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Tenant of Wildfell Hall, The

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<h2>CHAPTER VI</h2> During the next four months I did not enter Mrs. Graham’s house, nor she mine; but still the ladies continued to talk about her, and still our acquaintance continued, though slowly, to advance.  As for their talk, I paid but little attention to that (when it related to the fair hermit, I mean), and the only information I derived from it was, that one fine frosty day she had ventured to take her little boy as far as the vicarage, and that, unfortunately, nobody was at home but Miss Millward; nevertheless, she had sat a long time, and, by all accounts, they had found a good deal to say to each other, and parted with a mutual desire to meet again.  But Mary liked children, and fond mammas like those who can duly appreciate their treasures. But sometimes I saw her myself, not only when she came to church, but when she was out on the hills with her son, whether taking a long, purpose-like walk, or—on special fine days—leisurely rambling over the moor or the bleak pasture-lands, surrounding the old hall, herself with a book in her hand, her son gambolling about her; and, on any of these occasions, when I caught sight of her in my solitary walks or rides, or while following my agricultural pursuits, I generally contrived to meet or overtake her, for I rather liked to see Mrs. Graham, and to talk to her, and I decidedly liked to talk to her little companion, whom, when once the ice of his shyness was fairly broken, I found to be a very amiable, intelligent, and entertaining little fellow; and we soon became excellent friends—how much to the gratification of his mamma I cannot undertake to say.  I suspected at first that she was desirous of throwing cold water on this growing intimacy—to quench, as it were, the kindling flame of our friendship—but discovering, at length, in spite of her prejudice against me, that I was perfectly harmless, and even well-intentioned, and that, between myself and my dog, her son derived a great deal of pleasure from the acquaintance that he would not otherwise have known, she ceased to object, and even welcomed my coming with a smile. As for Arthur, he would shout his welcome from afar, and run to meet me fifty yards from his mother’s side.  If I happened to be on horseback he was sure to get a canter or a gallop; or, if there was one of the draught horses within an available distance, he was treated to a steady ride upon that, which served his turn almost as well; but his mother would always follow and trudge beside him—not so much, I believe, to ensure his safe conduct, as to see that I instilled no objectionable notions into his infant mind, for she was ever on the watch, and never would allow him to be taken out of her sight.  What pleased her best of all was to see him romping and racing with Sancho, while I walked by her side—not, I fear, for love of my company (though I sometimes deluded myself with that idea), so much as for the delight she took in seeing her son thus happily engaged in the enjoyment of those active sports so invigorating to his tender frame, yet so seldom exercised for want of playmates suited to his years: and, perhaps, her pleasure was sweetened not a little by the fact of my being with her instead of with him, and therefore incapable of doing him any injury directly or indirectly, designedly or otherwise, small thanks to her for that same. But sometimes, I believe, she really had some little gratification in conversing with me; and one bright February morning, during twenty minutes’ stroll along the moor, she laid aside her usual asperity and reserve, and fairly entered into conversation with me, discoursing with so much eloquence and depth of thought and feeling on a subject happily coinciding with my own ideas, and looking so beautiful withal, that I went home enchanted; and on the way (morally) started to find myself thinking that, after all, it would, perhaps, be better to spend one’s days with such a woman than with Eliza Millward; and then I (figuratively) blushed for my inconstancy. On entering the parlour I found Eliza there with Rose, and no one else.  The surprise was not altogether so agreeable as it ought to have been.  We chatted together a long time, but I found her rather frivolous, and even a little insipid, compared with the more mature and earnest Mrs. Graham.  Alas, for human constancy! ‘However,’ thought I, ‘I ought not to marry Eliza, since my mother so strongly objects to it, and I ought not to delude the girl with the idea that I intended to do so.  Now, if this mood continue, I shall have less difficulty in emancipating my affections from her soft yet unrelenting sway; and, though Mrs. Graham might be equally objectionable, I may be permitted, like the doctors, to cure a greater evil by a less, for I shall not fall seriously in love with the young widow, I think, nor she with me—that’s certain—but if I find a little pleasure in her society I may surely be allowed to seek it; and if the star of her divinity be bright enough to dim the lustre of Eliza’s, so much the better, but I scarcely can think it.’ 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 baulked 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 sketch-book 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 dexterously guided by those fair and graceful fingers.  But ere long 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. <ANTIMG alt= "Moorland scene (with water): Haworth" title= "Moorland scene (with water): Haworth" src="images/p46s.jpg" /> 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,’ the sun had set, and the gibbous moon was visibly brightening in the pale grey sky; but a feeling almost of compassion riveted 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 framework. ‘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 under-tone, 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. I was too late for tea; but my mother had kindly kept the teapot 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 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 daresay the boys’ll 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 liked 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.’ ‘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? <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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