The Tenant of Wildfell Hall

hough my affections might now be said to be fairly weaned from Eliza
Millward, I did not yet entirely relinquish my visits to the vicarage,
because I wanted, as it were, to let her down easy; without raising
much sorrow, or incurring much resentment,—or making myself the talk of
the parish; and besides, if I had wholly kept away, the vicar, who
looked upon my visits as paid chiefly, if not entirely, to himself,
would have felt himself decidedly affronted by the neglect. But when I
called there the day after my interview with Mrs. Graham, he happened
to be from home—a circumstance by no means so agreeable to me now as it
had been on former occasions. Miss Millward was there, it is true, but
she, of course, would be little better than a nonentity. However, I
resolved to make my visit a short one, and to talk to Eliza in a
brotherly, friendly sort of way, such as our long acquaintance might
warrant me in assuming, and which, I thought, could neither give
offence nor serve to encourage false hopes.

It was never my custom to talk about Mrs. Graham either to her or any
one else; but I had not been seated three minutes before she brought
that lady on to the carpet herself in a rather remarkable manner.

“Oh, Mr. Markham!” said she, with a shocked expression and voice
subdued almost to a whisper, “what do you think of these shocking
reports about Mrs. Graham?—can you encourage us to disbelieve them?”

“What reports?”

“Ah, now! you know!” she slily smiled and shook her head.

“I know nothing about them. What in the world do you mean, Eliza?”

“Oh, don’t ask me!—I can’t explain it.” She took up the cambric
handkerchief which she had been beautifying with a deep lace border,
and began to be very busy.

“What is it, Miss Millward? what does she mean?” said I, appealing to
her sister, who seemed to be absorbed in the hemming of a large, coarse
sheet.

“I don’t know,” replied she. “Some idle slander somebody has been
inventing, I suppose. I never heard it till Eliza told me the other
day,—but if all the parish dinned it in my ears, I shouldn’t believe a
word of it—I know Mrs. Graham too well!”

“Quite right, Miss Millward!—and so do I—whatever it may be.”

“Well,” observed Eliza, with a gentle sigh, “it’s well to have such a
comfortable assurance regarding the worth of those we love. I only wish
you may not find your confidence misplaced.”

And she raised her face, and gave me such a look of sorrowful
tenderness as might have melted my heart, but within those eyes there
lurked a something that I did not like; and I wondered how I ever could
have admired them—her sister’s honest face and small grey optics
appeared far more agreeable. But I was out of temper with Eliza at that
moment for her insinuations against Mrs. Graham, which were false, I
was certain, whether she knew it or not.

I said nothing more on the subject, however, at the time, and but
little on any other; for, finding I could not well recover my
equanimity, I presently rose and took leave, excusing myself under the
plea of business at the farm; and to the farm I went, not troubling my
mind one whit about the possible truth of these mysterious reports, but
only wondering what they were, by whom originated, and on what
foundations raised, and how they could the most effectually be silenced
or disproved.

A few days after this we had another of our quiet little parties, to
which the usual company of friends and neighbours had been invited, and
Mrs. Graham among the number. She could not now absent herself under
the plea of dark evenings or inclement weather, and, greatly to my
relief, she came. Without her I should have found the whole affair an
intolerable bore; but the moment of her arrival brought new life to the
house, and though I might not neglect the other guests for her, or
expect to engross much of her attention and conversation to myself
alone, I anticipated an evening of no common enjoyment.

Mr. Lawrence came too. He did not arrive till some time after the rest
were assembled. I was curious to see how he would comport himself to
Mrs. Graham. A slight bow was all that passed between them on his
entrance; and having politely greeted the other members of the company,
he seated himself quite aloof from the young widow, between my mother
and Rose.

“Did you ever see such art?” whispered Eliza, who was my nearest
neighbour. “Would you not say they were perfect strangers?”

“Almost; but what then?”

“What then; why, you can’t pretend to be ignorant?”

“Ignorant of what?” demanded I, so sharply that she started and
replied,—

“Oh, hush! don’t speak so loud.”

“Well, tell me then,” I answered in a lower tone, “what is it you mean?
I hate enigmas.”

“Well, you know, I don’t vouch for the truth of it—indeed, far from
it—but haven’t you heard—?”

“I’ve heard nothing, except from you.”

“You must be wilfully deaf then, for anyone will tell you that; but I
shall only anger you by repeating it, I see, so I had better hold my
tongue.”

She closed her lips and folded her hands before her, with an air of
injured meekness.

“If you had wished not to anger me, you should have held your tongue
from the beginning, or else spoken out plainly and honestly all you had
to say.”

She turned aside her face, pulled out her handkerchief, rose, and went
to the window, where she stood for some time, evidently dissolved in
tears. I was astounded, provoked, ashamed—not so much of my harshness
as for her childish weakness. However, no one seemed to notice her, and
shortly after we were summoned to the tea-table: in those parts it was
customary to sit to the table at tea-time on all occasions, and make a
meal of it, for we dined early. On taking my seat, I had Rose on one
side of me and an empty chair on the other.

“May I sit by you?” said a soft voice at my elbow.

“If you like,” was the reply; and Eliza slipped into the vacant chair;
then, looking up in my face with a half-sad, half-playful smile, she
whispered,—“You’re so stern, Gilbert.”

I handed down her tea with a slightly contemptuous smile, and said
nothing, for I had nothing to say.

“What have I done to offend you?” said she, more plaintively. “I wish I
knew.”

“Come, take your tea, Eliza, and don’t be foolish,” responded I,
handing her the sugar and cream.

Just then there arose a slight commotion on the other side of me,
occasioned by Miss Wilson’s coming to negotiate an exchange of seats
with Rose.

“Will you be so good as to exchange places with me, Miss Markham?” said
she; “for I don’t like to sit by Mrs. Graham. If your mamma thinks
proper to invite such persons to her house, she cannot object to her
daughter’s keeping company with them.”

This latter clause was added in a sort of soliloquy when Rose was gone;
but I was not polite enough to let it pass.

“Will you be so good as to tell me what you mean, Miss Wilson?” said I.

The question startled her a little, but not much.

“Why, Mr. Markham,” replied she, coolly, having quickly recovered her
self-possession, “it surprises me rather that Mrs. Markham should
invite such a person as Mrs. Graham to her house; but, perhaps, she is
not aware that the lady’s character is considered scarcely
respectable.”

“She is not, nor am I; and therefore you would oblige me by explaining
your meaning a little further.”

“This is scarcely the time or the place for such explanations; but I
think you can hardly be so ignorant as you pretend—you must know her as
well as I do.”

“I think I do, perhaps a little better; and therefore, if you will
inform me what you have heard or imagined against her, I shall,
perhaps, be able to set you right.”

“Can you tell me, then, who was her husband, or if she ever had any?”

Indignation kept me silent. At such a time and place I could not trust
myself to answer.

“Have you never observed,” said Eliza, “what a striking likeness there
is between that child of hers and—”

“And whom?” demanded Miss Wilson, with an air of cold, but keen
severity.

Eliza was startled; the timidly spoken suggestion had been intended for
my ear alone.

“Oh, I beg your pardon!” pleaded she; “I may be mistaken—perhaps I
was mistaken.” But she accompanied the words with a sly glance of
derision directed to me from the corner of her disingenuous eye.

“There’s no need to ask my pardon,” replied her friend, “but I see no
one here that at all resembles that child, except his mother, and when
you hear ill-natured reports, Miss Eliza, I will thank you, that is, I
think you will do well, to refrain from repeating them. I presume the
person you allude to is Mr. Lawrence; but I think I can assure you that
your suspicions, in that respect, are utterly misplaced; and if he has
any particular connection with the lady at all (which no one has a
right to assert), at least he has (what cannot be said of some others)
sufficient sense of propriety to withhold him from acknowledging
anything more than a bowing acquaintance in the presence of respectable
persons; he was evidently both surprised and annoyed to find her here.”

“Go it!” cried Fergus, who sat on the other side of Eliza, and was the
only individual who shared that side of the table with us. “Go it like
bricks! mind you don’t leave her one stone upon another.”

Miss Wilson drew herself up with a look of freezing scorn, but said
nothing. Eliza would have replied, but I interrupted her by saying as
calmly as I could, though in a tone which betrayed, no doubt, some
little of what I felt within,—“We have had enough of this subject; if
we can only speak to slander our betters, let us hold our tongues.”

“I think you’d better,” observed Fergus, “and so does our good parson;
he has been addressing the company in his richest vein all the while,
and eyeing you, from time to time, with looks of stern distaste, while
you sat there, irreverently whispering and muttering together; and once
he paused in the middle of a story or a sermon, I don’t know which, and
fixed his eyes upon you, Gilbert, as much as to say, ‘When Mr. Markham
has done flirting with those two ladies I will proceed.’”

What more was said at the tea-table I cannot tell, nor how I found
patience to sit till the meal was over. I remember, however, that I
swallowed with difficulty the remainder of the tea that was in my cup,
and ate nothing; and that the first thing I did was to stare at Arthur
Graham, who sat beside his mother on the opposite side of the table,
and the second to stare at Mr. Lawrence, who sat below; and, first, it
struck me that there was a likeness; but, on further contemplation, I
concluded it was only in imagination.

Both, it is true, had more delicate features and smaller bones than
commonly fall to the lot of individuals of the rougher sex, and
Lawrence’s complexion was pale and clear, and Arthur’s delicately fair;
but Arthur’s tiny, somewhat snubby nose could never become so long and
straight as Mr. Lawrence’s; and the outline of his face, though not
full enough to be round, and too finely converging to the small,
dimpled chin to be square, could never be drawn out to the long oval of
the other’s, while the child’s hair was evidently of a lighter, warmer
tint than the elder gentleman’s had ever been, and his large, clear
blue eyes, though prematurely serious at times, were utterly dissimilar
to the shy hazel eyes of Mr. Lawrence, whence the sensitive soul looked
so distrustfully forth, as ever ready to retire within, from the
offences of a too rude, too uncongenial world. Wretch that I was to
harbour that detestable idea for a moment! Did I not know Mrs. Graham?
Had I not seen her, conversed with her time after time? Was I not
certain that she, in intellect, in purity and elevation of soul, was
immeasurably superior to any of her detractors; that she was, in fact,
the noblest, the most adorable, of her sex I had ever beheld, or even
imagined to exist? Yes, and I would say with Mary Millward (sensible
girl as she was), that if all the parish, ay, or all the world, should
din these horrible lies in my ears, I would not believe them, for I
knew her better than they.

Meantime, my brain was on fire with indignation, and my heart seemed
ready to burst from its prison with conflicting passions. I regarded my
two fair neighbours with a feeling of abhorrence and loathing I
scarcely endeavoured to conceal. I was rallied from several quarters
for my abstraction and ungallant neglect of the ladies; but I cared
little for that: all I cared about, besides that one grand subject of
my thoughts, was to see the cups travel up to the tea-tray, and not
come down again. I thought Mr. Millward never would cease telling us
that he was no tea-drinker, and that it was highly injurious to keep
loading the stomach with slops to the exclusion of more wholesome
sustenance, and so give himself time to finish his fourth cup.

At length it was over; and I rose and left the table and the guests
without a word of apology—I could endure their company no longer. I
rushed out to cool my brain in the balmy evening air, and to compose my
mind or indulge my passionate thoughts in the solitude of the garden.

To avoid being seen from the windows I went down a quiet little avenue
that skirted one side of the inclosure, at the bottom of which was a
seat embowered in roses and honeysuckles. Here I sat down to think over
the virtues and wrongs of the lady of Wildfell Hall; but I had not been
so occupied two minutes, before voices and laughter, and glimpses of
moving objects through the trees, informed me that the whole company
had turned out to take an airing in the garden too. However, I nestled
up in a corner of the bower, and hoped to retain possession of it,
secure alike from observation and intrusion. But no—confound it—there
was some one coming down the avenue! Why couldn’t they enjoy the
flowers and sunshine of the open garden, and leave that sunless nook to
me, and the gnats and midges?

But, peeping through my fragrant screen of the interwoven branches to
discover who the intruders were (for a murmur of voices told me it was
more than one), my vexation instantly subsided, and far other feelings
agitated my still unquiet soul; for there was Mrs. Graham, slowly
moving down the walk with Arthur by her side, and no one else. Why were
they alone? Had the poison of detracting tongues already spread through
all; and had they all turned their backs upon her? I now recollected
having seen Mrs. Wilson, in the early part of the evening, edging her
chair close up to my mother, and bending forward, evidently in the
delivery of some important confidential intelligence; and from the
incessant wagging of her head, the frequent distortions of her wrinkled
physiognomy, and the winking and malicious twinkle of her little ugly
eyes, I judged it was some spicy piece of scandal that engaged her
powers; and from the cautious privacy of the communication I supposed
some person then present was the luckless object of her calumnies: and
from all these tokens, together with my mother’s looks and gestures of
mingled horror and incredulity, I now concluded that object to have
been Mrs. Graham. I did not emerge from my place of concealment till
she had nearly reached the bottom of the walk, lest my appearance
should drive her away; and when I did step forward she stood still and
seemed inclined to turn back as it was.

“Oh, don’t let us disturb you, Mr. Markham!” said she. “We came here to
seek retirement ourselves, not to intrude on your seclusion.”

“I am no hermit, Mrs. Graham—though I own it looks rather like it to
absent myself in this uncourteous fashion from my guests.”

“I feared you were unwell,” said she, with a look of real concern.

“I was rather, but it’s over now. Do sit here a little and rest, and
tell me how you like this arbour,” said I, and, lifting Arthur by the
shoulders, I planted him in the middle of the seat by way of securing
his mamma, who, acknowledging it to be a tempting place of refuge,
threw herself back in one corner, while I took possession of the other.

But that word refuge disturbed me. Had their unkindness then really
driven her to seek for peace in solitude?

“Why have they left you alone?” I asked.

“It is I who have left them,” was the smiling rejoinder. “I was wearied
to death with small talk—nothing wears me out like that. I cannot
imagine how they can go on as they do.”

I could not help smiling at the serious depth of her wonderment.

“Is it that they think it a duty to be continually talking,” pursued
she: “and so never pause to think, but fill up with aimless trifles and
vain repetitions when subjects of real interest fail to present
themselves, or do they really take a pleasure in such discourse?”

“Very likely they do,” said I; “their shallow minds can hold no great
ideas, and their light heads are carried away by trivialities that
would not move a better-furnished skull; and their only alternative to
such discourse is to plunge over head and ears into the slough of
scandal—which is their chief delight.”

“Not all of them, surely?” cried the lady, astonished at the bitterness
of my remark.

“No, certainly; I exonerate my sister from such degraded tastes, and my
mother too, if you included her in your animadversions.”

“I meant no animadversions against any one, and certainly intended no
disrespectful allusions to your mother. I have known some sensible
persons great adepts in that style of conversation when circumstances
impelled them to it; but it is a gift I cannot boast the possession of.
I kept up my attention on this occasion as long as I could, but when my
powers were exhausted I stole away to seek a few minutes’ repose in
this quiet walk. I hate talking where there is no exchange of ideas or
sentiments, and no good given or received.”

“Well,” said I, “if ever I trouble you with my loquacity, tell me so at
once, and I promise not to be offended; for I possess the faculty of
enjoying the company of those I—of my friends as well in silence as in
conversation.”

“I don’t quite believe you; but if it were so you would exactly suit me
for a companion.”

“I am all you wish, then, in other respects?”

“No, I don’t mean that. How beautiful those little clusters of foliage
look, where the sun comes through behind them!” said she, on purpose to
change the subject.

And they did look beautiful, where at intervals the level rays of the
sun penetrating the thickness of trees and shrubs on the opposite side
of the path before us, relieved their dusky verdure by displaying
patches of semi-transparent leaves of resplendent golden green.

“I almost wish I were not a painter,” observed my companion.

“Why so? one would think at such a time you would most exult in your
privilege of being able to imitate the various brilliant and delightful
touches of nature.”

“No; for instead of delivering myself up to the full enjoyment of them
as others do, I am always troubling my head about how I could produce
the same effect upon canvas; and as that can never be done, it is mere
vanity and vexation of spirit.”

“Perhaps you cannot do it to satisfy yourself, but you may and do
succeed in delighting others with the result of your endeavours.”

“Well, after all, I should not complain: perhaps few people gain their
livelihood with so much pleasure in their toil as I do. Here is some
one coming.”

She seemed vexed at the interruption.

“It is only Mr. Lawrence and Miss Wilson,” said I, “coming to enjoy a
quiet stroll. They will not disturb us.”

I could not quite decipher the expression of her face; but I was
satisfied there was no jealousy therein. What business had I to look
for it?

“What sort of a person is Miss Wilson?” she asked.

“She is elegant and accomplished above the generality of her birth and
station; and some say she is ladylike and agreeable.”

“I thought her somewhat frigid and rather supercilious in her manner
to-day.”

“Very likely she might be so to you. She has possibly taken a prejudice
against you, for I think she regards you in the light of a rival.”

“Me! Impossible, Mr. Markham!” said she, evidently astonished and
annoyed.

“Well, I know nothing about it,” returned I, rather doggedly; for I
thought her annoyance was chiefly against myself.

The pair had now approached within a few paces of us. Our arbour was
set snugly back in a corner, before which the avenue at its termination
turned off into the more airy walk along the bottom of the garden. As
they approached this, I saw, by the aspect of Jane Wilson, that she was
directing her companion’s attention to us; and, as well by her cold,
sarcastic smile as by the few isolated words of her discourse that
reached me, I knew full well that she was impressing him with the idea,
that we were strongly attached to each other. I noticed that he
coloured up to the temples, gave us one furtive glance in passing, and
walked on, looking grave, but seemingly offering no reply to her
remarks.

It was true, then, that he had some designs upon Mrs. Graham; and,
were they honourable, he would not be so anxious to conceal them. She
was blameless, of course, but he was detestable beyond all count.

While these thoughts flashed through my mind, my companion abruptly
rose, and calling her son, said they would now go in quest of the
company, and departed up the avenue. Doubtless she had heard or guessed
something of Miss Wilson’s remarks, and therefore it was natural enough
she should choose to continue the tête-à-tête no longer, especially
as at that moment my cheeks were burning with indignation against my
former friend, the token of which she might mistake for a blush of
stupid embarrassment. For this I owed Miss Wilson yet another grudge;
and still the more I thought upon her conduct the more I hated her.

It was late in the evening before I joined the company. I found Mrs.
Graham already equipped for departure, and taking leave of the rest,
who were now returned to the house. I offered, nay, begged to accompany
her home. Mr. Lawrence was standing by at the time conversing with some
one else. He did not look at us, but, on hearing my earnest request, he
paused in the middle of a sentence to listen for her reply, and went
on, with a look of quiet satisfaction, the moment he found it was to be
a denial.

A denial it was, decided, though not unkind. She could not be persuaded
to think there was danger for herself or her child in traversing those
lonely lanes and fields without attendance. It was daylight still, and
she should meet no one; or if she did, the people were quiet and
harmless she was well assured. In fact, she would not hear of any one’s
putting himself out of the way to accompany her, though Fergus
vouchsafed to offer his services in case they should be more acceptable
than mine, and my mother begged she might send one of the farming-men
to escort her.

When she was gone the rest was all a blank or worse. Lawrence attempted
to draw me into conversation, but I snubbed him and went to another
part of the room. Shortly after the party broke up and he himself took
leave. When he came to me I was blind to his extended hand, and deaf to
his good-night till he repeated it a second time; and then, to get rid
of him, I muttered an inarticulate reply, accompanied by a sulky nod.

“What is the matter, Markham?” whispered he.

I replied by a wrathful and contemptuous stare.

“Are you angry because Mrs. Graham would not let you go home with her?”
he asked, with a faint smile that nearly exasperated me beyond control.

But, swallowing down all fiercer answers, I merely demanded,—“What
business is it of yours?”

“Why, none,” replied he with provoking quietness; “only,”—and he raised
his eyes to my face, and spoke with unusual solemnity,—“only let me
tell you, Markham, that if you have any designs in that quarter, they
will certainly fail; and it grieves me to see you cherishing false
hopes, and wasting your strength in useless efforts, for—”

“Hypocrite!” I exclaimed; and he held his breath, and looked very
blank, turned white about the gills, and went away without another
word.

I had wounded him to the quick; and I was glad of it.