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

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,” etc., etc.

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