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.
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 represss
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?
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