The Tenant of Wildfell Hall Anne BrontĂ« (librera reader .txt) đ
- Author: Anne Brontë
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Such thoughts as these chased one another through my mind, as I paced to and fro the room, and longedâ âoh, how I longedâ âto take my child and leave them now, without an hourâs delay! But it could not be; there was work before me: hard work, that must be done.
âThen let me do it,â said I, âand lose not a moment in vain repinings and idle chafings against my fate, and those who influence it.â
And conquering my agitation with a powerful effort, I immediately resumed my task, and laboured hard all day.
Mr. Hargrave did depart on the morrow; and I have never seen him since. The others stayed on for two or three weeks longer; but I kept aloof from them as much as possible, and still continued my labour, and have continued it, with almost unabated ardour, to the present day. I soon acquainted Rachel with my design, confiding all my motives and intentions to her ear, and, much to my agreeable surprise, found little difficulty in persuading her to enter into my views. She is a sober, cautious woman, but she so hates her master, and so loves her mistress and her nursling, that after several ejaculations, a few faint objections, and many tears and lamentations that I should be brought to such a pass, she applauded my resolution and consented to aid me with all her might: on one condition only: that she might share my exile: otherwise, she was utterly inexorable, regarding it as perfect madness for me and Arthur to go alone. With touching generosity, she modestly offered to aid me with her little hoard of savings, hoping I would âexcuse her for the liberty, but really, if I would do her the favour to accept it as a loan, she would be very happy.â Of course I could not think of such a thing; but now, thank heaven, I have gathered a little hoard of my own, and my preparations are so far advanced that I am looking forward to a speedy emancipation. Only let the stormy severity of this winter weather be somewhat abated, and then, some morning, Mr. Huntingdon will come down to a solitary breakfast-table, and perhaps be clamouring through the house for his invisible wife and child, when they are some fifty miles on their way to the Western world, or it may be more: for we shall leave him hours before the dawn, and it is not probable he will discover the loss of both until the day is far advanced.
I am fully alive to the evils that may and must result upon the step I am about to take; but I never waver in my resolution, because I never forget my son. It was only this morning, while I pursued my usual employment, he was sitting at my feet, quietly playing with the shreds of canvas I had thrown upon the carpet; but his mind was otherwise occupied, for, in a while, he looked up wistfully in my face, and gravely askedâ ââMamma, why are you wicked?â
âWho told you I was wicked, love?â
âRachel.â
âNo, Arthur, Rachel never said so, I am certain.â
âWell, then, it was papa,â replied he, thoughtfully. Then, after a reflective pause, he added, âAt least, Iâll tell you how it was I got to know: when Iâm with papa, if I say mamma wants me, or mamma says Iâm not to do something that he tells me to do, he always says, âMamma be damned,â and Rachel says itâs only wicked people that are damned. So, mamma, thatâs why I think you must be wicked: and I wish you wouldnât.â
âMy dear child, I am not. Those are bad words, and wicked people often say them of others better than themselves. Those words cannot make people be damned, nor show that they deserve it. God will judge us by our own thoughts and deeds, not by what others say about us. And when you hear such words spoken, Arthur, remember never to repeat them: it is wicked to say such things of others, not to have them said against you.â
âThen itâs papa thatâs wicked,â said he, ruefully.
âPapa is wrong to say such things, and you will be very wrong to imitate him now that you know better.â
âWhat is imitate?â
âTo do as he does.â
âDoes he know better?â
âPerhaps he does; but that is nothing to you.â
âIf he doesnât, you ought to tell him, mamma.â
âI have told him.â
The little moralist paused and pondered. I tried in vain to divert his mind from the subject.
âIâm sorry papaâs wicked,â said he mournfully, at length, âfor I donât want him to go to hell.â And so saying he burst into tears.
I consoled him with the hope that perhaps his papa would alter and become good before he diedâ â; but is it not time to deliver him from such a parent?
XLJanuary 10th, 1827.â âWhile writing the above, yesterday evening, I sat in the drawing-room. Mr. Huntingdon was present, but, as I thought, asleep on the sofa behind me. He had risen, however, unknown to me, and, actuated by some base spirit of curiosity, been looking over my shoulder for I know not how long; for when I had laid aside my pen, and was about to close the book, he suddenly placed his hand upon it, and sayingâ ââWith your leave, my dear, Iâll have a look at this,â forcibly wrested it from me, and, drawing a chair to the table, composedly sat down to examine
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