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

again, and know something more about her. The interview may be serviceable to her, or it may not. At any rate, it will give a breath of excitement to the life she has doomed to stagnation, and may calm with certainty some agitating thoughts.”

I did go on the morrow, but not till towards evening, after the business of the day was concluded, that is, between six and seven; and the westering sun was gleaming redly on the old Hall, and flaming in the latticed windows, as I reached it, imparting to the place a cheerfulness not its own. I need not dilate upon the feelings with which I approached the shrine of my former divinity⁠—that spot teeming with a thousand delightful recollections and glorious dreams⁠—all darkened now by one disastrous truth.

Rachel admitted me into the parlour, and went to call her mistress, for she was not there: but there was her desk left open on the little round table beside the high-backed chair, with a book laid upon it. Her limited but choice collection of books was almost as familiar to me as my own; but this volume I had not seen before. I took it up. It was Sir Humphry Davy’s Last Days of a Philosopher, and on the first leaf was written, “Frederick Lawrence.” I closed the book, but kept it in my hand, and stood facing the door, with my back to the fireplace, calmly waiting her arrival; for I did not doubt she would come. And soon I heard her step in the hall. My heart was beginning to throb, but I checked it with an internal rebuke, and maintained my composure⁠—outwardly at least. She entered, calm, pale, collected.

“To what am I indebted for this favour, Mr. Markham?” said she, with such severe but quiet dignity as almost disconcerted me; but I answered with a smile, and impudently enough⁠—

“Well, I am come to hear your explanation.”

“I told you I would not give it,” said she. “I said you were unworthy of my confidence.”

“Oh, very well,” replied I, moving to the door.

“Stay a moment,” said she. “This is the last time I shall see you: don’t go just yet.”

I remained, awaiting her further commands.

“Tell me,” resumed she, “on what grounds you believe these things against me; who told you; and what did they say?”

I paused a moment. She met my eye as unflinchingly as if her bosom had been steeled with conscious innocence. She was resolved to know the worst, and determined to dare it too. “I can crush that bold spirit,” thought I. But while I secretly exulted in my power, I felt disposed to dally with my victim like a cat. Showing her the book that I still held, in my hand, and pointing to the name on the flyleaf, but fixing my eye upon her face, I asked⁠—“Do you know that gentleman?”

“Of course I do,” replied she; and a sudden flush suffused her features⁠—whether of shame or anger I could not tell: it rather resembled the latter. “What next, sir?”

“How long is it since you saw him?”

“Who gave you the right to catechize me on this or any other subject?”

“Oh, no one!⁠—it’s quite at your option whether to answer or not. And now, let me ask⁠—have you heard what has lately befallen this friend of yours?⁠—because, if you have not⁠—”

“I will not be insulted, Mr. Markham!” cried she, almost infuriated at my manner. “So you had better leave the house at once, if you came only for that.”

“I did not come to insult you: I came to hear your explanation.”

“And I tell you I won’t give it!” retorted she, pacing the room in a state of strong excitement, with her hands clasped tightly together, breathing short, and flashing fires of indignation from her eyes. “I will not condescend to explain myself to one that can make a jest of such horrible suspicions, and be so easily led to entertain them.”

“I do not make a jest of them, Mrs. Graham,” returned I, dropping at once my tone of taunting sarcasm. “I heartily wish I could find them a jesting matter. And as to being easily led to suspect, God only knows what a blind, incredulous fool I have hitherto been, perseveringly shutting my eyes and stopping my ears against everything that threatened to shake my confidence in you, till proof itself confounded my infatuation!”

“What proof, sir?”

“Well, I’ll tell you. You remember that evening when I was here last?”

“I do.”

“Even then you dropped some hints that might have opened the eyes of a wiser man; but they had no such effect upon me: I went on trusting and believing, hoping against hope, and adoring where I could not comprehend. It so happened, however, that after I left you I turned back⁠—drawn by pure depth of sympathy and ardour of affection⁠—not daring to intrude my presence openly upon you, but unable to resist the temptation of catching one glimpse through the window, just to see how you were: for I had left you apparently in great affliction, and I partly blamed my own want of forbearance and discretion as the cause of it. If I did wrong, love alone was my incentive, and the punishment was severe enough; for it was just as I had reached that tree, that you came out into the garden with your friend. Not choosing to show myself, under the circumstances, I stood still, in the shadow, till you had both passed by.”

“And how much of our conversation did you hear?”

“I heard quite enough, Helen. And it was well for me that I did hear it; for nothing less could have cured my infatuation. I always said and thought, that I would never believe a word against you, unless I heard it from your own lips. All the hints and affirmations of others I treated as malignant, baseless slanders; your own self-accusations I believed to be overstrained; and all that seemed unaccountable in your position I trusted that you could account for if you