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

were not changed,” said my companion: “you are⁠—very much so.”

“No, Mrs. Huntingdon, I only ought to be.”

“Do you mean to maintain that you have the same regard for me that you had when last we met?”

“I have; but it would be wrong to talk of it now.”

“It was wrong to talk of it then, Gilbert; it would not now⁠—unless to do so would be to violate the truth.”

I was too much agitated to speak; but, without waiting for an answer, she turned away her glistening eye and crimson cheek, and threw up the window and looked out, whether to calm her own, excited feelings, or to relieve her embarrassment, or only to pluck that beautiful half-blown Christmas-rose that grew upon the little shrub without, just peeping from the snow that had hitherto, no doubt, defended it from the frost, and was now melting away in the sun. Pluck it, however, she did, and having gently dashed the glittering powder from its leaves, approached it to her lips and said:

“This rose is not so fragrant as a summer flower, but it has stood through hardships none of them could bear: the cold rain of winter has sufficed to nourish it, and its faint sun to warm it; the bleak winds have not blanched it, or broken its stem, and the keen frost has not blighted it. Look, Gilbert, it is still fresh and blooming as a flower can be, with the cold snow even now on its petals.⁠—Will you have it?”

I held out my hand: I dared not speak lest my emotion should overmaster me. She laid the rose across my palm, but I scarcely closed my fingers upon it, so deeply was I absorbed in thinking what might be the meaning of her words, and what I ought to do or say upon the occasion; whether to give way to my feelings or restrain them still. Misconstruing this hesitation into indifference⁠—or reluctance even⁠—to accept her gift, Helen suddenly snatched it from my hand, threw it out on to the snow, shut down the window with an emphasis, and withdrew to the fire.

“Helen, what means this?” I cried, electrified at this startling change in her demeanour.

“You did not understand my gift,” said she⁠—“or, what is worse, you despised it. I’m sorry I gave it you; but since I did make such a mistake, the only remedy I could think of was to take it away.”

“You misunderstood me cruelly,” I replied, and in a minute I had opened the window again, leaped out, picked up the flower, brought it in, and presented it to her, imploring her to give it me again, and I would keep it forever for her sake, and prize it more highly than anything in the world I possessed.

“And will this content you?” said she, as she took it in her hand.

“It shall,” I answered.

“There, then; take it.”

I pressed it earnestly to my lips, and put it in my bosom, Mrs. Huntingdon looking on with a half-sarcastic smile.

“Now, are you going?” said she.

“I will if⁠—if I must.”

“You are changed,” persisted she⁠—“you are grown either very proud or very indifferent.”

“I am neither, Helen⁠—Mrs. Huntingdon. If you could see my heart⁠—”

“You must be one⁠—if not both. And why Mrs. Huntingdon?⁠—why not Helen, as before?”

“Helen, then⁠—dear Helen!” I murmured. I was in an agony of mingled love, hope, delight, uncertainty, and suspense.

“The rose I gave you was an emblem of my heart,” said she; “would you take it away and leave me here alone?”

“Would you give me your hand too, if I asked it?”

“Have I not said enough?” she answered, with a most enchanting smile. I snatched her hand, and would have fervently kissed it, but suddenly checked myself, and said⁠—

“But have you considered the consequences?”

“Hardly, I think, or I should not have offered myself to one too proud to take me, or too indifferent to make his affection outweigh my worldly goods.”

Stupid blockhead that I was!⁠—I trembled to clasp her in my arms, but dared not believe in so much joy, and yet restrained myself to say⁠—

“But if you should repent!”

“It would be your fault,” she replied: “I never shall, unless you bitterly disappoint me. If you have not sufficient confidence in my affection to believe this, let me alone.”

“My darling angel⁠—my own Helen,” cried I, now passionately kissing the hand I still retained, and throwing my left arm around her, “you never shall repent, if it depend on me alone. But have you thought of your aunt?” I trembled for the answer, and clasped her closer to my heart in the instinctive dread of losing my newfound treasure.

“My aunt must not know of it yet,” said she. “She would think it a rash, wild step, because she could not imagine how well I know you; but she must know you herself, and learn to like you. You must leave us now, after lunch, and come again in spring, and make a longer stay, and cultivate her acquaintance, and I know you will like each other.”

“And then you will be mine,” said I, printing a kiss upon her lips, and another, and another; for I was as daring and impetuous now as I had been backward and constrained before.

“No⁠—in another year,” replied she, gently disengaging herself from my embrace, but still fondly clasping my hand.

“Another year! Oh, Helen, I could not wait so long!”

“Where is your fidelity?”

“I mean I could not endure the misery of so long a separation.”

“It would not be a separation: we will write every day: my spirit shall be always with you, and sometimes you shall see me with your bodily eye. I will not be such a hypocrite as to pretend that I desire to wait so long myself, but as my marriage is to please myself, alone, I ought to consult my friends about the time of it.”

“Your friends will disapprove.”

“They will not greatly disapprove, dear Gilbert,” said she, earnestly kissing my hand; “they cannot, when they know you, or, if they could, they would not be true