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

and Crown.” I alighted and called aloud for a post-chaise to Grassdale. There was none to be had: the only one in the town was under repair. “A gig, then⁠—a fly⁠—car⁠—anything⁠—only be quick!” There was a gig, but not a horse to spare. I sent into the town to seek one: but they were such an intolerable time about it that I could wait no longer⁠—I thought my own feet could carry me sooner; and bidding them send the conveyance after me, if it were ready within an hour, I set off as fast as I could walk. The distance was little more than six miles, but the road was strange, and I had to keep stopping to inquire my way; hallooing to carters and clodhoppers, and frequently invading the cottages, for there were few abroad that winter’s morning; sometimes knocking up the lazy people from their beds, for where so little work was to be done, perhaps so little food and fire to be had, they cared not to curtail their slumbers. I had no time to think of them, however; aching with weariness and desperation, I hurried on. The gig did not overtake me: and it was well I had not waited for it; vexatious rather, that I had been fool enough to wait so long.

At length, however, I entered the neighbourhood of Grassdale. I approached the little rural church⁠—but lo! there stood a train of carriages before it; it needed not the white favours bedecking the servants and horses, nor the merry voices of the village idlers assembled to witness the show, to apprise me that there was a wedding within. I ran in among them, demanding, with breathless eagerness, had the ceremony long commenced? They only gaped and stared. In my desperation, I pushed past them, and was about to enter the churchyard gate, when a group of ragged urchins, that had been hanging like bees to the window, suddenly dropped off and made a rush for the porch, vociferating in the uncouth dialect of their country something which signified, “It’s over⁠—they’re coming out!”

If Eliza Millward had seen me then she might indeed have been delighted. I grasped the gatepost for support, and stood intently gazing towards the door to take my last look on my soul’s delight, my first on that detested mortal who had torn her from my heart, and doomed her, I was certain, to a life of misery and hollow, vain repining⁠—for what happiness could she enjoy with him? I did not wish to shock her with my presence now, but I had not power to move away. Forth came the bride and bridegroom. Him I saw not; I had eyes for none but her. A long veil shrouded half her graceful form, but did not hide it; I could see that while she carried her head erect, her eyes were bent upon the ground, and her face and neck were suffused with a crimson blush; but every feature was radiant with smiles, and gleaming through the misty whiteness of her veil were clusters of golden ringlets! Oh, heavens! it was not my Helen! The first glimpse made me start⁠—but my eyes were darkened with exhaustion and despair. Dare I trust them? Yes⁠—it is not she! It was a younger, slighter, rosier beauty⁠—lovely indeed, but with far less dignity and depth of soul⁠—without that indefinable grace, that keenly spiritual yet gentle charm, that ineffable power to attract and subjugate the heart⁠—my heart at least. I looked at the bridegroom⁠—it was Frederick Lawrence! I wiped away the cold drops that were trickling down my forehead, and stepped back as he approached; but, his eyes fell upon me, and he knew me, altered as my appearance must have been.

“Is that you, Markham?” said he, startled and confounded at the apparition⁠—perhaps, too, at the wildness of my looks.

“Yes, Lawrence; is that you?” I mustered the presence of mind to reply.

He smiled and coloured, as if half-proud and half-ashamed of his identity; and if he had reason to be proud of the sweet lady on his arm, he had no less cause to be ashamed of having concealed his good fortune so long.

“Allow me to introduce you to my bride,” said he, endeavouring to hide his embarrassment by an assumption of careless gaiety. “Esther, this is Mr. Markham; my friend Markham, Mrs. Lawrence, late Miss Hargrave.”

I bowed to the bride, and vehemently wrung the bridegroom’s hand.

“Why did you not tell me of this?” I said, reproachfully, pretending a resentment I did not feel (for in truth I was almost wild with joy to find myself so happily mistaken, and overflowing with affection to him for this and for the base injustice I felt that I had done him in my mind⁠—he might have wronged me, but not to that extent; and as I had hated him like a demon for the last forty hours, the reaction from such a feeling was so great that I could pardon all offences for the moment⁠—and love him in spite of them too).

“I did tell you,” said he, with an air of guilty confusion; “you received my letter?”

“What letter?”

“The one announcing my intended marriage.”

“I never received the most distant hint of such an intention.”

“It must have crossed you on your way then⁠—it should have reached you yesterday morning⁠—it was rather late, I acknowledge. But what brought you here, then, if you received no information?”

It was now my turn to be confounded; but the young lady, who had been busily patting the snow with her foot during our short sotto-voce colloquy, very opportunely came to my assistance by pinching her companion’s arm and whispering a suggestion that his friend should be invited to step into the carriage and go with them; it being scarcely agreeable to stand there among so many gazers, and keeping their friends waiting into the bargain.

“And so cold as it is too!” said he, glancing with dismay at her slight drapery, and immediately handing her into the