The Tenant of Wildfell Hall by Anne Brontë (sci fi books to read TXT) 📕

polite to the vicar and the ladies, especially his hostess and her daughter, and Miss Wilson⁠—misguided man; he had not the taste to prefer Eliza Millward. Mr. Lawrence and I were on tolerably intimate terms. Essentially of reserved habits, and but seldom quitting the secluded place of his birth, where he had lived in solitary state since the death of his father, he had neither the opportunity nor the inclination for forming many acquaintances; and, of all he had ever known, I (judging by the results) was the companion most agreeable to his taste. I liked the man well enough, but he was too cold, and shy, and self-contained, to obtain my cordial sympathies. A spirit of candour and frankness, when wholly unaccompanied with coarseness, he admired in others, but he could not acquire it himself. His excessive reserve upon all his own concerns was, indeed, provoking and chilly enough; but I forgave it, from a conviction that it originated less in pride and want of confidence in his friends, than in a certain morbid feeling of delicacy, and a peculiar diffidence, that he was sensible of, but wanted energy to overcome. His heart was like a sensitive plant, that opens for a moment in the sunshine, but curls up and shrinks into itself at the slightest touch of the finger, or the lightest breath of wind. And, upon the whole, our intimacy was rather a mutual predilection than a deep and solid friendship, such as has since arisen between myself and you, Halford, whom, in spite of your occasional crustiness, I can liken to nothing so well as an old coat, unimpeachable in texture, but easy and loose⁠—that has conformed itself to the shape of the wearer, and which he may use as he pleases, without being bothered with the fear of spoiling it;⁠—whereas Mr. Lawrence was like a new garment, all very neat and trim to look at, but so tight in the elbows, that you would fear to split the seams by the unrestricted motion of your arms, and so smooth and fine in surface that you scruple to expose it to a single drop of rain.

Soon after the arrival of the guests, my mother mentioned Mrs. Graham, regretted she was not there to meet them, and explained to the Millwards and Wilsons the reasons she had given for neglecting to return their calls, hoping they would excuse her, as she was sure she did not mean to be uncivil, and would be glad to see them at any time.⁠—“But she is a very singular lady, Mr. Lawrence,” added she; “we don’t know what to make of her⁠—but I daresay you can tell us something about her, for she is your tenant, you know⁠—and she said she knew you a little.”

All eyes were turned to Mr. Lawrence. I thought he looked unnecessarily confused at being so appealed to.

“I, Mrs. Markham!” said he; “you are mistaken⁠—I don’t⁠—that is⁠—I have seen her, certainly; but I am the last person you should apply to for information respecting Mrs. Graham.”

He then immediately turned to Rose, and asked her to favour the company with a song, or a tune on the piano.

“No,” said she, “you must ask Miss Wilson: she outshines us all in singing, and music too.”

Miss Wilson demurred.

“She’ll sing readily enough,” said Fergus, “if you’ll undertake to stand by her, Mr. Lawrence, and turn over the leaves for her.”

“I shall be most happy to do so, Miss Wilson; will you allow me?”

She bridled her long neck and smiled, and suffered him to lead her to the instrument, where she played and sang, in her very best style, one piece after another; while he stood patiently by, leaning one hand on the back of her chair, and turning over the leaves of her book with the other. Perhaps he was as much charmed with her performance as she was. It was all very fine in its way; but I cannot say that it moved me very deeply. There was plenty of skill and execution, but precious little feeling.

But we had not done with Mrs. Graham yet.

“I don’t take wine, Mrs. Markham,” said Mr. Millward, upon the introduction of that beverage; “I’ll take a little of your home-brewed ale. I always prefer your home-brewed to anything else.”

Flattered at this compliment, my mother rang the bell, and a china jug of our best ale was presently brought and set before the worthy gentleman who so well knew how to appreciate its excellences.

“Now this is the thing!” cried he, pouring out a glass of the same in a long stream, skilfully directed from the jug to the tumbler, so as to produce much foam without spilling a drop; and, having surveyed it for a moment opposite the candle, he took a deep draught, and then smacked his lips, drew a long breath, and refilled his glass, my mother looking on with the greatest satisfaction.

“There’s nothing like this, Mrs. Markham!” said he. “I always maintain that there’s nothing to compare with your home-brewed ale.”

“I’m sure I’m glad you like it, sir. I always look after the brewing myself, as well as the cheese and the butter⁠—I like to have things well done, while we’re about it.”

“Quite right, Mrs. Markham!”

“But then, Mr. Millward, you don’t think it wrong to take a little wine now and then⁠—or a little spirits either!” said my mother, as she handed a smoking tumbler of gin-and-water to Mrs. Wilson, who affirmed that wine sat heavy on her stomach, and whose son Robert was at that moment helping himself to a pretty stiff glass of the same.

“By no means!” replied the oracle, with a Jove-like nod; “these things are all blessings and mercies, if we only knew how to make use of them.”

“But Mrs. Graham doesn’t think so. You shall just hear now what she told us the other day⁠—I told her I’d tell you.”

And my mother favoured the company with a particular account of that lady’s mistaken ideas and conduct regarding the matter in hand, concluding with, “Now, don’t you think it is wrong?”

“Wrong!” repeated the vicar,