Bab Bab 9 · Chapter IX A Snake in the Grass

. Chapter IX A Snake in the Grass

Though my affections might now be said to be fairly weaned from Eliza

Millward, 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. Miss Millward was there, it is true, but

she, of course, would be little better than a nonentity. 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 any

one else; but I had not been seated three minutes before she brought

that lady on to 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 slily 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 cambric

handkerchief which she had been beautifying with a deep lace border,

and began to be very busy.

“What is it, Miss Millward? 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 dinned it in my ears, I shouldn’t believe a

word of it—I know Mrs. Graham too well!”

“Quite right, Miss Millward!—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 grey 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 whit 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 neighbours 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

neighbour. “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 wilfully 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?” said 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 mamma 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—”

“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’s no need to ask _my_ pardon,” replied her friend, “but I see no

one here that at 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, in that respect, are utterly misplaced; and if he has

any particular connection with the lady at all (which no one has a

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.”

“Go it!” cried Fergus, who sat on the other side of Eliza, and was the

only individual who shared that side of the table with us. “Go it 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, irreverently 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 as 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 in 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 other’s, while the child’s hair was evidently of a lighter, warmer

tint than the elder gentleman’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, whence the sensitive soul looked

so distrustfully forth, as ever ready to retire within, from the

offences of a too rude, too uncongenial world. Wretch that I was to

harbour 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, ay, 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 neighbours with a feeling of abhorrence and loathing I

scarcely endeavoured 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 inclosure, 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—confound it—there

was some one 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 unquiet 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 supposed

some person then present was the luckless object of her calumnies: 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 and rest, and

tell me how you like this arbour,” said I, and, lifting Arthur by the

shoulders, I planted him in the middle of the seat by way of securing

his mamma, 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 wearied

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,” pursued

she: “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 over head 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 animadversions.”

“I meant no animadversions against any one, and certainly intended no

disrespectful allusions 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, relieved their dusky verdure 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 exult 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 mere

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 some

one coming.”

She seemed vexed at the interruption.

“It is only Mr. Lawrence and Miss Wilson,” said I, “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 arbour 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

coloured up to the temples, gave us one furtive glance in 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 _tête-à-tête_ 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 some

one 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 one’s

putting himself out of the way to accompany her, though Fergus

vouchsafed 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—”

“Hypocrite!” 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.