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

my boy⁠—and when he passes the house, so many scores of miles from his home, he declines to look in for fear of intruding!”

“Mr. Markham is overmodest,” observed Mrs. Maxwell.

“Over-ceremonious rather,” said her niece⁠—“over⁠—well, it’s no matter.” And turning from me, she seated herself in a chair beside the table, and pulling a book to her by the cover, began to turn over the leaves in an energetic kind of abstraction.

“If I had known,” said I, “that you would have honoured me by remembering me as an intimate acquaintance, I most likely should not have denied myself the pleasure of calling upon you, but I thought you had forgotten me long ago.”

“You judged of others by yourself,” muttered she without raising her eyes from the book, but reddening as she spoke, and hastily turning over a dozen leaves at once.

There was a pause, of which Arthur thought he might venture to avail himself to introduce his handsome young setter, and show me how wonderfully it was grown and improved, and to ask after the welfare of its father Sancho. Mrs. Maxwell then withdrew to take off her things. Helen immediately pushed the book from her, and after silently surveying her son, his friend, and his dog for a few moments, she dismissed the former from the room under pretence of wishing him to fetch his last new book to show me. The child obeyed with alacrity; but I continued caressing the dog. The silence might have lasted till its master’s return, had it depended on me to break it; but, in half a minute or less, my hostess impatiently rose, and, taking her former station on the rug between me and the chimney corner, earnestly exclaimed⁠—

“Gilbert, what is the matter with you?⁠—why are you so changed? It is a very indiscreet question, I know,” she hastened to add: “perhaps a very rude one⁠—don’t answer it if you think so⁠—but I hate mysteries and concealments.”

“I am not changed, Helen⁠—unfortunately I am as keen and passionate as ever⁠—it is not I, it is circumstances that are changed.”

“What circumstances? Do tell me!” Her cheek was blanched with the very anguish of anxiety⁠—could it be with the fear that I had rashly pledged my faith to another?

“I’ll tell you at once,” said I. “I will confess that I came here for the purpose of seeing you (not without some monitory misgivings at my own presumption, and fears that I should be as little welcome as expected when I came), but I did not know that this estate was yours until enlightened on the subject of your inheritance by the conversation of two fellow-passengers in the last stage of my journey; and then I saw at once the folly of the hopes I had cherished, and the madness of retaining them a moment longer; and though I alighted at your gates, I determined not to enter within them; I lingered a few minutes to see the place, but was fully resolved to return to M⁠⸺ without seeing its mistress.”

“And if my aunt and I had not been just returning from our morning drive, I should have seen and heard no more of you?”

“I thought it would be better for both that we should not meet,” replied I, as calmly as I could, but not daring to speak above my breath, from conscious inability to steady my voice, and not daring to look in her face lest my firmness should forsake me altogether. “I thought an interview would only disturb your peace and madden me. But I am glad, now, of this opportunity of seeing you once more and knowing that you have not forgotten me, and of assuring you that I shall never cease to remember you.”

There was a moment’s pause. Mrs. Huntingdon moved away, and stood in the recess of the window. Did she regard this as an intimation that modesty alone prevented me from asking her hand? and was she considering how to repulse me with the smallest injury to my feelings? Before I could speak to relieve her from such a perplexity, she broke the silence herself by suddenly turning towards me and observing⁠—

“You might have had such an opportunity before⁠—as far, I mean, as regards assuring me of your kindly recollections, and yourself of mine, if you had written to me.”

“I would have done so, but I did not know your address, and did not like to ask your brother, because I thought he would object to my writing; but this would not have deterred me for a moment, if I could have ventured to believe that you expected to hear from me, or even wasted a thought upon your unhappy friend; but your silence naturally led me to conclude myself forgotten.”

“Did you expect me to write to you, then?”

“No, Helen⁠—Mrs. Huntingdon,” said I, blushing at the implied imputation, “certainly not; but if you had sent me a message through your brother, or even asked him about me now and then⁠—”

“I did ask about you frequently. I was not going to do more,” continued she, smiling, “so long as you continued to restrict yourself to a few polite inquiries about my health.”

“Your brother never told me that you had mentioned my name.”

“Did you ever ask him?”

“No; for I saw he did not wish to be questioned about you, or to afford the slightest encouragement or assistance to my too obstinate attachment.” Helen did not reply. “And he was perfectly right,” added I. But she remained in silence, looking out upon the snowy lawn. “Oh, I will relieve her of my presence,” thought I; and immediately I rose and advanced to take leave, with a most heroic resolution⁠—but pride was at the bottom of it, or it could not have carried me through.

“Are you going already?” said she, taking the hand I offered, and not immediately letting it go.

“Why should I stay any longer?”

“Wait till Arthur comes, at least.”

Only too glad to obey, I stood and leant against the opposite side of the window.

“You told me you