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

her waist, while she lovingly rested her hand on his shoulder;⁠—and then, a tremulous darkness obscured my sight, my heart sickened and my head burned like fire: I half rushed, half staggered from the spot, where horror had kept me rooted, and leaped or tumbled over the wall⁠—I hardly know which⁠—but I know that, afterwards, like a passionate child, I dashed myself on the ground and lay there in a paroxysm of anger and despair⁠—how long, I cannot undertake to say; but it must have been a considerable time; for when, having partially relieved myself by a torment of tears, and looked up at the moon, shining so calmly and carelessly on, as little influenced by my misery as I was by its peaceful radiance, and earnestly prayed for death or forgetfulness, I had risen and journeyed homewards⁠—little regarding the way, but carried instinctively by my feet to the door, I found it bolted against me, and everyone in bed except my mother, who hastened to answer my impatient knocking, and received me with a shower of questions and rebukes.

“Oh, Gilbert! how could you do so? Where have you been? Do come in and take your supper. I’ve got it all ready, though you don’t deserve it, for keeping me in such a fright, after the strange manner you left the house this evening. Mr. Millward was quite⁠—Bless the boy! how ill he looks. Oh, gracious! what is the matter?”

“Nothing, nothing⁠—give me a candle.”

“But won’t you take some supper?”

“No; I want to go to bed,” said I, taking a candle and lighting it at the one she held in her hand.

“Oh, Gilbert, how you tremble!” exclaimed my anxious parent. “How white you look! Do tell me what it is? Has anything happened?”

“It’s nothing,” cried I, ready to stamp with vexation because the candle would not light. Then, suppressing my irritation, I added, “I’ve been walking too fast, that’s all. Good night,” and marched off to bed, regardless of the “Walking too fast! where have you been?” that was called after me from below.

My mother followed me to the very door of my room with her questionings and advice concerning my health and my conduct; but I implored her to let me alone till morning; and she withdrew, and at length I had the satisfaction to hear her close her own door. There was no sleep for me, however, that night as I thought; and instead of attempting to solicit it, I employed myself in rapidly pacing the chamber, having first removed my boots, lest my mother should hear me. But the boards creaked, and she was watchful. I had not walked above a quarter of an hour before she was at the door again.

“Gilbert, why are you not in bed⁠—you said you wanted to go?”

“Confound it! I’m going,” said I.

“But why are you so long about it? You must have something on your mind⁠—”

“For heaven’s sake, let me alone, and get to bed yourself.”

“Can it be that Mrs. Graham that distresses you so?”

“No, no, I tell you⁠—it’s nothing.”

“I wish to goodness it mayn’t,” murmured she, with a sigh, as she returned to her own apartment, while I threw myself on the bed, feeling most undutifully disaffected towards her for having deprived me of what seemed the only shadow of a consolation that remained, and chained me to that wretched couch of thorns.

Never did I endure so long, so miserable a night as that. And yet it was not wholly sleepless. Towards morning my distracting thoughts began to lose all pretensions to coherency, and shape themselves into confused and feverish dreams, and, at length, there followed an interval of unconscious slumber. But then the dawn of bitter recollection that succeeded⁠—the waking to find life a blank, and worse than a blank, teeming with torment and misery⁠—not a mere barren wilderness, but full of thorns and briers⁠—to find myself deceived, duped, hopeless, my affections trampled upon, my angel not an angel, and my friend a fiend incarnate⁠—it was worse than if I had not slept at all.

It was a dull, gloomy morning; the weather had changed like my prospects, and the rain was pattering against the window. I rose, nevertheless, and went out; not to look after the farm, though that would serve as my excuse, but to cool my brain, and regain, if possible, a sufficient degree of composure to meet the family at the morning meal without exciting inconvenient remarks. If I got a wetting, that, in conjunction with a pretended overexertion before breakfast, might excuse my sudden loss of appetite; and if a cold ensued, the severer the better⁠—it would help to account for the sullen moods and moping melancholy likely to cloud my brow for long enough.

XIII

“My dear Gilbert, I wish you would try to be a little more amiable,” said my mother one morning after some display of unjustifiable ill-humour on my part. “You say there is nothing the matter with you, and nothing has happened to grieve you, and yet I never saw anyone so altered as you within these last few days. You haven’t a good word for anybody⁠—friends and strangers, equals and inferiors⁠—it’s all the same. I do wish you’d try to check it.”

“Check what?”

“Why, your strange temper. You don’t know how it spoils you. I’m sure a finer disposition than yours by nature could not be, if you’d let it have fair play: so you’ve no excuse that way.”

While she thus remonstrated, I took up a book, and laying it open on the table before me, pretended to be deeply absorbed in its perusal, for I was equally unable to justify myself and unwilling to acknowledge my errors; and I wished to have nothing to say on the matter. But my excellent parent went on lecturing, and then came to coaxing, and began to stroke my hair; and I was getting to feel quite a good boy, but my mischievous brother, who was idling about the room, revived