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

carriage. “Markham, will you come? We are going to Paris, but we can drop you anywhere between this and Dover.”

“No, thank you. Goodbye⁠—I needn’t wish you a pleasant journey; but I shall expect a very handsome apology, some time, mind, and scores of letters, before we meet again.”

He shook my hand, and hastened to take his place beside his lady. This was no time or place for explanation or discourse: we had already stood long enough to excite the wonder of the village sightseers, and perhaps the wrath of the attendant bridal party; though, of course, all this passed in a much shorter time than I have taken to relate, or even than you will take to read it. I stood beside the carriage, and, the window being down, I saw my happy friend fondly encircle his companion’s waist with his arm, while she rested her glowing cheek on his shoulder, looking the very impersonation of loving, trusting bliss. In the interval between the footman’s closing the door and taking his place behind she raised her smiling brown eyes to his face, observing, playfully⁠—“I fear you must think me very insensible, Frederick: I know it is the custom for ladies to cry on these occasions, but I couldn’t squeeze a tear for my life.”

He only answered with a kiss, and pressed her still closer to his bosom.

“But what is this?” he murmured. “Why, Esther, you’re crying now!”

“Oh, it’s nothing⁠—it’s only too much happiness⁠—and the wish,” sobbed she, “that our dear Helen were as happy as ourselves.”

“Bless you for that wish!” I inwardly responded, as the carriage rolled away⁠—“and heaven grant it be not wholly vain!”

I thought a cloud had suddenly darkened her husband’s face as she spoke. What did he think? Could he grudge such happiness to his dear sister and his friend as he now felt himself? At such a moment it was impossible. The contrast between her fate and his must darken his bliss for a time. Perhaps, too, he thought of me: perhaps he regretted the part he had had in preventing our union, by omitting to help us, if not by actually plotting against us. I exonerated him from that charge now, and deeply lamented my former ungenerous suspicions; but he had wronged us, still⁠—I hoped, I trusted that he had. He had not attempted to cheek the course of our love by actually damming up the streams in their passage, but he had passively watched the two currents wandering through life’s arid wilderness, declining to clear away the obstructions that divided them, and secretly hoping that both would lose themselves in the sand before they could be joined in one. And meantime he had been quietly proceeding with his own affairs; perhaps, his heart and head had been so full of his fair lady that he had had but little thought to spare for others. Doubtless he had made his first acquaintance with her⁠—his first intimate acquaintance at least⁠—during his three months’ sojourn at F⁠⸺, for I now recollected that he had once casually let fall an intimation that his aunt and sister had a young friend staying with them at the time, and this accounted for at least one-half his silence about all transactions there. Now, too, I saw a reason for many little things that had slightly puzzled me before; among the rest, for sundry departures from Woodford, and absences more or less prolonged, for which he never satisfactorily accounted, and concerning which he hated to be questioned on his return. Well might the servant say his master was “very close.” But why this strange reserve to me? Partly, from that remarkable idiosyncrasy to which I have before alluded; partly, perhaps, from tenderness to my feelings, or fear to disturb my philosophy by touching upon the infectious theme of love.

LII

The tardy gig had overtaken me at last. I entered it, and bade the man who brought it drive to Grassdale Manor⁠—I was too busy with my own thoughts to care to drive it myself. I would see Mrs. Huntingdon⁠—there could be no impropriety in that now that her husband had been dead above a year⁠—and by her indifference or her joy at my unexpected arrival I could soon tell whether her heart was truly mine. But my companion, a loquacious, forward fellow, was not disposed to leave me to the indulgence of my private cogitations.

“There they go!” said he, as the carriages filed away before us. “There’ll be brave doings on yonder today, as what come to-morra.⁠—Know anything of that family, sir? or you’re a stranger in these parts?”

“I know them by report.”

“Humph! There’s the best of ’em gone, anyhow. And I suppose the old missis is agoing to leave after this stir’s gotten overed, and take herself off, somewhere, to live on her bit of a jointure; and the young ’un⁠—at least the new ’un (she’s none so very young)⁠—is coming down to live at the Grove.”

“Is Mr. Hargrave married, then?”

“Ay, sir, a few months since. He should a been wed afore, to a widow lady, but they couldn’t agree over the money: she’d a rare long purse, and Mr. Hargrave wanted it all to hisself; but she wouldn’t let it go, and so then they fell out. This one isn’t quite as rich, nor as handsome either, but she hasn’t been married before. She’s very plain, they say, and getting on to forty or past, and so, you know, if she didn’t jump at this hopportunity, she thought she’d never get a better. I guess she thought such a handsome young husband was worth all ’at ever she had, and he might take it and welcome, but I lay she’ll rue her bargain afore long. They say she begins already to see ’at he isn’t not altogether that nice, generous, perlite, delightful gentleman ’at she thought him afore marriage⁠—he begins a being careless and masterful already. Ay, and she’ll find him harder and carelesser nor she thinks