The Tenant of Wildfell Hall (Unabridged). Anne Bronte
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 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 apologise, 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 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