The Tenant of Wildfell Hall

erceive, with joy, my most valued friend, that the cloud of your
displeasure has passed away; the light of your countenance blesses me
once more, and you desire the continuation of my story: therefore,
without more ado, you shall have it.

I think the day I last mentioned was a certain Sunday, the latest in
the October of 1827. On the following Tuesday I was out with my dog and
gun, in pursuit of such game as I could find within the territory of
Linden-Car; but finding none at all, I turned my arms against the hawks
and carrion crows, whose depredations, as I suspected, had deprived me
of better prey. To this end I left the more frequented regions, the
wooded valleys, the corn-fields, and the meadow-lands, and proceeded to
mount the steep acclivity of Wildfell, the wildest and the loftiest
eminence in our neighbourhood, where, as you ascend, the hedges, as
well as the trees, become scanty and stunted, the former, at length,
giving place to rough stone fences, partly greened over with ivy and
moss, the latter to larches and Scotch fir-trees, or isolated
blackthorns. The fields, being rough and stony, and wholly unfit for
the plough, were mostly devoted to the pasturing of sheep and cattle;
the soil was thin and poor: bits of grey rock here and there peeped out
from the grassy hillocks; bilberry-plants and heather—relics of more
savage wildness—grew under the walls; and in many of the enclosures,
ragweeds and rushes usurped supremacy over the scanty herbage; but
these were not my property.

Near the top of this hill, about two miles from Linden-Car, stood
Wildfell Hall, a superannuated mansion of the Elizabethan era, built of
dark grey stone, venerable and picturesque to look at, but doubtless,
cold and gloomy enough to inhabit, with its thick stone mullions and
little latticed panes, its time-eaten air-holes, and its too lonely,
too unsheltered situation,—only shielded from the war of wind and
weather by a group of Scotch firs, themselves half blighted with
storms, and looking as stern and gloomy as the Hall itself. Behind it
lay a few desolate fields, and then the brown heath-clad summit of the
hill; before it (enclosed by stone walls, and entered by an iron gate,
with large balls of grey granite—similar to those which decorated the
roof and gables—surmounting the gate-posts) was a garden,—once stocked
with such hard plants and flowers as could best brook the soil and
climate, and such trees and shrubs as could best endure the gardener’s
torturing shears, and most readily assume the shapes he chose to give
them,—now, having been left so many years untilled and untrimmed,
abandoned to the weeds and the grass, to the frost and the wind, the
rain and the drought, it presented a very singular appearance indeed.
The close green walls of privet, that had bordered the principal walk,
were two-thirds withered away, and the rest grown beyond all reasonable
bounds; the old boxwood swan, that sat beside the scraper, had lost its
neck and half its body: the castellated towers of laurel in the middle
of the garden, the gigantic warrior that stood on one side of the
gateway, and the lion that guarded the other, were sprouted into such
fantastic shapes as resembled nothing either in heaven or earth, or in
the waters under the earth; but, to my young imagination, they
presented all of them a goblinish appearance, that harmonised well with
the ghostly legions and dark traditions our old nurse had told us
respecting the haunted hall and its departed occupants.

[Illustration]

I had succeeded in killing a hawk and two crows when I came within
sight of the mansion; and then, relinquishing further depredations, I
sauntered on, to have a look at the old place, and see what changes had
been wrought in it by its new inhabitant. I did not like to go quite to
the front and stare in at the gate; but I paused beside the garden
wall, and looked, and saw no change—except in one wing, where the
broken windows and dilapidated roof had evidently been repaired, and
where a thin wreath of smoke was curling up from the stack of chimneys.

While I thus stood, leaning on my gun, and looking up at the dark
gables, sunk in an idle reverie, weaving a tissue of wayward fancies,
in which old associations and the fair young hermit, now within those
walls, bore a nearly equal part, I heard a slight rustling and
scrambling just within the garden; and, glancing in the direction
whence the sound proceeded, I beheld a tiny hand elevated above the
wall: it clung to the topmost stone, and then another little hand was
raised to take a firmer hold, and then appeared a small white forehead,
surmounted with wreaths of light brown hair, with a pair of deep blue
eyes beneath, and the upper portion of a diminutive ivory nose.

The eyes did not notice me, but sparkled with glee on beholding Sancho,
my beautiful black and white setter, that was coursing about the field
with its muzzle to the ground. The little creature raised its face and
called aloud to the dog. The good-natured animal paused, looked up, and
wagged his tail, but made no further advances. The child (a little boy,
apparently about five years old) scrambled up to the top of the wall,
and called again and again; but finding this of no avail, apparently
made up his mind, like Mahomet, to go to the mountain, since the
mountain would not come to him, and attempted to get over; but a
crabbed old cherry-tree, that grew hard by, caught him by the frock in
one of its crooked scraggy arms that stretched over the wall. In
attempting to disengage himself his foot slipped, and down he
tumbled—but not to the earth;—the tree still kept him suspended. There
was a silent struggle, and then a piercing shriek;—but, in an instant,
I had dropped my gun on the grass, and caught the little fellow in my
arms.

I wiped his eyes with his frock, told him he was all right and called
Sancho to pacify him. He was just putting little hand on the dog’s neck
and beginning to smile through his tears, when I heard behind me a
click of the iron gate, and a rustle of female garments, and lo! Mrs.
Graham darted upon me—her neck uncovered, her black locks streaming in
the wind.

“Give me the child!” she said, in a voice scarce louder than a whisper,
but with a tone of startling vehemence, and, seizing the boy, she
snatched him from me, as if some dire contamination were in my touch,
and then stood with one hand firmly clasping his, the other on his
shoulder, fixing upon me her large, luminous dark eyes—pale,
breathless, quivering with agitation.

“I was not harming the child, madam,” said I, scarce knowing whether to
be most astonished or displeased; “he was tumbling off the wall there;
and I was so fortunate as to catch him, while he hung suspended
headlong from that tree, and prevent I know not what catastrophe.”

“I beg your pardon, sir,” stammered she;—suddenly calming down,—the
light of reason seeming to break upon her beclouded spirit, and a faint
blush mantling on her cheek—“I did not know you;—and I thought—”

She stooped to kiss the child, and fondly clasped her arm round his
neck.

“You thought I was going to kidnap your son, I suppose?”

She stroked his head with a half-embarrassed laugh, and replied,—“I did
not know he had attempted to climb the wall.—I have the pleasure of
addressing Mr. Markham, I believe?” she added, somewhat abruptly.

I bowed, but ventured to ask how she knew me.

“Your sister called here, a few days ago, with Mrs. Markham.”

“Is the resemblance so strong then?” I asked, in some surprise, and not
so greatly flattered at the idea as I ought to have been.

“There is a likeness about the eyes and complexion I think,” replied
she, somewhat dubiously surveying my face;—“and I think I saw you at
church on Sunday.”

I smiled.—There was something either in that smile or the recollections
it awakened that was particularly displeasing to her, for she suddenly
assumed again that proud, chilly look that had so unspeakably roused my
aversion at church—a look of repellent scorn, so easily assumed, and so
entirely without the least distortion of a single feature, that, while
there, it seemed like the natural expression of the face, and was the
more provoking to me, because I could not think it affected.

“Good-morning, Mr. Markham,” said she; and without another word or
glance, she withdrew, with her child, into the garden; and I returned
home, angry and dissatisfied—I could scarcely tell you why, and
therefore will not attempt it.

I only stayed to put away my gun and powder-horn, and give some
requisite directions to one of the farming-men, and then repaired to
the vicarage, to solace my spirit and soothe my ruffled temper with the
company and conversation of Eliza Millward.

I found her, as usual, busy with some piece of soft embroidery (the
mania for Berlin wools had not yet commenced), while her sister was
seated at the chimney-corner, with the cat on her knee, mending a heap
of stockings.

“Mary—Mary! put them away!” Eliza was hastily saying, just as I entered
the room.

“Not I, indeed!” was the phlegmatic reply; and my appearance prevented
further discussion.

“You’re so unfortunate, Mr. Markham!” observed the younger sister, with
one of her arch, sidelong glances. “Papa’s just gone out into the
parish, and not likely to be back for an hour!”

“Never mind; I can manage to spend a few minutes with his daughters, if
they’ll allow me,” said I, bringing a chair to the fire, and seating
myself therein, without waiting to be asked.

“Well, if you’ll be very good and amusing, we shall not object.”

“Let your permission be unconditional, pray; for I came not to give
pleasure, but to seek it,” I answered.

However, I thought it but reasonable to make some slight exertion to
render my company agreeable; and what little effort I made, was
apparently pretty successful, for Miss Eliza was never in a better
humour. We seemed, indeed, to be mutually pleased with each other, and
managed to maintain between us a cheerful and animated though not very
profound conversation. It was little better than a tête-à-tête, for
Miss Millward never opened her lips, except occasionally to correct
some random assertion or exaggerated expression of her sister’s, and
once to ask her to pick up the ball of cotton that had rolled under the
table. I did this myself, however, as in duty bound.

“Thank you, Mr. Markham,” said she, as I presented it to her. “I would
have picked it up myself; only I did not want to disturb the cat.”

“Mary, dear, that won’t excuse you in Mr. Markham’s eyes,” said
Eliza; “he hates cats, I daresay, as cordially as he does old
maids—like all other gentlemen. Don’t you, Mr. Markham?”

“I believe it is natural for our unamiable sex to dislike the
creatures,” replied I; “for you ladies lavish so many caresses upon
them.”

“Bless them—little darlings!” cried she, in a sudden burst of
enthusiasm, turning round and overwhelming her sister’s pet with a
shower of kisses.

“Don’t, Eliza!” said Miss Millward, somewhat gruffly, as she
impatiently pushed her away.

But it was time for me to be going: make what haste I would, I should
still be too late for tea; and my mother was the soul of order and
punctuality.

My fair friend was evidently unwilling to bid me adieu. I tenderly
squeezed her little hand at parting; and she repaid me with one of her
softest smiles and most bewitching glances. I went home very happy,
with a heart brimful of complacency for myself, and overflowing with
love for Eliza.