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

call this man? Here, Jacob⁠—” But checking the word on her lips, I seized her arm and gave it, I think, a pretty severe squeeze, for she shrank into herself with a faint cry of pain or terror; but the spirit within her was not subdued: instantly rallying, she continued, with well-feigned concern, “What can I do for you? Will you have some water⁠—some brandy? I daresay they have some in the public-house down there, if you’ll let me run.”

“Have done with this nonsense!” cried I, sternly. She looked confounded⁠—almost frightened again, for a moment. “You know I hate such jests,” I continued.

“Jests indeed! I wasn’t jesting!”

“You were laughing, at all events; and I don’t like to be laughed at,” returned I, making violent efforts to speak with proper dignity and composure, and to say nothing but what was coherent and sensible. “And since you are in such a merry mood, Miss Eliza, you must be good enough company for yourself; and therefore I shall leave you to finish your walk alone⁠—for, now I think of it, I have business elsewhere; so good evening.”

With that I left her (smothering her malicious laughter) and turned aside into the fields, springing up the bank, and pushing through the nearest gap in the hedge. Determined at once to prove the truth⁠—or rather the falsehood⁠—of her story, I hastened to Woodford as fast as my legs could carry me; first veering round by a circuitous course, but the moment I was out of sight of my fair tormentor cutting away across the country, just as a bird might fly, over pastureland, and fallow, and stubble, and lane, clearing hedges and ditches and hurdles, till I came to the young squire’s gates. Never till now had I known the full fervour of my love⁠—the full strength of my hopes, not wholly crushed even in my hours of deepest despondency, always tenaciously clinging to the thought that one day she might be mine, or, if not that, at least that something of my memory, some slight remembrance of our friendship and our love, would be forever cherished in her heart. I marched up to the door, determined, if I saw the master, to question him boldly concerning his sister, to wait and hesitate no longer, but cast false delicacy and stupid pride behind my back, and know my fate at once.

“Is Mr. Lawrence at home?” I eagerly asked of the servant that opened the door.

“No, sir, master went yesterday,” replied he, looking very alert.

“Went where?”

“To Grassdale, sir⁠—wasn’t you aware, sir? He’s very close, is master,” said the fellow, with a foolish, simpering grin. “I suppose, sir⁠—”

But I turned and left him, without waiting to hear what he supposed. I was not going to stand there to expose my tortured feelings to the insolent laughter and impertinent curiosity of a fellow like that.

But what was to be done now? Could it be possible that she had left me for that man? I could not believe it. Me she might forsake, but not to give herself to him! Well, I would know the truth; to no concerns of daily life could I attend while this tempest of doubt and dread, of jealousy and rage, distracted me. I would take the morning coach from L⁠⸺ (the evening one would be already gone), and fly to Grassdale⁠—I must be there before the marriage. And why? Because a thought struck me that perhaps I might prevent it⁠—that if I did not, she and I might both lament it to the latest moment of our lives. It struck me that someone might have belied me to her: perhaps her brother; yes, no doubt her brother had persuaded her that I was false and faithless, and taking advantage of her natural indignation, and perhaps her desponding carelessness about her future life, had urged her, artfully, cruelly, on to this other marriage, in order to secure her from me. If this was the case, and if she should only discover her mistake when too late to repair it⁠—to what a life of misery and vain regret might she be doomed as well as me; and what remorse for me to think my foolish scruples had induced it all! Oh, I must see her⁠—she must know my truth even if I told it at the church door! I might pass for a madman or an impertinent fool⁠—even she might be offended at such an interruption, or at least might tell me it was now too late. But if I could save her, if she might be mine!⁠—it was too rapturous a thought!

Winged by this hope, and goaded by these fears, I hurried homewards to prepare for my departure on the morrow. I told my mother that urgent business which admitted no delay, but which I could not then explain, called me away.

My deep anxiety and serious preoccupation could not be concealed from her maternal eyes; and I had much ado to calm her apprehensions of some disastrous mystery.

That night there came a heavy fall of snow, which so retarded the progress of the coaches on the following day that I was almost driven to distraction. I travelled all night, of course, for this was Wednesday: tomorrow morning, doubtless, the marriage would take place. But the night was long and dark: the snow heavily clogged the wheels and balled the horses’ feet; the animals were consumedly lazy; the coachman most execrably cautious; the passengers confoundedly apathetic in their supine indifference to the rate of our progression. Instead of assisting me to bully the several coachmen and urge them forward, they merely stared and grinned at my impatience: one fellow even ventured to rally me upon it⁠—but I silenced him with a look that quelled him for the rest of the journey; and when, at the last stage, I would have taken the reins into my own hand, they all with one accord opposed it.

It was broad daylight when we entered M⁠⸺ and drew up at the “Rose