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

the question what to say to his servants⁠—and what to my own family. Either I should have to acknowledge the deed, which would set me down as a madman, unless I acknowledged the motive too⁠—and that seemed impossible⁠—or I must get up a lie, which seemed equally out of the question⁠—especially as Mr. Lawrence would probably reveal the whole truth, and thereby bring me to tenfold disgrace⁠—unless I were villain enough, presuming on the absence of witnesses, to persist in my own version of the case, and make him out a still greater scoundrel than he was. No; he had only received a cut above the temple, and perhaps a few bruises from the fall, or the hoofs of his own pony: that could not kill him if he lay there half the day; and, if he could not help himself, surely someone would be coming by: it would be impossible that a whole day should pass and no one traverse the road but ourselves. As for what he might choose to say hereafter, I would take my chance about it: if he told lies, I would contradict him; if he told the truth, I would bear it as best I could. I was not obliged to enter into explanations further than I thought proper. Perhaps he might choose to be silent on the subject, for fear of raising inquiries as to the cause of the quarrel, and drawing the public attention to his connection with Mrs. Graham, which, whether for her sake or his own, he seemed so very desirous to conceal.

Thus reasoning, I trotted away to the town, where I duly transacted my business, and performed various little commissions for my mother and Rose, with very laudable exactitude, considering the different circumstances of the case. In returning home, I was troubled with sundry misgivings about the unfortunate Lawrence. The question, What if I should find him lying still on the damp earth, fairly dying of cold and exhaustion⁠—or already stark and chill? thrust itself most unpleasantly upon my mind, and the appalling possibility pictured itself with painful vividness to my imagination as I approached the spot where I had left him. But no, thank heaven, both man and horse were gone, and nothing was left to witness against me but two objects⁠—unpleasant enough in themselves to be sure, and presenting a very ugly, not to say murderous appearance⁠—in one place, the hat saturated with rain and coated with mud, indented and broken above the brim by that villainous whip-handle; in another, the crimson handkerchief, soaking in a deeply tinctured pool of water⁠—for much rain had fallen in the interim.

Bad news flies fast: it was hardly four o’clock when I got home, but my mother gravely accosted me with⁠—“Oh, Gilbert!⁠—Such an accident! Rose has been shopping in the village, and she’s heard that Mr. Lawrence has been thrown from his horse and brought home dying!”

This shocked me a trifle, as you may suppose; but I was comforted to hear that he had frightfully fractured his skull and broken a leg; for, assured of the falsehood of this, I trusted the rest of the story was equally exaggerated; and when I heard my mother and sister so feelingly deploring his condition, I had considerable difficulty in preventing myself from telling them the real extent of the injuries, as far as I knew them.

“You must go and see him tomorrow,” said my mother.

“Or today,” suggested Rose: “there’s plenty of time; and you can have the pony, as your horse is tired. Won’t you, Gilbert⁠—as soon as you’ve had something to eat?”

“No, no⁠—how can we tell that it isn’t all a false report? It’s highly im-’

“Oh, I’m sure it isn’t; for the village is all alive about it; and I saw two people that had seen others that had seen the man that found him. That sounds farfetched; but it isn’t so when you think of it.”

“Well, but Lawrence is a good rider; it is not likely he would fall from his horse at all; and if he did, it is highly improbable he would break his bones in that way. It must be a gross exaggeration at least.”

“No; but the horse kicked him⁠—or something.”

“What, his quiet little pony?”

“How do you know it was that?”

“He seldom rides any other.”

“At any rate,” said my mother, “you will call tomorrow. Whether it be true or false, exaggerated or otherwise, we shall like to know how he is.”

“Fergus may go.”

“Why not you?”

“He has more time. I am busy just now.”

“Oh! but, Gilbert, how can you be so composed about it? You won’t mind business for an hour or two in a case of this sort, when your friend is at the point of death.”

“He is not, I tell you.”

“For anything you know, he may be: you can’t tell till you have seen him. At all events, he must have met with some terrible accident, and you ought to see him: he’ll take it very unkind if you don’t.”

“Confound it! I can’t. He and I have not been on good terms of late.”

“Oh, my dear boy! Surely, surely you are not so unforgiving as to carry your little differences to such a length as⁠—”

“Little differences, indeed!” I muttered.

“Well, but only remember the occasion. Think how⁠—”

“Well, well, don’t bother me now⁠—I’ll see about it,” I replied.

And my seeing about it was to send Fergus next morning, with my mother’s compliments, to make the requisite inquiries; for, of course, my going was out of the question⁠—or sending a message either. He brought back intelligence that the young squire was laid up with the complicated evils of a broken head and certain contusions (occasioned by a fall⁠—of which he did not trouble himself to relate the particulars⁠—and the subsequent misconduct of his horse), and a severe cold, the consequence of lying on the wet ground in the rain; but there were no broken bones, and no immediate prospects of dissolution.

It was evident, then, that for Mrs. Graham’s sake it was not his intention