The Tenant of Wildfell Hall
too—and that seemed impossible—or I must get up a lie, which seemed
equally out of the question—especially as Mr. Lawrence would probably
reveal the whole truth, and thereby bring me to tenfold disgrace—unless
I were villain enough, presuming on the absence of witnesses, to
persist in my own version of the case, and make him out a still greater
scoundrel than he was. No; he had only received a cut above the temple,
and perhaps a few bruises from the fall, or the hoofs of his own pony:
that could not kill him if he lay there half the day; and, if he could
not help himself, surely some one would be coming by: it would be
impossible that a whole day should pass and no one traverse the road
but ourselves. As for what he might choose to say hereafter, I would
take my chance about it: if he told lies, I would contradict him; if he
told the truth, I would bear it as best I could. I was not _obliged_ to
enter into explanations further than I thought proper. Perhaps he might
choose to be silent on the subject, for fear of raising inquiries as to
the cause of the quarrel, and drawing the public attention to his
connection with Mrs. Graham, which, whether for her sake or his own, he
seemed so very desirous to conceal.
Thus reasoning, I trotted away to the town, where I duly transacted my
business, and performed various little commissions for my mother and
Rose, with very laudable exactitude, considering the different
circumstances of the case. In returning home, I was troubled with
sundry misgivings about the unfortunate Lawrence. The question, What if
I should find him lying still on the damp earth, fairly dying of cold
and exhaustion—or already stark and chill? thrust itself most
unpleasantly upon my mind, and the appalling possibility pictured
itself with painful vividness to my imagination as I approached the
spot where I had left him. But no, thank heaven, both man and horse
were gone, and nothing was left to witness against me but two
objects—unpleasant enough in themselves to be sure, and presenting a
very ugly, not to say murderous appearance—in one place, the hat
saturated with rain and coated with mud, indented and broken above the
brim by that villainous whip-handle; in another, the crimson
handkerchief, soaking in a deeply tinctured pool of water—for much rain
had fallen in the interim.
Bad news flies fast: it was hardly four o’clock when I got home, but my
mother gravely accosted me with—“Oh, Gilbert!—_Such_ an accident! Rose
has been shopping in the village, and she’s heard that Mr. Lawrence has
been thrown from his horse and brought home dying!”
This shocked me a trifle, as you may suppose; but I was comforted to
hear that he had frightfully fractured his skull and broken a leg; for,
assured of the falsehood of this, I trusted the rest of the story was
equally exaggerated; and when I heard my mother and sister so feelingly
deploring his condition, I had considerable difficulty in preventing
myself from telling them the real extent of the injuries, as far as I
knew them.
“You must go and see him to-morrow,” said my mother.
“Or to-day,” suggested Rose: “there’s plenty of time; and you can have
the pony, as your horse is tired. Won’t you, Gilbert—as soon as you’ve
had something to eat?”
“No, no—how can we tell that it isn’t all a false report? It’s highly
im-”
“Oh, I’m sure it isn’t; for the village is all alive about it; and I
saw two people that had seen others that had seen the man that found
him. That sounds far-fetched; but it isn’t so when you think of it.”
“Well, but Lawrence is a good rider; it is not likely he would fall
from his horse at all; and if he did, it is highly improbable he would
break his bones in that way. It must be a gross exaggeration at least.”
“No; but the horse kicked him—or something.”
“What, his quiet little pony?”
“How do you know it was that?”
“He seldom rides any other.”
“At any rate,” said my mother, “you will call to-morrow. Whether it be
true or false, exaggerated or otherwise, we shall like to know how he
is.”
“Fergus may go.”
“Why not you?”
“He has more time. I am busy just now.”
“Oh! but, Gilbert, how can you be so composed about it? You won’t mind
business for an hour or two in a case of this sort, when your friend is
at the point of death.”
“He is _not_, I tell you.”
“For anything you know, he _may_ be: you can’t tell till you have seen
him. At all events, he must have met with some terrible accident, and
you ought to see him: he’ll take it very unkind if you don’t.”
“Confound it! I can’t. He and I have not been on good terms of late.”
“Oh, my _dear_ boy! Surely, surely you are not so unforgiving as to
carry your little differences to such a length as—”
“Little differences, indeed!” I muttered.
“Well, but only remember the occasion. Think how—”
“Well, well, don’t bother me now—I’ll see about it,” I replied.
And my seeing about it was to send Fergus next morning, with my
mother’s compliments, to make the requisite inquiries; for, of course,
my going was out of the question—or sending a message either. He
brought back intelligence that the young squire was laid up with the
complicated evils of a broken head and certain contusions (occasioned
by a fall—of which he did not trouble himself to relate the
particulars—and the subsequent misconduct of his horse), and a severe
cold, the consequence of lying on the wet ground in the rain; but there
were no broken bones, and no immediate prospects of dissolution.
It was evident, then, that for Mrs. Graham’s sake it was not his
intention to criminate me.
CHAPTER XV
That day was rainy like its predecessor; but towards evening it began
to clear up a little, and the next morning was fair and promising. I
was out on the hill with the reapers. A light wind swept over the corn,
and all nature laughed in the sunshine. The lark was rejoicing among
the silvery floating clouds. The late rain had so sweetly freshened and
cleared the air, and washed the sky, and left such glittering gems on
branch and blade, that not even the farmers could have the heart to
blame it. But no ray of sunshine could reach my heart, no breeze could
freshen it; nothing could fill the void my faith, and hope, and joy in
Helen Graham had left, or drive away the keen regrets and bitter dregs
of lingering love that still oppressed it.
While I stood with folded arms abstractedly gazing on the undulating
swell of the corn, not yet disturbed by the reapers, something gently
pulled my skirts, and a small voice, no longer welcome to my ears,
aroused me with the startling words,—“Mr. Markham, mamma wants you.”
“Wants _me_, Arthur?”
“Yes. Why do you look so queer?” said he, half laughing, half
frightened at the unexpected aspect of my face in suddenly turning
towards him,—“and why have you kept so long away? Come! Won’t you
come?”
“I’m busy just now,” I replied, scarce knowing what to answer.
He looked up in childish bewilderment; but before I could speak again
the lady herself was at my side.
“Gilbert, I _must_ speak with you!” said she, in a tone of suppressed
vehemence.
I looked at her pale cheek and glittering eye, but answered nothing.
“Only for a moment,” pleaded she. “Just step aside into this other
field.” She glanced at the reapers, some of whom were directing looks
of impertinent curiosity towards her. “I won’t keep you a minute.”
I accompanied her through the gap.
“Arthur, darling, run and gather those bluebells,” said she, pointing
to some that were gleaming at some distance under the hedge along which
we walked. The child hesitated, as if unwilling to quit my side. “Go,
love!” repeated she more urgently, and in a tone which, though not
unkind, demanded prompt obedience, and obtained it.
“Well, Mrs. Graham?” said I, calmly and coldly; for, though I saw she
was miserable, and pitied her, I felt glad to have it in my power to
torment her.
She fixed her eyes upon me with a look that pierced me to the heart;
and yet it made me smile.
“I don’t ask the reason of this change, Gilbert,” said she, with bitter
calmness: “I know it too well; but though I could see myself suspected
and condemned by every one else, and bear it with calmness, I cannot
endure it from you.—Why did you not come to hear my explanation on the
day I appointed to give it?”
“Because I happened, in the interim, to learn all you would have told
me—and a trifle more, I imagine.”
“Impossible, for I would have told you all!” cried she,
passionately—“but I won’t now, for I see you are not worthy of it!”
And her pale lips quivered with agitation.
“Why not, may I ask?”
She repelled my mocking smile with a glance of scornful indignation.
“Because you never understood me, or you would not soon have listened
to my traducers—my confidence would be misplaced in you—you are not the
man I thought you. Go! I won’t care _what_ you think of me.”
She turned away, and I went; for I thought that would torment her as
much as anything; and I believe I was right; for, looking back a minute
after, I saw her turn half round, as if hoping or expecting to find me
still beside her; and then she stood still, and cast one look behind.
It was a look less expressive of anger than of bitter anguish and
despair; but I immediately assumed an aspect of indifference, and
affected to be gazing carelessly around me, and I suppose she went on;
for after lingering awhile to see if she would come back or call, I
ventured one more glance, and saw her a good way off, moving rapidly up
the field, with little Arthur running by her side and apparently
talking as he went; but she kept her face averted from him, as if to
hide some uncontrollable emotion. And I returned to my business.
But I soon began to regret my precipitancy in leaving her so soon. It
was evident she loved me—probably she was tired of Mr. Lawrence, and
wished to exchange him for me; and if I had loved and reverenced her
less to begin with, the preference might have gratified and amused me;
but now the contrast between her outward seeming and her inward mind,
as I supposed,—between my former and my present opinion of her, was so
harrowing—so distressing to my feelings, that it swallowed up every
lighter consideration.
But still I was curious to know what sort of an explanation she would
have given me—or would give now, if I pressed her for it—how much she
would confess, and how she would endeavour to excuse herself. I longed
to know what to despise, and what to admire in her; how much to pity,
and how much to hate;—and, what was more, I _would_ know. I would see
her once more, and fairly satisfy myself in what light to regard her,
before we parted. Lost to me she was, for ever, of course; but still I
could not bear to think that we had parted, for the last time, with so
much unkindness and misery on both sides. That last look of hers had
sunk into my heart; I could not forget it. But what a fool I was! Had
she not deceived me, injured me—blighted my happiness for life? “Well,
I’ll see her, however,” was my concluding resolve, “but not to-day:
to-day and to-night she may think upon her sins, and be as miserable as
she will: to-morrow I will see her once again, and know something more
about her. The interview may be serviceable to her, or it may not. At
any rate, it will give a breath of excitement to the life she has
doomed to stagnation, and may calm with certainty some agitating
thoughts.”
I did go on the morrow, but not till towards evening, after the
business of the day was concluded, that is, between six and seven; and
the westering sun was gleaming redly on the old Hall, and flaming in
the latticed windows, as I reached it, imparting to the place a
cheerfulness not its own. I need not dilate upon the feelings with