glee on beholding Sancho, my beautiful black and white setter, that was coursing about the field with its muzzle to the ground. The little creature raised its face and called aloud to the dog. The good-natured animal paused, looked up, and wagged his tail, but made no further advances. The child (a little boy, apparently about five years old) scrambled up to the top of the wall, and called again and again; but finding this of no avail, apparently made up his mind, like Mahomet, to go to the mountain, since the mountain would not come to him, and attempted to get over; but a crabbed old cherry-tree, that grew hard by, caught him by the frock in one of its crooked scraggy arms that stretched over the wall. In attempting to disengage himself his foot slipped, and down he tumbled — but not to the earth; — the tree still kept him suspended. There was a silent struggle, and then a piercing shriek; — but, in an instant, I had dropped my gun on the grass, and caught the little fellow in my arms.
I wiped his eyes with his frock, told him he was all right and called Sancho to pacify him. He was just putting little hand on the dog’s neck and beginning to smile through his tears, when I heard behind me a click of the iron gate, and a rustle of female garments, and lo! Mrs. Graham darted upon me — her neck uncovered, her black locks streaming in the wind.
‘Give me the child!’ she said, in a voice scarce louder than a whisper, but with a tone of startling vehemence, and, seizing the boy, she snatched him from me, as if some dire contamination were in my touch, and then stood with one hand firmly clasping his, the other on his shoulder, fixing upon me her large, luminous dark eyes — pale, breathless, quivering with agitation.
‘I was not harming the child, madam,’ said I, scarce knowing whether to be most astonished or displeased; ‘he was tumbling off the wall there; and I was so fortunate as to catch him, while he hung suspended headlong from that tree, and prevent I know not what catastrophe.’
‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ stammered she; — suddenly calming down, — the light of reason seeming to break upon her beclouded spirit, and a faint blush mantling on her cheek — ‘I did not know you; — and I thought — ’
She stooped to kiss the child, and fondly clasped her arm round his neck.
‘You thought I was going to kidnap your son, I suppose?’
She stroked his head with a half-embarrassed laugh, and replied, — ‘I did not know he had attempted to climb the wall. — I have the pleasure of addressing Mr. Markham, I believe?’ she added, somewhat abruptly.
I bowed, but ventured to ask how she knew me.
‘Your sister called here, a few days ago, with Mrs. Markham.’
‘Is the resemblance so strong then?’ I asked, in some surprise, and not so greatly flattered at the idea as I ought to have been.
‘There is a likeness about the eyes and complexion I think,’ replied she, somewhat dubiously surveying my face; — ‘and I think I saw you at church on Sunday.’
I smiled. — There was something either in that smile or the recollections it awakened that was particularly displeasing to her, for she suddenly assumed again that proud, chilly look that had so unspeakably roused my aversion at church — a look of repellent scorn, so easily assumed, and so entirely without the least distortion of a single feature, that, while there, it seemed like the natural expression of the face, and was the more provoking to me, because I could not think it affected.
‘Good-morning, Mr. Markham,’ said she; and without another word or glance, she withdrew, with her child, into the garden; and I returned home, angry and dissatisfied — I could scarcely tell you why, and therefore will not attempt it.
I only stayed to put away my gun and powder-horn, and give some requisite directions to one of the farming-men, and then repaired to the vicarage, to solace my spirit and soothe my ruffled temper with the company and conversation of Eliza Millward.
I found her, as usual, busy with some piece of soft embroidery (the mania for Berlin wools had not yet commenced), while her sister was seated at the chimney-corner, with the cat on her knee, mending a heap of stockings.
‘Mary — Mary! put them away!’ Eliza was hastily saying, just as I entered the room.
‘Not I, indeed!’ was the phlegmatic reply; and my appearance prevented further discussion.
‘You’re so unfortunate, Mr. Markham!’ observed the younger sister, with one of her arch, sidelong glances. ‘Papa’s just gone out into the parish, and not likely to be back for an hour!’
‘Never mind; I can manage to spend a few minutes with his daughters, if they’ll allow me,’ said I, bringing a chair to the fire, and seating myself therein, without waiting to be asked.
‘Well, if you’ll be very good and amusing, we shall not object.’
‘Let your permission be unconditional, pray; for I came not to give pleasure, but to seek it,’ I answered.
However, I thought it but reasonable to make some slight exertion to render my company agreeable; and what little effort I made, was apparently pretty successful, for Miss Eliza was never in a better humour. We seemed, indeed, to be mutually pleased with each other, and managed to maintain between us a cheerful and animated though not very profound conversation. It was little better than a tête-à-tête, for Miss Millward never opened her lips, except occasionally to correct some random assertion or exaggerated expression of her sister’s, and once to ask her to pick up the ball of cotton that had rolled under the table. I did this myself, however, as in duty bound.
‘Thank you, Mr. Markham,’ said she, as I presented it to her. ‘I would have picked it up myself; only I did not want to disturb the cat.’
‘Mary, dear, that won’t excuse you in Mr. Markham’s eyes,’ said Eliza; ‘he hates cats, I daresay, as cordially as he does old maids — like all other gentlemen. Don’t you, Mr. Markham?’
‘I believe it is natural for our unamiable sex to dislike the creatures,’ replied I; ‘for you ladies lavish so many caresses upon them.’
‘Bless them — little darlings!’ cried she, in a sudden burst of enthusiasm, turning round and overwhelming her sister’s pet with a shower of kisses.
‘Don’t, Eliza!’ said Miss Millward, somewhat gruffly, as she impatiently pushed her away.
But it was time for me to be going: make what haste I would, I should still be too late for tea; and my mother was the soul of order and punctuality.
My fair friend was evidently unwilling to bid me adieu. I tenderly squeezed her little hand at parting; and she repaid me 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.
CHAPTER 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