The Tenant of Wildfell Hall (Penguin Classics) (11 page)

And thereafter, I seldom suffered a fine day to pass without paying a visit to Wildfell, about the time my new acquaintance usually left her hermitage; but so frequently was I balked in my expectations of another interview, so changeable was she in her times of coming forth, and in her places of resort, so transient were the occasional glimpses I was able to obtain, that I felt half inclined to think she took as much pains to avoid my company, as I to seek hers; but this was too disagreeable a supposition to be entertained a moment after it could, conveniently, be dismissed.

One calm, clear afternoon, however, in March, as I was superintending the rolling of the meadow-land, and the repairing of a hedge in the valley, I saw Mrs Graham down by the brook, with a sketchbook in her hand, absorbed in the exercise of her favourite art, while Arthur was putting on the time with constructing dams and breakwaters in the shallow, stony stream. I was rather in want of amusement, and so rare an opportunity was not to be neglected; so, leaving both meadow and hedge, I quickly repaired to the spot, – but not before Sancho, who, immediately upon perceiving his young friend, scoured at full gallop the intervening space, and pounced upon him with an impetuous mirth that precipitated the child almost into the middle
of the beck; but, happily, the stones preserved him from any serious wetting, while their smoothness prevented his being too much hurt to laugh at the untoward event.

Mrs Graham was studying the distinctive characters of the different varieties of trees in their winter nakedness, and copying, with a spirited though delicate touch, their various ramifications. She did not talk much; but I stood and watched the progress of her pencil: it was a pleasure to behold it so dextrously guided by those fair and graceful fingers. But erelong their dexterity became impaired, they began to hesitate, to tremble slightly, and make false strokes, and then suddenly came to a pause, while their owner laughingly raised her face to mine, and told me that her sketch did not profit by my superintendence.

‘Then,’ said I, ‘I’ll talk to Arthur, till you’ve done.’

‘I should like to have a ride, Mr Markham, if Mamma will let me,’ said the child.

‘What on, my boy?’

‘I think there’s a horse in that field,’ replied he, pointing to where the strong black mare was pulling the roller.

‘No, no, Arthur; it’s too far,’ objected his mother.

But I promised to bring him safe back, after a turn or two up and down the meadow; and when she looked at his eager face, she smiled and let him go. It was the first time she had even allowed me to take him so much as half a field’s length from her side.

Enthroned upon his monstrous steed, and solemnly proceeding up and down the wide, steep field, he looked the very incarnation of quiet, gleeful satisfaction and delight. The rolling, however, was soon completed; but when I dismounted the gallant horseman, and restored him to his mother, she seemed rather displeased at my keeping him so long. She had shut up her sketch-book, and been, probably for some minutes, impatiently waiting his return.

It was now high time to go home, she said, and would have bid me good evening; but I was not going to leave her yet: I accompanied her half way up the hill. She became more sociable; and I was beginning to be very happy; but, on coming within sight of the grim old Hall, she stood still and turned towards me while she spoke, as if
expecting I should go no further, that the conversation would end here, and I should now take leave and depart – as, indeed, it was time to do; for ‘the clear, cold eve’ was fast ‘declining,’
³
the sun had set, and the gibbous moon
⁴
was visibly brightening in the pale grey sky; but a feeling almost of compassion rivetted me to the spot. It seemed hard to leave her to such a lonely, comfortless home. I looked up at it. Silent and grim it frowned before us. A faint, red light was gleaming from the lower windows of one wing; but all the other windows were in darkness, and many exhibited their black, cavernous gulfs, entirely destitute of glazing or frame work.

‘Do you not find it a desolate place to live in?’ said I, after a moment of silent contemplation.

‘I do, sometimes,’ replied she. ‘On winter evenings, when Arthur is in bed, and I am sitting there alone, hearing the bleak wind moaning round me and howling through the ruinous old chambers, no books or occupations can repress the dismal thoughts and apprehensions that come crowding in – but it is folly to give way to such weakness I know – If Rachel is satisfied with such a life, why should not I? – Indeed I cannot be too thankful for such an asylum, while it is left me.’

The closing sentence was uttered in an undertone, as if spoken rather to herself than to me. She then bid me good evening and withdrew.

I had not proceeded many steps on my way homewards, when I perceived Mr Lawrence, on his pretty grey pony, coming up the rugged lane that crossed over the hill top. I went a little out of my way to speak to him; for we had not met for some time.

‘Was that Mrs Graham you were speaking to just now?’ said he, after the first few words of greeting had passed between us.

‘Yes.’

‘Humph! I thought so.’ He looked contemplatively at his horse’s mane, as if he had some serious cause of dissatisfaction with it, or something else.

‘Well! what then?’

‘Oh, nothing!’ replied he. ‘Only, I thought you disliked her,’ he quietly added, curling his classic lip with a slightly sarcastic smile.

‘Suppose I did; mayn’t a man change his mind on further acquaintance?’

‘Yes, of course,’ returned he, nicely reducing an entanglement in the pony’s redundant, hoary mane. Then suddenly turning to me, and fixing his shy, hazel eyes upon me with a steady penetrating gaze, he added, ‘Then you
have
changed your mind?’

‘I can’t say that I have exactly. No; I think I hold the same opinion respecting her as before – but slightly ameliorated.’

‘Oh.’ He looked round for something else to talk about; and glancing up at the moon, made some remark upon the beauty of the evening, which I did not answer, as being irrelevant to the subject.

‘Lawrence,’ said I, calmly looking him in the face, ‘are you in love with Mrs Graham?’

Instead of his being deeply offended at this, as I more than half expected he would, the first start of surprise, at the audacious question, was followed by a tittering laugh, as if he was highly amused at the idea.

‘
I
in love with her!’ repeated he. ‘What makes you dream of such a thing?’

‘From the interest you take in the progress of my acquaintance with the lady, and the changes of my opinion concerning her, I thought you might be jealous.’

He laughed again. ‘Jealous! no – But I thought you were going to marry Eliza Millward.’

‘You thought wrong then; I am not going to marry either one or the other – that I know of.

‘Then I think you’d better let them alone.’

‘Are you going to marry Jane Wilson?’

He coloured, and played with the mane again, but answered, –

‘No, I think not’

‘Then you had better let her alone.’

She won’t let me alone – he might have said; but he only looked silly and said nothing for the space of half a minute, and then made another attempt to turn the conversation; and, this time, I let it pass; for he had borne enough: another word on the subject would have been like the last atom that breaks the camel’s back.
⁵

I was too late for tea; but my mother had kindly kept the tea-pot and muffin warm upon the hobs, and, though she scolded me a little, readily admitted my excuses; and when I complained of the flavour of the overdrawn tea, she poured the remainder into the slop-basin, and bade Rose put some fresh into the pot, and reboil the kettle, which offices were performed with great commotion, and certain remarkable comments.

‘Well! – if it had been
me
now, I should have had no tea at all – If it had been Fergus, even, he would have had to put up with such as there was, and been told to be thankful, for it was far too good for him; but
you
– we can’t do too much for you – It’s always so – if there’s anything particularly nice at table, Mamma winks and nods at me, to abstain from it, and if I don’t attend to that, she whispers, “Don’t eat so much of that, Rose, Gilbert will like it for his supper”
I’m
nothing at all – in the parlour, it’s “Come Rose, put away your things, and let’s have the room nice and tidy against they come in; and keep up a good fire; Gilbert likes a cheerful fire.” In the kitchen– ”Make that pie a large one, Rose, I dare say the boys ‘11 be hungry;– and don’t put so much pepper in, they’ll not like it I’m sure” – or, “Rose, don’t put so many spices in the pudding, Gilbert likes it plain,” – or, “Mind you put plenty of currants in the cake, Fergus likes plenty.” If I say, “Well Mamma,
I
don’t,” I’m told I ought not to think of myself – “You know Rose, in all household matters, we have only two things to consider, first, what’s proper to be done, and secondly, what’s most agreeable to the gentlemen of the house – anything will do for the ladies.” ’

‘And very good doctrine too,’ said my mother. ‘Gilbert thinks so, I’m sure.’

‘Very convenient doctrine, for us at all events,’ said I; ‘but if you would really study my pleasure, Mother, you must consider your own comfort and convenience a little more than you do – as for Rose, I have no doubt she’ll take care of herself; and whenever she does make a sacrifice or perform a remarkable act of devotedness, she’ll take good care to let me know the extent of it. But for
you
, I might sink into the grossest condition of self-indulgence and carelessness about the wants of others, from the mere habit of being
constantly cared for myself, and having all my wants anticipated or immediately supplied, while left in total ignorance of what is done for me, – if Rose did not enlighten me now and then; and I should receive all your kindness as a matter of course, and never know how much I owe you.’
⁶

‘Ah! and you never
will
know, Gilbert, till you’re married. Then, when you’ve got some trifling, self-conceited girl like Eliza Millward, careless of everything but her own immediate pleasure and advantage, or some misguided, obstinate woman like Mrs Graham, ignorant of her principal duties, and clever only in what concerns her least to know – then, you’ll find the difference.’

‘It will do me good Mother; I was not sent into the world merely to exercise the good capacities and good feelings of others – was I? – but to exert my own towards them; and when I marry, I shall expect to find more pleasure in making my wife happy and comfortable, than in being made so by her: I would rather give than receive.’

‘Oh! that’s all nonsense, my dear – It’s mere boy’s talk that! You’ll soon tire of petting and humouring your wife, be she ever so charming, and
then
comes the trial.’

‘Well, then, we must bear one another’s burdens.’

‘Then, you must fall each into your proper place. You’ll do your business, and she, if she’s worthy of you, will do hers; but it’s your business to please yourself, and hers to please you. I’m sure your poor, dear father was as good a husband as ever lived, and after the first six months or so were over, I should as soon have expected him to fly, as to put himself out of his way to pleasure me. He always said I was a good wife, and did my duty; and he always did his – bless him! – he was steady and punctual, seldom found fault without a reason, always did justice to my good dinners, and hardly ever spoiled my cookery by delay – and that’s as much as any woman can expect of any man.’

Is it so Halford? Is that the extent of
your
domestic virtues; and does your happy wife exact no more?

Not many days after this, on a mild sunny morning – rather soft under foot; for the last fall of snow was only just wasted away, leaving yet a thin ridge, here and there, lingering on the fresh, green grass beneath the hedges; but beside them already, the young primroses were peeping from among their moist, dark foliage, and the lark above was singing of summer, and hope, and love, and every heavenly thing – I was out on the hill-side, enjoying these delights, and looking after the well-being of my young lambs and their mothers, when, on glancing round me, I beheld three persons ascending from the vale below. They were Eliza Millward, Fergus and Rose; so I crossed the field to meet them; and, being told they were going to Wildfell Hall, I declared myself willing to go with them, and offering my arm to Eliza, who readily accepted it in lieu of my brother’s, told the latter he might go back, for I would accompany the ladies.

‘I beg
your
pardon!’ exclaimed he – ‘It’s the ladies that are accompanying me, not I them. You had all had a peep at this wonderful stranger, but me, and I could endure my wretched ignorance no longer – come what would, I must be satisfied; so I begged Rose to go with me to the Hall, and introduce me to her at once. She swore she would not, unless Miss Eliza would go too; so I ran to the vicarage and fetched her; and we’ve come hooked all the way, as fond as a pair of lovers – and now you’ve taken her from me; and you want to deprive me of my walk and my visit besides – Go back to your fields and your cattle, you lubberly fellow; you’re not fit to associate with ladies and gentlemen, like us, that have nothing to do
but to run snooking about
¹
to our neighbours’ houses, peeping into their private corners; and scenting out their secrets, and picking holes in their coats, when we don’t find them ready made to our hands – you don’t understand such refined sources of enjoyment’.

‘Can’t you both go?’ suggested Eliza, disregarding the latter half of the speech.

‘Yes, both to be sure!’ cried Rose; ‘the more the merrier – and I’m sure we shall want all the cheerfulness we can carry with us to that great, dark, gloomy room, with its narrow latticed windows, and its dismal old furniture – unless she shows us into her studio again.’

So we went all in a body; and the meagre old maidservant, that opened the door, ushered us into an apartment, such as Rose had described to me as the scene of her first introduction to Mrs Graham, a tolerably spacious and lofty room, but obscurely lighted by the old-fashioned windows, the ceiling, panels and chimney-piece of grim black oak – the latter elaborately, but not very tastefully carved, – with tables and chairs to match, an old bookcase on one side of the fireplace, stocked with a motley assemblage of books, and an elderly cabinet piano on the other.