Kabanata Kabanata 8 · Chapter VIII The Present

. Chapter VIII The Present

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

unfavourable; 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 labour, from morning till night, with as much

zeal and assiduity 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 lo! my resolutions were overthrown in a moment, by the

simple fact of my brother’s 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

edition 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.”

“Oh—oh! and I’m to labour 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,” &c., &c.

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 Wildfell 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

complimentary, 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 a

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 latterly 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 learnt

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 effected.”

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 waddling puppy of which Sancho was the

father, and which delighted the child beyond expression, and,

consequently, could not fail to please his mamma. 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 round, 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 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 a degree of irascibility 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. Attentively regarding me, in a tone of soothing

softness, she observed,—“You think yourself insulted, Mr Markham—I wish

I could make you understand that—that I—”

“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 favours:—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 favour 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.