The Tenant of Wildfell Hall - Anne Brontë (best e reader for manga txt) 📗

with one of her softest smiles and most bewitching glances. I went home very happy, with a heart brimful of complacency for myself, and overflowing with love for Eliza. III

Two days after, Mrs. Graham called at Linden-Car, contrary to the expectation of Rose, who entertained an idea that the mysterious occupant of Wildfell Hall would wholly disregard the common observances of civilized life⁠—in which opinion she was supported by the Wilsons, who testified that neither their call nor the Millwards’ had been returned as yet. Now, however, the cause of that omission was explained, though not entirely to the satisfaction of Rose. Mrs. Graham had brought her child with her, and on my mother’s expressing surprise that he could walk so far, she replied⁠—“It is a long walk for him; but I must have either taken him with me, or relinquished the visit altogether; for I never leave him alone; and I think, Mrs. Markham, I must beg you to make my excuses to the Millwards and Mrs. Wilson, when you see them, as I fear I cannot do myself the pleasure of calling upon them till my little Arthur is able to accompany me.”

“But you have a servant,” said Rose; “could you not leave him with her?”

“She has her own occupations to attend to; and besides, she is too old to run after a child, and he is too mercurial to be tied to an elderly woman.”

“But you left him to come to church.”

“Yes, once; but I would not have left him for any other purpose; and I think, in future, I must contrive to bring him with me, or stay at home.”

“Is he so mischievous?” asked my mother, considerably shocked.

“No,” replied the lady, sadly smiling, as she stroked the wavy locks of her son, who was seated on a low stool at her feet; “but he is my only treasure, and I am his only friend: so we don’t like to be separated.”

“But, my dear, I call that doting,” said my plainspoken parent. “You should try to suppress such foolish fondness, as well to save your son from ruin as yourself from ridicule.”

“Ruin! Mrs. Markham!”

“Yes; it is spoiling the child. Even at his age, he ought not to be always tied to his mother’s apron-string; he should learn to be ashamed of it.”

“Mrs. Markham, I beg you will not say such things, in his presence, at least. I trust my son will never be ashamed to love his mother!” said Mrs. Graham, with a serious energy that startled the company.

My mother attempted to appease her by an explanation; but she seemed to think enough had been said on the subject, and abruptly turned the conversation.

“Just as I thought,” said I to myself: “the lady’s temper is none of the mildest, notwithstanding her sweet, pale face and lofty brow, where thought and suffering seem equally to have stamped their impress.”

All this time I was seated at a table on the other side of the room, apparently immersed in the perusal of a volume of the Farmers Magazine, which I happened to have been reading at the moment of our visitor’s arrival; and, not choosing to be over civil, I had merely bowed as she entered, and continued my occupation as before.

In a little while, however, I was sensible that someone was approaching me, with a light, but slow and hesitating tread. It was little Arthur, irresistibly attracted by my dog Sancho, that was lying at my feet. On looking up I beheld him standing about two yards off, with his clear blue eyes wistfully gazing on the dog, transfixed to the spot, not by fear of the animal, but by a timid disinclination to approach its master. A little encouragement, however, induced him to come forward. The child, though shy, was not sullen. In a minute he was kneeling on the carpet, with his arms round Sancho’s neck, and, in a minute or two more, the little fellow was seated on my knee, surveying with eager interest the various specimens of horses, cattle, pigs, and model farms portrayed in the volume before me. I glanced at his mother now and then to see how she relished the new-sprung intimacy; and I saw, by the unquiet aspect of her eye, that for some reason or other she was uneasy at the child’s position.

“Arthur,” said she, at length, “come here. You are troublesome to Mr. Markham: he wishes to read.”

“By no means, Mrs. Graham; pray let him stay. I am as much amused as he is,” pleaded I. But still, with hand and eye, she silently called him to her side.

“No, mamma,” said the child; “let me look at these pictures first; and then I’ll come, and tell you all about them.”

“We are going to have a small party on Monday, the fifth of November,” said my mother; “and I hope you will not refuse to make one, Mrs. Graham. You can bring your little boy with you, you know⁠—I daresay we shall be able to amuse him;⁠—and then you can make your own apologies to the Millwards and Wilsons⁠—they will all be here, I expect.”

“Thank you, I never go to parties.”

“Oh! but this will be quite a family concern⁠—early hours, and nobody here but ourselves, and just the Millwards and Wilsons, most of whom you already know, and Mr. Lawrence, your landlord, with whom you ought to make acquaintance.”

“I do know something of him⁠—but you must excuse me this time; for the evenings, now, are dark and damp, and Arthur, I fear, is too delicate to risk exposure to their influence with impunity. We must defer the enjoyment of your hospitality till the return of longer days and warmer nights.”

Rose, now, at a hint from my mother, produced a decanter of wine, with accompaniments of glasses and cake, from the cupboard and the oak sideboard, and the refreshment was duly presented to the guests. They both partook of the cake, but obstinately refused the wine, in spite of their hostess’s hospitable attempts to