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Updated: May 31, 2025
The journey homeward was by no means so agreeable to me as the former part of the day: for now Mrs. Graham was in the carriage, and Eliza Millward was the companion of my walk. She had observed my preference for the young widow, and evidently felt herself neglected.
Millward never would cease telling us that he was no tea-drinker, and that it was highly injurious to keep loading the stomach with slops to the exclusion of more wholesome sustenance, and so give himself time to finish his fourth cup. At length it was over; and I rose and left the table and the guests without a word of apology—I could endure their company no longer.
‘This is no time for business, sir!—I’ll tell you, now, what I think of your conduct.’ ‘You’d better defer your opinion to a more convenient season,’ interrupted he in a low tone—‘here’s the vicar.’ And, in truth, the vicar was just behind me, plodding homeward from some remote corner of his parish. I immediately released the squire; and he went on his way, saluting Mr. Millward as he passed.
Millward, you don’t think it wrong to take a little wine now and then—or a little spirits either!’ said my mother, as she handed a smoking tumbler of gin-and-water to Mrs. Wilson, who affirmed that wine sat heavy on her stomach, and whose son Robert was at that moment helping himself to a pretty stiff glass of the same.
‘That,’ replied I, ‘is only one of many evils to which a solitary life exposes us.’ ‘True,’ said she; and again we relapsed into silence. About two minutes after, however, she declared her sketch completed, and closed the book. On returning to the scene of our repast we found all the company had deserted it, with the exception of three—Mary Millward, Richard Wilson, and Arthur Graham.
‘Yes—and it is my belief that Eliza Millward and she, if not the very originators of the slanderous reports that have been propagated, were designedly the encouragers and chief disseminators of them.
Miss Millward had a sure touch; strength, vitality, interest; but somehow she was commonplace in the part. Henry used to spend hours and hours teaching people. I used to think impatiently: "Acting can't be taught." Gradually I learned to modify this conviction and to recognize that there are two classes of actors: 1. Those who can only do what they are taught.
‘Oh, Gilbert! how could you do so? Where have you been? Do come in and take your supper. I’ve got it all ready, though you don’t deserve it, for keeping me in such a fright, after the strange manner you left the house this evening. Mr. Millward was quite— Bless the boy! how ill he looks. Oh, gracious! what is the matter?’ ‘Nothing, nothing—give me a candle.’ ‘But won’t you take some supper?’
Mary Millward was another mute,—not so much tormented with cruel kindness as Dick Wilson, because she had a certain short, decided way of answering and refusing, and was supposed to be rather sullen than diffident. However that might be, she certainly did not give much pleasure to the company;—nor did she appear to derive much from it.
‘Quite right, Miss Millward!—and so do I—whatever it may be.’ ‘Well,’ observed Eliza, with a gentle sigh, ‘it’s well to have such a comfortable assurance regarding the worth of those we love. I only wish you may not find your confidence misplaced.’
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