The Tenant of Wildfell Hall
name is unworthy to be mentioned in the presence of right-minded
females. I wonder, Eliza, you should think of referring to that
unfortunate person—you might know the mention of her would be anything
but agreeable to any one here present.”
How could this be borne? I rose and was about to clap my hat upon my
head and burst away, in wrathful indignation from the house; but
recollecting—just in time to save my dignity—the folly of such a
proceeding, and how it would only give my fair tormentors a merry laugh
at my expense, for the sake of one I acknowledged in my own heart to be
unworthy of the slightest sacrifice—though the ghost of my former
reverence and love so hung about me still, that I could not bear to
hear her name aspersed by others—I merely walked to the window, and
having spent a few seconds in vengibly biting my lips and sternly
repressing the passionate heavings of my chest, I observed to Miss
Wilson, that I could see nothing of her brother, and added that, as my
time was precious, it would perhaps be better to call again to-morrow,
at some time when I should be sure to find him at home.
“Oh, no!” said she; “if you wait a minute, he will be sure to come; for
he has business at L——” (that was our market-town), “and will require a
little refreshment before he goes.”
I submitted accordingly, with the best grace I could; and, happily, I
had not long to wait. Mr. Wilson soon arrived, and, indisposed for
business as I was at that moment, and little as I cared for the field
or its owner, I forced my attention to the matter in hand, with very
creditable determination, and quickly concluded the bargain—perhaps
more to the thrifty farmer’s satisfaction than he cared to acknowledge.
Then, leaving him to the discussion of his substantial “refreshment,” I
gladly quitted the house, and went to look after my reapers.
Leaving them busy at work on the side of the valley, I ascended the
hill, intending to visit a corn-field in the more elevated regions, and
see when it would be ripe for the sickle. But I did _not_ visit it that
day; for, as I approached, I beheld, at no great distance, Mrs. Graham
and her son coming down in the opposite direction. They saw me; and
Arthur already was running to meet me; but I immediately turned back
and walked steadily homeward; for I had fully determined never to
encounter his mother again; and regardless of the shrill voice in my
ear, calling upon me to “wait a moment,” I pursued the even tenor of my
way; and he soon relinquished the pursuit as hopeless, or was called
away by his mother. At all events, when I looked back, five minutes
after, not a trace of either was to be seen.
This incident agitated and disturbed me most unaccountably—unless you
would account for it by saying that Cupid’s arrows not only had been
too sharp for me, but they were barbed and deeply rooted, and I had not
yet been able to wrench them from my heart. However that be, I was
rendered doubly miserable for the remainder of the day.
CHAPTER XIV
Next morning, I bethought me, I, too, had business at L——; so I mounted
my horse, and set forth on the expedition soon after breakfast. It was
a dull, drizzly day; but that was no matter: it was all the more
suitable to my frame of mind. It was likely to be a lonely journey; for
it was no market-day, and the road I traversed was little frequented at
any other time; but that suited me all the better too.
As I trotted along, however, chewing the cud of—_bitter_ fancies, I
heard another horse at no great distance behind me; but I never
conjectured who the rider might be, or troubled my head about him,
till, on slackening my pace to ascend a gentle acclivity, or rather,
suffering my horse to slacken his pace into a lazy walk—for, rapt in my
own reflections, I was letting it jog on as leisurely as it thought
proper—I lost ground, and my fellow-traveller overtook me. He accosted
me by name, for it was no stranger—it was Mr. Lawrence! Instinctively
the fingers of my whip-hand tingled, and grasped their charge with
convulsive energy; but I restrained the impulse, and answering his
salutation with a nod, attempted to push on; but he pushed on beside
me, and began to talk about the weather and the crops. I gave the
briefest possible answers to his queries and observations, and fell
back. He fell back too, and asked if my horse was lame. I replied with
a _look_, at which he placidly smiled.
I was as much astonished as exasperated at this singular pertinacity
and imperturbable assurance on his part. I had thought the
circumstances of our last meeting would have left such an impression on
his mind as to render him cold and distant ever after: instead of that,
he appeared not only to have forgotten all former offences, but to be
impenetrable to all present incivilities. Formerly, the slightest hint,
or mere fancied coldness in tone or glance, had sufficed to repulse
him: now, positive rudeness could not drive him away. Had he heard of
my disappointment; and was he come to witness the result, and triumph
in my despair? I grasped my whip with more determined energy than
before—but still forbore to raise it, and rode on in silence, waiting
for some more tangible cause of offence, before I opened the floodgates
of my soul and poured out the dammed-up fury that was foaming and
swelling within.
“Markham,” said he, in his usual quiet tone, “why do you quarrel with
your friends, because you have been disappointed in one quarter? You
have found your hopes defeated; but how am _I_ to blame for it? I
warned you beforehand, you know, but you would not—”
He said no more; for, impelled by some fiend at my elbow, I had seized
my whip by the small end, and—swift and sudden as a flash of
lightning—brought the other down upon his head. It was not without a
feeling of savage satisfaction that I beheld the instant, deadly pallor
that overspread his face, and the few red drops that trickled down his
forehead, while he reeled a moment in his saddle, and then fell
backward to the ground. The pony, surprised to be so strangely relieved
of its burden, started and capered, and kicked a little, and then made
use of its freedom to go and crop the grass of the hedge-bank: while
its master lay as still and silent as a corpse. Had I killed him?—an
icy hand seemed to grasp my heart and check its pulsation, as I bent
over him, gazing with breathless intensity upon the ghastly, upturned
face. But no; he moved his eyelids and uttered a slight groan. I
breathed again—he was only stunned by the fall. It served him right—it
would teach him better manners in future. Should I help him to his
horse? No. For any other combination of offences I would; but his were
too unpardonable. He might mount it himself, if he liked—in a while:
already he was beginning to stir and look about him—and there it was
for him, quietly browsing on the road-side.
So with a muttered execration I left the fellow to his fate, and
clapping spurs to my own horse, galloped away, excited by a combination
of feelings it would not be easy to analyse; and perhaps, if I did so,
the result would not be very creditable to my disposition; for I am not
sure that a species of exultation in what I had done was not one
principal concomitant.
Shortly, however, the effervescence began to abate, and not many
minutes elapsed before I had turned and gone back to look after the
fate of my victim. It was no generous impulse—no kind relentings that
led me to this—nor even the fear of what might be the consequences to
myself, if I finished my assault upon the squire by leaving him thus
neglected, and exposed to further injury; it was, simply, the voice of
conscience; and I took great credit to myself for attending so promptly
to its dictates—and judging the merit of the deed by the sacrifice it
cost, I was not far wrong.
Mr. Lawrence and his pony had both altered their positions in some
degree. The pony had wandered eight or ten yards further away; and he
had managed, somehow, to remove himself from the middle of the road: I
found him seated in a recumbent position on the bank,—looking very
white and sickly still, and holding his cambric handkerchief (now more
red than white) to his head. It must have been a powerful blow; but
half the credit—or the blame of it (which you please) must be
attributed to the whip, which was garnished with a massive horse’s head
of plated metal. The grass, being sodden with rain, afforded the young
gentleman a rather inhospitable couch; his clothes were considerably
bemired; and his hat was rolling in the mud on the other side of the
road. But his thoughts seemed chiefly bent upon his pony, on which he
was wistfully gazing—half in helpless anxiety, and half in hopeless
abandonment to his fate.
I dismounted, however, and having fastened my own animal to the nearest
tree, first picked up his hat, intending to clap it on his head; but
either he considered his head unfit for a hat, or the hat, in its
present condition, unfit for his head; for shrinking away the one, he
took the other from my hand, and scornfully cast it aside.
“It’s good enough for _you_,” I muttered.
My next good office was to catch his pony and bring it to him, which
was soon accomplished; for the beast was quiet enough in the main, and
only winced and flirted a trifle till I got hold of the bridle—but
then, I must see him in the saddle.
“Here, you fellow—scoundrel—dog—give me your hand, and I’ll help you to
mount.”
No; he turned from me in disgust. I attempted to take him by the arm.
He shrank away as if there had been contamination in my touch.
“What, you won’t! Well! you may sit there till doomsday, for what I
care. But I suppose you don’t want to lose all the blood in your
body—I’ll just condescend to bind that up for you.”
“Let me alone, if you please.”
“Humph; with all my heart. You may go to the d—l, if you choose—and say
I sent you.”
But before I abandoned him to his fate I flung his pony’s bridle over a
stake in the hedge, and threw him my handkerchief, as his own was now
saturated with blood. He took it and cast it back to me in abhorrence
and contempt, with all the strength he could muster. It wanted but this
to fill the measure of his offences. With execrations not loud but deep
I left him to live or die as he could, well satisfied that I had done
_my_ duty in attempting to save him—but forgetting how I had erred in
bringing him into such a condition, and how insultingly my
after-services had been offered—and sullenly prepared to meet the
consequences if he should choose to say I had attempted to murder
him—which I thought not unlikely, as it seemed probable he was actuated
by such spiteful motives in so perseveringly refusing my assistance.
Having remounted my horse, I just looked back to see how he was getting
on, before I rode away. He had risen from the ground, and grasping his
pony’s mane, was attempting to resume his seat in the saddle; but
scarcely had he put his foot in the stirrup, when a sickness or
dizziness seemed to overpower him: he leant forward a moment, with his
head drooped on the animal’s back, and then made one more effort, which
proving ineffectual, he sank back on the bank, where I left him,
reposing his head on the oozy turf, and to all appearance, as calmly
reclining as if he had been taking his rest on his sofa at home.
I ought to have helped him in spite of himself—to have bound up the
wound he was unable to staunch, and insisted upon getting him on his
horse and seeing him safe home; but, besides my bitter indignation
against himself, there was the question what to say to his servants—and
what to my own family. Either I should have to acknowledge the deed,
which would set me down as a madman, unless I acknowledged the motive