’s highly
im-”

“Oh, I’m sure it isn’t; for the village is all alive about it; and I
saw two people that had seen others that had seen the man that found
him. That sounds far-fetched; but it isn’t so when you think of it.”

“Well, but Lawrence is a good rider; it is not likely he would fall
from his horse at all; and if he did, it is highly improbable he would
break his bones in that way. It must be a gross exaggeration at least.”

“No; but the horse kicked him—or something.”

“What, his quiet little pony?”

“How do you know it was that?”

“He seldom rides any other.”

“At any rate,” said my mother, “you will call to-morrow. Whether it be
true or false, exaggerated or otherwise, we shall like to know how he
is.”

“Fergus may go.”

“Why not you?”

“He has more time. I am busy just now.”

“Oh! but, Gilbert, how can you be so composed about it? You won’t mind
business for an hour or two in a case of this sort, when your friend is
at the point of death.”

“He is not, I tell you.”

“For anything you know, he may be: you can’t tell till you have seen
him. At all events, he must have met with some terrible accident, and
you ought to see him: he’ll take it very unkind if you don’t.”

“Confound it! I can’t. He and I have not been on good terms of late.”

“Oh, my dear boy! Surely, surely you are not so unforgiving as to
carry your little differences to such a length as—”

“Little differences, indeed!” I muttered.

“Well, but only remember the occasion. Think how—”

“Well, well, don’t bother me now—I’ll see about it,” I replied.

And my seeing about it was to send Fergus next morning, with my
mother’s compliments, to make the requisite inquiries; for, of course,
my going was out of the question—or sending a message either. He
brought back intelligence that the young squire was laid up with the
complicated evils of a broken head and certain contusions (occasioned
by a fall—of which he did not trouble himself to relate the
particulars—and the subsequent misconduct of his horse), and a severe
cold, the consequence of lying on the wet ground in the rain; but there
were no broken bones, and no immediate prospects of dissolution.

It was evident, then, that for Mrs. Graham’s sake it was not his
intention to criminate me.