第 四十六 章 · Chapter XLVI Friendly Counsels

. Chapter XLVI Friendly Counsels

I felt strongly tempted, at times, to enlighten my mother and sister on

the real character and circumstances of the persecuted tenant of

Wildfell Hall, and at first I greatly regretted having omitted to ask

that lady’s permission to do so; but, on due reflection, I considered

that if it were known to them, it could not long remain a secret to the

Millwards and Wilsons, and such was my present appreciation of Eliza

Millward’s disposition, that, if once she got a clue to the story, I

should fear she would soon find means to enlighten Mr. Huntingdon upon

the place of his wife’s retreat. I would therefore wait patiently till

these weary six months were over, and then, when the fugitive had found

another home, and I was permitted to write to her, I would beg to be

allowed to clear her name from these vile calumnies: at present I must

content myself with simply asserting that I knew them to be false, and

would prove it some day, to the shame of those who slandered her. I

don’t think anybody believed me, but everybody soon learned to avoid

insinuating a word against her, or even mentioning her name in my

presence. They thought I was so madly infatuated by the seductions of

that unhappy lady that I was determined to support her in the very face

of reason; and meantime I grow insupportably morose and misanthropical

from the idea that every one I met was harbouring unworthy thoughts of

the supposed Mrs. Graham, and would express them if he dared. My poor

mother was quite distressed about me; but I couldn’t help it—at least I

thought I could not, though sometimes I felt a pang of remorse for my

undutiful conduct to her, and made an effort to amend, attended with

some partial success; and indeed I was generally more humanised in my

demeanour to her than to any one else, Mr. Lawrence excepted. Rose and

Fergus usually shunned my presence; and it was well they did, for I was

not fit company for them, nor they for me, under the present

circumstances.

Mrs. Huntingdon did not leave Wildfell Hall till above two months after

our farewell interview. During that time she never appeared at church,

and I never went near the house: I only knew she was still there by her

brother’s brief answers to my many and varied inquiries respecting her.

I was a very constant and attentive visitor to him throughout the whole

period of his illness and convalescence; not only from the interest I

took in his recovery, and my desire to cheer him up and make the utmost

possible amends for my former “brutality,” but from my growing

attachment to himself, and the increasing pleasure I found in his

society—partly from his increased cordiality to me, but chiefly on

account of his close connection, both in blood and in affection, with

my adored Helen. I loved him for it better than I liked to express: and

I took a secret delight in pressing those slender white fingers, so

marvellously like her own, considering he was not a woman, and in

watching the passing changes in his fair, pale features, and observing

the intonations of his voice, detecting resemblances which I wondered

had never struck me before. He provoked me at times, indeed, by his

evident reluctance to talk to me about his sister, though I did not

question the friendliness of his motives in wishing to discourage my

remembrance of her.

His recovery was not quite so rapid as he had expected it to be; he was

not able to mount his pony till a fortnight after the date of our

reconciliation; and the first use he made of his returning strength was

to ride over by night to Wildfell Hall, to see his sister. It was a

hazardous enterprise both for him and for her, but he thought it

necessary to consult with her on the subject of her projected

departure, if not to calm her apprehensions respecting his health, and

the worst result was a slight relapse of his illness, for no one knew

of the visit but the inmates of the old Hall, except myself; and I

believe it had not been his intention to mention it to me, for when I

came to see him the next day, and observed he was not so well as he

ought to have been, he merely said he had caught cold by being out too

late in the evening.

“You’ll _never_ be able to see your sister, if you don’t take care of

yourself,” said I, a little provoked at the circumstance on her

account, instead of commiserating him.

“I’ve seen her already,” said he, quietly.

“You’ve seen her!” cried I, in astonishment.

“Yes.” And then he told me what considerations had impelled him to make

the venture, and with what precautions he had made it.

“And how was she?” I eagerly asked.

“As usual,” was the brief though sad reply.

“As usual—that is, far from happy and far from strong.”

“She is not positively ill,” returned he; “and she will recover her

spirits in a while, I have no doubt—but so many trials have been almost

too much for her. How threatening those clouds look,” continued he,

turning towards the window. “We shall have thunder-showers before

night, I imagine, and they are just in the midst of stacking my corn.

Have you got yours all in yet?”

“No. And, Lawrence, did she—did your sister mention me?”

“She asked if I had seen you lately.”

“And what else did she say?”

“I cannot tell you all she said,” replied he, with a slight smile; “for

we talked a good deal, though my stay was but short; but our

conversation was chiefly on the subject of her intended departure,

which I begged her to delay till I was better able to assist her in her

search after another home.”

“But did she say no more about me?”

“She did not say much about you, Markham. I should not have encouraged

her to do so, had she been inclined; but happily she was not: she only

asked a few questions concerning you, and seemed satisfied with my

brief answers, wherein she showed herself wiser than her friend; and I

may tell you, too, that she seemed to be far more anxious lest you

should think too much of her, than lest you should forget her.”

“She was right.”

“But I fear _your_ anxiety is quite the other way respecting her.”

“No, it is not: I wish her to be happy; but I don’t wish her to forget

me altogether. She knows it is impossible that I should forget _her;_

and she is right to wish me not to remember her too well. I should not

desire her to regret me _too_ deeply; but I can scarcely imagine she

will make herself very unhappy about me, because I know I am not worthy

of it, except in my appreciation of her.”

“You are neither of you worthy of a broken heart,—nor of all the sighs,

and tears, and sorrowful thoughts that have been, and I fear will be,

wasted upon you both; but, at present, each has a more exalted opinion

of the other than, I fear, he or she deserves; and my sister’s feelings

are naturally full as keen as yours, and I believe _more_ constant; but

she has the good sense and fortitude to strive against them in this

particular; and I trust she will not rest till she has entirely weaned

her thoughts—” he hesitated.

“From me,” said I.

“And I wish you would make the like exertions,” continued he.

“Did she _tell_ you that that was her intention?”

“No; the question was not broached between us: there was no necessity

for it, for I had no doubt that such was her determination.”

“To forget me?”

“Yes, Markham! Why not?”

“Oh, well!” was my only audible reply; but I internally answered,—“No,

Lawrence, you’re wrong there: she is _not_ determined to forget me. It

would be _wrong_ to forget one so deeply and fondly devoted to her, who

can so thoroughly appreciate her excellencies, and sympathise with all

her thoughts, as I can do, and it would be wrong in me to forget so

excellent and divine a piece of God’s creation as she, when I have once

so truly loved and known her.” But I said no more to him on that

subject. I instantly started a new topic of conversation, and soon took

leave of my companion, with a feeling of less cordiality towards him

than usual. Perhaps I had no right to be annoyed at him, but I was so

nevertheless.

In little more than a week after this I met him returning from a visit

to the Wilsons’; and I now resolved to do _him_ a good turn, though at

the expense of his feelings, and perhaps at the risk of incurring that

displeasure which is so commonly the reward of those who give

disagreeable information, or tender their advice unasked. In this,

believe me, I was actuated by no motives of revenge for the occasional

annoyances I had lately sustained from him,—nor yet by any feeling of

malevolent enmity towards Miss Wilson, but purely by the fact that I

could not endure that such a woman should be Mrs. Huntingdon’s sister,

and that, as well for his own sake as for hers, I could not bear to

think of his being deceived into a union with one so unworthy of him,

and so utterly unfitted to be the partner of his quiet home, and the

companion of his life. He had had uncomfortable suspicions on that head

himself, I imagined; but such was his inexperience, and such were the

lady’s powers of attraction, and her skill in bringing them to bear

upon his young imagination, that they had not disturbed him long; and I

believe the only effectual causes of the vacillating indecision that

had preserved him hitherto from making an actual declaration of love,

was the consideration of her connections, and especially of her mother,

whom he could not abide. Had they lived at a distance, he might have

surmounted the objection, but within two or three miles of Woodford it

was really no light matter.

“You’ve been to call on the Wilsons, Lawrence,” said I, as I walked

beside his pony.

“Yes,” replied he, slightly averting his face: “I thought it but civil

to take the first opportunity of returning their kind attentions, since

they have been so very particular and constant in their inquiries

throughout the whole course of my illness.”

“It’s all Miss Wilson’s doing.”

“And if it is,” returned he, with a very perceptible blush, “is that

any reason why I should not make a suitable acknowledgment?”

“It is a reason why you should not make the acknowledgment she looks

for.”

“Let us drop that subject if you please,” said he, in evident

displeasure.

“No, Lawrence, with your leave we’ll continue it a while longer; and

I’ll tell you something, now we’re about it, which you may believe or

not as you choose—only please to remember that it is not my custom to

speak falsely, and that in this case I can have no motive for

misrepresenting the truth—”

“Well, Markham, what now?”

“_Miss Wilson hates your sister._ It may be natural enough that, in her

ignorance of the relationship, she should feel some degree of enmity

against her, but no good or amiable woman would be capable of evincing

that bitter, cold-blooded, designing malice towards a fancied rival

that I have observed in her.”

“Markham!”

“Yes—and it is my belief that Eliza Millward and she, if not the very

originators of the slanderous reports that have been propagated, were

designedly the encouragers and chief disseminators of them. She was not

desirous to mix up _your_ name in the matter, of course, but her

delight was, and still is, to blacken your sister’s character to the

utmost of her power, without risking too greatly the exposure of her

own malevolence!”

“I cannot believe it,” interrupted my companion, his face burning with

indignation.

“Well, as I cannot prove it, I must content myself with asserting that

it is so to the best of my belief; but as you would not willingly marry

Miss Wilson if it _were_ so, you will do well to be cautious, till you

have proved it to be otherwise.”

“I never told you, Markham, that I _intended_ to marry Miss Wilson,”

said he, proudly.

“No, but whether you do or not, she intends to marry you.”

“Did she tell you so?”

“No, but—”

“Then you have no right to make such an assertion respecting her.” He

slightly quickened his pony’s pace, but I laid my hand on its mane,

determined he should not leave me yet.

“Wait a moment, Lawrence, and let me explain myself; and don’t be so

very—I don’t know what to call it—_inaccessible_ as you are.—I know

what you think of Jane Wilson; and I believe I know how far you are

mistaken in your opinion: you think she is singularly charming,

elegant, sensible, and refined: you are not aware that she is selfish,

cold-hearted, ambitious, artful, shallow-minded—”

“Enough, Markham—enough!”

“No; let me finish:—you don’t know that, if you married her, your home

would be rayless and comfortless; and it would break your heart at last

to find yourself united to one so wholly incapable of sharing your

tastes, feelings, and ideas—so utterly destitute of sensibility, good

feeling, and true nobility of soul.”

“Have you done?” asked my companion quietly.

“Yes;—I know you hate me for my impertinence, but I don’t care if it

only conduces to preserve you from that fatal mistake.”

“Well!” returned he, with a rather wintry smile—“I’m glad you have

overcome or forgotten your own afflictions so far as to be able to

study so deeply the affairs of others, and trouble your head so

unnecessarily about the fancied or possible calamities of their future

life.”

We parted—somewhat coldly again: but still we did not cease to be

friends; and my well-meant warning, though it might have been more

judiciously delivered, as well as more thankfully received, was not

wholly unproductive of the desired effect: his visit to the Wilsons was

not repeated, and though, in our subsequent interviews, he never

mentioned her name to me, nor I to him,—I have reason to believe he

pondered my words in his mind, eagerly though covertly sought

information respecting the fair lady from other quarters, secretly

compared my character of her with what he had himself observed and what

he heard from others, and finally came to the conclusion that, all

things considered, she had much better remain Miss Wilson of Ryecote

Farm than be transmuted into Mrs. Lawrence of Woodford Hall. I believe,

too, that he soon learned to contemplate with secret amazement his

former predilection, and to congratulate himself on the lucky escape he

had made; but he never confessed it to me, or hinted one word of

acknowledgment for the part I had had in his deliverance, but this was

not surprising to any one that knew him as I did.

As for Jane Wilson, she, of course, was disappointed and embittered by

the sudden cold neglect and ultimate desertion of her former admirer.

Had I done wrong to blight her cherished hopes? I think not; and

certainly my conscience has never accused me, from that day to this, of

any evil design in the matter.