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

sought my pillow, and how much sleep it brought me, I leave you to imagine.

At the first appearance of dawn, I rose, and brought the manuscript to the window, but it was impossible to read it yet. I devoted half an hour to dressing, and then returned to it again. Now, with a little difficulty, I could manage; and with intense and eager interest, I devoured the remainder of its contents. When it was ended, and my transient regret at its abrupt conclusion was over, I opened the window and put out my head to catch the cooling breeze, and imbibe deep draughts of the pure morning air. A splendid morning it was; the half-frozen dew lay thick on the grass, the swallows were twittering round me, the rooks cawing, and cows lowing in the distance; and early frost and summer sunshine mingled their sweetness in the air. But I did not think of that: a confusion of countless thoughts and varied emotions crowded upon me while I gazed abstractedly on the lovely face of nature. Soon, however, this chaos of thoughts and passions cleared away, giving place to two distinct emotions: joy unspeakable that my adored Helen was all I wished to think her⁠—that through the noisome vapours of the world’s aspersions and my own fancied convictions, her character shone bright, and clear, and stainless as that sun I could not bear to look on; and shame and deep remorse for my own conduct.

Immediately after breakfast I hurried over to Wildfell Hall. Rachel had risen many degrees in my estimation since yesterday. I was ready to greet her quite as an old friend; but every kindly impulse was checked by the look of cold distrust she cast upon me on opening the door. The old virgin had constituted herself the guardian of her lady’s honour, I suppose, and doubtless she saw in me another Mr. Hargrave, only the more dangerous in being more esteemed and trusted by her mistress.

“Missis can’t see anyone today, sir⁠—she’s poorly,” said she, in answer to my inquiry for Mrs. Graham.

“But I must see her, Rachel,” said I, placing my hand on the door to prevent its being shut against me.

“Indeed, sir, you can’t,” replied she, settling her countenance in still more iron frigidity than before.

“Be so good as to announce me.”

“It’s no manner of use, Mr. Markham; she’s poorly, I tell you.”

Just in time to prevent me from committing the impropriety of taking the citadel by storm, and pushing forward unannounced, an inner door opened, and little Arthur appeared with his frolicsome playfellow, the dog. He seized my hand between both his, and smilingly drew me forward.

“Mamma says you’re to come in, Mr. Markham,” said he, “and I am to go out and play with Rover.”

Rachel retired with a sigh, and I stepped into the parlour and shut the door. There, before the fireplace, stood the tall, graceful figure, wasted with many sorrows. I cast the manuscript on the table, and looked in her face. Anxious and pale, it was turned towards me; her clear, dark eyes were fixed on mine with a gaze so intensely earnest that they bound me like a spell.

“Have you looked it over?” she murmured. The spell was broken.

“I’ve read it through,” said I, advancing into the room⁠—“and I want to know if you’ll forgive me⁠—if you can forgive me?”

She did not answer, but her eyes glistened, and a faint red mantled on her lip and cheek. As I approached, she abruptly turned away, and went to the window. It was not in anger, I was well assured, but only to conceal or control her emotion. I therefore ventured to follow and stand beside her there⁠—but not to speak. She gave me her hand, without turning her head, and murmured in a voice she strove in vain to steady⁠—“Can you forgive me?”

It might be deemed a breach of trust, I thought, to convey that lily hand to my lips, so I only gently pressed it between my own, and smilingly replied⁠—“I hardly can. You should have told me this before. It shows a want of confidence⁠—”

“Oh, no,” cried she, eagerly interrupting me; “it was not that. It was no want of confidence in you; but if I had told you anything of my history, I must have told you all, in order to excuse my conduct; and I might well shrink from such a disclosure, till necessity obliged me to make it. But you forgive me?⁠—I have done very, very wrong, I know; but, as usual, I have reaped the bitter fruits of my own error⁠—and must reap them to the end.”

Bitter, indeed, was the tone of anguish, repressed by resolute firmness, in which this was spoken. Now, I raised her hand to my lips, and fervently kissed it again and again; for tears prevented any other reply. She suffered these wild caresses without resistance or resentment; then, suddenly turning from me, she paced twice or thrice through the room. I knew by the contraction of her brow, the tight compression of her lips, and wringing of her hands, that meantime a violent conflict between reason and passion was silently passing within. At length she paused before the empty fireplace, and turning to me, said calmly⁠—if that might be called calmness which was so evidently the result of a violent effort⁠—“Now, Gilbert, you must leave me⁠—not this moment, but soon⁠—and you must never come again.”

“Never again, Helen? just when I love you more than ever.”

“For that very reason, if it be so, we should not meet again. I thought this interview was necessary⁠—at least, I persuaded myself it was so⁠—that we might severally ask and receive each other’s pardon for the past; but there can be no excuse for another. I shall leave this place, as soon as I have means to seek another asylum; but our intercourse must end here.”

“End here!” echoed I; and approaching the high, carved chimneypiece, I leant my hand against its heavy mouldings, and dropped my forehead upon