The Tenant of Wildfell Hall
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