Wildfell Hall 6

 

 

THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL

PART 6

CHAPTER XI

 

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,’ 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—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 lifetime 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.’

‘Oh, 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 knew what they think.’

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

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.

‘Ay!  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.

‘I thought,’ continued he, ‘I’d just look in upon you as I passed, and taste your home-brewed ale.  I’ve been to call on Mrs. Graham.’

‘Have you, indeed?’

He nodded gravely, and added with awful emphasis—‘I thought it incumbent upon me to do so.’

‘Really!’ ejaculated my mother.

‘Why so, Mr. Millward?’ asked I.

He looked at me with some severity, and turning again to my mother, repeated,—‘I thought it incumbent upon me!’ and struck his stick on the floor again.  My mother sat opposite, an awe-struck but admiring auditor.

‘“Mrs. Graham,” said I,’ he continued, shaking his head as he spoke, ‘“these are terrible reports!”  “What, sir?” says she, affecting to be ignorant of my meaning.  “It is my—duty—as—your pastor,” said I, “to tell you both everything that I myself see reprehensible in your conduct, and all I have reason to suspect, and what others tell me concerning you.”—So I told her!’

‘You did, sir?’ cried I, starting from my seat and striking my fist on the table.  He merely glanced towards me, and continued—addressing his hostess:—

‘It was a painful duty, Mrs. Markham—but I told her!’

‘And how did she take it?’ asked my mother.

‘Hardened, I fear—hardened!’ he replied, with a despondent shake of the head; ‘and, at the same time, there was a strong display of unchastened, misdirected passions.  She turned white in the face, and drew her breath through her teeth in a savage sort of way;—but she offered no extenuation or defence; and with a kind of shameless calmness—shocking indeed to witness in one so young—as good as told me that my remonstrance was unavailing, and my pastoral advice quite thrown away upon her—nay, that my very presence was displeasing while I spoke such things.  And I withdrew at length, too plainly seeing that nothing could be done—and sadly grieved to find her case so hopeless.  But I am fully determined, Mrs. Markham, that my daughters—shall—not—consort with her.  Do you adopt the same resolution with regard to yours!—As for your sons—as for you, young man,’ he continued, sternly turning to me—

‘As for me, sir,’ I began, but checked by some impediment in my utterance, and finding that my whole frame trembled with fury, I said no more, but took the wiser part of snatching up my hat and bolting from the room, slamming the door behind me, with a bang that shook the house to its foundations, and made my mother scream, and gave a momentary relief to my excited feelings.

The next minute saw me hurrying with rapid strides in the direction of Wildfell Hall—to what intent or purpose I could scarcely tell, but I must be moving somewhere, and no other goal would do—I must see her too, and speak to her—that was certain; but what to say, or how to act, I had no definite idea.  Such stormy thoughts—so many different resolutions crowded in upon me, that my mind was little better than a chaos of conflicting passions.

CHAPTER XII

 

In little more than twenty minutes the journey was accomplished.  I paused at the gate to wipe my streaming forehead, and recover my breath and some degree of composure.  Already the rapid walking had somewhat mitigated my excitement; and with a firm and steady tread I paced the garden-walk.  In passing the inhabited wing of the building, I caught a sight of Mrs. Graham, through the open window, slowly pacing up and down her lonely room.

She seemed agitated and even dismayed at my arrival, as if she thought I too was coming to accuse her.  I had entered her presence intending to condole with her upon the wickedness of the world, and help her to abuse the vicar and his vile informants, but now I felt positively ashamed to mention the subject, and determined not to refer to it, unless she led the way.

‘I am come at an unseasonable hour,’ said I, assuming a cheerfulness I did not feel, in order to reassure her; ‘but I won’t stay many minutes.’

She smiled upon me, faintly it is true, but most kindly—I had almost said thankfully, as her apprehensions were removed.

‘How dismal you are, Helen!  Why have you no fire?’ I said, looking round on the gloomy apartment.

‘It is summer yet,’ she replied.

‘But we always have a fire in the evenings, if we can bear it; and you especially require one in this cold house and dreary room.’

‘You should have come a little sooner, and I would have had one lighted for you: but it is not worth while now—you won’t stay many minutes, you say, and Arthur is gone to bed.’

‘But I have a fancy for a fire, nevertheless.  Will you order one, if I ring?’

‘Why, Gilbert, you don’t look cold!’ said she, smilingly regarding my face, which no doubt seemed warm enough.

‘No,’ replied I, ‘but I want to see you comfortable before I go.’

‘Me comfortable!’ repeated she, with a bitter laugh, as if there were something amusingly absurd in the idea.  ‘It suits me better as it is,’ she added, in a tone of mournful resignation.

But determined to have my own way, I pulled the bell.

‘There now, Helen!’ I said, as the approaching steps of Rachel were heard in answer to the summons.  There was nothing for it but to turn round and desire the maid to light the fire.

I owe Rachel a grudge to this day for the look she cast upon me ere she departed on her mission, the sour, suspicious, inquisitorial look that plainly demanded, ‘What are you here for, I wonder?’  Her mistress did not fail to notice it, and a shade of uneasiness darkened her brow.

‘You must not stay long, Gilbert,’ said she, when the door was closed upon us.

‘I’m not going to,’ said I, somewhat testily, though without a grain of anger in my heart against any one but the meddling old woman.  ‘But, Helen, I’ve something to say to you before I go.’

‘What is it?’

‘No, not now—I don’t know yet precisely what it is, or how to say it,’ replied I, with more truth than wisdom; and then, fearing lest she should turn me out of the house, I began talking about indifferent matters in order to gain time.  Meanwhile Rachel came in to kindle the fire, which was soon effected by thrusting a red-hot poker between the bars of the grate, where the fuel was already disposed for ignition.  She honoured me with another of her hard, inhospitable looks in departing, but, little moved thereby, I went on talking; and setting a chair for Mrs. Graham on one side of the hearth, and one for myself on the other, I ventured to sit down, though half suspecting she would rather see me go.

In a little while we both relapsed into silence, and continued for several minutes gazing abstractedly into the fire—she intent upon her own sad thoughts, and I reflecting how delightful it would be to be seated thus beside her with no other presence to restrain our intercourse—not even that of Arthur, our mutual friend, without whom we had never met before—if only I could venture to speak my mind, and disburden my full heart of the feelings that had so long oppressed it, and which it now struggled to retain, with an effort that it seemed impossible to continue much longer,—and revolving the pros and cons for opening my heart to her there and then, and imploring a return of affection, the permission to regard her thenceforth as my own, and the right and the power to defend her from the calumnies of malicious tongues.  On the one hand, I felt a new-born confidence in my powers of persuasion—a strong conviction that my own fervour of spirit would grant me eloquence—that my very determination—the absolute necessity for succeeding, that I felt must win me what I sought; while, on the other, I feared to lose the ground I had already gained with so much toil and skill, and destroy all future hope by one rash effort, when time and patience might have won success.  It was like setting my life upon the cast of a die; and yet I was ready to resolve upon the attempt.  At any rate, I would entreat the explanation she had half promised to give me before; I would demand the reason of this hateful barrier, this mysterious impediment to my happiness, and, as I trusted, to her own.

But while I considered in what manner I could best frame my request, my companion, wakened from her reverie with a scarcely audible sigh, and looking towards the window, where the blood-red harvest moon, just rising over one of the grim, fantastic evergreens, was shining in upon us, said,—‘Gilbert, it is getting late.’

‘I see,’ said I.  ‘You want me to go, I suppose?’

‘I think you ought.  If my kind neighbours get to know of this visit—as no doubt they will—they will not turn it much to my advantage.’  It was with what the vicar would doubtless have called a savage sort of smile that she said this.

‘Let them turn it as they will,’ said I.  ‘What are their thoughts to you or me, so long as we are satisfied with ourselves—and each other.  Let them go to the deuce with their vile constructions and their lying inventions!’

This outburst brought a flush of colour to her face.

‘You have heard, then, what they say of me?’

‘I heard some detestable falsehoods; but none but fools would credit them for a moment, Helen, so don’t let them trouble you.’

‘I did not think Mr. Millward a fool, and he believes it all; but however little you may value the opinions of those about you—however little you may esteem them as individuals, it is not pleasant to be looked upon as a liar and a hypocrite, to be thought to practise what you abhor, and to encourage the vices you would discountenance, to find your good intentions frustrated, and your hands crippled by your supposed unworthiness, and to bring disgrace on the principles you profess.’

‘True; and if I, by my thoughtlessness and selfish disregard to appearances, have at all assisted to expose you to these evils, let me entreat you not only to pardon me, but to enable me to make reparation; authorise me to clear your name from every imputation: give me the right to identify your honour with my own, and to defend your reputation as more precious than my life!’

‘Are you hero enough to unite yourself to one whom you know to be suspected and despised by all around you, and identify your interests and your honour with hers?  Think! it is a serious thing.’

‘I should be proud to do it, Helen!—most happy—delighted beyond expression!—and if that be all the obstacle to our union, it is demolished, and you must—you shall be mine!’

And starting from my seat in a frenzy of ardour, I seized her hand and would have pressed it to my lips, but she as suddenly caught it away, exclaiming in the bitterness of intense affliction,—‘No, no, it is not all!’

‘What is it, then?  You promised I should know some time, and—’

‘You shall know some time—but not now—my head aches terribly,’ she said, pressing her hand to her forehead, ‘and I must have some repose—and surely I have had misery enough to-day!’ she added, almost wildly.

‘But it could not harm you to tell it,’ I persisted: ‘it would ease your mind; and I should then know how to comfort you.’

She shook her head despondingly.  ‘If you knew all, you, too, would blame me—perhaps even more than I deserve—though I have cruelly wronged you,’ she added in a low murmur, as if she mused aloud.

‘You, Helen?  Impossible?’

‘Yes, not willingly; for I did not know the strength and depth of your attachment.  I thought—at least I endeavoured to think your regard for me was as cold and fraternal as you professed it to be.’

‘Or as yours?’

‘Or as mine—ought to have been—of such a light and selfish, superficial nature, that—’

‘There, indeed, you wronged me.’

‘I know I did; and, sometimes, I suspected it then; but I thought, upon the whole, there could be no great harm in leaving your fancies and your hopes to dream themselves to nothing—or flutter away to some more fitting object, while your friendly sympathies remained with me; but if I had known the depth of your regard, the generous, disinterested affection you seem to feel—’

‘Seem, Helen?’

‘That you do feel, then, I would have acted differently.’

‘How?  You could not have given me less encouragement, or treated me with greater severity than you did!  And if you think you have wronged me by giving me your friendship, and occasionally admitting me to the enjoyment of your company and conversation, when all hopes of closer intimacy were vain—as indeed you always gave me to understand—if you think you have wronged me by this, you are mistaken; for such favours, in themselves alone, are not only delightful to my heart, but purifying, exalting, ennobling to my soul; and I would rather have your friendship than the love of any other woman in the world!’

Little comforted by this, she clasped her hands upon her knee, and glancing upward, seemed, in silent anguish, to implore divine assistance; then, turning to me, she calmly said,—‘To-morrow, if you meet me on the moor about mid-day, I will tell you all you seek to know; and perhaps you will then see the necessity of discontinuing our intimacy—if, indeed, you do not willingly resign me as one no longer worthy of regard.’

‘I can safely answer no to that: you cannot have such grave confessions to make—you must be trying my faith, Helen.’

‘No, no, no,’ she earnestly repeated—‘I wish it were so!  Thank heaven!’ she added, ‘I have no great crime to confess; but I have more than you will like to hear, or, perhaps, can readily excuse,—and more than I can tell you now; so let me entreat you to leave me!’

‘I will; but answer me this one question first;—do you love me?’

‘I will not answer it!’

‘Then I will conclude you do; and so good-night.’

She turned from me to hide the emotion she could not quite control; but I took her hand and fervently kissed it.

‘Gilbert, do leave me!’ she cried, in a tone of such thrilling anguish that I felt it would be cruel to disobey.

But I gave one look back before I closed the door, and saw her leaning forward on the table, with her hands pressed against her eyes, sobbing convulsively; yet I withdrew in silence.  I felt that to obtrude my consolations on her then would only serve to aggravate her sufferings.

To tell you all the questionings and conjectures—the fears, and hopes, and wild emotions that jostled and chased each other through my mind as I descended the hill, would almost fill a volume in itself.  But before I was half-way down, a sentiment of strong sympathy for her I had left behind me had displaced all other feelings, and seemed imperatively to draw me back: I began to think, ‘Why am I hurrying so fast in this direction?  Can I find comfort or consolation—peace, certainty, contentment, all—or anything that I want at home? and can I leave all perturbation, sorrow, and anxiety behind me there?’

And I turned round to look at the old Hall.  There was little besides the chimneys visible above my contracted horizon.  I walked back to get a better view of it.  When it rose in sight, I stood still a moment to look, and then continued moving towards the gloomy object of attraction.  Something called me nearer—nearer still—and why not, pray?  Might I not find more benefit in the contemplation of that venerable pile with the full moon in the cloudless heaven shining so calmly above it—with that warm yellow lustre peculiar to an August night—and the mistress of my soul within, than in returning to my home, where all comparatively was light, and life, and cheerfulness, and therefore inimical to me in my present frame of mind,—and the more so that its inmates all were more or less imbued with that detestable belief, the very thought of which made my blood boil in my veins—and how could I endure to hear it openly declared, or cautiously insinuated—which was worse?—I had had trouble enough already, with some babbling fiend that would keep whispering in my ear, ‘It may be true,’ till I had shouted aloud, ‘It is false!  I defy you to make me suppose it!’

I could see the red firelight dimly gleaming from her parlour window.  I went up to the garden wall, and stood leaning over it, with my eyes fixed upon the lattice, wondering what she was doing, thinking, or suffering now, and wishing I could speak to her but one word, or even catch one glimpse of her, before I went.

I had not thus looked, and wished, and wondered long, before I vaulted over the barrier, unable to resist the temptation of taking one glance through the window, just to see if she were more composed than when we parted;—and if I found her still in deep distress, perhaps I might venture attempt a word of comfort—to utter one of the many things I should have said before, instead of aggravating her sufferings by my stupid impetuosity.  I looked.  Her chair was vacant: so was the room.  But at that moment some one opened the outer door, and a voice—her voice—said,—‘Come out—I want to see the moon, and breathe the evening air: they will do me good—if anything will.’

Here, then, were she and Rachel coming to take a walk in the garden.  I wished myself safe back over the wall.  I stood, however, in the shadow of the tall holly-bush, which, standing between the window and the porch, at present screened me from observation, but did not prevent me from seeing two figures come forth into the moonlight: Mrs. Graham followed by another—not Rachel, but a young man, slender and rather tall.  O heavens, how my temples throbbed!  Intense anxiety darkened my sight; but I thought—yes, and the voice confirmed it—it was Mr. Lawrence!

‘You should not let it worry you so much, Helen,’ said he; ‘I will be more cautious in future; and in time—’

I did not hear the rest of the sentence; for he walked close beside her and spoke so gently that I could not catch the words.  My heart was splitting with hatred; but I listened intently for her reply.  I heard it plainly enough.

‘But I must leave this place, Frederick,’ she said—‘I never can be happy here,—nor anywhere else, indeed,’ she added, with a mirthless laugh,—‘but I cannot rest here.’

‘But where could you find a better place?’ replied he, ‘so secluded—so near me, if you think anything of that.’

‘Yes,’ interrupted she, ‘it is all I could wish, if they could only have left me alone.’

‘But wherever you go, Helen, there will be the same sources of annoyance.  I cannot consent to lose you: I must go with you, or come to you; and there are meddling fools elsewhere, as well as here.’

While thus conversing they had sauntered slowly past me, down the walk, and I heard no more of their discourse; but I saw him put his arm round her waist, while she lovingly rested her hand on his shoulder;—and then, a tremulous darkness obscured my sight, my heart sickened and my head burned like fire: I half rushed, half staggered from the spot, where horror had kept me rooted, and leaped or tumbled over the wall—I hardly know which—but I know that, afterwards, like a passionate child, I dashed myself on the ground and lay there in a paroxysm of anger and despair—how long, I cannot undertake to say; but it must have been a considerable time; for when, having partially relieved myself by a torment of tears, and looked up at the moon, shining so calmly and carelessly on, as little influenced by my misery as I was by its peaceful radiance, and earnestly prayed for death or forgetfulness, I had risen and journeyed homewards—little regarding the way, but carried instinctively by my feet to the door, I found it bolted against me, and every one in bed except my mother, who hastened to answer my impatient knocking, and received me with a shower of questions and rebukes.

‘Oh, Gilbert! how could you do so?  Where have you been?  Do come in and take your supper.  I’ve got it all ready, though you don’t deserve it, for keeping me in such a fright, after the strange manner you left the house this evening.  Mr. Millward was quite—  Bless the boy! how ill he looks.  Oh, gracious! what is the matter?’

‘Nothing, nothing—give me a candle.’

‘But won’t you take some supper?’

‘No; I want to go to bed,’ said I, taking a candle and lighting it at the one she held in her hand.

‘Oh, Gilbert, how you tremble!’ exclaimed my anxious parent.  ‘How white you look!  Do tell me what it is?  Has anything happened?’

‘It’s nothing,’ cried I, ready to stamp with vexation because the candle would not light.  Then, suppressing my irritation, I added, ‘I’ve been walking too fast, that’s all.  Good-night,’ and marched off to bed, regardless of the ‘Walking too fast! where have you been?’ that was called after me from below.

My mother followed me to the very door of my room with her questionings and advice concerning my health and my conduct; but I implored her to let me alone till morning; and she withdrew, and at length I had the satisfaction to hear her close her own door.  There was no sleep for me, however, that night as I thought; and instead of attempting to solicit it, I employed myself in rapidly pacing the chamber, having first removed my boots, lest my mother should hear me.  But the boards creaked, and she was watchful.  I had not walked above a quarter of an hour before she was at the door again.

‘Gilbert, why are you not in bed—you said you wanted to go?’

‘Confound it!  I’m going,’ said I.

‘But why are you so long about it?  You must have something on your mind—’

‘For heaven’s sake, let me alone, and get to bed yourself.’

‘Can it be that Mrs. Graham that distresses you so?’

‘No, no, I tell you—it’s nothing.’

‘I wish to goodness it mayn’t,’ murmured she, with a sigh, as she returned to her own apartment, while I threw myself on the bed, feeling most undutifully disaffected towards her for having deprived me of what seemed the only shadow of a consolation that remained, and chained me to that wretched couch of thorns.

Never did I endure so long, so miserable a night as that.  And yet it was not wholly sleepless.  Towards morning my distracting thoughts began to lose all pretensions to coherency, and shape themselves into confused and feverish dreams, and, at length, there followed an interval of unconscious slumber.  But then the dawn of bitter recollection that succeeded—the waking to find life a blank, and worse than a blank, teeming with torment and misery—not a mere barren wilderness, but full of thorns and briers—to find myself deceived, duped, hopeless, my affections trampled upon, my angel not an angel, and my friend a fiend incarnate—it was worse than if I had not slept at all.

It was a dull, gloomy morning; the weather had changed like my prospects, and the rain was pattering against the window.  I rose, nevertheless, and went out; not to look after the farm, though that would serve as my excuse, but to cool my brain, and regain, if possible, a sufficient degree of composure to meet the family at the morning meal without exciting inconvenient remarks.  If I got a wetting, that, in conjunction with a pretended over-exertion before breakfast, might excuse my sudden loss of appetite; and if a cold ensued, the severer the better—it would help to account for the sullen moods and moping melancholy likely to cloud my brow for long enough.

CHAPTER XIII

 

‘My dear Gilbert, I wish you would try to be a little more amiable,’ said my mother one morning after some display of unjustifiable ill-humour on my part.  ‘You say there is nothing the matter with you, and nothing has happened to grieve you, and yet I never saw anyone so altered as you within these last few days.  You haven’t a good word for anybody—friends and strangers, equals and inferiors—it’s all the same.  I do wish you’d try to check it.’

‘Check what?’

‘Why, your strange temper.  You don’t know how it spoils you.  I’m sure a finer disposition than yours by nature could not be, if you’d let it have fair play: so you’ve no excuse that way.’

While she thus remonstrated, I took up a book, and laying it open on the table before me, pretended to be deeply absorbed in its perusal, for I was equally unable to justify myself and unwilling to acknowledge my errors; and I wished to have nothing to say on the matter.  But my excellent parent went on lecturing, and then came to coaxing, and began to stroke my hair; and I was getting to feel quite a good boy, but my mischievous brother, who was idling about the room, revived my corruption by suddenly calling out,—‘Don’t touch him, mother! he’ll bite!  He’s a very tiger in human form.  I’ve given him up for my part—fairly disowned him—cast him off, root and branch.  It’s as much as my life is worth to come within six yards of him.  The other day he nearly fractured my skull for singing a pretty, inoffensive love-song, on purpose to amuse him.’

‘Oh, Gilbert! how could you?’ exclaimed my mother.

‘I told you to hold your noise first, you know, Fergus,’ said I.

‘Yes, but when I assured you it was no trouble and went on with the next verse, thinking you might like it better, you clutched me by the shoulder and dashed me away, right against the wall there, with such force that I thought I had bitten my tongue in two, and expected to see the place plastered with my brains; and when I put my hand to my head, and found my skull not broken, I thought it was a miracle, and no mistake.  But, poor fellow!’ added he, with a sentimental sigh—‘his heart’s broken—that’s the truth of it—and his head’s—’

‘Will you be silent now?’ cried I, starting up, and eyeing the fellow so fiercely that my mother, thinking I meant to inflict some grievous bodily injury, laid her hand on my arm, and besought me to let him alone, and he walked leisurely out, with his hands in his pockets, singing provokingly—‘Shall I, because a woman’s fair,’ &c.

‘I’m not going to defile my fingers with him,’ said I, in answer to the maternal intercession.  ‘I wouldn’t touch him with the tongs.’

I now recollected that I had business with Robert Wilson, concerning the purchase of a certain field adjoining my farm—a business I had been putting off from day to day; for I had no interest in anything now; and besides, I was misanthropically inclined, and, moreover, had a particular objection to meeting Jane Wilson or her mother; for though I had too good reason, now, to credit their reports concerning Mrs. Graham, I did not like them a bit the better for it—or Eliza Millward either—and the thought of meeting them was the more repugnant to me that I could not, now, defy their seeming calumnies and triumph in my own convictions as before.  But to-day I determined to make an effort to return to my duty.  Though I found no pleasure in it, it would be less irksome than idleness—at all events it would be more profitable.  If life promised no enjoyment within my vocation, at least it offered no allurements out of it; and henceforth I would put my shoulder to the wheel and toil away, like any poor drudge of a cart-horse that was fairly broken in to its labour, and plod through life, not wholly useless if not agreeable, and uncomplaining if not contented with my lot.

Thus resolving, with a kind of sullen resignation, if such a term may be allowed, I wended my way to Ryecote Farm, scarcely expecting to find its owner within at this time of day, but hoping to learn in what part of the premises he was most likely to be found.

Absent he was, but expected home in a few minutes; and I was desired to step into the parlour and wait.  Mrs. Wilson was busy in the kitchen, but the room was not empty; and I scarcely checked an involuntary recoil as I entered it; for there sat Miss Wilson chattering with Eliza Millward.  However, I determined to be cool and civil.  Eliza seemed to have made the same resolution on her part.  We had not met since the evening of the tea-party; but there was no visible emotion either of pleasure or pain, no attempt at pathos, no display of injured pride: she was cool in temper, civil in demeanour.  There was even an ease and cheerfulness about her air and manner that I made no pretension to; but there was a depth of malice in her too expressive eye that plainly told me I was not forgiven; for, though she no longer hoped to win me to herself, she still hated her rival, and evidently delighted to wreak her spite on me.  On the other hand, Miss Wilson was as affable and courteous as heart could wish, and though I was in no very conversable humour myself, the two ladies between them managed to keep up a pretty continuous fire of small talk.  But Eliza took advantage of the first convenient pause to ask if I had lately seen Mrs. Graham, in a tone of merely casual inquiry, but with a sidelong glance—intended to be playfully mischievous—really, brimful and running over with malice.

‘Not lately,’ I replied, in a careless tone, but sternly repelling her odious glances with my eyes; for I was vexed to feel the colour mounting to my forehead, despite my strenuous efforts to appear unmoved.

‘What! are you beginning to tire already?  I thought so noble a creature would have power to attach you for a year at least!’

‘I would rather not speak of her now.’

‘Ah! then you are convinced, at last, of your mistake—you have at length discovered that your divinity is not quite the immaculate—’

‘I desired you not to speak of her, Miss Eliza.’

‘Oh, I beg your pardon!  I perceive Cupid’s arrows have been too sharp for you: the wounds, being more than skin-deep, are not yet healed, and bleed afresh at every mention of the loved one’s name.’

‘Say, rather,’ interposed Miss Wilson, ‘that Mr. Markham feels that name is unworthy to be mentioned in the presence of right-minded females.  I wonder, Eliza, you should think of referring to that unfortunate person—you might know the mention of her would be anything but agreeable to any one here present.’

How could this be borne?  I rose and was about to clap my hat upon my head and burst away, in wrathful indignation from the house; but recollecting—just in time to save my dignity—the folly of such a proceeding, and how it would only give my fair tormentors a merry laugh at my expense, for the sake of one I acknowledged in my own heart to be unworthy of the slightest sacrifice—though the ghost of my former reverence and love so hung about me still, that I could not bear to hear her name aspersed by others—I merely walked to the window, and having spent a few seconds in vengibly biting my lips and sternly repressing the passionate heavings of my chest, I observed to Miss Wilson, that I could see nothing of her brother, and added that, as my time was precious, it would perhaps be better to call again to-morrow, at some time when I should be sure to find him at home.

‘Oh, no!’ said she; ‘if you wait a minute, he will be sure to come; for he has business at L—’ (that was our market-town), ‘and will require a little refreshment before he goes.’

I submitted accordingly, with the best grace I could; and, happily, I had not long to wait.  Mr. Wilson soon arrived, and, indisposed for business as I was at that moment, and little as I cared for the field or its owner, I forced my attention to the matter in hand, with very creditable determination, and quickly concluded the bargain—perhaps more to the thrifty farmer’s satisfaction than he cared to acknowledge.  Then, leaving him to the discussion of his substantial ‘refreshment,’ I gladly quitted the house, and went to look after my reapers.

Leaving them busy at work on the side of the valley, I ascended the hill, intending to visit a corn-field in the more elevated regions, and see when it would be ripe for the sickle.  But I did not visit it that day; for, as I approached, I beheld, at no great distance, Mrs. Graham and her son coming down in the opposite direction.  They saw me; and Arthur already was running to meet me; but I immediately turned back and walked steadily homeward; for I had fully determined never to encounter his mother again; and regardless of the shrill voice in my ear, calling upon me to ‘wait a moment,’ I pursued the even tenor of my way; and he soon relinquished the pursuit as hopeless, or was called away by his mother.  At all events, when I looked back, five minutes after, not a trace of either was to be seen.

This incident agitated and disturbed me most unaccountably—unless you would account for it by saying that Cupid’s arrows not only had been too sharp for me, but they were barbed and deeply rooted, and I had not yet been able to wrench them from my heart.  However that be, I was rendered doubly miserable for the remainder of the day.

To be continued

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