The Tenant of Wildfell Hall (Penguin Classics)

by Brontë, Anne

  ‘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.

  CHAPTER 10

  A CONTRACT AND A OUARREL

  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.

  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.

  ‘MR MILLWARD!’ 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.

  CHAPTER 11

  THE VICAR AGAIN

  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,’ wa
s 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 herself2 – 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.’