The Tenant of Wildfell Hall (Penguin Classics) (15 page)

Meantime, my brain was on fire with indignation, and my heart seemed ready to burst from its prison with conflicting passions. I regarded my two fair neighbours with a feeling of abhorrence and loathing I scarcely endeavoured to conceal: I was rallied from several quarters for my abstraction and ungallant neglect of the ladies; but I cared little for that: all I cared about, besides that one grand subject of my thoughts, was to see the cups travel up to the tea-tray, and not come down again. I thought Mr Millward never
would
cease telling us that he was no tea-drinker, and that it was highly injurious to keep loading the stomach with slops to the exclusion of more wholesome sustenance, and so give himself time to finish his fourth cup.

At length it was over; and I rose and left the table and the guests, without a word of apology – I could endure their company no longer. I rushed out to cool my brain in the balmy evening air, and to compose my mind, or indulge my passionate thoughts in the solitude of the garden.

To avoid being seen from the windows, I went down a quiet, little avenue, that skirted one side of the enclosure, at the bottom of which was a seat embowered in roses and honeysuckles. Here I sat down to think over the virtues and wrongs of the lady of Wildfell Hall; but I had not been so occupied two minutes, before voices and laughter, and glimpses of moving objects through the trees, informed me that the whole company had turned out to take an airing in the garden too. However, I nestled up in a corner of the bower, and hoped to retain possession of it, secure alike from observation and intrusion. But no – confound it – there was someone coming down the avenue! Why couldn’t they enjoy the flowers and sunshine of the open garden, and leave that sunless nook to me, and the gnats and midges?

But peeping through my fragrant screen of interwoven branches to discover who the intruders were (for a murmur of voices told me it was more than one), my vexation instantly subsided, and far other feelings agitated my still unquiet soul; for there was Mrs Graham, slowly moving down the walk with Arthur by her side, and no one else. Why were they alone? Had the poison of detracting tongues already spread through all; and had they all turned their backs upon her? I now recollected having seen Mrs Wilson, in the early part of the evening, edging her chair close up to my mother, and bending forward, evidently in the delivery of some important, confidential intelligence; and from the incessant wagging of her head, the frequent distortions of her wrinkled physiognomy, and the winking and malicious twinkle of her little ugly eyes, I judged it was some spicy piece of scandal that engaged her powers; and from the cautious privacy of the communication, I supposed some person then present was the luckless object of her calumnies; and from all these tokens, together with my mother’s looks and gestures of mingled horror and incredulity, I now concluded that object to have been Mrs Graham. I did not emerge from my place of concealment, till she had nearly reached the bottom of the walk, lest my appearance should drive her away; and when I did step forward, she stood still and seemed inclined to turn back as it was.
³

‘Oh, don’t let us disturb you Mr Markham!’ said she. ‘We came here to seek retirement ourselves; not to intrude on your seclusion.’

‘I am no hermit, Mrs Graham – though I own it looks rather like it, to absent myself in this uncourteous fashion from my guests.’

‘I feared you were unwell,’ said she with a look of real concern.

‘I was rather, but it’s over now. Do sit here a little, and rest, and tell me how you like this arbour,’ said I, and, lifting Arthur by the shoulders, I planted him in the middle of the seat by way of securing his mamma, who, acknowledging it to be a tempting place of refuge, threw herself back in one corner, while I took possession of the other.

But that word ‘refuge’ disturbed me. Had their unkindness then really driven her to seek for peace in solitude?

‘Why have they left you alone?’ I asked.

‘It is I who have left them,’ was the smiling rejoinder. ‘I was wearied to death with small-talk – nothing wears me out like that. I cannot imagine how they
can
go on as they do.’

I could not help smiling at the serious depth of her wonderment.

‘Is it that they think it a
duty
to be continually talking,’ pursued she; ‘and so never pause to think, but fill up with aimless trifles and vain repetitions, when subjects of real interest fail to present themselves? – or do they really take pleasure in such discourse?’

‘Very likely they do,’ said I: ‘their shallow minds can hold no great ideas, and their light heads are carried away by trivialities, that would not move a better furnished skull; – and their only alternative to such discourse, is to plunge over head and ears
⁴
into the slough of scandal – which is their chief delight’.

‘Not all of them surely?’ cried the lady, astonished at the bitterness of my remark.

‘No, certainly; I exonerate my sister from such degraded tastes – and my mother too, if you included
her
in your animadversions.’

‘I meant no animadversions against anyone, and certainly intended no disrespectful allusions to your mother. I have known some sensible persons great adepts in that style of conversation, when circumstances impelled them to it; but it is a gift I cannot boast the possession of. I kept up my attention, on this occasion, as long as I could, but when my powers were exhausted, I stole away, to seek a few minutes’ repose in this quiet walk. I hate talking where there is no exchange of ideas or sentiments, and no good given or received.’
⁵

‘Well,’ said I, ‘if ever I trouble you with my loquacity, tell me so at once, and I promise not to be offended; for I possess the faculty of enjoying the company of those I – of my friends as well in silence as in conversation.’

‘I don’t quite believe you; but if it were so, you would exactly suit me for a companion.’

‘I am all you wish, then, in other respects?’

‘No, I don’t mean that. How beautiful those little clusters of foliage look, where the sun comes through behind them!’ said she, on purpose to change the subject.

And they did look beautiful, where at intervals the level rays of
the sun, penetrating the thickness of trees and shrubs on the opposite side of the path before us, relieved their dusky verdure by displaying patches of semitransparent leaves of resplendent golden green.

‘I almost wish I were not a painter,’ observed my companion.

‘Why so? one would think at such a time you would most exult in your privilege of being able to imitate the various brilliant and delightful touches of nature.’

‘No; for instead of delivering myself up to the full enjoyment of them as others do, I am always troubling my head about how I could produce the same effect upon canvas; and as that can never be done, it is mere vanity and vexation of spirit.’
⁶

‘Perhaps you cannot do it to satisfy yourself, but you may and do succeed in delighting others with the result of your endeavours.’

‘Well, after all I should not complain: perhaps few people gain their livelihood with so much pleasure in their toil as I do.
⁷
Here is someone coming.’

She seemed vexed at the interruption.

‘It is only Mr Lawrence and Miss Wilson,’ said I, ‘coming to enjoy a quiet stroll. They will not disturb us.’

I could not quite decipher the expression of her face; but I was satisfied there was no jealousy therein. What business had I to look for it?

‘What sort of a person is Miss Wilson?’ she asked.

‘She is elegant and accomplished above the generality of her birth and station; and some say she is ladylike and agreeable.’

‘I thought her somewhat frigid, and rather supercilious in her manner today.’

‘Very likely she might be so to you. She has possibly taken a prejudice against you, for I think she regards you in the light of a rival.’

‘Me? Impossible Mr Markham!’ said she, evidently astonished and annoyed.

‘Well, I know nothing about it,’ returned I, rather doggedly; for I thought her annoyance was chiefly against myself.

The pair had now approached within a few paces of us. Our arbour was set snugly back in a corner, before which the avenue, at
its termination, turned off into the more airy walk along the bottom of the garden. As they approached this, I saw, by the aspect of Jane Wilson, that she was directing her companion’s attention to us; and, as well by her cold, sarcastic smile, as by the few isolated words of her discourse that reached me, I knew full well that she was impressing him with the idea that we were strongly attached to each other. I noticed that he coloured up to the temples, gave us one furtive glance in passing, and walked on, looking grave, but seemingly offering no reply to her remarks.

It was true, then, that he
had
some designs upon Mrs Graham; and, were they honourable, he would not be so anxious to conceal them.
She
was blameless, of course, but he was detestable beyond all count.

While these thoughts flashed through my mind, my companion abruptly rose, and calling her son, said they would now go in quest of the company, and departed up the avenue. Doubtless she had heard or guessed something of Miss Wilson’s remarks, and therefore, it was natural enough she should choose to continue the tête-à-tête no longer, especially as at that moment my cheeks were burning with indignation against my former friend, the token of which she might mistake for a blush of stupid embarrassment. For this I owed Miss Wilson yet another grudge; and still the more I thought upon her conduct, the more I hated her.

It was late in the evening before I joined the company. I found Mrs Graham already equipped for departure, and taking leave of the rest, who were now returned to the house. I offered – nay, begged to accompany her home. Mr Lawrence was standing by at the time, conversing with someone else. He did not look at us, but, on hearing my earnest request, he paused in the middle of a sentence to listen for her reply, and went on, with a look of quiet satisfaction, the moment he found it was to be a denial.

A denial it was, decided, though not unkind. She could not be persuaded to think there was danger for herself or her child in traversing those lonely lanes and fields without attendance. It was daylight still, and she should meet no one; or if she did, the people were quiet and harmless, she was well assured. In fact, she would not
hear of anyone’s putting himself out of the way to accompany her, though Fergus vouchsafed to offer his services, in case they should be more acceptable than mine, and my mother begged she might send one of the farming-men to escort her.

When she was gone, the rest was all a blank, or worse. Lawrence attempted to draw me into conversation, but I snubbed him, and went to another part of the room. Shortly after, the party broke up, and he himself took leave. When he came to me, I was blind to his extended hand, and deaf to his goodnight till he repeated it a second time; and then, to get rid of him, I muttered an inarticulate reply accompanied by a sulky nod.

‘What is the matter Markham?’ whispered he.

I replied by a wrathful and contemptuous stare.

‘Are you angry because Mrs Graham would not let you go home with her?’ he asked with a faint smile that nearly exasperated me beyond control.

But, swallowing down all fiercer answers, I merely demanded, –

‘What business is it of yours?’

‘Why, none,’ replied he, with provoking quietness; ‘only,’ and here he raised his eyes to my face, and spoke with unusual solemnity, ‘only let me tell you, Markham, that if you have any designs in that quarter they will certainly fail; and it grieves me to see you cherishing false hopes, and wasting your strength in useless efforts, for –’

‘Hypocrite!’ I exclaimed, and he held his breath, and looked very blank, turned white about the gills, and went away without another word.

I had wounded him to the quick; and I was glad of it.

When all were gone, I learned that the vile slander had indeed been circulated throughout the company, in the very presence of the victim. Rose, however, vowed she did not and would not believe it, and my mother made the same declaration, though not, I fear, with the same amount of real, unwavering incredulity. It seemed to dwell continually on her mind, and she kept irritating me from time to time by such expressions as – ‘Dear, dear, who would have thought it! – Well! I always thought there was something odd about her. – You see what it is for women to affect to be different to other people.’ And once it was, –

‘I misdoubted that appearance of mystery from the very first – I
thought
there would no good come of it; but this is a sad, sad business to be sure!’

‘Why mother, you said you didn’t believe these tales,’ said Fergus.

‘No more I do, my dear; but then, you know, there must be some foundation.’

‘The foundation is in the wickedness and falsehood of the world,’ said I, ‘and in the fact that Mr Lawrence has been seen to go that way once or twice of an evening – and the village gossips say he goes to pay his addresses to the strange lady, and the scandalmongers have greedily seized the rumour, to make it the basis of their own infernal structure.’

‘Well, but Gilbert, there must be something in her
manner
to countenance such reports.’

‘Did
you
see anything in her manner?’

‘No, certainly; but then you know, I always said there was something strange about her.’

I believe it was on that very evening that I ventured on another invasion of Wildfell Hall. From the time of our party, which was upwards of a week ago, I had been making daily efforts to meet its mistress in her walks; and, always disappointed (she must have managed it so on purpose), had nightly kept revolving in my mind some pretext for another call. At length, I concluded that the separation could be endured no longer, (by this time, you will see I was pretty far gone); and, taking from the book case an old volume that I thought she might be interested in, though, from its unsightly and somewhat dilapidated condition, I had not yet ventured to offer it for her perusal, I hastened away, – but not without sundry misgivings as to how she would receive me, or how I could summon courage to present myself with so slight an excuse. But perhaps I might see her in the field or the garden, and then there would be no great difficulty: it was the formal knocking at the door, with the prospect of being gravely ushered in, by Rachel, to the presence of a surprised, uncordial mistress, that so greatly disturbed me.