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

That day was rainy like its predecessor; but towards evening it began to clear up a little, and the next morning was fair and promising. I was out on the hill with the reapers. A light wind swept over the corn, and all nature laughed in the sunshine. The lark was rejoicing among the silvery floating clouds. The late rain had so sweetly freshened and cleared the air, and washed the sky, and left such glittering gems on branch and blade, that not even the farmers could have the heart to blame it. But no ray of sunshine could reach my heart, no breeze could freshen it; nothing could fill the void my faith, and hope, and joy in Helen Graham had left, or drive away the keen regrets and bitter dregs of lingering love that still oppressed it.

While I stood with folded arms abstractedly gazing on the undulating swell of the corn, not yet disturbed by the reapers, something gently pulled my skirts, and a small voice, no longer welcome to my ears, aroused me with the startling words⁠—“Mr. Markham, mamma wants you.”

“Wants me, Arthur?”

“Yes. Why do you look so queer?” said he, half laughing, half frightened at the unexpected aspect of my face in suddenly turning towards him⁠—“and why have you kept so long away? Come! Won’t you come?”

“I’m busy just now,” I replied, scarce knowing what to answer.

He looked up in childish bewilderment; but before I could speak again the lady herself was at my side.

“Gilbert, I must speak with you!” said she, in a tone of suppressed vehemence.

I looked at her pale cheek and glittering eye, but answered nothing.

“Only for a moment,” pleaded she. “Just step aside into this other field.” She glanced at the reapers, some of whom were directing looks of impertinent curiosity towards her. “I won’t keep you a minute.”

I accompanied her through the gap.

“Arthur, darling, run and gather those bluebells,” said she, pointing to some that were gleaming at some distance under the hedge along which we walked. The child hesitated, as if unwilling to quit my side. “Go, love!” repeated she more urgently, and in a tone which, though not unkind, demanded prompt obedience, and obtained it.

“Well, Mrs. Graham?” said I, calmly and coldly; for, though I saw she was miserable, and pitied her, I felt glad to have it in my power to torment her.

She fixed her eyes upon me with a look that pierced me to the heart; and yet it made me smile.

“I don’t ask the reason of this change, Gilbert,” said she, with bitter calmness: “I know it too well; but though I could see myself suspected and condemned by everyone else, and bear it with calmness, I cannot endure it from you.⁠—Why did you not come to hear my explanation on the day I appointed to give it?”

“Because I happened, in the interim, to learn all you would have told me⁠—and a trifle more, I imagine.”

“Impossible, for I would have told you all!” cried she, passionately⁠—“but I won’t now, for I see you are not worthy of it!”

And her pale lips quivered with agitation.

“Why not, may I ask?”

She repelled my mocking smile with a glance of scornful indignation.

“Because you never understood me, or you would not soon have listened to my traducers⁠—my confidence would be misplaced in you⁠—you are not the man I thought you. Go! I won’t care what you think of me.”

She turned away, and I went; for I thought that would torment her as much as anything; and I believe I was right; for, looking back a minute after, I saw her turn half round, as if hoping or expecting to find me still beside her; and then she stood still, and cast one look behind. It was a look less expressive of anger than of bitter anguish and despair; but I immediately assumed an aspect of indifference, and affected to be gazing carelessly around me, and I suppose she went on; for after lingering awhile to see if she would come back or call, I ventured one more glance, and saw her a good way off, moving rapidly up the field, with little Arthur running by her side and apparently talking as he went; but she kept her face averted from him, as if to hide some uncontrollable emotion. And I returned to my business.

But I soon began to regret my precipitancy in leaving her so soon. It was evident she loved me⁠—probably she was tired of Mr. Lawrence, and wished to exchange him for me; and if I had loved and reverenced her less to begin with, the preference might have gratified and amused me; but now the contrast between her outward seeming and her inward mind, as I supposed⁠—between my former and my present opinion of her, was so harrowing⁠—so distressing to my feelings, that it swallowed up every lighter consideration.

But still I was curious to know what sort of an explanation she would have given me⁠—or would give now, if I pressed her for it⁠—how much she would confess, and how she would endeavour to excuse herself. I longed to know what to despise, and what to admire in her; how much to pity, and how much to hate;⁠—and, what was more, I would know. I would see her once more, and fairly satisfy myself in what light to regard her, before we parted. Lost to me she was, forever, of course; but still I could not bear to think that we had parted, for the last time, with so much unkindness and misery on both sides. That last look of hers had sunk into my heart; I could not forget it. But what a fool I was! Had she not deceived me, injured me⁠—blighted my happiness for life? “Well, I’ll see her, however,” was my concluding resolve, “but not today: today and tonight she may think upon her sins, and be as miserable as she will: tomorrow I will see her once