The Tenant of Wildfell Hall
restraint, yet, being destitute of _real_ virtue, to teach her how to
sin is at once to make her a sinner, and the greater her knowledge, the
wider her liberty, the deeper will be her depravity,—whereas, in the
nobler sex, there is a natural tendency to goodness, guarded by a
superior fortitude, which, the more it is exercised by trials and
dangers, is only the further developed—”
“Heaven forbid that I should think so!” I interrupted her at last.
“Well, then, it must be that you think they are _both_ weak and prone
to err, and the slightest error, the merest shadow of pollution, will
ruin the one, while the character of the other will be strengthened and
embellished—his education properly finished by a little practical
acquaintance with forbidden things. Such experience, to him (to use a
trite simile), will be like the storm to the oak, which, though it may
scatter the leaves, and snap the smaller branches, serves but to rivet
the roots, and to harden and condense the fibres of the tree. You would
have us encourage our sons to prove all things by their own experience,
while our daughters must not even profit by the experience of others.
Now _I_ would have both so to benefit by the experience of others, and
the precepts of a higher authority, that they should know beforehand to
refuse the evil and choose the good, and require no experimental proofs
to teach them the evil of transgression. I would not send a poor girl
into the world, unarmed against her foes, and ignorant of the snares
that beset her path; nor would I watch and guard her, till, deprived of
self-respect and self-reliance, she lost the power or the will to watch
and guard herself;—and as for my son—if I thought he would grow up to
be what you call a man of the world—one that has ‘_seen life_,’ and
glories in his experience, even though he should so far profit by it as
to sober down, at length, into a useful and respected member of
society—I would rather that he died to-morrow!—rather a thousand
times!” she earnestly repeated, pressing her darling to her side and
kissing his forehead with intense affection. He had already left his
new companion, and been standing for some time beside his mother’s
knee, looking up into her face, and listening in silent wonder to her
incomprehensible discourse.
“Well! you ladies must always have the last word, I suppose,” said I,
observing her rise, and begin to take leave of my mother.
“You may have as many words as you please,—only I can’t stay to hear
them.”
“No; that is the way: you hear just as much of an argument as you
please; and the rest may be spoken to the wind.”
“If you are anxious to say anything more on the subject,” replied she,
as she shook hands with Rose, “you must bring your sister to see me
some fine day, and I’ll listen, as patiently as you could wish, to
whatever you please to say. I would rather be lectured by you than the
vicar, because I should have less remorse in telling you, at the end of
the discourse, that I preserve my own opinion precisely the same as at
the beginning—as would be the case, I am persuaded, with regard to
either logician.”
“Yes, of course,” replied I, determined to be as provoking as herself;
“for when a lady does consent to listen to an argument against her own
opinions, she is always predetermined to withstand it—to listen only
with her bodily ears, keeping the mental organs resolutely closed
against the strongest reasoning.”
“Good-morning, Mr. Markham,” said my fair antagonist, with a pitying
smile; and deigning no further rejoinder, she slightly bowed, and was
about to withdraw; but her son, with childish impertinence, arrested
her by exclaiming,—“Mamma, you have not shaken hands with Mr. Markham!”
She laughingly turned round and held out her hand. I gave it a spiteful
squeeze, for I was annoyed at the continual injustice she had done me
from the very dawn of our acquaintance. Without knowing anything about
my real disposition and principles, she was evidently prejudiced
against me, and seemed bent upon showing me that her opinions
respecting me, on every particular, fell far below those I entertained
of myself. I was naturally touchy, or it would not have vexed me so
much. Perhaps, too, I was a little bit spoiled by my mother and sister,
and some other ladies of my acquaintance;—and yet I was by no means a
fop—of that I am fully convinced, whether _you_ are or not.
CHAPTER IV
Our party, on the 5th of November, passed off very well, in spite of
Mrs. Graham’s refusal to grace it with her presence. Indeed, it is
probable that, had she been there, there would have been less
cordiality, freedom, and frolic amongst us than there was without her.
My mother, as usual, was cheerful and chatty, full of activity and
good-nature, and only faulty in being too anxious to make her guests
happy, thereby forcing several of them to do what their soul abhorred
in the way of eating or drinking, sitting opposite the blazing fire, or
talking when they would be silent. Nevertheless, they bore it very
well, being all in their holiday humours.
Mr. Millward was mighty in important dogmas and sententious jokes,
pompous anecdotes and oracular discourses, dealt out for the
edification of the whole assembly in general, and of the admiring Mrs.
Markham, the polite Mr. Lawrence, the sedate Mary Millward, the quiet
Richard Wilson, and the matter-of-fact Robert in particular,—as being
the most attentive listeners.
Mrs. Wilson was more brilliant than ever, with her budgets of fresh
news and old scandal, strung together with trivial questions and
remarks, and oft-repeated observations, uttered apparently for the sole
purpose of denying a moment’s rest to her inexhaustible organs of
speech. She had brought her knitting with her, and it seemed as if her
tongue had laid a wager with her fingers, to outdo them in swift and
ceaseless motion.
Her daughter Jane was, of course, as graceful and elegant, as witty and
seductive, as she could possibly manage to be; for here were all the
ladies to outshine, and all the gentlemen to charm,—and Mr. Lawrence,
especially, to capture and subdue. Her little arts to effect his
subjugation were too subtle and impalpable to attract my observation;
but I thought there was a certain _refined_ affectation of superiority,
and an ungenial self-consciousness about her, that negatived all her
advantages; and after she was gone, Rose interpreted to me her various
looks, words, and actions with a mingled acuteness and asperity that
made me wonder, equally, at the lady’s artifice and my sister’s
penetration, and ask myself if she too had an eye to the squire—but
never mind, Halford; she had not.
Richard Wilson, Jane’s younger brother, sat in a corner, apparently
good-tempered, but silent and shy, desirous to escape observation, but
willing enough to listen and observe: and, although somewhat out of his
element, he would have been happy enough in his own quiet way, if my
mother could only have let him alone; but in her mistaken kindness, she
would keep persecuting him with her attentions—pressing upon him all
manner of viands, under the notion that he was too bashful to help
himself, and obliging him to shout across the room his monosyllabic
replies to the numerous questions and observations by which she vainly
attempted to draw him into conversation.
Rose informed me that he never would have favoured us with his company
but for the importunities of his sister Jane, who was most anxious to
show Mr. Lawrence that she had at least one brother more gentlemanly
and refined than Robert. That worthy individual she had been equally
solicitous to keep away; but he affirmed that he saw no reason why he
should not enjoy a crack with Markham and the old lady (my mother was
not old, really), and bonny Miss Rose and the parson, as well as the
best;—and he was in the right of it too. So he talked common-place with
my mother and Rose, and discussed parish affairs with the vicar,
farming matters with me, and politics with us both.
Mary Millward was another mute,—not so much tormented with cruel
kindness as Dick Wilson, because she had a certain short, decided way
of answering and refusing, and was supposed to be rather sullen than
diffident. However that might be, she certainly did not give much
pleasure to the company;—nor did she appear to derive much from it.
Eliza told me she had only come because her father insisted upon it,
having taken it into his head that she devoted herself too exclusively
to her household duties, to the neglect of such relaxations and
innocent enjoyments as were proper to her age and sex. She seemed to me
to be good-humoured enough on the whole. Once or twice she was provoked
to laughter by the wit or the merriment of some favoured individual
amongst us; and then I observed she sought the eye of Richard Wilson,
who sat over against her. As he studied with her father, she had some
acquaintance with him, in spite of the retiring habits of both, and I
suppose there was a kind of fellow-feeling established between them.
My Eliza was charming beyond description, coquettish without
affectation, and evidently more desirous to engage my attention than
that of all the room besides. Her delight in having me near her, seated
or standing by her side, whispering in her ear, or pressing her hand in
the dance, was plainly legible in her glowing face and heaving bosom,
however belied by saucy words and gestures. But I had better hold my
tongue: if I boast of these things now, I shall have to blush
hereafter.
To proceed, then, with the various individuals of our party; Rose was
simple and natural as usual, and full of mirth and vivacity.
Fergus was impertinent and absurd; but his impertinence and folly
served to make others laugh, if they did not raise himself in their
estimation.
And finally (for I omit myself), Mr. Lawrence was gentlemanly and
inoffensive to all, and polite to the vicar and the ladies, especially
his hostess and her daughter, and Miss Wilson—misguided man; he had not
the taste to prefer Eliza Millward. Mr. Lawrence and I were on
tolerably intimate terms. Essentially of reserved habits, and but
seldom quitting the secluded place of his birth, where he had lived in
solitary state since the death of his father, he had neither the
opportunity nor the inclination for forming many acquaintances; and, of
all he had ever known, I (judging by the results) was the companion
most agreeable to his taste. I liked the man well enough, but he was
too cold, and shy, and self-contained, to obtain my cordial sympathies.
A spirit of candour and frankness, when wholly unaccompanied with
coarseness, he admired in others, but he could not acquire it himself.
His excessive reserve upon all his own concerns was, indeed, provoking
and chilly enough; but I forgave it, from a conviction that it
originated less in pride and want of confidence in his friends, than in
a certain morbid feeling of delicacy, and a peculiar diffidence, that
he was sensible of, but wanted energy to overcome. His heart was like a
sensitive plant, that opens for a moment in the sunshine, but curls up
and shrinks into itself at the slightest touch of the finger, or the
lightest breath of wind. And, upon the whole, our intimacy was rather a
mutual predilection than a deep and solid friendship, such as has since
arisen between myself and you, Halford, whom, in spite of your
occasional crustiness, I can liken to nothing so well as an old coat,
unimpeachable in texture, but easy and loose—that has conformed itself
to the shape of the wearer, and which he may use as he pleases, without
being bothered with the fear of spoiling it;—whereas Mr. Lawrence was
like a new garment, all very neat and trim to look at, but so tight in