The Tenant of Wildfell Hall
inclined to go, but when I mentioned Mrs. Graham, thinking it might be
a further inducement, it appeared to have a contrary effect, and he
declined it altogether, and, to confess the truth, the decision was not
displeasing to me, though I could scarcely tell you why.
It was about midday when we reached the place of our destination. Mrs.
Graham walked all the way to the cliffs; and little Arthur walked the
greater part of it too; for he was now much more hardy and active than
when he first entered the neighbourhood, and he did not like being in
the carriage with strangers, while all his four friends, mamma, and
Sancho, and Mr. Markham, and Miss Millward, were on foot, journeying
far behind, or passing through distant fields and lanes.
I have a very pleasant recollection of that walk, along the hard,
white, sunny road, shaded here and there with bright green trees, and
adorned with flowery banks and blossoming hedges of delicious
fragrance; or through pleasant fields and lanes, all glorious in the
sweet flowers and brilliant verdure of delightful May. It was true,
Eliza was not beside me; but she was with her friends in the
pony-carriage, as happy, I trusted, as I was; and even when we
pedestrians, having forsaken the highway for a short cut across the
fields, beheld the little carriage far away, disappearing amid the
green, embowering trees, I did not hate those trees for snatching the
dear little bonnet and shawl from my sight, nor did I feel that all
those intervening objects lay between my happiness and me; for, to
confess the truth, I was too happy in the company of Mrs. Graham to
regret the absence of Eliza Millward.
The former, it is true, was most provokingly unsociable at
first—seemingly bent upon talking to no one but Mary Millward and
Arthur. She and Mary journeyed along together, generally with the child
between them;—but where the road permitted, I always walked on the
other side of her, Richard Wilson taking the other side of Miss
Millward, and Fergus roving here and there according to his fancy; and,
after a while, she became more friendly, and at length I succeeded in
securing her attention almost entirely to myself—and then I was happy
indeed; for whenever she did condescend to converse, I liked to listen.
Where her opinions and sentiments tallied with mine, it was her extreme
good sense, her exquisite taste and feeling, that delighted me; where
they differed, it was still her uncompromising boldness in the avowal
or defence of that difference, her earnestness and keenness, that
piqued my fancy: and even when she angered me by her unkind words or
looks, and her uncharitable conclusions respecting me, it only made me
the more dissatisfied with myself for having so unfavourably impressed
her, and the more desirous to vindicate my character and disposition in
her eyes, and, if possible, to win her esteem.
At length our walk was ended. The increasing height and boldness of the
hills had for some time intercepted the prospect; but, on gaining the
summit of a steep acclivity, and looking downward, an opening lay
before us—and the blue sea burst upon our sight!—deep violet blue—not
deadly calm, but covered with glinting breakers—diminutive white specks
twinkling on its bosom, and scarcely to be distinguished, by the
keenest vision, from the little seamews that sported above, their white
wings glittering in the sunshine: only one or two vessels were visible,
and those were far away.
I looked at my companion to see what she thought of this glorious
scene. She said nothing: but she stood still, and fixed her eyes upon
it with a gaze that assured me she was not disappointed. She had very
fine eyes, by-the-by—I don’t know whether I have told you before, but
they were full of soul, large, clear, and nearly black—not brown, but
very dark grey. A cool, reviving breeze blew from the sea—soft, pure,
salubrious: it waved her drooping ringlets, and imparted a livelier
colour to her usually too pallid lip and cheek. She felt its
exhilarating influence, and so did I—I felt it tingling through my
frame, but dared not give way to it while she remained so quiet. There
was an aspect of subdued exhilaration in her face, that kindled into
almost a smile of exalted, glad intelligence as her eye met mine. Never
had she looked so lovely: never had my heart so warmly cleaved to her
as now. Had we been left two minutes longer standing there alone, I
cannot answer for the consequences. Happily for my discretion, perhaps
for my enjoyment during the remainder of the day, we were speedily
summoned to the repast—a very respectable collation, which Rose,
assisted by Miss Wilson and Eliza, who, having shared her seat in the
carriage, had arrived with her a little before the rest, had set out
upon an elevated platform overlooking the sea, and sheltered from the
hot sun by a shelving rock and overhanging trees.
Mrs. Graham seated herself at a distance from me. Eliza was my nearest
neighbour. She exerted herself to be agreeable, in her gentle,
unobtrusive way, and was, no doubt, as fascinating and charming as
ever, if I could only have felt it. But soon my heart began to warm
towards her once again; and we were all very merry and happy
together—as far as I could see—throughout the protracted social meal.
When that was over, Rose summoned Fergus to help her to gather up the
fragments, and the knives, dishes, &c., and restore them to the
baskets; and Mrs. Graham took her camp-stool and drawing materials; and
having begged Miss Millward to take charge of her precious son, and
strictly enjoined him not to wander from his new guardian’s side, she
left us and proceeded along the steep, stony hill, to a loftier, more
precipitous eminence at some distance, whence a still finer prospect
was to be had, where she preferred taking her sketch, though some of
the ladies told her it was a frightful place, and advised her not to
attempt it.
When she was gone, I felt as if there was to be no more fun—though it
is difficult to say what she had contributed to the hilarity of the
party. No jests, and little laughter, had escaped her lips; but her
smile had animated my mirth; a keen observation or a cheerful word from
her had insensibly sharpened my wits, and thrown an interest over all
that was done and said by the rest. Even my conversation with Eliza had
been enlivened by her presence, though I knew it not; and now that she
was gone, Eliza’s playful nonsense ceased to amuse me—nay, grew
wearisome to my soul, and I grew weary of amusing her: I felt myself
drawn by an irresistible attraction to that distant point where the
fair artist sat and plied her solitary task—and not long did I attempt
to resist it: while my little neighbour was exchanging a few words with
Miss Wilson, I rose and cannily slipped away. A few rapid strides, and
a little active clambering, soon brought me to the place where she was
seated—a narrow ledge of rock at the very verge of the cliff, which
descended with a steep, precipitous slant, quite down to the rocky
shore.
She did not hear me coming: the falling of my shadow across her paper
gave her an electric start; and she looked hastily round—any other lady
of my acquaintance would have screamed under such a sudden alarm.
“Oh! I didn’t know it was you.—Why did you startle me so?” said she,
somewhat testily. “I hate anybody to come upon me so unexpectedly.”
“Why, what did you take me for?” said I: “if I had known you were so
nervous, I would have been more cautious; but—”
“Well, never mind. What did you come for? are they all coming?”
“No; this little ledge could scarcely contain them all.”
“I’m glad, for I’m tired of talking.”
“Well, then, I won’t talk. I’ll only sit and watch your drawing.”
“Oh, but you know I don’t like that.”
“Then I’ll content myself with admiring this magnificent prospect.”
She made no objection to this; and, for some time, sketched away in
silence. But I could not help stealing a glance, now and then, from the
splendid view at our feet to the elegant white hand that held the
pencil, and the graceful neck and glossy raven curls that drooped over
the paper.
“Now,” thought I, “if I had but a pencil and a morsel of paper, I could
make a lovelier sketch than hers, admitting I had the power to
delineate faithfully what is before me.”
But, though this satisfaction was denied me, I was very well content to
sit beside her there, and say nothing.
“Are you there still, Mr. Markham?” said she at length, looking round
upon me—for I was seated a little behind on a mossy projection of the
cliff.—“Why don’t you go and amuse yourself with your friends?”
“Because I am tired of them, like you; and I shall have enough of them
to-morrow—or at any time hence; but you I may not have the pleasure of
seeing again for I know not how long.”
“What was Arthur doing when you came away?”
“He was with Miss Millward, where you left him—all right, but hoping
mamma would not be long away. You didn’t intrust him to me, by-the-by,”
I grumbled, “though I had the honour of a much longer acquaintance; but
Miss Millward has the art of conciliating and amusing children,” I
carelessly added, “if she is good for nothing else.”
“Miss Millward has many estimable qualities, which such as you cannot
be expected to perceive or appreciate. Will you tell Arthur that I
shall come in a few minutes?”
“If that be the case, I will wait, with your permission, till those few
minutes are past; and then I can assist you to descend this difficult
path.”
“Thank you—I always manage best, on such occasions, without
assistance.”
“But, at least, I can carry your stool and sketch-book.”
She did not deny me this favour; but I was rather offended at her
evident desire to be rid of me, and was beginning to repent of my
pertinacity, when she somewhat appeased me by consulting my taste and
judgment about some doubtful matter in her drawing. My opinion,
happily, met her approbation, and the improvement I suggested was
adopted without hesitation.
“I have often wished in vain,” said she, “for another’s judgment to
appeal to when I could scarcely trust the direction of my own eye and
head, they having been so long occupied with the contemplation of a
single object as to become almost incapable of forming a proper idea
respecting it.”
“That,” replied I, “is only one of many evils to which a solitary life
exposes us.”
“True,” said she; and again we relapsed into silence.
About two minutes after, however, she declared her sketch completed,
and closed the book.
On returning to the scene of our repast we found all the company had
deserted it, with the exception of three—Mary Millward, Richard Wilson,
and Arthur Graham. The younger gentleman lay fast asleep with his head
pillowed on the lady’s lap; the other was seated beside her with a
pocket edition of some classic author in his hand. He never went
anywhere without such a companion wherewith to improve his leisure
moments: all time seemed lost that was not devoted to study, or
exacted, by his physical nature, for the bare support of life. Even now
he could not abandon himself to the enjoyment of that pure air and
balmy sunshine—that splendid prospect, and those soothing sounds, the
music of the waves and of the soft wind in the sheltering trees above
him—not even with a lady by his side (though not a very charming one, I
will allow)—he must pull out his book, and make the most of his time
while digesting his temperate meal, and reposing his weary limbs,
unused to so much exercise.
Perhaps, however, he spared a moment to exchange a word or a glance
with his companion now and then—at any rate, she did not appear at all
resentful of his conduct; for her homely features wore an expression of