The Tenant of Wildfell Hall by Anne Bronte

XI. THE VICAR AGAIN

You must suppose about three weeks passed over. Mrs. Graham and I were now established friends—or brother and sister, as we rather chose to consider ourselves. She called me Gilbert, by my express desire, and I called her Helen, for I had seen that name written in her books. I seldom attempted to see her above twice a week; and still I made our meetings appear the result of accident as often as I could—for I found it necessary to be extremely careful—and, altogether, I behaved with such exceeding propriety that she never had occasion to reprove me once. Yet I could not but perceive that she was at times unhappy and dissatisfied with herself or her position, and truly I myself was not quite contented with the latter: this assumption of brotherly nonchalance was very hard to sustain, and I often felt myself a most confounded hypocrite with it all; I saw too, or rather I felt, that, in spite of herself, "I was not indifferent to her," as the novel heroes modestly express it, and while I thankfully enjoyed my present good fortune, I could not fail to wish and hope for something better in future; but, of course, I kept such dreams entirely to myself.

"Where are you going, Gilbert?" said Rose, one evening, shortly after tea, when I had been busy with the farm all day.

"To take a walk," was the reply.

"Do you always brush your hat so carefully, and do your hair so nicely, and put on such smart new gloves when you take a walk?"

"Not always."

"You're going to Wildfell Hall, aren't you?"

"What makes you think so?"

"Because you look as if you were—but I wish you wouldn't go so often."

"Nonsense, child! I don't go once in six weeks—what do you mean?"

"Well, but if I were you, I wouldn't have so much to do with Mrs. Graham."

"Why, Rose, are you, too, giving in to the prevailing opinion?"

"No," returned she, hesitatingly—"but I've heard so much about her lately, both at the Wilsons' and the vicarage;—and besides, mamma says, if she were a proper person she would not be living there by herself—and don't you remember last winter, Gilbert, all that about the false name to the picture; and how she explained it—saying she had friends or acquaintances from whom she wished her present residence to be concealed, and that she was afraid of their tracing her out;—and then, how suddenly she started up and left the room when that person came—whom she took good care not to let us catch a glimpse of, and who Arthur, with such an air of mystery, told us was his mamma's friend?"

"Yes, Rose, I remember it all; and I can forgive your uncharitable conclusions; for, perhaps, if I did not know her myself, I should put all these things together, and believe the same as you do; but thank God, I do know her; and I should be unworthy the name of a man, if I could believe anything that was said against her, unless I heard it from her own lips.—I should as soon believe such things of you, Rose."

"Oh, Gilbert!"

"Well, do you think I could believe anything of the kind,—whatever the Wilsons and Millwards dared to whisper?"

"I should hope not indeed!"

"And why not?—Because I know you—Well, and I know her just as well."

"Oh, no! you know nothing of her former life; and last year, at this time, you did not know that such a person existed."

"No matter. There is such a thing as looking through a person's eyes into the heart, and learning more of the height, and breadth, and depth of another's soul in one hour than it might take you a lifetime to discover, if he or she were not disposed to reveal it, or if you had not the sense to understand it."