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

friends⁠—I should not care for their estrangement. Now are you satisfied?” She looked up in my face with a smile of ineffable tenderness.

“Can I be otherwise, with your love? And you do love me, Helen?” said I, not doubting the fact, but wishing to hear it confirmed by her own acknowledgment. “If you loved as I do,” she earnestly replied, “you would not have so nearly lost me⁠—these scruples of false delicacy and pride would never thus have troubled you⁠—you would have seen that the greatest worldly distinctions and discrepancies of rank, birth, and fortune are as dust in the balance compared with the unity of accordant thoughts and feelings, and truly loving, sympathising hearts and souls.”

“But this is too much happiness,” said I, embracing her again; “I have not deserved it, Helen⁠—I dare not believe in such felicity: and the longer I have to wait, the greater will be my dread that something will intervene to snatch you from me⁠—and think, a thousand things may happen in a year!⁠—I shall be in one long fever of restless terror and impatience all the time. And besides, winter is such a dreary season.”

“I thought so too,” replied she gravely: “I would not be married in winter⁠—in December, at least,” she added, with a shudder⁠—for in that month had occurred both the ill-starred marriage that had bound her to her former husband, and the terrible death that released her⁠—“and therefore I said another year, in spring.”

“Next spring?”

“No, no⁠—next autumn, perhaps.”

“Summer, then?”

“Well, the close of summer. There now! be satisfied.”

While she was speaking Arthur re-entered the room⁠—good boy for keeping out so long.

“Mamma, I couldn’t find the book in either of the places you told me to look for it” (there was a conscious something in mamma’s smile that seemed to say, “No, dear, I knew you could not”), “but Rachel got it for me at last. Look, Mr. Markham, a natural history, with all kinds of birds and beasts in it, and the reading as nice as the pictures!”

In great good humour I sat down to examine the book, and drew the little fellow between my knees. Had he come a minute before I should have received him less graciously, but now I affectionately stroked his curling locks, and even kissed his ivory forehead: he was my own Helen’s son, and therefore mine; and as such I have ever since regarded him. That pretty child is now a fine young man: he has realised his mother’s brightest expectations, and is at present residing in Grassdale Manor with his young wife⁠—the merry little Helen Hattersley of yore.

I had not looked through half the book before Mrs. Maxwell appeared to invite me into the other room to lunch. That lady’s cool, distant manners rather chilled me at first; but I did my best to propitiate her, and not entirely without success, I think, even in that first short visit; for when I talked cheerfully to her, she gradually became more kind and cordial, and when I departed she bade me a gracious adieu, hoping ere long to have the pleasure of seeing me again.

“But you must not go till you have seen the conservatory, my aunt’s winter garden,” said Helen, as I advanced to take leave of her, with as much philosophy and self-command as I could summon to my aid.

I gladly availed myself of such a respite, and followed her into a large and beautiful conservatory, plentifully furnished with flowers, considering the season⁠—but, of course, I had little attention to spare for them. It was not, however, for any tender colloquy that my companion had brought me there:⁠—

“My aunt is particularly fond of flowers,” she observed, “and she is fond of Staningley too: I brought you here to offer a petition in her behalf, that this may be her home as long as she lives, and⁠—if it be not our home likewise⁠—that I may often see her and be with her; for I fear she will be sorry to lose me; and though she leads a retired and contemplative life, she is apt to get low-spirited if left too much alone.”

“By all means, dearest Helen!⁠—do what you will with your own. I should not dream of wishing your aunt to leave the place under any circumstances; and we will live either here or elsewhere as you and she may determine, and you shall see her as often as you like. I know she must be pained to part with you, and I am willing to make any reparation in my power. I love her for your sake, and her happiness shall be as dear to me as that of my own mother.”

“Thank you, darling! you shall have a kiss for that. Goodbye. There now⁠—there, Gilbert⁠—let me go⁠—here’s Arthur; don’t astonish his infantile brain with your madness.”

But it is time to bring my narrative to a close. Anyone but you would say I had made it too long already. But for your satisfaction I will add a few words more; because I know you will have a fellow-feeling for the old lady, and will wish to know the last of her history. I did come again in spring, and, agreeably to Helen’s injunctions, did my best to cultivate her acquaintance. She received me very kindly, having been, doubtless, already prepared to think highly of my character by her niece’s too favourable report. I turned my best side out, of course, and we got along marvellously well together. When my ambitious intentions were made known to her, she took it more sensibly than I had ventured to hope. Her only remark on the subject, in my hearing, was⁠—

“And so, Mr. Markham, you are going to rob me of my niece, I understand. Well! I hope God will prosper your union, and make my dear girl happy at last. Could she have been contented to remain single, I own I should have been better satisfied; but if she must marry again, I know of no one, now living and