The Tenant of Wildfell Hall
the elbows, that you would fear to split the seams by the unrestricted
motion of your arms, and so smooth and fine in surface that you scruple
to expose it to a single drop of rain.
Soon after the arrival of the guests, my mother mentioned Mrs. Graham,
regretted she was not there to meet them, and explained to the
Millwards and Wilsons the reasons she had given for neglecting to
return their calls, hoping they would excuse her, as she was sure she
did not mean to be uncivil, and would be glad to see them at any
time.—“But she is a very singular lady, Mr. Lawrence,” added she; “we
don’t know what to make of her—but I daresay you can tell us something
about her, for she is your tenant, you know,—and she said she knew you
a little.”
All eyes were turned to Mr. Lawrence. I thought he looked unnecessarily
confused at being so appealed to.
“I, Mrs. Markham!” said he; “you are mistaken—I don’t—that is—I have
seen her, certainly; but I am the last person you should apply to for
information respecting Mrs. Graham.”
He then immediately turned to Rose, and asked her to favour the company
with a song, or a tune on the piano.
“No,” said she, “you must ask Miss Wilson: she outshines us all in
singing, and music too.”
Miss Wilson demurred.
“_She’ll_ sing readily enough,” said Fergus, “if you’ll undertake to
stand by her, Mr. Lawrence, and turn over the leaves for her.”
“I shall be most happy to do so, Miss Wilson; will you allow me?”
She bridled her long neck and smiled, and suffered him to lead her to
the instrument, where she played and sang, in her very best style, one
piece after another; while he stood patiently by, leaning one hand on
the back of her chair, and turning over the leaves of her book with the
other. Perhaps he was as much charmed with her performance as she was.
It was all very fine in its way; but I cannot say that it moved me very
deeply. There was plenty of skill and execution, but precious little
feeling.
But we had not done with Mrs. Graham yet.
“I don’t take wine, Mrs. Markham,” said Mr. Millward, upon the
introduction of that beverage; “I’ll take a little of your home-brewed
ale. I always prefer your home-brewed to anything else.”
Flattered at this compliment, my mother rang the bell, and a china jug
of our best ale was presently brought and set before the worthy
gentleman who so well knew how to appreciate its excellences.
“Now THIS is the thing!” cried he, pouring out a glass of the same in a
long stream, skilfully directed from the jug to the tumbler, so as to
produce much foam without spilling a drop; and, having surveyed it for
a moment opposite the candle, he took a deep draught, and then smacked
his lips, drew a long breath, and refilled his glass, my mother looking
on with the greatest satisfaction.
“There’s nothing like this, Mrs. Markham!” said he. “I always maintain
that there’s nothing to compare with your home-brewed ale.”
“I’m sure I’m glad you like it, sir. I always look after the brewing
myself, as well as the cheese and the butter—I like to have things well
done, while we’re about it.”
“_Quite right_, Mrs. Markham!”
“But then, Mr. Millward, you don’t think it _wrong_ to take a little
wine now and then—or a little spirits either!” said my mother, as she
handed a smoking tumbler of gin-and-water to Mrs. Wilson, who affirmed
that wine sat heavy on her stomach, and whose son Robert was at that
moment helping himself to a pretty stiff glass of the same.
“By no means!” replied the oracle, with a Jove-like nod; “these things
are all blessings and mercies, if we only knew how to make use of
them.”
“But Mrs. Graham doesn’t think so. You shall just hear now what she
told us the other day—I _told_ her I’d tell you.”
And my mother favoured the company with a particular account of that
lady’s mistaken ideas and conduct regarding the matter in hand,
concluding with, “Now, don’t you think it is wrong?”
“Wrong!” repeated the vicar, with more than common solemnity—“criminal,
I should say—criminal! Not only is it making a fool of the boy, but it
is despising the gifts of Providence, and teaching him to trample them
under his feet.”
He then entered more fully into the question, and explained at large
the folly and impiety of such a proceeding. My mother heard him with
profoundest reverence; and even Mrs. Wilson vouchsafed to rest her
tongue for a moment, and listen in silence, while she complacently
sipped her gin-and-water. Mr. Lawrence sat with his elbow on the table,
carelessly playing with his half-empty wine-glass, and covertly smiling
to himself.
“But don’t you think, Mr. Millward,” suggested he, when at length that
gentleman paused in his discourse, “that when a child may be naturally
prone to intemperance—by the fault of its parents or ancestors, for
instance—some precautions are advisable?” (Now it was generally
believed that Mr. Lawrence’s father had shortened his days by
intemperance.)
“Some precautions, it may be; but temperance, sir, is one thing, and
abstinence another.”
“But I have heard that, with some persons, temperance—that is,
moderation—is almost impossible; and if abstinence be an evil (which
some have doubted), no one will deny that excess is a greater. Some
parents have entirely prohibited their children from tasting
intoxicating liquors; but a parent’s authority cannot last for ever;
children are naturally prone to hanker after forbidden things; and a
child, in such a case, would be likely to have a strong curiosity to
taste, and try the effect of what has been so lauded and enjoyed by
others, so strictly forbidden to himself—which curiosity would
generally be gratified on the first convenient opportunity; and the
restraint once broken, serious consequences might ensue. I don’t
pretend to be a judge of such matters, but it seems to me, that this
plan of Mrs. Graham’s, as you describe it, Mrs. Markham, extraordinary
as it may be, is not without its advantages; for here you see the child
is delivered at once from temptation; he has no secret curiosity, no
hankering desire; he is as well acquainted with the tempting liquors as
he ever wishes to be; and is thoroughly disgusted with them, without
having suffered from their effects.”
“And is that right, sir? Have I not proven to you how wrong it is—how
contrary to Scripture and to reason, to teach a child to look with
contempt and disgust upon the blessings of Providence, instead of to
use them aright?”
“You may consider laudanum a blessing of Providence, sir,” replied Mr.
Lawrence, smiling; “and yet, you will allow that most of us had better
abstain from it, even in moderation; but,” added he, “I would not
desire you to follow out my simile too closely—in witness whereof I
finish my glass.”
“And take another, I hope, Mr. Lawrence,” said my mother, pushing the
bottle towards him.
He politely declined, and pushing his chair a little away from the
table, leant back towards me—I was seated a trifle behind, on the sofa
beside Eliza Millward—and carelessly asked me if I knew Mrs. Graham.
“I have met her once or twice,” I replied.
“What do you think of her?”
“I cannot say that I like her much. She is handsome—or rather I should
say distinguished and interesting—in her appearance, but by no means
amiable—a woman liable to take strong prejudices, I should fancy, and
stick to them through thick and thin, twisting everything into
conformity with her own preconceived opinions—too hard, too sharp, too
bitter for my taste.”
He made no reply, but looked down and bit his lip, and shortly after
rose and sauntered up to Miss Wilson, as much repelled by me, I fancy,
as attracted by her. I scarcely noticed it at the time, but afterwards
I was led to recall this and other trifling facts, of a similar nature,
to my remembrance, when—but I must not anticipate.
We wound up the evening with dancing—our worthy pastor thinking it no
scandal to be present on the occasion, though one of the village
musicians was engaged to direct our evolutions with his violin. But
Mary Millward obstinately refused to join us; and so did Richard
Wilson, though my mother earnestly entreated him to do so, and even
offered to be his partner.
We managed very well without them, however. With a single set of
quadrilles, and several country dances, we carried it on to a pretty
late hour; and at length, having called upon our musician to strike up
a waltz, I was just about to whirl Eliza round in that delightful
dance, accompanied by Lawrence and Jane Wilson, and Fergus and Rose,
when Mr. Millward interposed with:—“No, no; I don’t allow that! Come,
it’s time to be going now.”
“Oh, no, papa!” pleaded Eliza.
“High time, my girl—high time! Moderation in all things, remember!
That’s the plan—‘Let your moderation be known unto all men!’”
But in revenge I followed Eliza into the dimly-lighted passage, where,
under pretence of helping her on with her shawl, I fear I must plead
guilty to snatching a kiss behind her father’s back, while he was
enveloping his throat and chin in the folds of a mighty comforter. But
alas! in turning round, there was my mother close beside me. The
consequence was, that no sooner were the guests departed, than I was
doomed to a very serious remonstrance, which unpleasantly checked the
galloping course of my spirits, and made a disagreeable close to the
evening.
“My dear Gilbert,” said she, “I wish you wouldn’t do so! You know how
deeply I have your advantage at heart, how I love you and prize you
above everything else in the world, and how much I long to see you well
settled in life—and how bitterly it would grieve me to see you married
to that girl—or any other in the neighbourhood. What you _see_ in her I
don’t know. It isn’t only the want of money that I think about—nothing
of the kind—but there’s neither beauty, nor cleverness, nor goodness,
nor anything else that’s desirable. If you knew your own value, as I
do, you wouldn’t dream of it. Do wait awhile and see! If you bind
yourself to her, you’ll repent it all your lifetime when you look round
and see how many better there are. Take my word for it, you will.”
“Well, mother, do be quiet!—I hate to be lectured!—I’m not going to
marry yet, I tell you; but—dear me! mayn’t I enjoy myself at _all?_”
“Yes, my dear boy, but not in that way. Indeed, you shouldn’t do such
things. You would be wronging the girl, if she were what she ought to
be; but I assure you she is as artful a little hussy as anybody need
wish to see; and you’ll get entangled in her snares before you know
where you are. And if you _do_ marry her, Gilbert, you’ll break my
heart—so there’s an end of it.”
“Well, don’t cry about it, mother,” said I, for the tears were gushing
from her eyes; “there, let that kiss efface the one I gave Eliza; don’t
abuse her any more, and set your mind at rest; for I’ll promise
never—that is, I’ll promise to think twice before I take any important
step you seriously disapprove of.”
So saying, I lighted my candle, and went to bed, considerably quenched
in spirit.
CHAPTER V
It was about the close of the month, that, yielding at length to the
urgent importunities of Rose, I accompanied her in a visit to Wildfell
Hall. To our surprise, we were ushered into a room where the first
object that met the eye was a painter’s easel, with a table beside it
covered with rolls of canvas, bottles of oil and varnish, palette,
brushes, paints, &c. Leaning against the wall were several sketches in
various stages of progression, and a few finished paintings—mostly of
landscapes and figures.
“I must make you welcome to my studio,” said Mrs. Graham; “there is no
fire in the sitting-room to-day, and it is rather too cold to show you
into a place with an empty grate.”