The Tenant of Wildfell Hall by Anne Brontë (sci fi books to read TXT) 📕

“He may as well see me as you,” said I; and, stepping past the astonished footman, I boldly rapped at the door, entered, and closed it behind me. The room was spacious and handsomely furnished⁠—very comfortably, too, for a bachelor. A clear, red fire was burning in the polished grate: a superannuated greyhound, given up to idleness and good living, lay basking before it on the thick, soft rug, on one corner of which, beside the sofa, sat a smart young springer, looking wistfully up in its master’s face⁠—perhaps asking permission to share his couch, or, it might be, only soliciting a caress from his hand or a kind word from his lips. The invalid himself looked very interesting as he lay reclining there, in his elegant dressing-gown, with a silk handkerchief bound across his temples. His usually pale face was flushed and feverish; his eyes were half closed, until he became sensible of my presence⁠—and then he opened them wide enough: one hand was thrown listlessly over the back of the sofa, and held a small volume, with which, apparently, he had been vainly attempting to beguile the weary hours. He dropped it, however, in his start of indignant surprise as I advanced into the room and stood before him on the rug. He raised himself on his pillows, and gazed upon me with equal degrees of nervous horror, anger, and amazement depicted on his countenance.

“Mr. Markham, I scarcely expected this!” he said; and the blood left his cheek as he spoke.

“I know you didn’t,” answered I; “but be quiet a minute, and I’ll tell you what I came for.” Unthinkingly, I advanced a step or two nearer. He winced at my approach, with an expression of aversion and instinctive physical fear anything but conciliatory to my feelings. I stepped back, however.

“Make your story a short one,” said he, putting his hand on the small silver bell that stood on the table beside him, “or I shall be obliged to call for assistance. I am in no state to bear your brutalities now, or your presence either.” And in truth the moisture started from his pores and stood on his pale forehead like dew.

Such a reception was hardly calculated to diminish the difficulties of my unenviable task. It must be performed however, in some fashion; and so I plunged into it at once, and floundered through it as I could.

“The truth is, Lawrence,” said I, “I have not acted quite correctly towards you of late⁠—especially on this last occasion; and I’m come to⁠—in short, to express my regret for what has been done, and to beg your pardon. If you don’t choose to grant it,” I added hastily, not liking the aspect of his face, “it’s no matter; only I’ve done my duty⁠—that’s all.”

“It’s easily done,” replied he, with a faint smile bordering on a sneer: “to abuse your friend and knock him on the head without any assignable cause, and then tell him the deed was not quite correct, but it’s no matter whether he pardons it or not.”

“I forgot to tell you that it was in consequence of a mistake,”⁠—muttered I. “I should have made a very handsome apology, but you provoked me so confoundedly with your⁠—. Well, I suppose it’s my fault. The fact is, I didn’t know that you were Mrs. Graham’s brother, and I saw and heard some things respecting your conduct towards her which were calculated to awaken unpleasant suspicions, that, allow me to say, a little candour and confidence on your part might have removed; and, at last, I chanced to overhear a part of a conversation between you and her that made me think I had a right to hate you.”

“And how came you to know that I was her brother?” asked he, in some anxiety.

“She told me herself. She told me all. She knew I might be trusted. But you needn’t disturb yourself about that, Mr. Lawrence, for I’ve seen the last of her!”

“The last! Is she gone, then?”

“No; but she has bid adieu to me, and I have promised never to go near that house again while she inhabits it.” I could have groaned aloud at the bitter thoughts awakened by this turn in the discourse. But I only clenched my hands and stamped my foot upon the rug. My companion, however, was evidently relieved.

“You have done right,” he said, in a tone of unqualified approbation, while his face brightened into almost a sunny expression. “And as for the mistake, I am sorry for both our sakes that it should have occurred. Perhaps you can forgive my want of candour, and remember, as some partial mitigation of the offence, how little encouragement to friendly confidence you have given me of late.”

“Yes, yes⁠—I remember it all: nobody can blame me more than I blame myself in my own heart; at any rate, nobody can regret more sincerely than I do the result of my brutality, as you rightly term it.”

“Never mind that,” said he, faintly smiling; “let us forget all unpleasant words on both sides, as well as deeds, and consign to oblivion everything that we have cause to regret. Have you any objection to take my hand, or you’d rather not?” It trembled through weakness as he held it out, and dropped before I had time to catch it and give it a hearty squeeze, which he had not the strength to return.

“How dry and burning your hand is, Lawrence,” said I. “You are really ill, and I have made you worse by all this talk.”

“Oh, it is nothing; only a cold got by the rain.”

“My doing, too.”

“Never mind that. But tell me, did you mention this affair to my sister?”

“To confess the truth, I had not the courage to do so; but when you tell her, will you just say that I deeply regret it, and⁠—?”

“Oh, never fear! I shall say nothing against you, as long as you keep your good resolution of remaining