The Tenant of Wildfell Hall (Penguin Classics) (60 page)

‘But did she say no more about me?’

‘She did not say much about you, Markham. I should not have encouraged her to do so, had she been inclined; but happily she was not she only asked a few questions concerning you, and seemed satisfied with my brief answers; wherein she showed herself wiser than her friend – and I may tell you too, that she seemed to be far more anxious lest you should think too much of her, than lest you should forget her.’

‘She was right.’

‘But I fear
your
anxiety is quite the other way, respecting her.’

‘No, it is not: I wish her to be happy; but I don’t wish her to forget me altogether. She knows it is impossible that I should forget
her;
and she is right to wish me not to remember her too well. I should not desire her to regret me
too
deeply; but I can scarcely imagine she will make herself very unhappy about me, because I know I am not worthy of it, except in my appreciation of her.’

‘You are neither of you worthy of a broken heart, – nor of all the sighs, and tears, and sorrowful thoughts that have been, and I fear will be wasted upon you both; but at present, each has a more exalted opinion of the other than, I fear, he or she deserves; and my sister’s feelings are naturally full as keen as yours, and I believe
more
constant; but she has the good sense and fortitude to strive against them in this particular; and I trust she will not rest till she has entirely weaned her thoughts –’ he hesitated.

‘From me,’ said I.

‘And I wish you would make the like exertions,’ continued he.

‘Did she
tell
you that that was her intention?’

‘No; the question was not broached between us: there was no necessity for it, for I had no doubt that such was her determination.’

‘To forget me?’

‘Yes Markham! Why not?’

‘Oh! well,’ was my only audible reply; but I internally answered, –’No, Lawrence, you’re wrong there, she is
not
determined to forget me. It would be
wrong
to forget one so deeply and fondly devoted to her, who can so thoroughly appreciate her excellencies and sympathize with all her thoughts as I can do, and it would be wrong in me to forget so excellent and divine a piece of God’s creation as she, when I have once so truly loved and known her.’ But I said no more to him on that subject. I instantly started a new topic of conversation, and soon took leave of my companion, with a feeling of less cordiality towards him than usual. Perhaps I had no right to be annoyed at him, but I was so nevertheless.

In little more than a week after this, I met him returning from a visit to the Wilsons; and I now resolved to do
him
a good turn, though at the expense of his feelings, and, perhaps, at the risk of incurring that displeasure which is so commonly the reward of those
who give disagreeable information or tender their advice unasked. In this, believe me, I was actuated by no motives of revenge for the occasional annoyances I had lately sustained from him, – nor yet by any feeling of malevolent enmity towards Miss Wilson, but purely by the fact that I could not endure that such a woman should be Mrs Huntingdon’s sister, and that, as well for his own sake as for hers, I could not bear to think of his being deceived into a union with one so unworthy of him, and so utterly unfitted to be the partner of his quiet home, and the companion of his life. He had had uncomfortable suspicions on that head himself, I imagined, but such was his inexperience, and such were the lady’s powers of attraction and her skill in bringing them to bear upon his young imagination, that they had not disturbed him long, and I believe the only effectual causes of the vacillating indecision that had preserved him hitherto from making an actual declaration of love, was the consideration of her connections, and especially of her mother, whom he could not abide. Had they lived at a distance, he might have surmounted the objection, but within two or three miles of Woodford, it was really no light matter.

‘You’ve been to call on the Wilsons, Lawrence,’ said I as I walked beside his pony.

‘Yes,’ replied he, slightly averting his face: ‘I thought it but civil to take the first opportunity of returning their kind attentions, since they have been so very particular and constant in their enquiries, throughout the whole course of my illness.’

‘It’s all Miss Wilson’s doing.’

‘And if it is,’ returned he, with a very perceptible blush, ‘is that any reason why I should not make a suitable acknowledgment?’

‘It is a reason why you should not make the acknowledgment she looks for.’

‘Let us drop that subject if you please,’ said he in evident displeasure.

‘No, Lawrence, with your leave we’ll continue it a while longer; and I’ll tell you something, now we’re about it, which you may believe or not as you choose – only please to remember that it is not my custom to speak falsely, and that in this case, I can have no motive for misrepresenting the truth –’

‘Well, Markham! what now?’

‘Miss Wilson bates your sister
. It may be natural enough that, in her ignorance of the relationship, she should feel some degree of enmity against her, but no good or amiable woman would be capable of evincing that bitter, cold-blooded, designing malice towards a fancied rival that I have observed in her.’

‘Markham!!’

‘Yes – and it is my belief that Eliza Millward and she, if not the very originators of the slanderous reports that have been propagated, were designedly the encouragers and chief disseminators of them. She was not desirous to mix up
your
name in the matter, of course, but her delight was, and still is, to blacken your sister’s character to the utmost of her power without risking too greatly the exposure of her own malevolence!’

‘I cannot believe it,’ interrupted my companion, his face burning with indignation.

‘Well, as I cannot prove it, I must content myself with asserting that it
is
so to the best of my belief, but as you would not willingly marry Miss Wilson if it
were
so, you will do well to be cautious, till you have proved it to be otherwise.’

‘I never told you, Markham, that I
intended
to marry Miss Wilson,’ said he proudly.

‘No, but whether you do or not, she intends to marry you.’

‘Did she tell you so?’

‘No, but–’

‘Then you have no right to make such an assertion respecting her.’ He slightly quickened his pony’s pace, but I laid my hand on its mane, determined he should not leave me yet

‘Wait a moment, Lawrence, and let me explain myself; and don’t be so very – I don’t know what to call it –
inaccessible
as you are. – I know what you think of Jane Wilson; and I believe I know how far you are mistaken in your opinion: you think she is singularly charming, elegant, sensible, and refined: you are not aware that she is selfish, cold-hearted, ambitious, artful, shallow-minded –’

‘Enough, Markham, enough.’

‘No; let me finish. – You don’t know that, if you married her, your
home would be rayless and comfortless; and it would break your heart at last to find yourself united to one so wholly incapable of sharing your tastes, feelings, and ideas – so utterly destitute of sensibility, good feeling, and true nobility of soul.’

‘Have you done?’ asked my companion quietly.

‘Yes; – I know you hate me for my impertinence, but I don’t care if it only conduces to preserve you from that fatal mistake.’

‘Well!’ returned he, with a rather wintry smile – ‘I’m glad you have overcome, or forgotten, your own afflictions so far as to be able to study so deeply the affairs of others, and trouble your head, so unnecessarily, about the fancied or possible calamities of their future life.’

We parted – somewhat coldly again; but still we’ did not cease to be friends; and my well-meant warning, though it might have been more judiciously delivered, as well as more thankfully received, was not wholly unproductive of the desired effect: his visit to the Wilsons was not repeated, and though, in our subsequent interviews, he never mentioned her name to me, nor I to him, – I have reason to believe he pondered my words in his mind, eagerly though covertly sought information respecting the fair lady from other quarters, secretly compared my character of her with what he had himself observed and what he heard from others, and finally came to the conclusion that, all things considered, she had much better remain Miss Wilson of Ryecote Farm, than be transmuted into Mrs Lawrence of Woodford Hall. I believe, too, that he soon learned to contemplate with secret amazement his former predilection, and to congratulate himself on the lucky escape he had made; but he never confessed it to me, or hinted one word of acknowledgement for the part I had had in his deliverance – but this was not surprising to anyone that knew him as I did.

As for Jane Wilson, she, of course, was disappointed and embittered by the sudden cold neglect, and ultimate desertion of her former admirer. Had I done wrong to blight her cherished hopes? I think not; and certainly my conscience has never accused me, from that day to this, of any evil design in the matter.

One morning, about the beginning of November, while I was inditing some business letters, shortly after breakfast, Eliza Millward came to call upon my sister. Rose had neither the discrimination nor the virulence to regard the little demon as I did, and they still preserved their former intimacy. At the moment of her arrival, however, there was no one in the room but Fergus and myself, my mother and sister being both of them absent, ‘on household cares intent;’
¹
but
I
was not going to lay myself out for her amusement, whoever else might so incline: I merely honoured her with a careless salutation and a few words of course,
²
and then went on with my writing, leaving my brother to be more polite if he chose. But she wanted to tease me.

‘What a pleasure it is to find you at home, Mr Markham!’ said she, with a disingenuously malicious smile. ‘I so seldom see you now, for you never come to the vicarage. Papa is quite offended I can tell you,’ she added playfully, looking into my face with an impertinent laugh, as she seated herself, half beside and half before my desk, off the corner of the table.

‘I have had a good deal to do of late,’ said I, without looking up from my letter.

‘Have you indeed! Somebody said you had been strangely neglecting your business these last few months.’

‘Somebody said wrong, for, these last
two
months especially, I have been particularly plodding and diligent’

‘Ah! Well, there’s nothing like active employment, I suppose, to console the afflicted; – and, excuse me, Mr Markham, but you look so very far from well, and have been, by all accounts, so moody and
thoughtful of late, – I could almost think you have some secret care preying on your spirits.
Formerly,
’ said she timidly, ‘I could have ventured to ask you what it was, and what I could do to comfort you: I dare not do it now.’

‘You’re very kind, Miss Eliza. When I think you can do anything to comfort me, I’ll make bold to tell you.’

‘Pray do! – I suppose I mayn’t guess what it is that troubles you?’

‘There’s no necessity, for I’ll tell you plainly. The thing that troubles me the most at present, is a young lady sitting at my elbow and preventing me from finishing my letter, and thereafter, repairing to my daily business.’

Before she could reply to this ungallant speech, Rose entered the room; and Miss Eliza rising to greet her, they both seated themselves near the fire, where that idle lad, Fergus, was standing, leaning his shoulder against the corner of the chimney-piece, with his legs crossed and his hands in his breeches pockets.

‘Now, Rose, I’ll tell you a piece of news – I hope you’ve not heard it before, for good, bad or indifferent, one always likes to be the first to tell – It’s about that sad Mrs Graham –’

‘Hush-sh-sh!’ whispered Fergus, in a tone of solemn import. ‘“We never mention her; her name is never heard.”’
³
And glancing up, I caught him with his eye askance on me, and his finger pointed to his forehead; then, winking at the young lady with a doleful shake of the head, he whispered – ‘a monomania – but don’t mention it – all right but that.’

‘I should be sorry to injure anyone’s feelings,’ returned she, speaking below her breath, ‘another time, perhaps.’

‘Speak out, Miss Eliza!’ said I, not deigning to notice the other’s buffooneries, ‘you needn’t fear to say anything in my presence – that is
true.’

‘Well,’ answered she, ‘perhaps you know already that Mrs Graham’s husband is not really dead, and that she had run away from him?’ I started, and felt my face glow; but I bent it over my letter, and went on folding it up as she proceeded; ‘but perhaps you did
not
know that she is now gone back to him again, and that a perfect reconciliation has taken place between them? Only think,’
she continued, turning to the confounded Rose, ‘what a fool the man must be!’

‘And who gave you this piece of intelligence, Miss Eliza?’ said I, interrupting my sister’s exclamations.

‘I had it from a very authentic source, sir.’

‘From whom, may I ask?’

‘From one of the servants at Woodford.’

‘Oh! I was not aware that you were on such intimate terms with Mr Lawrence’s household.’

‘It was not from the man himself, that I heard it; but he told it in confidence to our maid Sarah, and Sarah told it to me.’

‘In confidence, I suppose; and you tell it in confidence to us; but
I
can tell
you
that it is but a lame story after all, and scarcely one half of it true.’

While I spoke, I completed the sealing and direction of my letters, with a somewhat unsteady hand, in spite of all my efforts to retain composure, and in spite of my firm conviction that the story
was
a lame one – that the supposed Mrs Graham, most certainly, had not
voluntarily
gone back to her husband, or dreamt of a reconciliation. Most likely, she was gone away, and the tale-bearing servant, not knowing what was become of her, had
conjectured
that such was the case, and our fair visitor had detailed it as a certainty, delighted with such an opportunity of tormenting me. But it was possible – barely possible, that someone might have betrayed her, and she had been taken away by force. Determined to know the worst, I hastily pocketed my two letters, and muttering something about being too late for the post, left the room, rushed into the yard and vociferously called for my horse. No one being there, I dragged him out of the stable myself, strapped the saddle on to his back and the bridle on to his head, mounted, and speedily galloped away to Woodford. I found its owner pensively strolling in the grounds.