`Well,' resumed Rose; `I was going to tell you an important piece of news I heard there--I've been bursting with it ever since. You know it was reported a month ago, that somebody was going to take Wildfell Hall--and--what do you think? It has actually been inhabited above a week!--and we never knew!'
`Impossible!' cried my mother.
`Preposterous!!!' shrieked Fergus.
`It has indeed!--and by a single lady!'
`Good gracious, my dear! The place is in ruins!'
`She has had two or three rooms made habitable; and there she lives, all alone--except an old woman for a servant!'
`Oh dear! that spoils it--I'd hoped she was a witch,' observed Fergus, while carving his inch-thick slice of bread and butter.
`Nonsense, Fergus! But isn't it strange, mamma?'
`Strange! I can hardly believe it.'
`But you may believe it; for Jane Wilson has seen her. She went with her mother, who, of course, when she heard of a stranger being in the neighbourhood, would be on pins and needles till she had seen her and got all she could out of her. She is called Mrs Graham, and she is in mourning--not widow's weeds, but slightish mourning--and she is quite young, they say,--not above five or six and twenty,--but so reserved! They tried all they could to find out who she was, and where she came from, and all about her, but neither Mrs Wilson, with her pertinacious and impertinent home thrusts, nor Miss Wilson, with her skilful manoeuvering, could manage to elicit a single satisfactory answer, or even a casual remark, or chance expression calculated to allay their curiosity, or throw the faintest ray of light upon her history, circumstances, or connexions. Moreover, she was barely civil to them, and evidently better pleased to say "goodbye," than "how do you do." But Eliza Millward says her father intends to call upon her soon, to offer some pastoral advice, which he fears she needs, as though she is known to have entered the neighbourhood early last week, she did not make her appearance at church on Sunday; and she--Eliza, that is--will beg to accompany him, and is sure she can succeed in wheedling something out of her--you know, Gilbert, she can do anything. And we should call sometime, mamma; it's only proper, you know.'
`Of course, my dear. Poor thing! how lonely she must feel!'
`And pray be quick about it; and mind you bring me word how much sugar she puts in her tea, and what sort of caps and aprons she wears, and all about it; for I don't know how I can live till I know,' said Fergus, very gravely.
But if he intended the speech to be hailed as a master-stroke of wit, he signally failed, for nobody laughed. However, he was not much disconcerted at that; for when he had taken a mouthful of bread and butter, and was about to swallow a gulp of tea, the humour of the thing burst upon him with such irresistible force, that he was obliged to jump up from the table, and rush snorting and choking from the room; and a minute after, was heard screaming in fearful agony in the garden.
As for me, I was hungry, and contented myself with silently demolishing the tea, ham, and toast, while my mother and sister went on talking, and continued to discuss the apparent, or non-apparent circumstances, and probable, or improbable history of the mysterious lady; but I must confess that, after my brother's misadventure, I once or twice raised the cup to my lips, and put it down again without daring to taste the contents, lest I should injure my dignity by a similar explosion.
The next day, my mother and Rose hastened to pay their compliments to the fair recluse; and came back but little wiser than they went; though my mother declared she did not regret the journey, for if she had not gained much good, she flattered herself she had imparted some, and that was better: she had given some useful advice, which, she hoped, would not be thrown away; for Mrs Graham, though she said little to any purpose, and appeared somewhat self-opinionated, seemed not incapable of reflection,--though she did not know where she had been all her life, poor thing, for she betrayed a lamentable ignorance on certain points, and had not even the sense to be ashamed of it.
`On what points, mother?' asked I.
`On household matters, and all the little niceties of cookery, and such things, that every lady ought to be familiar with, whether she be required to make a practical use of her knowledge or not. I gave her some useful pieces of information, however, and several excellent receipts, the value of which, she evidently could not appreciate, for she begged I would not trouble myself, as she lived in such a plain, quiet way, that she was. sure she should never make use of them. "No matter, my dear," said I; "it is what every respectable female ought to know;--and besides, though you are lone now, you will not be always so; you have been married, and probably--I might say almost certainly--will be again." "You are mistaken there, ma'am," said she, almost haughtily; "I am certain never shall."--But I told her I knew better.'
`Some romantic young widow, I suppose,' said I, `come there to end her days in solitude, and mourn in secret for the dear departed--but it won't last long.'
`No, I think not,' observed Rose, `for she didn't seem very disconsolate after all; and she's excessively pretty--handsome rather--you must see her, Gilbert; you will call her a perfect beauty, though you could hardly pretend to discover a resemblance b~ tween her and Eliza Millward.'
`Well, I can imagine many faces more beautiful than Eliza's, though not more charming. I allow she has small claims to perfection; but then, I maintain that, if she were more perfect, she would be less interesting.'
`And so you prefer her faults to other people's perfections?'
`Just so--saving my mother's presence.'
