The Tenant of Wildfell Hall

ur party, on the 5th of November, passed off very well, in spite of
Mrs. Graham’s refusal to grace it with her presence. Indeed, it is
probable that, had she been there, there would have been less
cordiality, freedom, and frolic amongst us than there was without her.

My mother, as usual, was cheerful and chatty, full of activity and
good-nature, and only faulty in being too anxious to make her guests
happy, thereby forcing several of them to do what their soul abhorred
in the way of eating or drinking, sitting opposite the blazing fire, or
talking when they would be silent. Nevertheless, they bore it very
well, being all in their holiday humours.

Mr. Millward was mighty in important dogmas and sententious jokes,
pompous anecdotes and oracular discourses, dealt out for the
edification of the whole assembly in general, and of the admiring Mrs.
Markham, the polite Mr. Lawrence, the sedate Mary Millward, the quiet
Richard Wilson, and the matter-of-fact Robert in particular,—as being
the most attentive listeners.

Mrs. Wilson was more brilliant than ever, with her budgets of fresh
news and old scandal, strung together with trivial questions and
remarks, and oft-repeated observations, uttered apparently for the sole
purpose of denying a moment’s rest to her inexhaustible organs of
speech. She had brought her knitting with her, and it seemed as if her
tongue had laid a wager with her fingers, to outdo them in swift and
ceaseless motion.

Her daughter Jane was, of course, as graceful and elegant, as witty and
seductive, as she could possibly manage to be; for here were all the
ladies to outshine, and all the gentlemen to charm,—and Mr. Lawrence,
especially, to capture and subdue. Her little arts to effect his
subjugation were too subtle and impalpable to attract my observation;
but I thought there was a certain refined affectation of superiority,
and an ungenial self-consciousness about her, that negatived all her
advantages; and after she was gone, Rose interpreted to me her various
looks, words, and actions with a mingled acuteness and asperity that
made me wonder, equally, at the lady’s artifice and my sister’s
penetration, and ask myself if she too had an eye to the squire—but
never mind, Halford; she had not.

Richard Wilson, Jane’s younger brother, sat in a corner, apparently
good-tempered, but silent and shy, desirous to escape observation, but
willing enough to listen and observe: and, although somewhat out of his
element, he would have been happy enough in his own quiet way, if my
mother could only have let him alone; but in her mistaken kindness, she
would keep persecuting him with her attentions—pressing upon him all
manner of viands, under the notion that he was too bashful to help
himself, and obliging him to shout across the room his monosyllabic
replies to the numerous questions and observations by which she vainly
attempted to draw him into conversation.

Rose informed me that he never would have favoured us with his company
but for the importunities of his sister Jane, who was most anxious to
show Mr. Lawrence that she had at least one brother more gentlemanly
and refined than Robert. That worthy individual she had been equally
solicitous to keep away; but he affirmed that he saw no reason why he
should not enjoy a crack with Markham and the old lady (my mother was
not old, really), and bonny Miss Rose and the parson, as well as the
best;—and he was in the right of it too. So he talked common-place with
my mother and Rose, and discussed parish affairs with the vicar,
farming matters with me, and politics with us both.

Mary Millward was another mute,—not so much tormented with cruel
kindness as Dick Wilson, because she had a certain short, decided way
of answering and refusing, and was supposed to be rather sullen than
diffident. However that might be, she certainly did not give much
pleasure to the company;—nor did she appear to derive much from it.
Eliza told me she had only come because her father insisted upon it,
having taken it into his head that she devoted herself too exclusively
to her household duties, to the neglect of such relaxations and
innocent enjoyments as were proper to her age and sex. She seemed to me
to be good-humoured enough on the whole. Once or twice she was provoked
to laughter by the wit or the merriment of some favoured individual
amongst us; and then I observed she sought the eye of Richard Wilson,
who sat over against her. As he studied with her father, she had some
acquaintance with him, in spite of the retiring habits of both, and I
suppose there was a kind of fellow-feeling established between them.

My Eliza was charming beyond description, coquettish without
affectation, and evidently more desirous to engage my attention than
that of all the room besides. Her delight in having me near her, seated
or standing by her side, whispering in her ear, or pressing her hand in
the dance, was plainly legible in her glowing face and heaving bosom,
however belied by saucy words and gestures. But I had better hold my
tongue: if I boast of these things now, I shall have to blush
hereafter.

To proceed, then, with the various individuals of our party; Rose was
simple and natural as usual, and full of mirth and vivacity.

Fergus was impertinent and absurd; but his impertinence and folly
served to make others laugh, if they did not raise himself in their
estimation.

And finally (for I omit myself), Mr. Lawrence was gentlemanly and
inoffensive to all, and polite to the vicar and the ladies, especially
his hostess and her daughter, and Miss Wilson—misguided man; he had not
the taste to prefer Eliza Millward. Mr. Lawrence and I were on
tolerably intimate terms. Essentially of reserved habits, and but
seldom quitting the secluded place of his birth, where he had lived in
solitary state since the death of his father, he had neither the
opportunity nor the inclination for forming many acquaintances; and, of
all he had ever known, I (judging by the results) was the companion
most agreeable to his taste. I liked the man well enough, but he was
too cold, and shy, and self-contained, to obtain my cordial sympathies.
A spirit of candour and frankness, when wholly unaccompanied with
coarseness, he admired in others, but he could not acquire it himself.
His excessive reserve upon all his own concerns was, indeed, provoking
and chilly enough; but I forgave it, from a conviction that it
originated less in pride and want of confidence in his friends, than in
a certain morbid feeling of delicacy, and a peculiar diffidence, that
he was sensible of, but wanted energy to overcome. His heart was like a
sensitive plant, that opens for a moment in the sunshine, but curls up
and shrinks into itself at the slightest touch of the finger, or the
lightest breath of wind. And, upon the whole, our intimacy was rather a
mutual predilection than a deep and solid friendship, such as has since
arisen between myself and you, Halford, whom, in spite of your
occasional crustiness, I can liken to nothing so well as an old coat,
unimpeachable in texture, but easy and loose—that has conformed itself
to the shape of the wearer, and which he may use as he pleases, without
being bothered with the fear of spoiling it;—whereas Mr. Lawrence was
like a new garment, all very neat and trim to look at, but so tight in
the elbows, that you would fear to split the seams by the unrestricted
motion of your arms, and so smooth and fine in surface that you scruple
to expose it to a single drop of rain.

Soon after the arrival of the guests, my mother mentioned Mrs. Graham,
regretted she was not there to meet them, and explained to the
Millwards and Wilsons the reasons she had given for neglecting to
return their calls, hoping they would excuse her, as she was sure she
did not mean to be uncivil, and would be glad to see them at any
time.—“But she is a very singular lady, Mr. Lawrence,” added she; “we
don’t know what to make of her—but I daresay you can tell us something
about her, for she is your tenant, you know,—and she said she knew you
a little.”

All eyes were turned to Mr. Lawrence. I thought he looked unnecessarily
confused at being so appealed to.

“I, Mrs. Markham!” said he; “you are mistaken—I don’t—that is—I have
seen her, certainly; but I am the last person you should apply to for
information respecting Mrs. Graham.”

He then immediately turned to Rose, and asked her to favour the company
with a song, or a tune on the piano.

“No,” said she, “you must ask Miss Wilson: she outshines us all in
singing, and music too.”

Miss Wilson demurred.

“She’ll sing readily enough,” said Fergus, “if you’ll undertake to
stand by her, Mr. Lawrence, and turn over the leaves for her.”

“I shall be most happy to do so, Miss Wilson; will you allow me?”

She bridled her long neck and smiled, and suffered him to lead her to
the instrument, where she played and sang, in her very best style, one
piece after another; while he stood patiently by, leaning one hand on
the back of her chair, and turning over the leaves of her book with the
other. Perhaps he was as much charmed with her performance as she was.
It was all very fine in its way; but I cannot say that it moved me very
deeply. There was plenty of skill and execution, but precious little
feeling.

But we had not done with Mrs. Graham yet.

“I don’t take wine, Mrs. Markham,” said Mr. Millward, upon the
introduction of that beverage; “I’ll take a little of your home-brewed
ale. I always prefer your home-brewed to anything else.”

Flattered at this compliment, my mother rang the bell, and a china jug
of our best ale was presently brought and set before the worthy
gentleman who so well knew how to appreciate its excellences.

“Now THIS is the thing!” cried he, pouring out a glass of the same in a
long stream, skilfully directed from the jug to the tumbler, so as to
produce much foam without spilling a drop; and, having surveyed it for
a moment opposite the candle, he took a deep draught, and then smacked
his lips, drew a long breath, and refilled his glass, my mother looking
on with the greatest satisfaction.

“There’s nothing like this, Mrs. Markham!” said he. “I always maintain
that there’s nothing to compare with your home-brewed ale.”

“I’m sure I’m glad you like it, sir. I always look after the brewing
myself, as well as the cheese and the butter—I like to have things well
done, while we’re about it.”

“Quite right, Mrs. Markham!”

“But then, Mr. Millward, you don’t think it wrong to take a little
wine now and then—or a little spirits either!” said my mother, as she
handed a smoking tumbler of gin-and-water to Mrs. Wilson, who affirmed
that wine sat heavy on her stomach, and whose son Robert was at that
moment helping himself to a pretty stiff glass of the same.

“By no means!” replied the oracle, with a Jove-like nod; “these things
are all blessings and mercies, if we only knew how to make use of
them.”

“But Mrs. Graham doesn’t think so. You shall just hear now what she
told us the other day—I told her I’d tell you.”

And my mother favoured the company with a particular account of that
lady’s mistaken ideas and conduct regarding the matter in hand,
concluding with, “Now, don’t you think it is wrong?”

“Wrong!” repeated the vicar, with more than common solemnity—“criminal,
I should say—criminal! Not only is it making a fool of the boy, but it
is despising the gifts of Providence, and teaching him to trample them
under his feet.”

He then entered more fully into the question, and explained at large
the folly and impiety of such a proceeding. My mother heard him with
profoundest reverence; and even Mrs. Wilson vouchsafed to rest her
tongue for a moment, and listen in silence, while she complacently
sipped her gin-and-water. Mr. Lawrence sat with his elbow on the table,
carelessly playing with his half-empty wine-glass, and covertly smiling
to himself.

“But don’t you think, Mr. Millward,” suggested he, when at length that
gentleman paused in his discourse, “that when a child may be naturally
prone to intemperance—by the fault of its parents or ancestors, for
instance—some precautions are advisable?” (Now it was generally
believed that Mr. Lawrence’s father had shortened his days by
intemperance.)

“Some precautions, it may be; but temperance, sir, is one thing, and
abstinence another.”

“But I have heard that, with some persons, temperance—that is,
moderation—is almost impossible; and if abstinence be an evil (which
some have doubted), no one will deny that excess is a greater. Some
parents have entirely prohibited their children from tasting
intoxicating liquors; but a parent’s authority cannot last for ever;
children are naturally prone to hanker after forbidden things; and a
child, in such a case, would be likely to have a strong curiosity to
taste, and try the effect of what has been so lauded and enjoyed by
others, so strictly forbidden to himself—which curiosity would
generally be gratified on the first convenient opportunity; and the
restraint once broken, serious consequences might ensue. I don’t
pretend to be a judge of such matters, but it seems to me, that this
plan of Mrs. Graham’s, as you describe it, Mrs. Markham, extraordinary
as it may be, is not without its advantages; for here you see the child
is delivered at once from temptation; he has no secret curiosity, no
hankering desire; he is as well acquainted with the tempting liquors as
he ever wishes to be; and is thoroughly disgusted with them, without
having suffered from their effects.”

“And is that right, sir? Have I not proven to you how wrong it is—how
contrary to Scripture and to reason, to teach a child to look with
contempt and disgust upon the blessings of Providence, instead of to
use them aright?”

“You may consider laudanum a blessing of Providence, sir,” replied Mr.
Lawrence, smiling; “and yet, you will allow that most of us had better
abstain from it, even in moderation; but,” added he, “I would not
desire you to follow out my simile too closely—in witness whereof I
finish my glass.”

“And take another, I hope, Mr. Lawrence,” said my mother, pushing the
bottle towards him.

He politely declined, and pushing his chair a little away from the
table, leant back towards me—I was seated a trifle behind, on the sofa
beside Eliza Millward—and carelessly asked me if I knew Mrs. Graham.

“I have met her once or twice,” I replied.

“What do you think of her?”

“I cannot say that I like her much. She is handsome—or rather I should
say distinguished and interesting—in her appearance, but by no means
amiable—a woman liable to take strong prejudices, I should fancy, and
stick to them through thick and thin, twisting everything into
conformity with her own preconceived opinions—too hard, too sharp, too
bitter for my taste.”

He made no reply, but looked down and bit his lip, and shortly after
rose and sauntered up to Miss Wilson, as much repelled by me, I fancy,
as attracted by her. I scarcely noticed it at the time, but afterwards
I was led to recall this and other trifling facts, of a similar nature,
to my remembrance, when—but I must not anticipate.

We wound up the evening with dancing—our worthy pastor thinking it no
scandal to be present on the occasion, though one of the village
musicians was engaged to direct our evolutions with his violin. But
Mary Millward obstinately refused to join us; and so did Richard
Wilson, though my mother earnestly entreated him to do so, and even
offered to be his partner.

We managed very well without them, however. With a single set of
quadrilles, and several country dances, we carried it on to a pretty
late hour; and at length, having called upon our musician to strike up
a waltz, I was just about to whirl Eliza round in that delightful
dance, accompanied by Lawrence and Jane Wilson, and Fergus and Rose,
when Mr. Millward interposed with:—“No, no; I don’t allow that! Come,
it’s time to be going now.”

“Oh, no, papa!” pleaded Eliza.

“High time, my girl—high time! Moderation in all things, remember!
That’s the plan—‘Let your moderation be known unto all men!’”

But in revenge I followed Eliza into the dimly-lighted passage, where,
under pretence of helping her on with her shawl, I fear I must plead
guilty to snatching a kiss behind her father’s back, while he was
enveloping his throat and chin in the folds of a mighty comforter. But
alas! in turning round, there was my mother close beside me. The
consequence was, that no sooner were the guests departed, than I was
doomed to a very serious remonstrance, which unpleasantly checked the
galloping course of my spirits, and made a disagreeable close to the
evening.

“My dear Gilbert,” said she, “I wish you wouldn’t do so! You know how
deeply I have your advantage at heart, how I love you and prize you
above everything else in the world, and how much I long to see you well
settled in life—and how bitterly it would grieve me to see you married
to that girl—or any other in the neighbourhood. What you see in her I
don’t know. It isn’t only the want of money that I think about—nothing
of the kind—but there’s neither beauty, nor cleverness, nor goodness,
nor anything else that’s desirable. If you knew your own value, as I
do, you wouldn’t dream of it. Do wait awhile and see! If you bind
yourself to her, you’ll repent it all your lifetime when you look round
and see how many better there are. Take my word for it, you will.”

“Well, mother, do be quiet!—I hate to be lectured!—I’m not going to
marry yet, I tell you; but—dear me! mayn’t I enjoy myself at all?”

“Yes, my dear boy, but not in that way. Indeed, you shouldn’t do such
things. You would be wronging the girl, if she were what she ought to
be; but I assure you she is as artful a little hussy as anybody need
wish to see; and you’ll get entangled in her snares before you know
where you are. And if you do marry her, Gilbert, you’ll break my
heart—so there’s an end of it.”

“Well, don’t cry about it, mother,” said I, for the tears were gushing
from her eyes; “there, let that kiss efface the one I gave Eliza; don’t
abuse her any more, and set your mind at rest; for I’ll promise
never—that is, I’ll promise to think twice before I take any important
step you seriously disapprove of.”

So saying, I lighted my candle, and went to bed, considerably quenched
in spirit.