 7. Not many days after this, on a mild sunny morning, rather soft underfoot, for the last fall of snow was only just wasted away, leaving yet a thin ridge here and there, lingering on the fresh green grass beneath the edges. But besides them already, the young primroses were peeping from among their moist dark foliage, and lark above was singing of summer and hope and love and every heavenly thing. I was out on the hillside, enjoying these delights and looking after the well-being of my young lambs and their mothers, when, on glancing round me, I beheld three persons descending from the valley below. They were Eliza Milward, Fergus and Rose. So I crossed fuel to meet them, and, being told they were going to Wildfell Hall, I declared myself willing to go with them, and offering my arm to Eliza, who readily accepted it in lieu of my brothers, told later he might go back, for I would accompany the ladies. I beg your pardon, exclaimed he. Its ladies that are accompanying me, not I them. You have all added pity but its wonderful stranger but me, and I could endure my wretched ignorance no longer. Come, what would? I must be satisfied. So I begged Rose to go with me to the hall and introduce me to her at once. She swore she would not unless Miss Eliza would go too. So I ran to the vicarage and fetched her, and we've come hooked all the way as found as a pair of lovers. And now you've taken her from me, and you want to deprive me of my walk and my visit besides. Go back to your fields and your cattle, you loverly fellow. You're not fit to associate with ladies and gentlemen like us that have nothing to do but to run snooking about to our neighbors' houses, peeping into their private concerns, and sensing out their secrets, and picking holes in their coats, when we don't find them ready made to our hands. You don't understand such refined sources of enjoyment. Can't you both go? suggested Eliza, disregarding the later half of the speech. He is supposed to be sure, cried Rose. The more the merrier, and I'm sure we shall want all the cheerfulness we can carry with us that great dark gloomy room with its narrow lattice windows and its small old furniture. Unless she show us into her studio again. So we went all in a body, and a meager old maid servant that opened the door, ushered us into an apartment such as Rose, and described to me as seen of her first introduction to Mrs. Graham, a tower with spacious and lofty room, but obscurely lighted by the old fashioned windows, the ceiling, panels and chimney piece of green-black oak. The later elaborately but not very tastefully carved, with tables and chairs to match, and old bouquets on one side of the fireplace, stuck to the multi-assembles of books, and an elderly cabinet piano on the other. The lady was seated in a stiff, high-backed armchair, with the small round table, containing a desk and a work basket on one side of her, and her little boy on the other, who stood leaning his elbow on her knee, and reading to her, with wonderful fluency, from a small volume that lay in her lap. While she rest her hand on his shoulder, and abstractly played with long, wavy curls that fell on his ivory neck, they struck me as forming a pleasing contract to old surrounding objects. But of course, their position was immediately changed on our entrance. I could only observe the picture during the few brief seconds that Rachel held the door for our admittance. I do not think Mrs. Graham was particularly delighted to see us. There was something indescribably chilly in her quiet, calm civility. But I did not talk much to her. Sitting myself near the window, a little back from the circle, I called Arthur to me, and he and I and Sancho amused ourselves very pleasantly together. While the two young ladies baited his mother with small talk, and Fergus sat opposite with his legs, crossed on his hands in his breechy spockets, leaning back in his chair, and staring now up at ceiling, now straight forward at his hostess, in a manner that mainly strongly inclined to kick him out of the room. Now whistling sought to voice to himself a snatch of a favorite air, now interrupting the conversation or filling up a pause, as the case might be, with some most imprudent question or remark. At one time it was, it amazed me, Mrs. Graham, how you could choose such a dilapidated, rickety old place as this to live in. If you couldn't afford to occupy the old house and have it mended up, why couldn't you take a neat little cottage? Perhaps I was too proud, Mr. Fergus, replies she is smiling. Perhaps I took a particularly fancy for this romantic, old-fashioned place. But indeed it has many advantages over cottage. In the first place you see, rooms are larger and more airy. In second place the unoccupied apartments, which I don't pay for, may serve as lumber rooms, if I have anything to put in them. And they are very useful for my little boy to run about in on rainy days when he can't go out. And then there is the con for him to play in and for me to work in. You see, I have affected some little improvement already. Continued she, turning to the window. There is a bed of young vegetables in that corner, and here are some snowdrops and print roses already in bloom. And there too is a yellow crocos just opening in the sunshine. But then how can you bear such a situation? Your nearest neighbor's two miles distance and nobody looking in or passing by. Rosa goes stark mad in such a place. She can't put her life unless she sees half a dozen fresh gowns and bonades a day. Not to speak up to faces within. But you might sit watching at these windows all day long and never see so much as an old woman carrying her eggs to market. I am not sure the loneliness of the place was not one of these chief recommendations. I think no pleasure in watching people pass the window, and I like to be quiet. Oh, as good as you say you wish we would all of us mind our own business and let you alone. No, I dislike an extensive acquaintance. But if I have a few friends, of course I'm glad to see them occasionally. Not one can be happy in eternal solitude. Therefore, Mr. Fergus, if you choose to enter my house as a friend, I'll make you welcome. If not, I must confess I would rather you kept away. She then tuned and addressed some observation to Rosa or Eliza. And Mrs. Graham said he again five minutes after. We were disputing as we came along, a question that you can readily decide for us as it mainly regarded yourself. And indeed we often hold discussions about you. For some of us have nothing better to do than to talk about our neighbor's concerns, and we, the indigenous plans of the soul, have known each other so long and talked, each other over so often, that we are quite sick of that game. So that the stranger coming amongst us makes an invaluable addition to our exhausted sources of amusement. Well, the question, or questions, you are requested to solve on your tongue, Fergus, cried Rose, in a fever of apprehension and wrath. I won't, I tell you. The questions you are requested to solve are these. First, concerning her birth, extraction, and previous residence, some will have it that you are a foreigner and some an English woman, some a native of the North country, and some of the South, some say, well, Mr. Fergus, I'll tell you. I am an English woman, and I don't see why anyone should doubt it. And I was born in the country, neither in the extreme North nor South of our happy island, and in the country I have shiftly passed my life, and now I hope you are satisfied, for I am not supposed to answer any more questions at present. Except this — no, not one more — left she, and instantly quitting her seat, she sought refuge at the window by which I was seated, and, in very desperation, to escape my brother's persecutions, and give her to draw me into conversation. Mr. Markham said she, her rapid, uterus, and the heightened color, too plainly evacing her disquietude. Have you forgotten the fine sea view we were speaking of some time ago? I think I must trouble you now to tell my nearest way to it, for, if this beautiful weather continues, I shall, perhaps, be able to walk there and take my sketch. I have exhausted every other subject for painting, and I long to see it. I was about to comply with the requests, but Rose did not suffer me to proceed. Oh, don't tell her a Gilbert! cried she. She shall go with us. It's way you are thinking about, I suppose, Mrs. Graham. It is a very long walk, too far for you, an odd question for Arthur. But we were thinking about making a picnic to see it some fine day, and if you'll wait till the settled fine weather comes, I'm sure you shall all be delighted to have you amongst us. For Mrs. Graham looked dismayed, and attempted to make excuses, but Rose, either compassionate in her lonely life, or anxious to cultivate her acquaintance, was a tumor to have her, and every objection was overruled. She was told it would only be a small party and all friends, and that the best view of all was from Cliffs, full five miles distant. Just a nice walk for the gentleman, continued Rose. But ladies will drive and walk by churned, for we shall have our pony carriage, which will be plenty large enough to contain little Arthur and three ladies, together there are sketching apparatus and our provisions. So the proposal was finally exceeded, too, and, after some further discussion, respecting the time and manner of the projected excursion, we rose and took our leave. But this was only March, a cold, wet April, and two weeks of May passed over before it could venture forth on our expedition with the reasonable hope of obtaining that pleasure we sought in pleasant prospects, cheerful society, fresh air, good cheer and exercise, without the alloy of bad roads, cold winds, or threatening clouds. Then, on a glorious morning, we gathered our forces and set forth. The company consisted of Mrs. and Master Graham, Mary and Liza Milworth, Jane and Richard Wilson, and Rose, Fergus and Gilbert Markham. Mr. Lawrence had been invited to join us, but, for some reason best known to himself, had refused to give us his company. I had solicited the favor myself. When I did so, he hesitated and asked who were going. Upon my naming, Miss Wilson among the rest, he seemed often climbed to go, but when I mentioned Mrs. Graham, thinking it might be a further inducement, it appeared to have a contrary effect, and he declined it altogether, and, to confess the truth, the decision was not displeasing to me, though I could scarcely tell you why. It was about me, though, when we reached the place of our destination. Mrs. Graham walked all the way to the cliffs, and little Arthur walked a greater part of it, too, for he was now much more hardy and active than when he first entered the neighborhood, and he did not like being in the carriage with strangers, while all his four friends, Mom and Santa, and Mr. Graham and Miss Milworth were on foot, journeying far behind, or passing through distant fields and lanes. I have a very pleasant recollection of that walk, along the hard, white, sunny road, she did here and there with bright green trees, and the dawn with flowered banks and blossoming edges of delicious fragrance, or through pleasant fields and lanes all glorious in sweet flowers and brilliant verger of delightful may. It was true, Eliza was not beside me, but she was with her friends in the pony carriage, as happy I trusted as I was, and even when we pedestrians, having forsaken the highway for a shortcut across the fields, beheld little carriage far away, and disappearing in me the green, empowering trees, I did not hate those trees for snatching the dear little bonnet and shawl from my side, nor did I feel that all those intervening objects lay between my happiness and me. For, to confess the truth, I was too happy in company of Mrs. Graham to regret the absence of Eliza Milworth. The former, it is true, was most provocantly unsociable at first, seemingly went upon talking to no one but Mary Milworth and Arthur. She and Mary journeined along together, generally with the child between them. But where the road permitted, I always walked on the other side of her, which reveals in taking the other side of Miss Milworth, and Fergus roving here and there according to his fancy. And, after a while, she became more friendly, and at length I succeeded in securing her attention almost entirely to myself. And then I was happy indeed. For, whenever she did descend to converse, I liked to listen. Where her opinions and sentiments tell it with mine, it was her extreme good sense, her exquisite taste and feeling that lighted me. Where they differed, it was still her uncompromising boldness in the vow of defense of that difference, her earnestness and keenness that piqued my fancy. And, even when she angered me by her unkind words or looks and her unchoutable conclusions respecting me, it only made me more dissatisfied with myself for having so unfavorably impressed her, and more desirous to vindicate my character in this position in her eyes and, if possible, to win her esteem. At length our walk was ended. Decreasing hate and boldness of the ills, I for some time intercepted the prospect. But, on gaining the summit of a steep aclivity and looking downward and opening lay before us, and the blue sea burst up on our side. Deep violet blue, not deadly calm, but covered with glinting breakers. Diminished white specks twinkling on its bosom and scarcely to be distinguished by the keenest vision from little seam views that sported above, their white wings glittering in the sunshine. Only one or two vets were visible and those were far away. I looked at my companion to see what she thought of this glorious scene. She said nothing, but she stood still and fixed her eyes upon it with a glance that assured me she was not disappointed. She gets very fine eyes by and by. I don't know whether I have told you before, but they were full of soul, large, clear, and nearly black. Not brown, but very dark gray. A cold, reviving breeze blue from the sea. Soft, pure, solubrious. It waved her drooping ringlets and imparted a livelier color to her usually too pale lip and cheek. She felt its exhilarating influence, and so did I. I felt it thinly through my frame, but dare not give way to it, what remained so quiet. There was an aspect of subdued exhilaration in her face that kindled me into almost a smile of exalted, glad intelligence as her eye met mine. Never had she looked so lovely. Never had my heart so warmly cleaved to her as now. Had it been left two minutes longer standing there alone, I cannot answer for the consequences. Happily for my discretion, perhaps for my enjoyment during the remainder of the day, we were spilly summer to the repast. A very respectable collection, which rose, assisted by Miss Wilson and Eliza, who, having shared their seat in the carriage, had arrived with her a little before the rest, had set out upon an elevated platform overlooking the sea, and sheltered from the hot sun by a shelving rock and overhanging trees. Mrs. Graham seated herself at a distance from me. Eliza was my nearest neighbor. She exerted herself to be agreeable, in her gentle, unobtrusive way, and was, no doubt, as fascinating and charming as ever, if I could only have felt it. But soon my heart began to warm towards her once again, and we were all very merry and happy together, as far as I could see, throughout the protated social meal. When that was over, Rose summoned Fergus to help her to gather up fragments and knives, dishes, etc., and to store them to the baskets. And Mrs. Graham took her campstool on drawing materials. And, having begged Miss Milworth to take charge of her precious son, and strictly enjoin him not to wander from his new garden side, she left us and proceeded along the steppe, Stoney Hill, to a loftier, more precipitious eminence at some distance, where the still finer prospect was to be had, where she preferred shaking her sketch, though some of the ladies told her it was a frightful place, and advised her not to attempt it. When she was gone, I felt as if there was to be no more fun. Though it is difficult to say what she had contributed to the hillary of the party, no jests and little laughter had escaped her lips. But her smile had animated my mirth. A keen observation or a chill for word from her had insensibly sharpened my wits and thrown an interest over all that was done and said by the rest. Even my conversation with Eliza had been enliven by her presence, though I knew it not. And now that she was gone, Eliza's playful nonsense ceased to amuse me. Nay, grew worrisome to my soul, and I grew wary of amusing her. I felt myself drawn by an irresistible attraction to that distant point where the fair artist sat and plied her solitary task. And not long did I attempt to resist it. While my little neighbor was exchanging a few words with Mr. Wilson, I rose and kindly slipped away. A few rapid strides and a little active climbering soon brought me to the place where she was seated. An arrow led to a rock at the very edge of the cliff, which sanded with a steep, precipitous slant, quiet down to the rocky shore. She did not hear me coming, and falling out of my shadow across her paper, gave her an electric start, and she looked hastily round. Any other lady of my acquaintance would have screamed under such a sudden alarm. Oh, I didn't know it was you. What did you startle me so? Said she, somewhat tastily. I hate anybody to come up on me so unexpectedly. Why, what did you take me for? Said I. If I had known you were so nervous, I would have been more cautious, but… Well, never mind. What did you come for? Are they all coming? No, this little edge could scarcely contain them all. I'm glad, for I'm tired of talking. Well then, I won't talk. I'll only sit and watch you drawing. Oh, but you know I don't like that. Then I'll content myself with admiring this magnificent prospect. She may not object into this, and, for some time, sketch the way in silence. But I could not help stealing a glance, now and then, from splendid view at our feet, to the elegant white hand that held a pencil, and grateful neck and glossy raven curls that dropped over the paper. Now, thought I, if I had but a pencil and a morsel of paper, I could make a lovelier sketch than hers, admitting I had the power to lineate faithfully what is before me. But, though the satisfaction was denied me, I was very well content to sit beside her there, and say nothing. Are you there still, Mr. Markham? Said she at length, looking round up on me. For I was seated a little behind on a mossy projection of the cliff. Why don't you go and amuse yourself with your friends? Because I am tired of them, like you, and I shall have enough of them tomorrow, or at any time hence. But you, I may not have the pleasure of seeing again, for I know not how long. What was Arthur doing when he came away? He was with Miss Milbert, where he left him. All right, but hoping Mama would not be long away. You didn't entrust him to me, but by. I grumbled, though I had the honor of a much longer acquaintance. But Miss Milbert has the art of conciliating and amusing children, I carelessly added, if she is good for nothing else. Miss Milbert has many esteemful qualities, which, such as you cannot be expected to perceive or appreciate. Will you tell Arthur that I shall come in a few minutes? If that be the case, I will wait with your permission till those few minutes are passed, and then I can assist you to descend this difficult path. Thank you. I always manage best on such occasions without assistance. But, at least, I can carry your stool and sketchbook. She did not deny me this favor, but I was rather offended at her evident desire to be rid of me, and was beginning to repent of my progenacity, when she somewhat appeased me by consulting my taste and judgment about some doubtful matter in her drawing. My opinion happily met her approbation, and the improvement I suggested was adopted without hesitation. I have often wished in vain, said she, for another's judgment to appeal to and I could scarcely trust the direction of my own eye and head. They haven't been so long occupied with the contemplation of a single object, as to become almost incapable of forming a proper of de-respecting it. That, replied I, is only one of many evils to which a solitary life exposes us. True, said she, and again we were lapsed into silence. About two minutes after, however, she declared her sketch completed and closed the book. On returning to the scene of our past, we found old company had deserted it, with the accession of three, Mary Milward, Richard Wilson and Arthur Graham. The young gentleman lay fast asleep with his head peeled on the lady's lap. The other was seated beside her, with the popularization of some glassing author in his hand. He never went anywhere without such a companion, worthy to improve his leisure moments, all time seemed lost that was not voted to study, or exerted by its physical nature, for the best support of life. Even now he could not abandon himself to enjoyment of that pure air and balmy sunshine, that splendid prospect, and those soothing sounds, the music of the waves, and that soft wind and sheltering trees above him, not even with the lady by his side, though not a very charming one, I will allow. He must pull out his book and make most of his time while digesting his temperate meal, and reposing his weary limbs and used to do much exercise. Perhaps, however, he spared a moment to exchange a word or a glance with his companion now and then. At any rate, she did not appear at all resentful of his conduct, for her homely features were an expression of unusual cheerfulness and serenity, and he was studying his pale, thoughtful face with great complacency when he arrived. The journey homeward was by no means so agreeable to me as former part of the day. For now Mrs. Greyham was in the carriage, and Liza Milworth was the companion of my walk. She had observed my preference for the young widow, and evidently felt herself neglected. She did not manifest her chagrin by keen reproaches, be it sarcasts or pouting silent sounds, any of all of these I could easily have endured, or lightly left away. But she showed it by a kind of gentle melancholy, a mild reproachful sadness that cut me to the heart. I tried to cheer her up, and apparently succeeded in some degree, before the walk was over. But in the very act my conscience reproved me, knowing as I did that sooner or later the time must be broken, and this is only nourishing false hopes and putting off the evil day. When the pony carriage had approached as near Waffle Hall as the road would permit, unless he did, it proceeded up the long rough lane which Mrs. Greyham would not allow. The young widow and her son alighted, relinquishing the driver seat to rows, and I persuaded Liza to take to later's place. Having put her comfortably in, Peter took care of the evening air, and wished her a kind good night. I felt considerably relieved and hastened to offer my services, Mrs. Greyham, to carry her apparatus up the fields. But she had already hung her campstool on her arm, and taken her sketch put in her hand, and insisted upon beating me at Jude, then and there, with the rest of the company. But this time she declined my preferred aid in so kind and friendly manner that I almost forgave her. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Mary Rodey. The Tenant of Waffle Hall by Anne Bronte. Chapter 8 Six weeks had passed away. It was a splendid morning about the close of June. Most of the hay was cut, but the last week had been very unfavorable, and now that fine weather was come at last, being determined to make the most of it, I had gathered all hands together into the hay field, and was working away myself in the midst of them in my shirt sleeves with a light shady straw hat on my head, catching up armfuls of moist reeking grass, and shaking it out to the four winds of heaven at the head of a goodly file of servants and hirelings, intending so to labor from morning till night, with as much zeal and acidity as I could look for from any of them, as well to prosper the work by my own exertion as to animate the workers by my example. When low my resolutions were overthrown in a moment, by the simple fact of my brothers running up to me and putting into my hand a small parcel just arrived from London, which I had been for some time expecting, I tore off the cover and disclosed an elegant and portable addition of Marmion. I guess I know who that's for, said Fergus, who stood looking on while I complacently examined the volume. That's for Miss Eliza now. He pronounced this with a tone and look so prodigiously knowing that I was glad to contradict him. You're wrong, my lad, said I, and taking up my coat I deposited the book in one of its pockets, and then put it on, i.e. the coat. Now come here, you idle dog, and make yourself useful for once, I continued. Pull off your coat and take my place in the field till I come back. Till you come back, and where are you going, pray? No matter where, the when is all that concerns you, and I shall be back by dinner at least. Uh oh, and I'm to labor away till then am I, and to keep all these fellows hard at it besides? Well, well, I'll submit for once in a way. Come, my lads, you must look sharp. I'm come to help you now. And woe be to that man or woman, either, that pauses for a moment amongst you. Whether to stare about him, to scratch his head, or blow his nose, no pretext will serve. Nothing but work, work, work in the sweat of your face, etc., etc. Leaving him thus haranguing the people, more to their amusement than edification, I returned to the house, and having made some alteration in my toilet, hastened away to well Fell Hall, with the book in my pocket, for it was destined for the shelves of Mrs. Graham. What, then had she and you got on so well together as to come to the giving and receiving of presents? Not precisely, old buck, this was my first experiment in that line, and I was very anxious to see the result of it. We had met several times since the Bay excursion, and I had found she was not averse to my company, provided I confined my conversation to the discussion of abstract matters or topics of common interest. The moment I touched upon the sentimental or the complementary, or made the slightest approach to tenderness in word or look, I was not only punished by an immediate change in her manner at the time, but doomed to find her more cold and distant, if not entirely inaccessible, when next I sought her company. This circumstance did not greatly disconcert me, however, because I attributed it not so much to any dislike of my person as to some absolute resolution against the second marriage formed prior to the time of our acquaintance, whether from excess of affection for her late husband, or because she had had enough of him and the matrimonial state together. At first, indeed, she had seemed to take a pleasure in mortifying my vanity and crushing my presumption, relentlessly nipping off bud by bud as they ventured to appear. And then I confess I was deeply wounded, though at the same time stimulated to seek revenge, but laterally finding beyond a doubt that I was not that empty-headed coxcomb she had first supposed me, she had repulsed my modest advances in quite a different spirit. It was a kind of serious, almost sorrowful displeasure which I soon learned carefully to avoid awakening. Let me first establish my position as a friend, thought I, the patron and playfellow of her son, the sober, solid, plain-dealing friend of herself, and then, when I have made myself fairly necessary to her comfort and enjoyment in life, as I believe I can, we'll see what next may be affected. So we talked about painting, poetry, and music, theology, geology, and philosophy. Once or twice I lent her a book, and once she lent me one in return. I met her in her walks as often as I could. I came to her house as often as I dared. My first pretext for invading the sanctum was to bring Arthur a little rattling puppy of which Sancho was the father, and which delighted the child beyond expression, and consequently could not fail to please his mama. My second was to bring him a book, which, knowing his mother's particularity, I had carefully selected, and which I submitted for her approbation before presenting it to him. Then I brought her some plants for her garden, in my sister's name, having previously persuaded Rose to send them. Each of these times I inquired after the picture she was painting from the sketch taken on the cliff, and was admitted into the studio, and asked my opinion or advice respecting its progress. My last visit had been to return the book she had lent me, and then it was that in casually discussing the poetry of Sir Walter Scott she had expressed a wish to see Marmion, and I had conceived the presumptuous idea of making her a present of it, and on my return home instantly sent for the smart little volume I had this morning received. But an apology for invading the Hermitage was still necessary, so I had furnished myself with a blue Morocco collar for Arthur's little dog, and that being given and received, with much more joy and gratitude on the part of the receiver than the worth of the gift, or the selfish motive of the giver deserved. I ventured to ask Mrs. Graham for one more look at the picture if it was still there. Oh yes, come in, said she, for I had met them in the garden. It is finished and framed, all ready for sending away, but give me your last opinion, and if you can suggest any further improvement, it shall be duly considered at least. The picture was strikingly beautiful. It was the very scene itself, transferred as if by magic to the canvas. But I expressed my approbation in guarded terms, and few words, for fear of displeasing her. She, however, attentively watched my looks, and her artist's pride was gratified, no doubt, to read my heartfelt admiration in my eyes. But while I gazed, I thought upon the book, and wondered how it was to be presented. My heart failed me, but I determined not to be such a fool as to come away without having made the attempt. It was useless waiting for an opportunity, and useless trying to concoct a speech for the occasion, the more plainly and naturally the thing was done the better, I thought. So I just looked out of the window to screw up my courage, and then pulled out the book, turned around, and put it into her hand with this short explanation. You were wishing to see Marmion, Mrs. Graham, and here it is, if you will be so kind as to take it. A momentary blush suffused her face, perhaps a blush of sympathetic shame for such an awkward style of presentation. She gravely examined the volume on both sides, then silently turned over the leaves, knitting her brows the while in serious cogitation. Then closed the book, and turning from it to me, quietly asked the price of it. I felt the hot blood rush to my face. I'm sorry to offend you, Mr. Markham, said she, but unless I pay you for the book I cannot take it. And she laid it on the table. Why cannot you? Because she paused and looked at the carpet. Why cannot you, I repeated, with the degree of irasability that roused her to lift her eyes and look me steadily in the face? Because I don't like to put myself under obligations that I can never repay. I am obliged to you already, for your kindness to my son, but his grateful affection and your own good feelings must reward you for that. Nonsense ejaculated I. She turned her eyes on me again with a look of quiet grave surprise that had the effect of a rebuke whether intended for such or not. Then you won't take the book, I asked, more mildly than I had yet spoken. I will gladly take it if you will let me pay for it. I told her the exact price and the cost of the carriage besides, in as calm a tone as I could command, for in fact I was ready to weep with disappointment and vexation. She produced her purse and coolly counted out the money, but hesitated to put it into my hand. Atentively regarding me, in a tone of soothing softness, she observed, you think yourself insulted, Mr. Markham. I wish I could make you understand that I do understand you perfectly, I said. You think that if you were to accept that trifle from me now, I should presume upon it hereafter. But you are mistaken, if you will only oblige me by taking it, believe me I shall build no hopes upon it and consider this no precedent for future favors. And it is nonsense to talk about putting yourself under obligations to me when you must know that in such a case the obligation is entirely on my side, the favor on yours. Well then, I'll take you at your word, she answered, with a most angelic smile returning the odious money to her purse. But remember— I will remember what I have said, but do not you punish my presumption by withdrawing your friendship entirely from me, or expect me to atone for it by being more distant than before, said I, extending my hand to take leave, for I was too much excited to remain. Well then, let us be as we were, replied she, frankly placing her hand in mine, and while I held it there I had much difficulty to refrain from pressing it to my lips. But that would be suicidal madness. I had been bold enough already, and this premature offering had well nigh given the death-blow to my hopes. It was with an agitated burning heart and brain that I hurried homewards, regardless of that scorching noonday sun. Forgetful of everything but her I had just left, regretting nothing but her impenetrability and my own precipitancy and want of tact, fearing nothing but her hateful resolution and my inability to overcome it, hoping nothing. But Halt, I will not bore you with my conflicting hopes and fears, my serious cogitations and resolves. CHAPTER IX Though my affections might now be said to be fairly weaned from Eliza Milward, I did not yet entirely relinquish my visits to the vicarage, because I wanted, as it were, to let her down easy, without raising much sorrow or incurring much resentment, or making myself the talk of the parish, and besides, if I had wholly kept away, the vicar, who looked upon my visits as paid chiefly if not entirely to himself, would have felt himself decidedly affronted by the neglect. But when I called there the day after my interview with Mrs. Graham, he happened to be from home, a circumstance by no means so agreeable to me now as it had been on former occasions. Mrs. Milward was there, it is true, but she, of course, would be little better than a non-entity. However, I resolved to make my visit a short one, and to talk to Eliza in a brotherly, friendly sort of way, such as our long acquaintance might warrant me in assuming, and which I thought, could neither give offence, nor serve to encourage false hopes. It was never my custom to talk about Mrs. Graham either to her or to anyone else, but I had not been seated three minutes before she brought that lady onto the carpet herself in a rather remarkable manner. Oh, Mr. Markham said she, with a shocked expression and voice subdued almost to a whisper. What do you think of these shocking reports about Mrs. Graham? Can you encourage us to disbelieve them? What reports? Ah, now you know, she slyly smiled and shook her head. I know nothing about them. What in the world do you mean, Eliza? Oh, don't ask me, I can't explain it. She took up the camber canker chief which she had been beautifying with a deep lace border, and began to be very busy. What is it, Miss Milward? What does she mean, said I, appealing to her sister, who seemed to be absorbed in the hemming of a large coarse sheet? I don't know, replied she. Some idle slander somebody has been inventing, I suppose. I never heard it till Eliza told me the other day. But if all the parish didn't it in my ears, I shouldn't believe a word of it. I know Mrs. Graham too well. Quite right, Miss Milward, and so do I, whatever it may be. Well, observed Eliza, with a gentle sigh. It's well to have such a comfortable assurance regarding the worth of those we love. I only wish you may not find your confidence misplaced. And she raised her face, and gave me such a look of sorrowful tenderness as might have melted my heart. But within those eyes there lurked a something that I did not like. And I wondered how I ever could have admired them. Her sister's honest face and small gray optics appeared far more agreeable. But I was out of temper with Eliza at that moment for her insinuations against Mrs. Graham, which were false I was certain, whether she knew it or not. I said nothing more on the subject, however, at the time, and but little on any other. For, finding I could not well recover my equanimity, I presently rose and took leave, excusing myself under the plea of business at the farm. And to the farm I went, not troubling my mind one wit about the possible truth of these mysterious reports, but only wondering what they were, by whom originated, and on what foundations raised, and how they could the most effectually be silenced or disproved. A few days after this we had another of our quiet little parties, to which the usual company of friends and neighbors had been invited, and Mrs. Graham among the number. She could not now absent herself under the plea of dark evenings or inclement weather, and, greatly to my relief, she came. Without her I should have found the whole affair an intolerable bore, but the moment of her arrival brought new life to the house, and though I might not neglect the other guests for her, or expect to engross much of her attention and conversation to myself alone, I anticipated an evening of no common enjoyment. Mr. Lawrence came, too. He did not arrive till some time after the rest were assembled. I was curious to see how he would comport himself to Mrs. Graham. A slight bow was all that passed between them on his entrance, and having politely greeted the other members of the company, he seated himself quite aloof from the young widow between my mother and Rose. Did you ever see such art, whispered Eliza, who was my nearest neighbor? Would you not say they were perfect strangers? Almost, but what then? What, then, why you can't pretend to be ignorant? Ignorant of what, demanded I, so sharply that she started and replied, Oh, hush, don't speak so loud. Well, tell me, then, I answered in a lower tone. What is it you mean? I hate enigmas. Well, you know, I don't vouch for the truth of it, indeed far from it, but haven't you heard? I've heard nothing except from you. You must be willfully deaf, then, for anyone will tell you that, but I shall only anger you by repeating it, I see, so I had better hold my tongue. She closed her lips and folded her hands before her, with an air of injured meekness. If you had wished not to anger me, you should have held your tongue from the beginning, or else spoken out plainly and honestly all you had to say. She turned aside her face, pulled out her handkerchief, rose, and went to the window, where she stood for some time, evidently dissolved in tears. I was astounded, provoked, ashamed, not so much of my harshness as for her childish weakness. However, no one seemed to notice her, and shortly after we were summoned to the tea table. In those parts it was customary to sit to the table at tea time on all occasions and make a meal of it, for we dined early. On taking my seat I had rose on one side of me, and an empty chair on the other. May I sit by you, set a soft voice at my elbow? If you like, was the reply, and Eliza slipped into the vacant chair, then, looking up in my face with a half-sad, half-playful smile, she whispered, You're so stern, Gilbert. I handed down her tea with a slightly contemptuous smile, and said nothing, for I had nothing to say. What have I done to offend you? said she more plaintively. I wish I knew. Come take your tea, Eliza, and don't be foolish, responded I, handing her the sugar and cream. Just then there arose a slight commotion on the other side of me, occasioned by Miss Wilson's coming to negotiate an exchange of seats with Rose. Will you be so good as to exchange places with me, Miss Markham? said she, for I don't like to sit by Mrs. Graham. If your mama thinks proper to invite such persons to her house, she cannot object to her daughter's keeping company with them. This latter clause was added in a sort of soliloquy when Rose was gone, but I was not polite enough to let it pass. Will you be so good as to tell me what you mean, Miss Wilson? said I. The question startled her a little, but not much. Why, Mr. Markham replied she, coolly, having quickly recovered her self-possession. It surprises me, rather, that Mrs. Markham should invite such a person as Mrs. Graham to her house, but perhaps she is not aware that the lady's character is considered scarcely respectable. She is not, nor am I, and therefore you would oblige me by explaining your meaning a little further. This is scarcely the time or the place for such explanations, but I think you can hardly be so ignorant as you pretend you must know her as well as I do. I think I do, perhaps a little better, and therefore if you will inform me what you have heard or imagined against her, I shall perhaps be able to set you right. Can you tell me, then, who was her husband, or if she ever had any? Indignation kept me silent. At such a time and place I could not trust myself to answer. Have you never observed, said Eliza, what a striking likeness there is between that child of hers and whom demanded Miss Wilson, with an air of cold but keen severity? Eliza was startled. The timidly spoken suggestion had been intended for my ear alone. Oh, I beg your pardon, pleaded she. I may be mistaken. Perhaps I was mistaken, but she accompanied the words with a sly glance of derision directed to me from the corner of her disingenuous eye. There is no need to ask my pardon, replied her friend, but I see no one here that it all resembles that child except his mother, and when you hear ill-natured reports, Miss Eliza, I will thank you. That is, I think you will do well to refrain from repeating them. I presume the person you allude to is Mr. Lawrence, but I think I can assure you that your suspicions and that respect are utterly misplaced, and if he has any particular connection with the lady at all, which no one has the right to assert, at least he has, what cannot be said of some others, sufficient sense of propriety to withhold him from acknowledging anything more than a bowing acquaintance in the presence of respectable persons. He was evidently both surprised and annoyed to find her here. Goet cried Fergus, who sat on the other side of Eliza, and was the only individual who shared that side of the table with us. Goet, like bricks! Mind you, don't leave her one stone upon another. Miss Wilson drew herself up with a look of freezing scorn, but said nothing. Eliza would have replied, but I interrupted her by saying as calmly as I could, though in a tone which betrayed no doubt some little of what I felt within. We have had enough of this subject. If we can only speak to slander our betters, let us hold our tongues. I think you'd better observed Fergus, and so does our good parson. He has been addressing the company in his richest vein all the while, and eyeing you from time to time with looks of stern distaste while you sat there, reverently whispering and muttering together. And once he paused in the middle of a story or a sermon I don't know which, and fixed his eyes upon you, Gilbert, as much to say, when Mr. Markham has done flirting with those two ladies, I will proceed. What more was said at the tea-table I cannot tell, nor how I found patience to sit till the meal was over. I remember, however, that I swallowed with difficulty the remainder of the tea that was in my cup, and ate nothing, and that the first thing I did was to stare at Arthur Graham, who sat beside his mother on the opposite side of the table, and the second to stare at Mr. Lawrence, who sat below. And first it struck me that there was a likeness, but on further contemplation I concluded it was only an imagination. Both, it is true, had more delicate features and smaller bones than commonly fall to the lot of individuals of the rougher sex. And Lawrence's complexion was pale and clear, and Arthur's delicately fair. But Arthur's tiny, somewhat snubby nose could never become so long and straight as Mr. Lawrence's. And the outline of his face, though not full enough to be round, and too finely converging to the small dimpled chin to be square, could never be drawn out to the long oval of the others, while the child's hair was evidently of a lighter, warmer tint than the elder gentlemen's had ever been, and his large, clear blue eyes, though prematurely serious at times, were utterly dissimilar to the shy, hazel eyes of Mr. Lawrence, once the sensitive soul looked so distrustfully forth, as ever ready to retire within from the offenses of a too rude, too uncongenial world. Wretched that I was to harbor that detestable idea for a moment, did I not know Mrs. Graham? Had I not seen her, conversed with her time after time? Was I not certain that she, in intellect, in purity and elevation of soul, was immeasurably superior to any of her detractors? That she was, in fact, the noblest, the most adorable of her sex I had ever beheld, or even imagined to exist? Yes, and I would say with Mary Millward, sensible girl as she was, that if all the parish, I or all the world, should din these horrible lies in my ears, I would not believe them, for I knew her better than they. Meantime, my brain was on fire with indignation, and my heart seemed ready to burst from its prison with conflicting passions. I regarded my two fair neighbors with a feeling of abhorrence and loathing I scarcely endeavored to conceal. I was rallied from several quarters for my abstraction and ungallant neglect of the ladies, but I cared little for that. All I cared about, besides that one grand subject of my thoughts, was to see the cups travel up to the tea tray and not come down again. I thought Mr. Millward never would cease telling us that he was no tea-drinker, and that it was highly injurious to keep loading the stomach with slops to the exclusion of more wholesome sustenance, and so give himself time to finish his fourth cup. At length it was over, and I rose and left the table and the guests without a word of apology. I could endure their company no longer. I rushed out to cool my brain in the balmy evening air, and to compose my mind or indulge my passionate thoughts in the solitude of the garden. To avoid being seen from the windows, I went down a quiet little avenue that skirted one side of the enclosure, at the bottom of which was a seat embowered in roses and honeysuckles. Here I sat down to think over the virtues and wrongs of the Lady of Wildfell Hall. But I had not been so occupied two minutes before voices and laughter, and glimpses of moving objects through the trees, informed me that the whole company had turned out to take an airing in the garden, too. However, I nestled up in a corner of the bower, and hoped to retain possession of it, secure alike from observation and intrusion. But no confounded there was someone coming down the avenue. Why couldn't they enjoy the flowers and sunshine of the open garden, and leave that sunless nook to me and the gnats and midges? But peeping through my fragrant screen of the interwoven branches to discover who the intruders were, for a murmur of voices told me it was more than one, my vexation instantly subsided, and far other feelings agitated my still and quiet soul. For there was Mrs. Graham slowly moving down the walk with Arthur by her side, and no one else. Why were they alone? Had the poison of detracting tongues already spread through all, and had they all turned their backs upon her? I now recollected having seen Mrs. Wilson in the early part of the evening, edging her chair close up to my mother, and bending forward evidently in the delivery of some important confidential intelligence. And from the incessant wagging of her head, the frequent distortions of her wrinkled physiognomy, and the winking and malicious twinkle of her little ugly eyes, I judged it was some spicy piece of scandal that engaged her powers, and from the cautious privacy of the communication, I suppose some person then present was the luckless object of her calamities. And from all these tokens, together with my mother's looks and gestures of mingled horror and incredulity, I now concluded that object to have been Mrs. Graham. I did not emerge from my place of concealment till she had nearly reached the bottom of the walk, lest my appearance should drive her away. And when I did step forward, she stood still, and seemed inclined to turn back as it was. Oh, don't let us disturb you, Mr. Markham, said she. We came here to seek retirement ourselves, not to intrude on your seclusion. I am no hermit, Mrs. Graham, though I own it looks rather like it to absent myself in this uncourteous fashion from my guests. I feared you were unwell, said she, with a look of real concern. I was rather, but it's over now. Do sit here a little in rest, and tell me how you like this arbor, said I, and, lifting Arthur by the shoulders, I planted him in the middle of the seat by way of securing his mama, who, acknowledging it to be a tempting place of refuge, threw herself back in one corner, while I took possession of the other. But that word refuge disturbed me. Had their unkindness then really driven her to seek for peace in solitude? Why have they left you alone, I asked? It is I who have left them, was the smiling rejoinder. I was weary to death with small talk. Nothing wears me out like that. I cannot imagine how they can go on as they do. I could not help smiling at the serious depth of her wonderment. Is it that they think it a duty to be continually talking perushy? And so never pause to think, but fill up with aimless trifles and vain repetitions when subjects of real interest fail to present themselves? Or do they really take a pleasure in such discourse? Very likely they do, said I. Their shallow minds can hold no great ideas, and their light heads are carried away by trivialities that would not move a better furnished skull. And their only alternative to such discourse is to plunge overhead and ears into the slough of scandal, which is their chief delight. Not all of them surely, cried the lady, astonished at the bitterness of my remark. No, certainly I exonerate my sister from such degraded tastes, and my mother, too, if you included her in your animate versions. I meant no animate versions against anyone, and certainly intended no disrespectful illusions to your mother. I have known some sensible persons great adepts in that style of conversation when circumstances impelled them to it, but it is a gift I cannot boast the possession of. I kept up my attention on this occasion as long as I could, but when my powers were exhausted I stole away to seek a few minutes repose in this quiet walk. I hate talking where there is no exchange of ideas or sentiments, and no good given or received. Well, said I, if ever I trouble you with my loquacity, tell me so at once, and I promise not to be offended. For I possess the faculty of enjoying the company of those I of my friends as well in silence as in conversation. I don't quite believe you, but if it were so you would exactly suit me for a companion. I am all you wish then, in other respects? No, I don't mean that. How beautiful those little clusters of foliage look, where the sun comes through behind them, said she, on purpose to change the subject. And they did look beautiful, where at intervals the level rays of the sun penetrating the thickness of trees and shrubs on the opposite side of the path before us, relieve their dusky verger by displaying patches of semi-transparent leaves of resplendent golden-green. I almost wish I were not a painter, observed my companion. Why so? One would think at such a time you would most exalt in your privilege of being able to imitate the various brilliant and delightful touches of nature. No, for instead of delivering myself up to the full enjoyment of them as others do, I am always troubling my head about how I could produce the same effect upon canvas, and as that can never be done, it is more vanity and vexation of spirit. Perhaps you cannot do it to satisfy yourself, but you may and do succeed in delighting others with the result of your endeavours. Well, after all, I should not complain. Perhaps few people gain their livelihood with so much pleasure in their toil as I do. Here is someone coming. She seemed vexed at the interruption. It is only Mr. Lawrence and Miss Wilson's at eye, 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 to-day. 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 arbor 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 colored up to the temples, gave us one frid of glance and 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 tet a tet 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 any ones putting himself out of the way to accompany her, though Fergus vouchsafe 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 good night 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 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— Hippocrite, 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. Reading by Deb Bacon-Ziegler in Oak Park, Illinois. 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 scandal-mongers 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 bookcase 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 perusal, I hastened away, but not without sundry misgivings as to how she would receive me, or how I could some encourage 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, uncorrigal 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 cheeks 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 was 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, costing 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, Mama, 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. Someday 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 your hand in serious kindness, how sweet, how musical my own name sounded in her mouth. I will not, I replied, but you pardon this offense 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 gray 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, endeavored 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 are hurting my pony's mouth. You and your pony-beat. 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 of 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, quarreling 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 mind 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 reverent gentleman look around aghast, astounded at such unwanted 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. 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 expressed 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, all together, 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. Um, 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 Wilson's and the Vicarage, and besides, Mama 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 Mama'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 Wilson's and the Millward's 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 soul in one hour, then 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 Mama say, Gilbert? Mama needn't know. But she must know some time if you go on. Go on! There is 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 Milward 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 innuendos, 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 ladish. But, oh, doos take their cursed and venom 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 favorite with the old gentleman, he turned somewhat sternly to me. Well, sir, said he, you're quite a stranger. It is, let me see, continued slowly, as he deposited his ponderous bulk in the armchair that Rose officially 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. I. 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 have been getting in my hay, and now the harvest is beginning. Just then my mother came in, and created a diversion in my favor by her laquacious 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 favor 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 favored beverage. I thought, continued he, I 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 awestruck 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. Reading by Deb Bacon-Ziegler in Oak Park, Illinois