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

now struggled to retain, with an effort that it seemed impossible to continue much longer⁠—and revolving the pros and cons for opening my heart to her there and then, and imploring a return of affection, the permission to regard her thenceforth as my own, and the right and the power to defend her from the calumnies of malicious tongues. On the one hand, I felt a newborn confidence in my powers of persuasion⁠—a strong conviction that my own fervour of spirit would grant me eloquence⁠—that my very determination⁠—the absolute necessity for succeeding, that I felt must win me what I sought; while, on the other, I feared to lose the ground I had already gained with so much toil and skill, and destroy all future hope by one rash effort, when time and patience might have won success. It was like setting my life upon the cast of a die; and yet I was ready to resolve upon the attempt. At any rate, I would entreat the explanation she had half promised to give me before; I would demand the reason of this hateful barrier, this mysterious impediment to my happiness, and, as I trusted, to her own.

But while I considered in what manner I could best frame my request, my companion, wakened from her reverie with a scarcely audible sigh, and looking towards the window, where the blood-red harvest moon, just rising over one of the grim, fantastic evergreens, was shining in upon us, said⁠—“Gilbert, it is getting late.”

“I see,” said I. “You want me to go, I suppose?”

“I think you ought. If my kind neighbours get to know of this visit⁠—as no doubt they will⁠—they will not turn it much to my advantage.” It was with what the vicar would doubtless have called a savage sort of smile that she said this.

“Let them turn it as they will,” said I. “What are their thoughts to you or me, so long as we are satisfied with ourselves⁠—and each other. Let them go to the deuce with their vile constructions and their lying inventions!”

This outburst brought a flush of colour to her face.

“You have heard, then, what they say of me?”

“I heard some detestable falsehoods; but none but fools would credit them for a moment, Helen, so don’t let them trouble you.”

“I did not think Mr. Millward a fool, and he believes it all; but however little you may value the opinions of those about you⁠—however little you may esteem them as individuals, it is not pleasant to be looked upon as a liar and a hypocrite, to be thought to practise what you abhor, and to encourage the vices you would discountenance, to find your good intentions frustrated, and your hands crippled by your supposed unworthiness, and to bring disgrace on the principles you profess.”

“True; and if I, by my thoughtlessness and selfish disregard to appearances, have at all assisted to expose you to these evils, let me entreat you not only to pardon me, but to enable me to make reparation; authorise me to clear your name from every imputation: give me the right to identify your honour with my own, and to defend your reputation as more precious than my life!”

“Are you hero enough to unite yourself to one whom you know to be suspected and despised by all around you, and identify your interests and your honour with hers? Think! it is a serious thing.”

“I should be proud to do it, Helen!⁠—most happy⁠—delighted beyond expression!⁠—and if that be all the obstacle to our union, it is demolished, and you must⁠—you shall be mine!”

And starting from my seat in a frenzy of ardour, I seized her hand and would have pressed it to my lips, but she as suddenly caught it away, exclaiming in the bitterness of intense affliction⁠—“No, no, it is not all!”

“What is it, then? You promised I should know some time, and⁠—”

“You shall know some time⁠—but not now⁠—my head aches terribly,” she said, pressing her hand to her forehead, “and I must have some repose⁠—and surely I have had misery enough today!” she added, almost wildly.

“But it could not harm you to tell it,” I persisted: “it would ease your mind; and I should then know how to comfort you.”

She shook her head despondingly. “If you knew all, you, too, would blame me⁠—perhaps even more than I deserve⁠—though I have cruelly wronged you,” she added in a low murmur, as if she mused aloud.

“You, Helen? Impossible?”

“Yes, not willingly; for I did not know the strength and depth of your attachment. I thought⁠—at least I endeavoured to think your regard for me was as cold and fraternal as you professed it to be.”

“Or as yours?”

“Or as mine⁠—ought to have been⁠—of such a light and selfish, superficial nature, that⁠—”

“There, indeed, you wronged me.”

“I know I did; and, sometimes, I suspected it then; but I thought, upon the whole, there could be no great harm in leaving your fancies and your hopes to dream themselves to nothing⁠—or flutter away to some more fitting object, while your friendly sympathies remained with me; but if I had known the depth of your regard, the generous, disinterested affection you seem to feel⁠—”

“Seem, Helen?”

“That you do feel, then, I would have acted differently.”

“How? You could not have given me less encouragement, or treated me with greater severity than you did! And if you think you have wronged me by giving me your friendship, and occasionally admitting me to the enjoyment of your company and conversation, when all hopes of closer intimacy were vain⁠—as indeed you always gave me to understand⁠—if you think you have wronged me by this, you are mistaken; for such favours, in themselves alone, are not only delightful to my heart, but purifying, exalting, ennobling to my soul; and I would rather have your friendship than the love of any other woman in the world!”

Little comforted by this, she clasped her hands upon her knee, and glancing upward, seemed, in silent anguish, to implore divine assistance; then, turning to