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

“But which?” said he⁠—“for I shall only say it if you really were thinking of me. So tell me, Helen.”

“You’re excessively impertinent, Mr. Huntingdon!”

“Not at all⁠—too pertinent, you mean. So you won’t tell me?⁠—Well, I’ll spare your woman’s pride, and, construing your silence into ‘Yes,’ I’ll take it for granted that I was the subject of your thoughts, and the cause of your affliction⁠—”

“Indeed, sir⁠—”

“If you deny it, I won’t tell you my secret,” threatened he; and I did not interrupt him again, or even attempt to repulse him: though he had taken my hand once more, and half embraced me with his other arm, I was scarcely conscious of it at the time.

“It is this,” resumed he: “that Annabella Wilmot, in comparison with you, is like a flaunting peony compared with a sweet, wild rosebud gemmed with dew⁠—and I love you to distraction!⁠—Now, tell me if that intelligence gives you any pleasure. Silence again? That means yes. Then let me add, that I cannot live without you, and if you answer No to this last question, you will drive me mad.⁠—Will you bestow yourself upon me?⁠—you will!” he cried, nearly squeezing me to death in his arms.

“No, no!” I exclaimed, struggling to free myself from him⁠—“you must ask my uncle and aunt.”

“They won’t refuse me, if you don’t.”

“I’m not so sure of that⁠—my aunt dislikes you.”

“But you don’t, Helen⁠—say you love me, and I’ll go.”

“I wish you would go!” I replied.

“I will, this instant⁠—if you’ll only say you love me.”

“You know I do,” I answered. And again he caught me in his arms, and smothered me with kisses.

At that moment my aunt opened wide the door, and stood before us, candle in hand, in shocked and horrified amazement, gazing alternately at Mr. Huntingdon and me⁠—for we had both started up, and now stood wide enough asunder. But his confusion was only for a moment. Rallying in an instant, with the most enviable assurance, he began⁠—“I beg ten thousand pardons, Mrs. Maxwell! Don’t be too severe upon me. I’ve been asking your sweet niece to take me for better, for worse; and she, like a good girl, informs me she cannot think of it without her uncle’s and aunt’s consent. So let me implore you not to condemn me to eternal wretchedness: if you favour my cause, I am safe; for Mr. Maxwell, I am certain, can refuse you nothing.”

“We will talk of this tomorrow, sir,” said my aunt, coldly. “It is a subject that demands mature and serious deliberation. At present, you had better return to the drawing-room.”

“But meantime,” pleaded he, “let me commend my cause to your most indulgent⁠—”

“No indulgence for you, Mr. Huntingdon, must come between me and the consideration of my niece’s happiness.”

“Ah, true! I know she is an angel, and I am a presumptuous dog to dream of possessing such a treasure; but, nevertheless, I would sooner die than relinquish her in favour of the best man that ever went to heaven⁠—and as for her happiness, I would sacrifice my body and soul⁠—”

“Body and soul, Mr. Huntingdon⁠—sacrifice your soul?”

“Well, I would lay down life⁠—”

“You would not be required to lay it down.”

“I would spend it, then⁠—devote my life⁠—and all its powers to the promotion and preservation⁠—”

“Another time, sir, we will talk of this⁠—and I should have felt disposed to judge more favourably of your pretensions, if you too had chosen another time and place, and let me add⁠—another manner for your declaration.”

“Why, you see, Mrs. Maxwell,” he began⁠—

“Pardon me, sir,” said she, with dignity⁠—“The company are inquiring for you in the other room.” And she turned to me.

“Then you must plead for me, Helen,” said he, and at length withdrew.

“You had better retire to your room, Helen,” said my aunt, gravely. “I will discuss this matter with you, too, tomorrow.”

“Don’t be angry, aunt,” said I.

“My dear, I am not angry,” she replied: “I am surprised. If it is true that you told him you could not accept his offer without our consent⁠—”

“It is true,” interrupted I.

“Then how could you permit⁠—?”

“I couldn’t help it, aunt,” I cried, bursting into tears. They were not altogether the tears of sorrow, or of fear for her displeasure, but rather the outbreak of the general tumultuous excitement of my feelings. But my good aunt was touched at my agitation. In a softer tone, she repeated her recommendation to retire, and, gently kissing my forehead, bade me good night, and put her candle in my hand; and I went; but my brain worked so, I could not think of sleeping. I feel calmer now that I have written all this; and I will go to bed, and try to win tired nature’s sweet restorer.

September 24th.⁠—In the morning I rose, light and cheerful⁠—nay, intensely happy. The hovering cloud cast over me by my aunt’s views, and by the fear of not obtaining her consent, was lost in the bright effulgence of my own hopes, and the too delightful consciousness of requited love. It was a splendid morning; and I went out to enjoy it, in a quiet ramble, in company with my own blissful thoughts. The dew was on the grass, and ten thousand gossamers were waving in the breeze; the happy redbreast was pouring out its little soul in song, and my heart overflowed with silent hymns of gratitude and praise to heaven.

But I had not wandered far before my solitude was interrupted by the only person that could have disturbed my musings, at that moment, without being looked upon as an unwelcome intruder: Mr. Huntingdon came suddenly upon me. So unexpected was the apparition, that I might have thought it the creation of an overexcited imagination, had the sense of sight alone borne witness to his presence; but immediately I felt his strong arm round my waist and his warm kiss on my cheek, while his keen and gleeful salutation, “My own Helen!” was ringing in my ear.

“Not yours yet!” said I, hastily swerving aside from this too