Not many days after this, on a mild sunny morning—rather soft under

foot; 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 hedges; but beside them already, the young primroses were

peeping from among their moist, dark foliage, and the lark above was

singing of summer, and hope, and love, and every heavenly thing—I was

out on the hill-side, 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 ascending from the vale below. They were

Eliza Millward, Fergus, and Rose; so I crossed the field 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 brother’s, told the latter he might go back,

for I would accompany the ladies.



“I beg _your_ pardon!” exclaimed he. “It’s the ladies that are

accompanying me, not I them. You had all had a peep at this 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 fond 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 lubberly 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 neighbours’ houses, peeping into their private corners, and

scenting 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 latter half of

the speech.



“Yes, both, to be sure!” cried Rose; “the more the merrier—and I’m sure

we shall want all the cheerfulness we can carry with us to that great,

dark, gloomy room, with its narrow latticed windows, and its dismal old

furniture—unless she shows us into her studio again.”



So we went all in a body; and the meagre old maid-servant, that opened

the door, ushered us into an apartment such as Rose had described to me

as the scene of her first introduction to Mrs. Graham, a tolerably

spacious and lofty room, but obscurely lighted by the old-fashioned

windows, the ceiling, panels, and chimney-piece of grim black oak—the

latter elaborately but not very tastefully carved,—with tables and

chairs to match, an old bookcase on one side of the fire-place, stocked

with a motley assemblage of books, and an elderly cabinet piano on the

other.



The lady was seated in a stiff, high-backed arm-chair, with a 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 rested her hand on his shoulder, and

abstractedly played with the long, wavy curls that fell on his ivory

neck. They struck me as forming a pleasing contrast to all the

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. Seating 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 and his hands in his breeches-pockets, leaning back in his

chair, and staring now up at the ceiling, now straight forward at his

hostess (in a manner that made me strongly inclined to kick him out of

the room), now whistling sotto voce to himself a snatch of a favourite

air, now interrupting the conversation, or filling up a pause (as the

case might be) with some most impertinent question or remark. At one

time it was,—“It, amazes 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 whole house, and have it mended up, why couldn’t

you take a neat little cottage?”



“Perhaps I was too proud, Mr. Fergus,” replied she, smiling; “perhaps I

took a particular fancy for this romantic, old-fashioned place—but,

indeed, it has many advantages over a cottage—in the first place, you

see, the rooms are larger and more airy; in the 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 garden for him to play in, and for me to

work in. You see I have effected 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 primroses

already in bloom—and there, too, is a yellow crocus just opening in the

sunshine.”



“But then how can you bear such a situation—your nearest neighbours two

miles distant, and nobody looking in or passing by? Rose would go stark

mad in such a place. She can’t put on life unless she sees half a dozen

fresh gowns and bonnets a day—not to speak of the 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 its chief

recommendations. I take no pleasure in watching people pass the

windows; and I like to be quiet.”



“Oh! as good as to 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 am glad to see them occasionally. No one can be happy in

eternal solitude. Therefore, Mr. Fergus, if you choose to enter my

house as a friend, I will make you welcome; if not, I must confess, I

would rather you kept away.” She then turned and addressed some

observation to Rose 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 neighbours’ concerns, and we, the indigenous plants of

the soil, have known each other so long, and talked each other over so

often, that we are quite sick of that game; so that a stranger coming

amongst us makes an invaluable addition to our exhausted sources of

amusement. Well, the question, or questions, you are requested to

solve—”



“Hold 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 your birth, extraction, and previous

residence. Some will have it that you are a foreigner, and some an

Englishwoman; some a native of the north country, and some of the

south; some say—”



“Well, Mr. Fergus, I’ll tell you. I’m an Englishwoman—and I don’t see

why any one should doubt it—and I was born in the country, neither in

the extreme north nor south of our happy isle; and in the country I

have chiefly passed my life, and now I hope you are satisfied; for I am

not disposed to answer any more questions at present.”



“Except this—”



“No, not one more!” laughed 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, endeavoured to draw

me into conversation.



“Mr. Markham,” said she, her rapid utterance and heightened colour too

plainly evincing 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 me the nearest way to it; for if this beautiful weather continue,

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 her request, but Rose would not suffer me to

proceed.



“Oh, don’t tell her, Gilbert!” cried she; “she shall go with us. It’s

—— Bay you are thinking about, I suppose, Mrs. Graham? It is a very

long walk, too far for you, and out of the question for Arthur. But we

were thinking about making a picnic to see it some fine day; and, if

you will wait till the settled fine weather comes, I’m sure we shall

all be delighted to have you amongst us.”



Poor Mrs. Graham looked dismayed, and attempted to make excuses, but

Rose, either compassionating her lonely life, or anxious to cultivate

her acquaintance, was determined 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 gentlemen,” continued Rose; “but the ladies

will drive and walk by turns; for we shall have our pony-carriage,

which will be plenty large enough to contain little Arthur and three

ladies, together with your sketching apparatus, and our provisions.”



So the proposal was finally acceded to; 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 we 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 Eliza Millward,

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 favour myself. When I did so, he hesitated, and asked who were

going. Upon my naming Miss Wilson among the rest, he seemed half

inclined 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 midday when we reached the place of our destination. Mrs.

Graham walked all the way to the cliffs; and little Arthur walked the

greater part of it too; for he was now much more hardy and active than

when he first entered the neighbourhood, and he did not like being in

the carriage with strangers, while all his four friends, mamma, and

Sancho, and Mr. Markham, and Miss Millward, 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, shaded here and there with bright green trees, and

adorned with flowery banks and blossoming hedges of delicious

fragrance; or through pleasant fields and lanes, all glorious in the

sweet flowers and brilliant verdure 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 short cut across the

fields, beheld the little carriage far away, disappearing amid the

green, embowering trees, I did not hate those trees for snatching the

dear little bonnet and shawl from my sight, 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 the company of Mrs. Graham to

regret the absence of Eliza Millward.



The former, it is true, was most provokingly unsociable at

first—seemingly bent upon talking to no one but Mary Millward and

Arthur. She and Mary journeyed along together, generally with the child

between them;—but where the road permitted, I always walked on the

other side of her, Richard Wilson taking the other side of Miss

Millward, 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 condescend to converse, I liked to listen.

Where her opinions and sentiments tallied with mine, it was her extreme

good sense, her exquisite taste and feeling, that delighted me; where

they differed, it was still her uncompromising boldness in the avowal

or defence 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 uncharitable conclusions respecting me, it only made me

the more dissatisfied with myself for having so unfavourably impressed

her, and the more desirous to vindicate my character and disposition in

her eyes, and, if possible, to win her esteem.



At length our walk was ended. The increasing height and boldness of the

hills had for some time intercepted the prospect; but, on gaining the

summit of a steep acclivity, and looking downward, an opening lay

before us—and the blue sea burst upon our sight!—deep violet blue—not

deadly calm, but covered with glinting breakers—diminutive white specks

twinkling on its bosom, and scarcely to be distinguished, by the

keenest vision, from the little seamews that sported above, their white

wings glittering in the sunshine: only one or two vessels 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 gaze that assured me she was not disappointed. She had very

fine eyes, by-the-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 grey. A cool, reviving breeze blew from the sea—soft, pure,

salubrious: it waved her drooping ringlets, and imparted a livelier

colour to her usually too pallid lip and cheek. She felt its

exhilarating influence, and so did I—I felt it tingling through my

frame, but dared not give way to it while she remained so quiet. There

was an aspect of subdued exhilaration in her face, that kindled 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 we 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 speedily

summoned to the repast—a very respectable collation, which Rose,

assisted by Miss Wilson and Eliza, who, having shared her 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

neighbour. 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 protracted social meal.



When that was over, Rose summoned Fergus to help her to gather up the

fragments, and the knives, dishes, &c., and restore them to the

baskets; and Mrs. Graham took her camp-stool and drawing materials; and

having begged Miss Millward to take charge of her precious son, and

strictly enjoined him not to wander from his new guardian’s side, she

left us and proceeded along the steep, stony hill, to a loftier, more

precipitous eminence at some distance, whence a still finer prospect

was to be had, where she preferred taking 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 hilarity of the

party. No jests, and little laughter, had escaped her lips; but her

smile had animated my mirth; a keen observation or a cheerful 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 enlivened by her presence, though I knew it not; and now that she

was gone, Eliza’s playful nonsense ceased to amuse me—nay, grew

wearisome to my soul, and I grew weary 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 neighbour was exchanging a few words with

Miss Wilson, I rose and cannily slipped away. A few rapid strides, and

a little active clambering, soon brought me to the place where she was

seated—a narrow ledge of rock at the very verge of the cliff, which

descended with a steep, precipitous slant, quite down to the rocky

shore.



She did not hear me coming: the falling 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.—Why did you startle me so?” said she,

somewhat testily. “I hate anybody to come upon 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 ledge 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 your drawing.”



“Oh, but you know I don’t like that.”



“Then I’ll content myself with admiring this magnificent prospect.”



She made no objection to this; and, for some time, sketched away in

silence. But I could not help stealing a glance, now and then, from the

splendid view at our feet to the elegant white hand that held the

pencil, and the graceful neck and glossy raven curls that drooped 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

delineate faithfully what is before me.”



But, though this 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

upon 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

to-morrow—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 you came away?”



“He was with Miss Millward, where you left him—all right, but hoping

mamma would not be long away. You didn’t intrust him to me, by-the-by,”

I grumbled, “though I had the honour of a much longer acquaintance; but

Miss Millward has the art of conciliating and amusing children,” I

carelessly added, “if she is good for nothing else.”



“Miss Millward has many estimable 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 past; 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 sketch-book.”



She did not deny me this favour; but I was rather offended at her

evident desire to be rid of me, and was beginning to repent of my

pertinacity, 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 when I could scarcely trust the direction of my own eye and

head, they having been so long occupied with the contemplation of a

single object as to become almost incapable of forming a proper idea

respecting it.”



“That,” replied I, “is only one of many evils to which a solitary life

exposes us.”



“True,” said she; and again we relapsed into silence.



About two minutes after, however, she declared her sketch completed,

and closed the book.



On returning to the scene of our repast we found all the company had

deserted it, with the exception of three—Mary Millward, Richard Wilson,

and Arthur Graham. The younger gentleman lay fast asleep with his head

pillowed on the lady’s lap; the other was seated beside her with a

pocket edition of some classic author in his hand. He never went

anywhere without such a companion wherewith to improve his leisure

moments: all time seemed lost that was not devoted to study, or

exacted, by his physical nature, for the bare support of life. Even now

he could not abandon himself to the enjoyment of that pure air and

balmy sunshine—that splendid prospect, and those soothing sounds, the

music of the waves and of the soft wind in the sheltering trees above

him—not even with a lady by his side (though not a very charming one, I

will allow)—he must pull out his book, and make the most of his time

while digesting his temperate meal, and reposing his weary limbs,

unused to so 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 wore an expression of

unusual cheerfulness and serenity, and she was studying his pale,

thoughtful face with great complacency when we arrived.



The journey homeward was by no means so agreeable to me as the former

part of the day: for now Mrs. Graham was in the carriage, and Eliza

Millward 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, bitter sarcasms, or pouting

sullen silence—any or all of these I could easily have endured, or

lightly laughed 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 tie must be broken, and this was only

nourishing false hopes and putting off the evil day.



When the pony-carriage had approached as near Wildfell Hall as the road

would permit—unless, indeed, it proceeded up the long rough lane, which

Mrs. Graham would not allow—the young widow and her son alighted,

relinquishing the driver’s seat to Rose; and I persuaded Eliza to take

the latter’s place. Having put her comfortably in, bid her take care of

the evening air, and wished her a kind good-night, I felt considerably

relieved, and hastened to offer my services to Mrs. Graham to carry her

apparatus up the fields, but she had already hung her camp-stool on her

arm and taken her sketch-book in her hand, and insisted upon bidding me

adieu then and there, with the rest of the company. But this time she

declined my proffered aid in so kind and friendly a manner that I

almost forgave her.