The Tenant of Wildfell Hall Anne BrontĂ« (librera reader .txt) đ
- Author: Anne Brontë
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Mrs. Graham had discontinued her walk. She leant against one end of the chimneypiece, opposite that near which I was standing, with her chin resting on her closed hand, her eyesâ âno longer burning with anger, but gleaming with restless excitementâ âsometimes glancing at me while I spoke, then coursing the opposite wall, or fixed upon the carpet.
âYou should have come to me after all,â said she, âand heard what I had to say in my own justification. It was ungenerous and wrong to withdraw yourself so secretly and suddenly, immediately after such ardent protestations of attachment, without ever assigning a reason for the change. You should have told me allâ âno matter how bitterly. It would have been better than this silence.â
âTo what end should I have done so? You could not have enlightened me further, on the subject which alone concerned me; nor could you have made me discredit the evidence of my senses. I desired our intimacy to be discontinued at once, as you yourself had acknowledged would probably be the case if I knew all; but I did not wish to upbraid youâ âthough (as you also acknowledged) you had deeply wronged me. Yes, you have done me an injury you can never repairâ âor any other eitherâ âyou have blighted the freshness and promise of youth, and made my life a wilderness! I might live a hundred years, but I could never recover from the effects of this withering blowâ âand never forget it! Hereafterâ âYou smile, Mrs. Graham,â said I, suddenly stopping short, checked in my passionate declamation by unutterable feelings to behold her actually smiling at the picture of the ruin she had wrought.
âDid I?â replied she, looking seriously up; âI was not aware of it. If I did, it was not for pleasure at the thoughts of the harm I had done you. Heaven knows I have had torment enough at the bare possibility of that; it was for joy to find that you had some depth of soul and feeling after all, and to hope that I had not been utterly mistaken in your worth. But smiles and tears are so alike with me, they are neither of them confined to any particular feelings: I often cry when I am happy, and smile when I am sad.â
She looked at me again, and seemed to expect a reply; but I continued silent.
âWould you be very glad,â resumed she, âto find that you were mistaken in your conclusions?â
âHow can you ask it, Helen?â
âI donât say I can clear myself altogether,â said she, speaking low and fast, while her heart beat visibly and her bosom heaved with excitementâ ââbut would you be glad to discover I was better than you think me?â
âAnything that could in the least degree tend to restore my former opinion of you, to excuse the regard I still feel for you, and alleviate the pangs of unutterable regret that accompany it, would be only too gladly, too eagerly received!â Her cheeks burned, and her whole frame trembled, now, with excess of agitation. She did not speak, but flew to her desk, and snatching thence what seemed a thick album or manuscript volume, hastily tore away a few leaves from the end, and thrust the rest into my hand, saying, âYou neednât read it all; but take it home with you,â and hurried from the room. But when I had left the house, and was proceeding down the walk, she opened the window and called me back. It was only to sayâ ââBring it back when you have read it; and donât breathe a word of what it tells you to any living being. I trust to your honour.â
Before I could answer she had closed the casement and turned away. I saw her cast herself back in the old oak chair, and cover her face with her hands. Her feelings had been wrought to a pitch that rendered it necessary to seek relief in tears.
Panting with eagerness, and struggling to suppress my hopes, I hurried home, and rushed upstairs to my room, having first provided myself with a candle, though it was scarcely twilight yetâ âthen, shut and bolted the door, determined to tolerate no interruption; and sitting down before the table, opened out my prize and delivered myself up to its perusalâ âfirst hastily turning over the leaves and snatching a sentence here and there, and then setting myself steadily to read it through.
I have it now before me; and though you could not, of course, peruse it with half the interest that I did, I know you would not be satisfied with an abbreviation of its contents, and you shall have the whole, save, perhaps, a few passages here and there of merely temporary interest to the writer, or such as would serve to encumber the story rather than elucidate it. It begins somewhat abruptly, thusâ âbut we will reserve its commencement for another chapter.
XVIJune 1st, 1821.â âWe have just returned to Staningleyâ âthat is, we returned some days ago, and I am not yet settled, and feel as if I never should be. We left town sooner than was intended, in consequence of my uncleâs indisposition;â âI wonder what would have been the result if we had stayed the full time. I am quite ashamed of my new-sprung distaste for country life. All my former occupations seem so tedious and dull, my former amusements so insipid and unprofitable. I cannot enjoy my music, because there is no one to hear it. I cannot enjoy my walks, because there is no one to meet. I cannot enjoy my books, because they have not power to arrest my attention: my head is so haunted with the recollections of the last few weeks, that I cannot attend to them. My drawing suits me best, for I can draw and think at the same time; and if my productions cannot now be seen by anyone but myself, and those who do not care about them, they, possibly, may be, hereafter. But, then,
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