The Tenant of Wildfell Hall
the venture, and with what precautions he had made it.
“And how was she?” I eagerly asked.
“As usual,” was the brief though sad reply.
“As usual—that is, far from happy and far from strong.”
“She is not positively ill,” returned he; “and she will recover her
spirits in a while, I have no doubt—but so many trials have been almost
too much for her. How threatening those clouds look,” continued he,
turning towards the window. “We shall have thunder-showers before
night, I imagine, and they are just in the midst of stacking my corn.
Have you got yours all in yet?”
“No. And, Lawrence, did she—did your sister mention me?”
“She asked if I had seen you lately.”
“And what else did she say?”
“I cannot tell you all she said,” replied he, with a slight smile; “for
we talked a good deal, though my stay was but short; but our
conversation was chiefly on the subject of her intended departure,
which I begged her to delay till I was better able to assist her in her
search after another home.”
“But did she say no more about me?”
“She did not say much about you, Markham. I should not have encouraged
her to do so, had she been inclined; but happily she was not: she only
asked a few questions concerning you, and seemed satisfied with my
brief answers, wherein she showed herself wiser than her friend; and I
may tell you, too, that she seemed to be far more anxious lest you
should think too much of her, than lest you should forget her.”
“She was right.”
“But I fear _your_ anxiety is quite the other way respecting her.”
“No, it is not: I wish her to be happy; but I don’t wish her to forget
me altogether. She knows it is impossible that I should forget _her;_
and she is right to wish me not to remember her too well. I should not
desire her to regret me _too_ deeply; but I can scarcely imagine she
will make herself very unhappy about me, because I know I am not worthy
of it, except in my appreciation of her.”
“You are neither of you worthy of a broken heart,—nor of all the sighs,
and tears, and sorrowful thoughts that have been, and I fear will be,
wasted upon you both; but, at present, each has a more exalted opinion
of the other than, I fear, he or she deserves; and my sister’s feelings
are naturally full as keen as yours, and I believe _more_ constant; but
she has the good sense and fortitude to strive against them in this
particular; and I trust she will not rest till she has entirely weaned
her thoughts—” he hesitated.
“From me,” said I.
“And I wish you would make the like exertions,” continued he.
“Did she _tell_ you that that was her intention?”
“No; the question was not broached between us: there was no necessity
for it, for I had no doubt that such was her determination.”
“To forget me?”
“Yes, Markham! Why not?”
“Oh, well!” was my only audible reply; but I internally answered,—“No,
Lawrence, you’re wrong there: she is _not_ determined to forget me. It
would be _wrong_ to forget one so deeply and fondly devoted to her, who
can so thoroughly appreciate her excellencies, and sympathise with all
her thoughts, as I can do, and it would be wrong in me to forget so
excellent and divine a piece of God’s creation as she, when I have once
so truly loved and known her.” But I said no more to him on that
subject. I instantly started a new topic of conversation, and soon took
leave of my companion, with a feeling of less cordiality towards him
than usual. Perhaps I had no right to be annoyed at him, but I was so
nevertheless.
In little more than a week after this I met him returning from a visit
to the Wilsons’; and I now resolved to do _him_ a good turn, though at
the expense of his feelings, and perhaps at the risk of incurring that
displeasure which is so commonly the reward of those who give
disagreeable information, or tender their advice unasked. In this,
believe me, I was actuated by no motives of revenge for the occasional
annoyances I had lately sustained from him,—nor yet by any feeling of
malevolent enmity towards Miss Wilson, but purely by the fact that I
could not endure that such a woman should be Mrs. Huntingdon’s sister,
and that, as well for his own sake as for hers, I could not bear to
think of his being deceived into a union with one so unworthy of him,
and so utterly unfitted to be the partner of his quiet home, and the
companion of his life. He had had uncomfortable suspicions on that head
himself, I imagined; but such was his inexperience, and such were the
lady’s powers of attraction, and her skill in bringing them to bear
upon his young imagination, that they had not disturbed him long; and I
believe the only effectual causes of the vacillating indecision that
had preserved him hitherto from making an actual declaration of love,
was the consideration of her connections, and especially of her mother,
whom he could not abide. Had they lived at a distance, he might have
surmounted the objection, but within two or three miles of Woodford it
was really no light matter.
“You’ve been to call on the Wilsons, Lawrence,” said I, as I walked
beside his pony.
“Yes,” replied he, slightly averting his face: “I thought it but civil
to take the first opportunity of returning their kind attentions, since
they have been so very particular and constant in their inquiries
throughout the whole course of my illness.”
“It’s all Miss Wilson’s doing.”
“And if it is,” returned he, with a very perceptible blush, “is that
any reason why I should not make a suitable acknowledgment?”
“It is a reason why you should not make the acknowledgment she looks
for.”
“Let us drop that subject if you please,” said he, in evident
displeasure.
“No, Lawrence, with your leave we’ll continue it a while longer; and
I’ll tell you something, now we’re about it, which you may believe or
not as you choose—only please to remember that it is not my custom to
speak falsely, and that in this case I can have no motive for
misrepresenting the truth—”
“Well, Markham, what now?”
“_Miss Wilson hates your sister._ It may be natural enough that, in her
ignorance of the relationship, she should feel some degree of enmity
against her, but no good or amiable woman would be capable of evincing
that bitter, cold-blooded, designing malice towards a fancied rival
that I have observed in her.”
“Markham!”
“Yes—and it is my belief that Eliza Millward and she, if not the very
originators of the slanderous reports that have been propagated, were
designedly the encouragers and chief disseminators of them. She was not
desirous to mix up _your_ name in the matter, of course, but her
delight was, and still is, to blacken your sister’s character to the
utmost of her power, without risking too greatly the exposure of her
own malevolence!”
“I cannot believe it,” interrupted my companion, his face burning with
indignation.
“Well, as I cannot prove it, I must content myself with asserting that
it is so to the best of my belief; but as you would not willingly marry
Miss Wilson if it _were_ so, you will do well to be cautious, till you
have proved it to be otherwise.”
“I never told you, Markham, that I _intended_ to marry Miss Wilson,”
said he, proudly.
“No, but whether you do or not, she intends to marry you.”
“Did she tell you so?”
“No, but—”
“Then you have no right to make such an assertion respecting her.” He
slightly quickened his pony’s pace, but I laid my hand on its mane,
determined he should not leave me yet.
“Wait a moment, Lawrence, and let me explain myself; and don’t be so
very—I don’t know what to call it—_inaccessible_ as you are.—I know
what you think of Jane Wilson; and I believe I know how far you are
mistaken in your opinion: you think she is singularly charming,
elegant, sensible, and refined: you are not aware that she is selfish,
cold-hearted, ambitious, artful, shallow-minded—”
“Enough, Markham—enough!”
“No; let me finish:—you don’t know that, if you married her, your home
would be rayless and comfortless; and it would break your heart at last
to find yourself united to one so wholly incapable of sharing your
tastes, feelings, and ideas—so utterly destitute of sensibility, good
feeling, and true nobility of soul.”
“Have you done?” asked my companion quietly.
“Yes;—I know you hate me for my impertinence, but I don’t care if it
only conduces to preserve you from that fatal mistake.”
“Well!” returned he, with a rather wintry smile—“I’m glad you have
overcome or forgotten your own afflictions so far as to be able to
study so deeply the affairs of others, and trouble your head so
unnecessarily about the fancied or possible calamities of their future
life.”
We parted—somewhat coldly again: but still we did not cease to be
friends; and my well-meant warning, though it might have been more
judiciously delivered, as well as more thankfully received, was not
wholly unproductive of the desired effect: his visit to the Wilsons was
not repeated, and though, in our subsequent interviews, he never
mentioned her name to me, nor I to him,—I have reason to believe he
pondered my words in his mind, eagerly though covertly sought
information respecting the fair lady from other quarters, secretly
compared my character of her with what he had himself observed and what
he heard from others, and finally came to the conclusion that, all
things considered, she had much better remain Miss Wilson of Ryecote
Farm than be transmuted into Mrs. Lawrence of Woodford Hall. I believe,
too, that he soon learned to contemplate with secret amazement his
former predilection, and to congratulate himself on the lucky escape he
had made; but he never confessed it to me, or hinted one word of
acknowledgment for the part I had had in his deliverance, but this was
not surprising to any one that knew him as I did.
As for Jane Wilson, she, of course, was disappointed and embittered by
the sudden cold neglect and ultimate desertion of her former admirer.
Had I done wrong to blight her cherished hopes? I think not; and
certainly my conscience has never accused me, from that day to this, of
any evil design in the matter.
CHAPTER XLVII
One morning, about the beginning of November, while I was inditing some
business letters, shortly after breakfast, Eliza Millward came to call
upon my sister. Rose had neither the discrimination nor the virulence
to regard the little demon as I did, and they still preserved their
former intimacy. At the moment of her arrival, however, there was no
one in the room but Fergus and myself, my mother and sister being both
of them absent, “on household cares intent”; but _I_ was not going to
lay myself out for her amusement, whoever else might so incline: I
merely honoured her with a careless salutation and a few words of
course, and then went on with my writing, leaving my brother to be more
polite if he chose. But she wanted to tease me.
“What a pleasure it is to find you at home, Mr. Markham!” said she,
with a disingenuously malicious smile. “I so seldom see you now, for
you never come to the vicarage. Papa, is quite offended, I can tell
you,” she added playfully, looking into my face with an impertinent
laugh, as she seated herself, half beside and half before my desk, off
the corner of the table.
“I have had a good deal to do of late,” said I, without looking up from
my letter.
“Have you, indeed! Somebody said you had been strangely neglecting your
business these last few months.”
“Somebody said wrong, for, these last two months especially, I have
been particularly plodding and diligent.”
“Ah! well, there’s nothing like active employment, I suppose, to
console the afflicted;—and, excuse me, Mr. Markham, but you look so
very far from well, and have been, by all accounts, so moody and