“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.”

And there I beheld a tall, ladylike figure, clad in black. Her face was towards me, and there was something in it which, once seen, invited me to look again. Her hair was raven black, and disposed in long glossy ringlets, a style of coiffure rather unusual in those days, but always graceful and becoming; her complexion was clear and pale; her eyes I could not see, for, being bent upon her prayerbook, they were concealed by their drooping lids and long black lashes, but the brows above were expressive and well defined; the forehead was lofty and intellectual, the nose, a perfect aquiline and the features, in general, unexceptionable⁠—only there was a slight hollowness about the cheeks and eyes, and the lips, though finely formed, were a little too thin, a little too firmly compressed, and had something about them that betokened, I thought, no very soft or amiable temper; and I said in my heart⁠—“I would rather admire you from this distance, fair lady, than be the partner of your home.”

But then it flashed upon me that these were very improper thoughts for a place of worship, and that my behaviour, on the present occasion, was anything but what it ought to be. Previous, however, to directing my mind to the service, I glanced round the church to see if anyone had been observing me;⁠—but no⁠—all, who were not attending to their prayerbooks, were attending to the strange lady⁠—my good mother and sister among the rest, and Mrs. Wilson and her daughter; and even Eliza Millward was slyly glancing from the corners of her eyes towards the object of general attraction. Then she glanced at me, simpered a little, and blushed, modestly looked at her prayerbook, and endeavoured to compose her features.

Now, Halford, before I close this letter, I’ll tell you who Eliza Millward was: she was the vicar’s younger daughter, and a very engaging little creature, for whom I felt no small degree of partiality;⁠—and she knew it, though I had never come to any direct explanation, and had no definite intention of so doing, for my mother, who maintained there was no one good enough for me within twenty miles round, could not bear the thoughts of my marrying that insignificant little thing, who, in addition to her numerous other disqualifications, had not twenty pounds to call her own. Eliza’s figure was at once slight and plump, her face small, and nearly as round as my sister’s⁠—complexion, something similar to hers, but more delicate and less decidedly blooming⁠—nose, retroussé⁠—features, generally irregular; and, altogether, she was rather charming than pretty. But her eyes⁠—I must not forget those remarkable features, for therein her chief attraction lay⁠—in outward aspect at least;⁠—they were long and narrow in shape, the irids black, or very dark brown, the expression various, and ever changing, but always either preternaturally⁠—I had almost said diabolically⁠—wicked, or irresistibly bewitching⁠—often both.

Her sister, Mary, was several years older, several inches taller, and of a larger, coarser build⁠—a plain, quiet, sensible girl, who had patiently nursed their mother, through her last long, tedious illness, and been the housekeeper, and family drudge, from thence to the present time. She was trusted and valued by her father, loved and courted by all dogs, cats, children, and poor people, and slighted and neglected by everybody else.

Lawrence, the young squire, whose family had formerly occupied Wildfell Hall, but had deserted it, some fifteen years ago, for a more modern and commodious mansion in the neighbouring parish.