The Tenant of Wildfell Hall

‘Markham,’ said he, in his usual quiet tone, ‘why do you quarrel with your friends, because you have been disappointed in one quarter? You have found your hopes defeated; but how am I to blame for it? I warned you beforehand, you know, but you would not –’

He said no more; for, impelled by some fiend at my elbow, I had seized my whip by the small end, and – swift and sudden as a flash of lightning – brought the other down upon his head. It was not without a feeling of savage satisfaction that I beheld the instant, deadly pallor that overspread his face, and the few red drops that trickled down his forehead, while he reeled a moment in his saddle, and then fell backward to the ground. The pony, surprised to be so strangely relieved of its burden, started and capered, and kicked a little, and then made use of its freedom to go and crop the grass of the hedge bank; while its master lay as still and silent as a corpse. Had I killed him? – an icy hand seemed to grasp my heart and check its pulsation, as I bent over him, gazing with breathless intensity upon the ghastly, upturned face. But no; he moved his eyelids and uttered a slight groan. I breathed again – he was only stunned by the fall. It served him right – it would teach him better manners in future. Should I help him to his horse? No. For any other combination of offences I would; but his were too unpardonable. He might mount it himself, if he liked – in a while: already he was beginning to stir and look about him – and there it was for him, quietly browsing on the roadside.

So with a muttered execration, I left the fellow to his fate, and clapping spurs to my own horse, galloped away, excited by a combination of feelings it would not be easy to analyze; and perhaps, if I did so, the result would not be very creditable to my disposition; for I am not sure that a species of exultation in what I had done was not one principal concomitant.

Shortly, however, the effervescence began to abate, and not many minutes elapsed before I had turned and gone back to look after the fate of my victim. It was no generous impulse – no kind relentings that led me to this – nor even the fear of what might be the consequences to myself, if I finished my assault upon the squire by leaving him thus neglected, and exposed to further injury; it was, simply, the voice of conscience; and I took great credit to myself for attending so promptly to its dictates – and judging the merit of the deed by the sacrifice it cost, I was not far wrong.

Mr Lawrence and his pony had both altered their positions, in some degree. The pony had wandered eight or ten yards farther away; and he had managed, somehow, to remove himself from the middle of the road: I found him seated in a recumbent position on the bank, – looking very white and sickly still, and holding his cambric handkerchief (now more red than white) to his head. It must have been a powerful blow; but half the credit – or the blame of it (which you please) must be attributed to the whip, which was garnished with a massive horse’s head of plated metal. The grass, being sodden with rain, afforded the young gentleman a rather inhospitable couch; his clothes were considerably bemired; and his hat was rolling in the mud, on the other side of the road. But his thoughts seemed chiefly bent upon his pony, on which he was wistfully gazing – half in helpless anxiety, and half in hopeless abandonment to his fate.

I dismounted, however, and having fastened my own animal to the nearest tree, first picked up his hat, intending to clap it on his head; but either he considered his head unfit for a hat, or the hat, in its present condition, unfit for his head; for, shrinking away the one, he took the other from my hand, and scornfully cast it aside.

‘It’s good enough for you,’ I muttered.

My next good office was to catch his pony and bring it to him, which was soon accomplished; for the beast was quiet enough in the main, and only winced and flirted a trifle, till I got a hold of the bridle, – but then, I must see him in the saddle.

‘Here, you fellow – scoundrel – dog – give me your hand, and I’ll help you to mount.’

No; he turned from me in disgust. I attempted to take him by the arm. He shrank away as if there had been contamination in my touch.

‘What, you won’t? Well! you may sit there till doomsday, for what I care. But I suppose you don’t want to lose all the blood in your body – I’ll just condescend to bind that up for you.’

‘Let me alone, if you please.’

‘Humph! with all my heart. You may go to the d—l if you choose – and say I sent you.’

But before I abandoned him to his fate, I flung his pony’s bridle over a stake in the hedge, and threw him my handkerchief, as his own was now saturated with blood. He took it and cast it back to me, in abhorrence and contempt, with all the strength he could muster. It wanted but this to fill the measure of his offences. With execrations not loud but deep, I left him to live or die as he could, well satisfied that I had done my duty in attempting to save him – but forgetting how I had erred in bringing him into such a condition, and how insultingly my after-services had been offered – and sullenly prepared to meet the consequences if he should choose to say I had attempted to murder him, – which I thought not unlikely, as it seemed probable he was actuated by some such spiteful motives in so perseveringly refusing my assistance.

Having remounted my horse, I just looked back to see how he was getting on, before I rode away. He had risen from the ground, and, grasping his pony’s mane, was attempting to resume his seat in the saddle; but scarcely had he put his foot in the stirrup, when a sickness or dizziness seemed to overpower him: he leant forward a moment, with his head drooped on the animal’s back, and then made one more effort, which proving ineffectual, he sank back on to the bank, where I left him, reposing his head on the oozy turf, and, to all appearance, as calmly reclining as if he had been taking his rest on the sofa at home.

I ought to have helped him in spite of himself – to have bound up the wound he was unable to stanch, and insisted upon getting him on to his horse and seeing him safe home; but, besides my bitter indignation against himself, there was the question what to say to his servants, – and what to my own family. Either I should have to acknowledge the deed, which would set me down as a madman, unless I acknowledged the motive too – and that seemed impossible, – or I must get up a lie, which seemed equally out of the question – especially as Mr Lawrence would probably reveal the whole truth, and thereby bring me to tenfold disgrace, – unless I were villain enough, presuming on the absence of witnesses, to persist in my own version of the case, and make him out a still greater scoundrel than he was. No; he had only received a cut above the temple, and perhaps a few bruises from the fall, or the hoofs of his own pony: that could not kill him if he lay there half the day; and, if he could not help himself, surely someone would be coming by: it would be impossible that a whole day should pass and no one traverse the road but ourselves. As for what he might choose to say hereafter, I would take my chance about it: if he told lies, I would contradict him; if he told the truth, I would bear it as I best could. I was not obliged to enter into explanations, further than I thought proper. Perhaps, he might choose to be silent on the subject, for fear of raising enquiries as to the cause of the quarrel, and drawing the public attention to his connection with Mrs Graham, which, whether for her sake or his own, he seemed so very desirous to conceal.

Thus reasoning, I trotted away to the town, where I duly transacted my business, and performed various little commissions for my mother and Rose, with very laudable exactitude, considering the different circumstances of the case. In returning home, I was troubled with sundry misgivings about the unfortunate Lawrence. The question, what if I should find him lying, still on the damp earth, fairly dying of cold and exhaustion – or already stark and chill? – thrust itself most unpleasantly upon my mind, and the appalling possibility pictured itself with painful vividness to my imagination as I approached the spot where I had left him. But no; thank Heaven, both man and horse were gone, and nothing was left to witness against me but two objects – unpleasant enough in themselves, to be sure, and presenting a very ugly, not to say murderous, appearance – in one place, the hat saturated with rain and coated with mud, indented and broken above the brim by that villainous whip-handle; in another, the crimson handkerchief, soaking in a deeply tinctured pool of water – for much rain had fallen in the interim.

Bad news fly fast: it was hardly four o’clock when I got home, but my mother gravely accosted me with –

‘Oh, Gilbert! – Such an accident! Rose has been shopping in the village, and she’s heard that Mr Lawrence has been thrown from his horse and brought home dying!’

This shocked me a trifle, as you may suppose; but I was comforted to hear that he had frightfully fractured his skull and broken a leg; for, assured of the falsehood of this, I trusted the rest of the story was equally exaggerated; and when I heard my mother and sister so feelingly deploring his condition, I had considerable difficulty in preventing myself from telling them the real extent of the injuries, as far as I knew them.

‘You must go and see him tomorrow,’ said my mother.

‘Or today,’ suggested Rose: ‘there’s plenty of time; and you can have the pony, if your horse is tired. Won’t you, Gilbert – as soon as you’ve had something to eat?’

‘No, no – How can we tell that it isn’t all a false report? It’s highly im—’

‘Oh, I’m sure it isn’t; for the village is all alive about it; and I saw two people that had seen others that had seen the man that found him. That sounds far-fetched; but it isn’t so, when you think of it.’

‘Well, but Lawrence is a good rider; it is not likely he would fall from his horse at all; and if he did, it is highly improbable he should break his bones in that way. It must be a gross exaggeration at least.’

‘No, but the horse kicked him – or something.’

‘What, his quiet little pony?’

‘How do you know it was that?’

‘He seldom rides any other.’

‘At any rate,’ said my mother, ‘you will call tomorrow. Whether it be true or false, exaggerated or otherwise, we shall like to know how he is.’

‘Fergus may go.’

‘Why not you?’

‘He has more time: I am busy just now.’

‘Oh! but Gilbert, how can you be so composed about it? You won’t mind business, for an hour or two, in a case of this sort – when your friend is at the point of death!’

‘He is not, I tell you!’

‘For anything you know, he may be: you can’t tell till you have seen him. – At all events, he must have met with some terrible accident, and you ought to see him: he’ll take it very unkind of you if you don’t.’

‘Confound it! I can’t. He and I have not been on good terms, of late.’

‘O my dear boy! Surely, surely, you are not so unforgiving as to carry your little differences to such a length as –’

‘Little differences, indeed!’ I muttered.

‘Well, but only remember the occasion! Think how –’

‘Well, well, don’t bother me now – I’ll see about it,’ I replied.

And my seeing about it was to send Fergus next morning, with my mother’s compliments, to make the requisite enquiries; for, of course, my going was out of the question – or sending a message, either. He brought back intelligence that the young squire was laid up with the complicated evils of a broken head and certain contusions (occasioned by a fall – of which he did not trouble himself to relate the particulars – and the subsequent misconduct of his horse), and a severe cold, the consequence of lying on the wet ground in the rain; but there were no broken bones, and no immediate prospects of dissolution.

It was evident then, that, for Mrs Graham’s sake, it was not his intention to criminate me.

CHAPTER 15 An Encounter and its Consequences

That day was rainy like its predecessor; but towards evening it began to clear up a little, and the next morning was fair and promising. I was out on the hill with the reapers. A light wind swept over the corn; and all nature laughed in the sunshine. The lark was rejoicing among the silvery floating clouds. The late rain had so sweetly freshened and cleared the air, and washed the sky, and left such glittering gems on branch and blade, that not even the farmers could have the heart to blame it. But no ray of sunshine could reach my heart, no breeze could freshen it; nothing could fill the void my faith, and hope, and joy in Helen Graham had left, or drive away the keen regrets, and bitter dregs of lingering love that still oppressed it.

While I stood, with folded arms, abstractedly gazing on the undulating swell of the corn not yet disturbed by the reapers, something gently pulled my skirts, and a small voice, no longer welcome to my ears, aroused me with the startling words: –

‘Mr Markham, mamma wants you.’

‘Wants me, Arthur?’

‘Yes. Why do you look so queer?’ said he, half laughing, half frightened at the unexpected aspect of my face in suddenly turning towards him – ‘and why have you kept so long away? – Come! – Won’t you come?’

‘I’m busy just now,’ I replied, scarce knowing what to answer.

He looked up in childish bewilderment; but before I could speak again, the lady herself was at my side.

‘Gilbert, I must speak with you!’ said she in a tone of suppressed vehemence.

I looked at her pale cheek and glittering eye, but answered nothing.

‘Only for a moment,’ pleaded she. ‘Just step aside into this other field,’ she glanced at the reapers, some of whom were directing looks of impertinent curiosity towards her – ‘I won’t keep you a minute.’

I accompanied her through the gap.

‘Arthur, darling, run and gather those bluebells,’ said she, pointing to some that were gleaming, at some distance, under the hedge along which we walked. The child hesitated, as if unwilling to quit my side. ‘Go, love!’ repeated she more urgently, and in a tone which, though not unkind, demanded prompt obedience, and obtained it.

‘Well, Mrs Graham?’ said I, calmly and coldly; for, though I saw she was miserable, and pitied her, I felt glad to have it in my power to torment her.

She fixed her eyes upon me with a look that pierced me to the heart; – and yet, it made me smile.

‘I don’t ask the reason of this change, Gilbert,’ said she with bitter calmness. – ‘I know it too well; but though I could see myself suspected and condemned by everyone else, and bear it with calmness, I cannot endure it from you – Why did you not come to hear my explanation on the day I appointed to give it?’

‘Because, I happened, in the interim, to learn all you would have told me, – and a trifle more I imagine.’

‘Impossible, for I would have told you all!’ cried she, passionately – ‘But I won’t now, for I see you are not worthy of it!’

And her pale lips quivered with agitation.

‘Why not, may I ask?’

She repelled my mocking smile with a glance of scornful indignation.

‘Because, you never understood me, or you would not soon have listened to my traducers – my confidence would be misplaced in you – you are not the man I thought you – Go! I won’t care what you think of me!’

She turned away, and I went; for I thought that would torment her as much as anything; and I believe I was right; for, looking back a minute after, I saw her turn half round, as if hoping or expecting to find me still beside her; and then she stood still, and cast one look behind. It was a look less expressive of anger than of bitter anguish and despair; but I immediately assumed an aspect of indifference, and affected to be gazing carelessly round me, and I suppose she went on; for after lingering awhile to see if she would come back or call, I ventured one more glance, and saw her a good way off, moving rapidly up the field with little Arthur running by her side and apparently talking as he went; but she kept her face averted from him, as if to hide some uncontrollable emotion. And I returned to my business.

But I soon began to regret my precipitancy in leaving her so soon. It was evident she loved me – probably, she was tired of Mr Lawrence, and wished to exchange him for me; and if I had loved and reverenced her less to begin with, the preference might have gratified and amused me; but now, the contrast between her outward seeming and her inward mind, as I supposed, – between my former and my present opinion of her, was so harrowing – so distressing to my feelings, that it swallowed up every lighter consideration.

But still, I was curious to know what sort of an explanation she would have given me, – or would give now, if I pressed her for it – how much she would confess, and how she would endeavour to excuse herself. I longed to know what to despise, and what to admire in her, how much to pity, and how much to hate; – and, what was more, I would know. I would see her once more, and fairly satisfy myself in what light to regard her, before we parted. Lost to me she was, for ever, of course; but still, I could not bear to think that we had parted, for the last time, with so much unkindness and misery on both sides. That last look of hers had sunk into my heart; I could not forget it – But what a fool I was! – Had she not deceived me, injured me – blighted my happiness for life? ‘Well, I’ll see her, however,’ was my concluding resolve, – ‘but not today: today and tonight, she may think upon her sins, and be as miserable as she will: tomorrow, I will see her once again, and know something more about her. The interview may be serviceable to her, or it may not. – At any rate, it will give a breath of excitement to the life she has doomed to stagnation, and may calm with certainty some agitating thoughts.’

I did go on the morrow; but not till towards evening, after the business of the day was concluded, that is, between six and seven; and the westering sun was gleaming redly on the old hall, and flaming in the latticed windows, as I reached it, imparting to the place a cheerfulness not its own. I need not dilate upon the feelings with which I approached the shrine of my former divinity – that spot teeming with a thousand delightful recollections and glorious dreams – all darkened now, by one disastrous truth.

Rachel admitted me into the parlour, and went to call her mistress, for she was not there; but there was her desk left open on the little round table beside the high-backed chair, with a book laid upon it. Her limited but choice collection of books was almost as familiar to me as my own; but this volume I had not seen before. I took it up. It was Sir Humphrey Davy’s ‘Last days of a Philosopher,’ and on the first leaf was written, – ‘Frederick Lawrence.’ I closed the book, but kept it in my hand, and stood facing the door, with my back to the fireplace, calmly waiting her arrival; for I did not doubt she would come. And soon I heard her step in the hall. My heart was beginning to throb, but I checked it with an internal rebuke, and maintained my composure – outwardly, at least. She entered, calm, pale, collected.

‘To what am I indebted for this favour, Mr Markham?’ said she, with such severe but quiet dignity as almost disconcerted me; but I answered with a smile, and impudently enough: –

‘Well, I am come to hear your explanation.’

‘I told you I would not give it,’ said she. ‘I said you were unworthy of my confidence.’

‘Oh, very well,’ replied I, moving to the door.

‘Stay a moment,’ said she. ‘This is the last time I shall see you: don’t go just yet.’

I remained, awaiting her further commands.

‘Tell me,’ resumed she, ‘on what grounds you believe these things against me; who told you; and what did they say?’

I paused a moment. She met my eye as unflinchingly as if her bosom had been steeled with conscious innocence. She was resolved to know the worst, and determined to dare it too.

‘I can crush that bold spirit,’ thought I. But while I secretly exulted in my power, I felt disposed to dally with my victim like a cat. Showing her the book that I still held in my hand, and pointing to the name on the fly leaf, but fixing my eye upon her face, I asked, –

‘Do you know that gentleman?’

‘Of course I do,’ replied she; and a sudden flush suffused her features – whether of shame or anger I could not tell: it rather resembled the latter. ‘What next, sir?’

‘How long is it since you saw him?’

‘Who gave you the right to catechize me, on this or any other subject?’

‘Oh, no one! – it’s quite at your option whether to answer or not. – And now, let me ask – have you heard what has lately befallen this friend of yours? – because, if you have not –’

‘I will not be insulted, Mr Markham!’ cried she almost infuriated at my manner – ‘So you had better leave the house at once, if you came only for that.’

‘I did not come to insult you: I came to hear your explanation.’

‘And I tell you I won’t give it!’ retorted she, pacing the room in a state of strong excitement, with her hands clasped tightly together, breathing short, and flashing fires of indignation from her eyes. ‘I will not condescend to explain myself to one that can make a jest of such horrible suspicions, and be so easily led to entertain them.’

‘I do not make a jest of them, Mrs Graham,’ returned I, dropping at once my tone of taunting sarcasm. ‘I heartily wish I could find them a jesting matter! And as to being easily led to suspect, God only knows what a blind, incredulous fool I have hitherto been, perseveringly shutting my eyes and stopping my ears against everything that threatened to shake my confidence in you, till proof itself confounded my infatuation!’

‘What proof, sir?’

‘Well, I’ll tell you. You remember that evening when I was here last?’

‘I do.’

‘Even then, you dropped some hints that might have opened the eyes of a wiser man; but they had no such effect upon me: I went on trusting and believing, hoping against hope, and adoring where I could not comprehend – It so happened, however, that after I had left you, I turned back – drawn by pure depth of sympathy, and ardour of affection – not daring to intrude my presence openly upon you, but unable to resist the temptation of catching one glimpse through the window, just to see how you were; for I had left you apparently in great affliction, and I partly blamed my own want of forbearance and discretion as the cause of it. If I did wrong, love alone was my incentive, and the punishment was severe enough; for it was just as I had reached that tree, that you came out into the garden with your friend. Not choosing to show myself, under the circumstances, I stood still, in the shadow, till you had both passed by.’

‘And how much of our conversation did you hear?’

‘I heard quite enough, Helen. And it was well for me that I did hear it; for nothing less could have cured my infatuation. I always said and thought, that I would never believe a word against you, unless I heard it from your own lips. All the hints and affirmations of others I treated as malignant, baseless slanders; your own self-accusations I believed to be over-strained; and all that seemed unaccountable in your position, I trusted that you could account for if you chose.’

Mrs Graham had discontinued her walk. She leant against one end of the chimney-piece, opposite that near which I was standing, with her chin resting on her closed hand, her eyes – no longer burning with anger, but gleaming with restless excitement – sometimes glancing at me while I spoke, then coursing the opposite wall, or fixed upon the carpet.

‘You should have come to me, after all,’ said she, ‘and heard what I had to say in my own justification. It was ungenerous and wrong to withdraw yourself so secretly and suddenly, immediately after such ardent protestations of attachment, without ever assigning a reason for the change. You should have told me all – no matter how bitterly – It would have been better than this silence.’