The Tenant of Wildfell Hall Anne Brontë (librera reader .txt) 📖

Ralph, ‘and beg your wife’s pardon, and be a good boy for the future.’

“ ‘My wife! what wife? I have no wife,’ replied Huntingdon, looking innocently up from his glass, ‘or if I have, look you, gentlemen: I value her so highly that anyone among you, that can fancy her, may have her and welcome: you may, by Jove, and my blessing into the bargain!’

“I⁠—hem⁠—someone asked if he really meant what he said; upon which he solemnly swore he did, and no mistake. What do you think of that, Mrs. Huntingdon?” asked Mr. Hargrave, after a short pause, during which I had felt he was keenly examining my half-averted face.

“I say,” replied I, calmly, “that what he prizes so lightly will not be long in his possession.”

“You cannot mean that you will break your heart and die for the detestable conduct of an infamous villain like that!”

“By no means: my heart is too thoroughly dried to be broken in a hurry, and I mean to live as long as I can.”

“Will you leave him then?”

“Yes.”

“When: and how?” asked he, eagerly.

“When I am ready, and how I can manage it most effectually.”

“But your child?”

“My child goes with me.”

“He will not allow it.”

“I shall not ask him.”

“Ah, then, it is a secret flight you meditate! but with whom, Mrs. Huntingdon?”

“With my son: and possibly, his nurse.”

“Alone⁠—and unprotected! But where can you go? what can you do? He will follow you and bring you back.”

“I have laid my plans too well for that. Let me once get clear of Grassdale, and I shall consider myself safe.”

Mr. Hargrave advanced one step towards me, looked me in the face, and drew in his breath to speak; but that look, that heightened colour, that sudden sparkle of the eye, made my blood rise in wrath: I abruptly turned away, and, snatching up my brush, began to dash away at my canvas with rather too much energy for the good of the picture.

“Mrs. Huntingdon,” said he with bitter solemnity, “you are cruel⁠—cruel to me⁠—cruel to yourself.”

“Mr. Hargrave, remember your promise.”

“I must speak: my heart will burst if I don’t! I have been silent long enough, and you must hear me!” cried he, boldly intercepting my retreat to the door. “You tell me you owe no allegiance to your husband; he openly declares himself weary of you, and calmly gives you up to anybody that will take you; you are about to leave him; no one will believe that you go alone; all the world will say, ‘She has left him at last, and who can wonder at it? Few can blame her, fewer still can pity him; but who is the companion of her flight?’ Thus you will have no credit for your virtue (if you call it such): even your best friends will not believe in it; because it is monstrous, and not to be credited but by those who suffer, from the effects of it, such cruel torments that they know it to be indeed reality. But what can you do in the cold, rough world alone? you, a young and inexperienced woman, delicately nurtured, and utterly⁠—”

“In a word, you would advise me to stay where I am,” interrupted I. “Well, I’ll see about it.”

“By all means, leave him!” cried he earnestly; “but not alone! Helen! let me protect you!”

“Never! while heaven spares my reason,” replied I, snatching away the hand he had presumed to seize and press between his own. But he was in for it now; he had fairly broken the barrier: he was completely roused, and determined to hazard all for victory.

“I must not be denied!” exclaimed he, vehemently; and seizing both my hands, he held them very tight, but dropped upon his knee, and looked up in my face with a half-imploring, half-imperious gaze. “You have no reason now: you are flying in the face of heaven’s decrees. God has designed me to be your comfort and protector⁠—I feel it, I know it as certainly as if a voice from heaven declared, ‘Ye twain shall be one flesh’⁠—and you spurn me from you⁠—”

“Let me go, Mr. Hargrave!” said I, sternly. But he only tightened his grasp.

“Let me go!” I repeated, quivering with indignation.

His face was almost opposite the window as he knelt. With a slight start, I saw him glance towards it; and then a gleam of malicious triumph lit up his countenance. Looking over my shoulder, I beheld a shadow just retiring round the corner.

“That is Grimsby,” said he deliberately. “He will report what he has seen to Huntingdon and all the rest, with such embellishments as he thinks proper. He has no love for you, Mrs. Huntingdon⁠—no reverence for your sex, no belief in virtue, no admiration for its image. He will give such a version of this story as will leave no doubt at all about your character, in the minds of those who hear it. Your fair fame is gone; and nothing that I or you can say can ever retrieve it. But give me the power to protect you, and show me the villain that dares to insult!”

“No one has ever dared to insult me as you are doing now!” said I, at length releasing my hands, and recoiling from him.

“I do not insult you,” cried he: “I worship you. You are my angel, my divinity! I lay my powers at your feet, and you must and shall accept them!” he exclaimed, impetuously starting to his feet. “I will be your consoler and defender! and if your conscience upbraid you for it, say I overcame you, and you could not choose but yield!”

I never saw a man so terribly excited. He precipitated himself towards me. I snatched up my palette-knife and held it against him. This startled him: he stood and gazed at me in astonishment; I daresay I looked as fierce and resolute as he. I moved to the bell, and put my hand upon the cord. This tamed him still more. With a half-authoritative, half-deprecating wave of the hand, he sought to deter