The Tenant of Wildfell Hall (Penguin Classics) (16 page)

My wish, however, was not gratified. Mrs Graham herself was not to be seen; but there was Arthur playing with his frolicsome little dog in the garden. I looked over the gate and called him to me. He wanted me to come in; but I told him I could not without his mother’s leave.

‘I’ll go and ask her,’ said the child.

‘No, no, Arthur, you mustn’t do that, – but if she’s not engaged, just ask her to come here a minute: tell her I want to speak to her.’

He ran to perform my bidding, and quickly returned with his mother. How lovely she looked with her dark ringlets streaming in the light summer breeze, her fair cheek slightly flushed, and her countenance radiant with smiles! – Dear Arthur! what did I not owe to you for this and every other happy meeting? – Through him, I was at once delivered from all formality, and terror, and constraint. In love affairs, there is no mediator like a merry, simple-hearted child – ever ready to cement divided hearts, to span the unfriendly gulf of custom, to melt the ice of cold reserve, and overthrow the separating walls of dread formality and pride.

‘Well, Mr Markham, what is it?’ said the young mother, accosting me with a pleasant smile.

‘I want you to look at this book, and, if you please, to take it, and peruse it at your leisure. I make no apology for calling you out on such a lovely evening though it
be
for a matter of no greater importance.’

‘Tell him to come in, mamma,’ said Arthur.

‘Would you like to come in?’ asked the lady.

‘Yes; I should like to see your improvements in the garden.’

‘And how your sister’s roots have prospered in my charge,’ added she, as she opened the gate.

And we sauntered through the garden, and talked of the flowers, the trees, and the book, – and then of other things. The evening was kind and genial, and so was my companion. By degrees, I waxed more warm and tender than, perhaps, I had ever been before; but still, I said nothing tangible, and she attempted no repulse; until, in passing a moss rose-tree that I had brought her some weeks since, in my sister’s name, she plucked a beautiful half open bud and bade me give it to Rose.

‘May I not keep it myself?’ I asked.

‘No; but here is another for you.’

Instead of taking it quietly, I likewise took the hand that offered it, and looked into her face. She let me hold it for a moment, and I saw a flash of ecstatic brilliance in her eye, a glow of glad excitement on her face – I thought my hour of victory was come – but instantly, a painful recollection seemed to flash upon her; a cloud of anguish darkened her brow; a marble paleness blanched her cheek and lip; there seemed a moment of inward conflict, – and with a sudden effort, she withdrew her hand, and retreated a step or two back.

‘Now Mr Markham,’ said she, with a kind of desperate calmness, ‘I must tell you plainly, that I cannot do with this. I like your company, because I am alone here, and your conversation pleases me more than that of any other person; but if you cannot be content to regard me as a friend – a plain, cold, motherly, or sisterly friend, I must beg you to leave me now, and let me alone hereafter – in fact, we must be strangers for the future.’

‘I will, then – be your friend, – or brother, or anything you wish, if you will only let me continue to see you; but tell me why I cannot be anything more?’

There was a perplexed and thoughtful pause.

‘Is it in consequence of some rash vow?’

‘It is something of the kind,’ she answered; – ‘some day I may tell you, but at present you had better leave me; and never, Gilbert, put me to the painful necessity of repeating what I have just now said to you!’ – she earnestly added, giving me her hand in serious kindness. How sweet, how musical my own name sounded in her mouth!

‘I will not,’ I replied. ‘But you pardon
this
offence?’

‘On condition that you never repeat it.’

‘And may I come to see you now and then?’

‘Perhaps, – occasionally; provided you never abuse the privilege.’

‘I make no empty promises, but you shall see.’

‘The moment you do, our intimacy is at an end, that’s all.’

‘And will you always call me Gilbert? – it sounds more sisterly, and it will serve to remind me of our contract.’

She smiled, and once more bid me go, – and, at length, I judged it prudent to obey; and she re-entered the house, and I went down the hill. But as I went, the tramp of horses’ hoofs fell on my ear, and broke the stillness of the dewy evening; and, looking towards the lane, I saw a solitary equestrian coming up. Inclining to dusk as it was, I knew him at a glance: it was Mr Lawrence on his grey pony. I flew across the field – leaped the stone fence – and then walked down the lane to meet him. On seeing me, he suddenly drew in his little steed, and seemed inclined to turn back, but on second thought, apparently judged it better to continue his course as before. He accosted me with a slight bow, and, edging close to the wall, endeavoured to pass on – but I was not so minded: seizing his horse by the bridle, I exclaimed; –

‘Now Lawrence, I will have this mystery explained! Tell me where you are going, and what you mean to do – at once, and distinctly!’

‘Will you take your hand off the bridle?’ said he, quietly; – ‘you’re hurting my pony’s mouth.’

‘You and your pony be —’

‘What makes you so coarse and brutal, Markham? I’m quite ashamed of you.’

‘You answer my questions – before you leave this spot! I
will
know what you mean by this perfidious duplicity?’

‘I shall answer
no
questions till you let go the bridle, – if you stand till morning.’

‘Now then,’ said I, unclosing my hand, but still standing before him.

‘Ask me some other time, when you can speak like a gentleman,’ returned he, and he made an effort to pass me again; but I quickly recaptured the pony, scarce less astonished than its master at such uncivil usage.

‘Really Mr Markham, this is
too
much!’ said the latter. ‘Can I not go to see my tenant on matters of business, without being assaulted in this manner by –’

‘This is no time for business sir! – I’ll tell you, now, what I think of your conduct.’

‘You’d better defer your opinion to a more convenient season,’ interrupted he in a low tone – ‘here’s the vicar.’

And in truth, the vicar was just behind me, plodding homeward from some remote corner of his parish. I immediately released the squire; and he went on his way, saluting Mr Millward as he passed.

‘What, quarrelling Markham?’ cried the latter, addressing himself to me, – ‘and about that young widow I don’t doubt,’ he added, reproachfully shaking his head. ‘But let me tell you young man,’ (here he put his face into mine with an important, confidential air), ‘she’s not worth it!’ and he confirmed the assertion by a solemn nod.

‘M
R
M
ILLWARD
!’ I exclaimed, in a tone of wrathful menace that made the reverend gentleman look round – aghast – astounded at such unwonted insolence, and stare me in the face, with a look that plainly said: ‘What, this to me!’ But I was too indignant to apologize, or to speak another word to him: I turned away, and hastened homewards, descending with rapid strides the steep, rough lane, and leaving him to follow as he pleased.

You must suppose about three weeks passed over. Mrs Graham and I were now established friends – or brother and sister, as we rather chose to consider ourselves. She called me Gilbert, by my express desire, and I called her Helen, for I had seen that name written in her books. I seldom attempted to see her above twice a week; and still I made our meetings appear the result of accident as often as I could – for I found it necessary to be extremely careful – and, altogether, I behaved with such exceeding propriety that she never had occasion to reprove me once. Yet I could not but perceive that she was at times unhappy and dissatisfied with herself – or her position, and truly I myself was not quite contented with the latter: this assumption of brotherly nonchalance was very hard to sustain, and I often felt myself a most confounded hypocrite with it all; I saw too, or rather I felt, that, in spite of herself, ‘I was not indifferent to her,’
¹
as the novel heroes modestly express it, and while I thankfully enjoyed my present good fortune, I could not fail to wish and hope for something better in future; but of course, I kept such dreams entirely to myself.

‘Where are you going Gilbert?’ said Rose, one evening, shortly after tea, when I had been busy with the farm all day.

‘To take a walk,’ was the reply.

‘Do you always brush your hat so carefully, and do your hair so nicely, and put on such smart new gloves when you take a walk?’

‘Not always.’

‘You’re going to Wildfell Hall, aren’t you?’

‘What makes you think so?’

‘Because you look as if you were – but I wish you wouldn’t go so often.’

‘Nonsense child! I don’t go once in six weeks – what do you mean?’

‘Well, but if I were you, I wouldn’t have so much to do with Mrs Graham.’

‘Why Rose, are you, too, giving in to the prevailing opinion?’

‘No,’ returned she, hesitatingly – ‘but I’ve heard so much about her lately, both at the Wilsons and the vicarage; – and besides, mamma says, if she were a proper person, she would not be living there by herself
²
– and don’t you remember last winter, Gilbert, all that about the false name to the picture; and how she explained it – saying she had friends or acquaintances from whom she wished her present residence to be concealed, and that she was afraid of their tracing her out; – and then, how suddenly she started up and left the room when that person came – whom she took good care not to let us catch a glimpse of, and who Arthur, with such an air of mystery, told us was his mamma’s friend?’

‘Yes Rose, I remember it all; and I can forgive your uncharitable conclusions; for perhaps, if I did not know her myself, I should put all these things together, and believe the same as you do; but thank God, I do know her, and I should be unworthy the name of a man, if I could believe anything that was said against her, unless I heard it from her own lips. – I should as soon believe such things of you Rose.’

‘Oh, Gilbert!’

‘Well, do you think I
could
believe anything of the kind, – whatever the Wilsons and Millwards dared to whisper?’

‘I should hope
not
indeed!’

‘And why not? – Because I know you – Well, and I know her just as well.’

‘Oh, no! you know nothing of her former life; and last year at this time, you did not know that such a person existed.’

‘No matter. There is such a thing as looking through a person’s eyes into the heart, and learning more of the height, and breadth, and depth of another’s soul in one hour, than it might take you a life
time to discover, if he or she were not disposed to reveal it, – or if you had not the sense to understand it.’

‘Then you
are
going to see her this evening?’

‘To be sure I am!’

‘But what would mamma say, Gilbert?’

‘Mamma needn’t know.’

‘But she must know some time, if you go on.’

‘Go on! – there’s no going on in the matter – Mrs Graham and I are two friends – and will be; and no man breathing shall hinder it, – or has a right to interfere between us.’

‘But if you knew how they talk, you would be more careful – for her sake as well as for your own. Jane Wilson thinks your visits to the old hall but another proof of her depravity –’

‘Confound Jane Wilson!’

‘And Eliza Millward is quite grieved about you.’

‘I hope she is.’

‘But I wouldn’t if I were you.’

‘Wouldn’t what? – How do they know that I go there?’

‘There’s nothing hid from them: they spy out everything.’

‘O, I never thought of this! – And so they dare to turn my friendship into food for further scandal against her! – That proves the falsehood of their other lies, at all events, if any proof were wanting. – Mind you contradict them Rose, whenever you can.’

‘But they don’t speak openly to me about such things: it is only by hints and innuendoes, and by what I hear others say, that I know what they think.’

‘Well then, I won’t go today, as it’s getting latish. But oh, deuce take their cursed envenomed tongues!’ I muttered in the bitterness of my soul.
³

And just at that moment, the vicar entered the room: we had been too much absorbed in our conversation to observe his knock. After his customary, cheerful and fatherly greeting of Rose, who was rather a favourite with the old gentleman, he turned somewhat sternly to me: –

‘Well sir!’ said he, ‘you’re quite a stranger. It is – let – me – see,’ he continued slowly, as he deposited his ponderous bulk in the arm
chair that Rose officiously brought towards him, ‘it is just – six – weeks – by my reckoning, since you darkened – my – door!’ He spoke it with emphasis, and struck his stick on the floor.

‘Is it sir?’ said I.

‘Aye! It is so!’ He added an affirmatory nod, and continued to gaze upon me with a kind of irate solemnity, holding his substantial stick between his knees, with his hands clasped upon its head.

‘I have been busy,’ I said, for an apology was evidently demanded.

‘Busy!’ repeated he derisively.

‘Yes; you know I’ve been getting in my hay; and now the harvest is beginning.’

‘Humph!’

Just then my mother came in, and created a diversion in my favour, by her loquacious and animated welcome of the reverend guest. She regretted deeply that he had not come a little earlier, in time for tea, but offered to have some immediately prepared, if he would do her the favour to partake of it.

‘Not any for me, I thank you,’ replied he; ‘I shall be at home in a few minutes.’

‘Oh, but do stay and take a little! it will be ready in five minutes.’

But he rejected the offer, with a majestic wave of the hand.

‘I’ll tell you what I’ll take, Mrs Markham,’ said he: ‘I’ll take a glass of your excellent ale.’

‘With pleasure!’ cried my mother, proceeding with alacrity to pull the bell and order the favoured beverage.