The Tenant of Wildfell Hall

wo days after, Mrs. Graham called at Linden-Car, contrary to the
expectation of Rose, who entertained an idea that the mysterious
occupant of Wildfell Hall would wholly disregard the common observances
of civilized life,—in which opinion she was supported by the Wilsons,
who testified that neither their call nor the Millwards’ had been
returned as yet. Now, however, the cause of that omission was
explained, though not entirely to the satisfaction of Rose. Mrs. Graham
had brought her child with her, and on my mother’s expressing surprise
that he could walk so far, she replied,—“It is a long walk for him; but
I must have either taken him with me, or relinquished the visit
altogether; for I never leave him alone; and I think, Mrs. Markham, I
must beg you to make my excuses to the Millwards and Mrs. Wilson, when
you see them, as I fear I cannot do myself the pleasure of calling upon
them till my little Arthur is able to accompany me.”

“But you have a servant,” said Rose; “could you not leave him with
her?”

“She has her own occupations to attend to; and besides, she is too old
to run after a child, and he is too mercurial to be tied to an elderly
woman.”

“But you left him to come to church.”

“Yes, once; but I would not have left him for any other purpose; and I
think, in future, I must contrive to bring him with me, or stay at
home.”

“Is he so mischievous?” asked my mother, considerably shocked.

“No,” replied the lady, sadly smiling, as she stroked the wavy locks of
her son, who was seated on a low stool at her feet; “but he is my only
treasure, and I am his only friend: so we don’t like to be separated.”

“But, my dear, I call that doting,” said my plain-spoken parent. “You
should try to suppress such foolish fondness, as well to save your son
from ruin as yourself from ridicule.”

“Ruin! Mrs. Markham!”

“Yes; it is spoiling the child. Even at his age, he ought not to be
always tied to his mother’s apron-string; he should learn to be ashamed
of it.”

“Mrs. Markham, I beg you will not say such things, in his presence,
at least. I trust my son will never be ashamed to love his mother!”
said Mrs. Graham, with a serious energy that startled the company.

My mother attempted to appease her by an explanation; but she seemed to
think enough had been said on the subject, and abruptly turned the
conversation.

“Just as I thought,” said I to myself: “the lady’s temper is none of
the mildest, notwithstanding her sweet, pale face and lofty brow, where
thought and suffering seem equally to have stamped their impress.”

All this time I was seated at a table on the other side of the room,
apparently immersed in the perusal of a volume of the Farmer’s
Magazine, which I happened to have been reading at the moment of our
visitor’s arrival; and, not choosing to be over civil, I had merely
bowed as she entered, and continued my occupation as before.

In a little while, however, I was sensible that some one was
approaching me, with a light, but slow and hesitating tread. It was
little Arthur, irresistibly attracted by my dog Sancho, that was lying
at my feet. On looking up I beheld him standing about two yards off,
with his clear blue eyes wistfully gazing on the dog, transfixed to the
spot, not by fear of the animal, but by a timid disinclination to
approach its master. A little encouragement, however, induced him to
come forward. The child, though shy, was not sullen. In a minute he was
kneeling on the carpet, with his arms round Sancho’s neck, and, in a
minute or two more, the little fellow was seated on my knee, surveying
with eager interest the various specimens of horses, cattle, pigs, and
model farms portrayed in the volume before me. I glanced at his mother
now and then to see how she relished the new-sprung intimacy; and I
saw, by the unquiet aspect of her eye, that for some reason or other
she was uneasy at the child’s position.

“Arthur,” said she, at length, “come here. You are troublesome to Mr.
Markham: he wishes to read.”

“By no means, Mrs. Graham; pray let him stay. I am as much amused as he
is,” pleaded I. But still, with hand and eye, she silently called him
to her side.

“No, mamma,” said the child; “let me look at these pictures first; and
then I’ll come, and tell you all about them.”

“We are going to have a small party on Monday, the fifth of November,”
said my mother; “and I hope you will not refuse to make one, Mrs.
Graham. You can bring your little boy with you, you know—I daresay we
shall be able to amuse him;—and then you can make your own apologies to
the Millwards and Wilsons—they will all be here, I expect.”

“Thank you, I never go to parties.”

“Oh! but this will be quite a family concern—early hours, and nobody
here but ourselves, and just the Millwards and Wilsons, most of whom
you already know, and Mr. Lawrence, your landlord, with whom you ought
to make acquaintance.”

“I do know something of him—but you must excuse me this time; for the
evenings, now, are dark and damp, and Arthur, I fear, is too delicate
to risk exposure to their influence with impunity. We must defer the
enjoyment of your hospitality till the return of longer days and warmer
nights.”

Rose, now, at a hint from my mother, produced a decanter of wine, with
accompaniments of glasses and cake, from the cupboard and the oak
sideboard, and the refreshment was duly presented to the guests. They
both partook of the cake, but obstinately refused the wine, in spite of
their hostess’s hospitable attempts to force it upon them. Arthur,
especially shrank from the ruby nectar as if in terror and disgust, and
was ready to cry when urged to take it.

“Never mind, Arthur,” said his mamma; “Mrs. Markham thinks it will do
you good, as you were tired with your walk; but she will not oblige you
to take it!—I daresay you will do very well without. He detests the
very sight of wine,” she added, “and the smell of it almost makes him
sick. I have been accustomed to make him swallow a little wine or weak
spirits-and-water, by way of medicine, when he was sick, and, in fact,
I have done what I could to make him hate them.”

Everybody laughed, except the young widow and her son.

“Well, Mrs. Graham,” said my mother, wiping the tears of merriment from
her bright blue eyes—“well, you surprise me! I really gave you credit
for having more sense.—The poor child will be the veriest milksop that
ever was sopped! Only think what a man you will make of him, if you
persist in—”

“I think it a very excellent plan,” interrupted Mrs. Graham, with
imperturbable gravity. “By that means I hope to save him from one
degrading vice at least. I wish I could render the incentives to every
other equally innoxious in his case.”

“But by such means,” said I, “you will never render him virtuous.—What
is it that constitutes virtue, Mrs. Graham? Is it the circumstance of
being able and willing to resist temptation; or that of having no
temptations to resist?—Is he a strong man that overcomes great
obstacles and performs surprising achievements, though by dint of great
muscular exertion, and at the risk of some subsequent fatigue, or he
that sits in his chair all day, with nothing to do more laborious than
stirring the fire, and carrying his food to his mouth? If you would
have your son to walk honourably through the world, you must not
attempt to clear the stones from his path, but teach him to walk firmly
over them—not insist upon leading him by the hand, but let him learn to
go alone.”

“I will lead him by the hand, Mr. Markham, till he has strength to go
alone; and I will clear as many stones from his path as I can, and
teach him to avoid the rest—or walk firmly over them, as you say;—for
when I have done my utmost, in the way of clearance, there will still
be plenty left to exercise all the agility, steadiness, and
circumspection he will ever have.—It is all very well to talk about
noble resistance, and trials of virtue; but for fifty—or five hundred
men that have yielded to temptation, show me one that has had virtue to
resist. And why should I take it for granted that my son will be one in
a thousand?—and not rather prepare for the worst, and suppose he will
be like his—like the rest of mankind, unless I take care to prevent
it?”

“You are very complimentary to us all,” I observed.

“I know nothing about you—I speak of those I do know—and when I see
the whole race of mankind (with a few rare exceptions) stumbling and
blundering along the path of life, sinking into every pitfall, and
breaking their shins over every impediment that lies in their way,
shall I not use all the means in my power to insure for him a smoother
and a safer passage?”

“Yes, but the surest means will be to endeavour to fortify him
against temptation, not to remove it out of his way.”

“I will do both, Mr. Markham. God knows he will have temptations enough
to assail him, both from within and without, when I have done all I can
to render vice as uninviting to him, as it is abominable in its own
nature—I myself have had, indeed, but few incentives to what the world
calls vice, but yet I have experienced temptations and trials of
another kind, that have required, on many occasions, more watchfulness
and firmness to resist than I have hitherto been able to muster against
them. And this, I believe, is what most others would acknowledge who
are accustomed to reflection, and wishful to strive against their
natural corruptions.”

“Yes,” said my mother, but half apprehending her drift; “but you would
not judge of a boy by yourself—and, my dear Mrs. Graham, let me warn
you in good time against the error—the fatal error, I may call it—of
taking that boy’s education upon yourself. Because you are clever in
some things and well informed, you may fancy yourself equal to the
task; but indeed you are not; and if you persist in the attempt,
believe me you will bitterly repent it when the mischief is done.”

“I am to send him to school, I suppose, to learn to despise his
mother’s authority and affection!” said the lady, with rather a bitter
smile.

“Oh, no!—But if you would have a boy to despise his mother, let her
keep him at home, and spend her life in petting him up, and slaving to
indulge his follies and caprices.”

“I perfectly agree with you, Mrs. Markham; but nothing can be further
from my principles and practice than such criminal weakness as that.”

“Well, but you will treat him like a girl—you’ll spoil his spirit, and
make a mere Miss Nancy of him—you will, indeed, Mrs. Graham, whatever
you may think. But I’ll get Mr. Millward to talk to you about
it:—he’ll tell you the consequences;—he’ll set it before you as plain
as the day;—and tell you what you ought to do, and all about it;—and, I
don’t doubt, he’ll be able to convince you in a minute.”

“No occasion to trouble the vicar,” said Mrs. Graham, glancing at me—I
suppose I was smiling at my mother’s unbounded confidence in that
worthy gentleman—“Mr. Markham here thinks his powers of conviction at
least equal to Mr. Millward’s. If I hear not him, neither should I be
convinced though one rose from the dead, he would tell you. Well, Mr.
Markham, you that maintain that a boy should not be shielded from evil,
but sent out to battle against it, alone and unassisted—not taught to
avoid the snares of life, but boldly to rush into them, or over them,
as he may—to seek danger, rather than shun it, and feed his virtue by
temptation,—would you—?”

“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Graham—but you get on too fast. I have not yet
said that a boy should be taught to rush into the snares of life,—or
even wilfully to seek temptation for the sake of exercising his virtue
by overcoming it;—I only say that it is better to arm and strengthen
your hero, than to disarm and enfeeble the foe;—and if you were to rear
an oak sapling in a hothouse, tending it carefully night and day, and
shielding it from every breath of wind, you could not expect it to
become a hardy tree, like that which has grown up on the mountain-side,
exposed to all the action of the elements, and not even sheltered from
the shock of the tempest.”

“Granted;—but would you use the same argument with regard to a girl?”

“Certainly not.”

“No; you would have her to be tenderly and delicately nurtured, like a
hot-house plant—taught to cling to others for direction and support,
and guarded, as much as possible, from the very knowledge of evil. But
will you be so good as to inform me why you make this distinction? Is
it that you think she has no virtue?”

“Assuredly not.”

“Well, but you affirm that virtue is only elicited by temptation;—and
you think that a woman cannot be too little exposed to temptation, or
too little acquainted with vice, or anything connected therewith. It
must be either that you think she is essentially so vicious, or so
feeble-minded, that she cannot withstand temptation,—and though she
may be pure and innocent as long as she is kept in ignorance and
restraint, yet, being destitute of real virtue, to teach her how to
sin is at once to make her a sinner, and the greater her knowledge, the
wider her liberty, the deeper will be her depravity,—whereas, in the
nobler sex, there is a natural tendency to goodness, guarded by a
superior fortitude, which, the more it is exercised by trials and
dangers, is only the further developed—”

“Heaven forbid that I should think so!” I interrupted her at last.

“Well, then, it must be that you think they are both weak and prone
to err, and the slightest error, the merest shadow of pollution, will
ruin the one, while the character of the other will be strengthened and
embellished—his education properly finished by a little practical
acquaintance with forbidden things. Such experience, to him (to use a
trite simile), will be like the storm to the oak, which, though it may
scatter the leaves, and snap the smaller branches, serves but to rivet
the roots, and to harden and condense the fibres of the tree. You would
have us encourage our sons to prove all things by their own experience,
while our daughters must not even profit by the experience of others.
Now I would have both so to benefit by the experience of others, and
the precepts of a higher authority, that they should know beforehand to
refuse the evil and choose the good, and require no experimental proofs
to teach them the evil of transgression. I would not send a poor girl
into the world, unarmed against her foes, and ignorant of the snares
that beset her path; nor would I watch and guard her, till, deprived of
self-respect and self-reliance, she lost the power or the will to watch
and guard herself;—and as for my son—if I thought he would grow up to
be what you call a man of the world—one that has ‘seen life,’ and
glories in his experience, even though he should so far profit by it as
to sober down, at length, into a useful and respected member of
society—I would rather that he died to-morrow!—rather a thousand
times!” she earnestly repeated, pressing her darling to her side and
kissing his forehead with intense affection. He had already left his
new companion, and been standing for some time beside his mother’s
knee, looking up into her face, and listening in silent wonder to her
incomprehensible discourse.

“Well! you ladies must always have the last word, I suppose,” said I,
observing her rise, and begin to take leave of my mother.

“You may have as many words as you please,—only I can’t stay to hear
them.”

“No; that is the way: you hear just as much of an argument as you
please; and the rest may be spoken to the wind.”

“If you are anxious to say anything more on the subject,” replied she,
as she shook hands with Rose, “you must bring your sister to see me
some fine day, and I’ll listen, as patiently as you could wish, to
whatever you please to say. I would rather be lectured by you than the
vicar, because I should have less remorse in telling you, at the end of
the discourse, that I preserve my own opinion precisely the same as at
the beginning—as would be the case, I am persuaded, with regard to
either logician.”

“Yes, of course,” replied I, determined to be as provoking as herself;
“for when a lady does consent to listen to an argument against her own
opinions, she is always predetermined to withstand it—to listen only
with her bodily ears, keeping the mental organs resolutely closed
against the strongest reasoning.”

“Good-morning, Mr. Markham,” said my fair antagonist, with a pitying
smile; and deigning no further rejoinder, she slightly bowed, and was
about to withdraw; but her son, with childish impertinence, arrested
her by exclaiming,—“Mamma, you have not shaken hands with Mr. Markham!”

She laughingly turned round and held out her hand. I gave it a spiteful
squeeze, for I was annoyed at the continual injustice she had done me
from the very dawn of our acquaintance. Without knowing anything about
my real disposition and principles, she was evidently prejudiced
against me, and seemed bent upon showing me that her opinions
respecting me, on every particular, fell far below those I entertained
of myself. I was naturally touchy, or it would not have vexed me so
much. Perhaps, too, I was a little bit spoiled by my mother and sister,
and some other ladies of my acquaintance;—and yet I was by no means a
fop—of that I am fully convinced, whether you are or not.