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

One morning, about the beginning of November, while I was inditing some business letters, shortly after breakfast, Eliza Millward came to call upon my sister. Rose had neither the discrimination nor the virulence to regard the little demon as I did, and they still preserved their former intimacy. At the moment of her arrival, however, there was no one in the room but Fergus and myself, my mother and sister being both of them absent, “on household cares intent”; but I was not going to lay myself out for her amusement, whoever else might so incline: I merely honoured her with a careless salutation and a few words of course, and then went on with my writing, leaving my brother to be more polite if he chose. But she wanted to tease me.

“What a pleasure it is to find you at home, Mr. Markham!” said she, with a disingenuously malicious smile. “I so seldom see you now, for you never come to the vicarage. Papa, is quite offended, I can tell you,” she added playfully, looking into my face with an impertinent laugh, as she seated herself, half beside and half before my desk, off the corner of the table.

“I have had a good deal to do of late,” said I, without looking up from my letter.

“Have you, indeed! Somebody said you had been strangely neglecting your business these last few months.”

“Somebody said wrong, for, these last two months especially, I have been particularly plodding and diligent.”

“Ah! well, there’s nothing like active employment, I suppose, to console the afflicted;⁠—and, excuse me, Mr. Markham, but you look so very far from well, and have been, by all accounts, so moody and thoughtful of late⁠—I could almost think you have some secret care preying on your spirits. Formerly,” said she timidly, “I could have ventured to ask you what it was, and what I could do to comfort you: I dare not do it now.”

“You’re very kind, Miss Eliza. When I think you can do anything to comfort me, I’ll make bold to tell you.”

“Pray do!⁠—I suppose I mayn’t guess what it is that troubles you?”

“There’s no necessity, for I’ll tell you plainly. The thing that troubles me the most at present is a young lady sitting at my elbow, and preventing me from finishing my letter, and, thereafter, repairing to my daily business.”

Before she could reply to this ungallant speech, Rose entered the room; and Miss Eliza rising to greet her, they both seated themselves near the fire, where that idle lad Fergus was standing, leaning his shoulder against the corner of the chimneypiece, with his legs crossed and his hands in his breeches-pockets.

“Now, Rose, I’ll tell you a piece of news⁠—I hope you have not heard it before: for good, bad, or indifferent, one always likes to be the first to tell. It’s about that sad Mrs. Graham⁠—”

“Hush-sh-sh!” whispered Fergus, in a tone of solemn import. “ ‘We never mention her; her name is never heard.’ ” And glancing up, I caught him with his eye askance on me, and his finger pointed to his forehead; then, winking at the young lady with a doleful shake of the head, he whispered⁠—“A monomania⁠—but don’t mention it⁠—all right but that.”

“I should be sorry to injure anyone’s feelings,” returned she, speaking below her breath. “Another time, perhaps.”

“Speak out, Miss Eliza!” said I, not deigning to notice the other’s buffooneries: “you needn’t fear to say anything in my presence.”

“Well,” answered she, “perhaps you know already that Mrs. Graham’s husband is not really dead, and that she had run away from him?” I started, and felt my face glow; but I bent it over my letter, and went on folding it up as she proceeded. “But perhaps you did not know that she is now gone back to him again, and that a perfect reconciliation has taken place between them? Only think,” she continued, turning to the confounded Rose, “what a fool the man must be!”

“And who gave you this piece of intelligence, Miss Eliza?” said I, interrupting my sister’s exclamations.

“I had it from a very authentic source.”

“From whom, may I ask?”

“From one of the servants at Woodford.”

“Oh! I was not aware that you were on such intimate terms with Mr. Lawrence’s household.”

“It was not from the man himself that I heard it, but he told it in confidence to our maid Sarah, and Sarah told it to me.”

“In confidence, I suppose? And you tell it in confidence to us? But I can tell you that it is but a lame story after all, and scarcely one-half of it true.”

While I spoke I completed the sealing and direction of my letters, with a somewhat unsteady hand, in spite of all my efforts to retain composure, and in spite of my firm conviction that the story was a lame one⁠—that the supposed Mrs. Graham, most certainly, had not voluntarily gone back to her husband, or dreamt of a reconciliation. Most likely she was gone away, and the talebearing servant, not knowing what was become of her, had conjectured that such was the case, and our fair visitor had detailed it as a certainty, delighted with such an opportunity of tormenting me. But it was possible⁠—barely possible⁠—that someone might have betrayed her, and she had been taken away by force. Determined to know the worst, I hastily pocketed my two letters, and muttered something about being too late for the post, left the room, rushed into the yard, and vociferously called for my horse. No one being there, I dragged him out of the stable myself, strapped the saddle on to his back and the bridle on to his head, mounted, and speedily galloped away to Woodford. I found its owner pensively strolling in the grounds.

“Is your sister gone?” were my first words as I grasped his hand, instead of the usual inquiry after his health.

“Yes, she’s gone,” was his answer, so calmly spoken that my terror was at once removed.

“I