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

“I have nothing to forgive,” said I. “You have not injured me.”

“No, darling⁠—God forbid that I should! but you are angry because it was to me that Annabella confessed her lack of esteem for her lover.”

“No, Arthur, it is not that that displeases me: it is the whole system of your conduct towards your friend, and if you wish me to forget it, go now, and tell him what sort of a woman it is that he adores so madly, and on whom he has hung his hopes of future happiness.”

“I tell you, Helen, it would break his heart⁠—it would be the death of him⁠—besides being a scandalous trick to poor Annabella. There is no help for him now; he is past praying for. Besides, she may keep up the deception to the end of the chapter; and then he will be just as happy in the illusion as if it were reality; or perhaps he will only discover his mistake when he has ceased to love her; and if not, it is much better that the truth should dawn gradually upon him. So now, my angel, I hope I have made out a clear case, and fully convinced you that I cannot make the atonement you require. What other requisition have you to make? Speak, and I will gladly obey.”

“I have none but this,” said I, as gravely as before: “that, in future, you will never make a jest of the sufferings of others, and always use your influence with your friends for their own advantage against their evil propensities, instead of seconding their evil propensities against themselves.”

“I will do my utmost,” said he, “to remember and perform the injunctions of my angel monitress;” and after kissing both my gloved hands, he let me go.

When I entered my room, I was surprised to see Annabella Wilmot standing before my toilet-table, composedly surveying her features in the glass, with one hand flirting her gold-mounted whip, and the other holding up her long habit.

“She certainly is a magnificent creature!” thought I, as I beheld that tall, finely developed figure, and the reflection of the handsome face in the mirror before me, with the glossy dark hair, slightly and not ungracefully disordered by the breezy ride, the rich brown complexion glowing with exercise, and the black eyes sparkling with unwonted brilliance. On perceiving me, she turned round, exclaiming, with a laugh that savoured more of malice than of mirth⁠—“Why, Helen! what have you been doing so long? I came to tell you my good fortune,” she continued, regardless of Rachel’s presence. “Lord Lowborough has proposed, and I have been graciously pleased to accept him. Don’t you envy me, dear?”

“No, love,” said I⁠—“or him either,” I mentally added. “And do you like him, Annabella?”

“Like him! yes, to be sure⁠—over head and ears in love!”

“Well, I hope you’ll make him a good wife.”

“Thank you, my dear! And what besides do you hope?”

“I hope you will both love each other, and both be happy.”

“Thanks; and I hope you will make a very good wife to Mr. Huntingdon!” said she, with a queenly bow, and retired.

“Oh, Miss! how could you say so to her!” cried Rachel.

“Say what?” replied I.

“Why, that you hoped she would make him a good wife. I never heard such a thing!”

“Because I do hope it, or rather, I wish it; she’s almost past hope.”

“Well,” said she, “I’m sure I hope he’ll make her a good husband. They tell queer things about him downstairs. They were saying⁠—”

“I know, Rachel. I’ve heard all about him; but he’s reformed now. And they have no business to tell tales about their masters.”

“No, mum⁠—or else, they have said some things about Mr. Huntingdon too.”

“I won’t hear them, Rachel; they tell lies.”

“Yes, mum,” said she, quietly, as she went on arranging my hair.

“Do you believe them, Rachel?” I asked, after a short pause.

“No, Miss, not all. You know when a lot of servants gets together they like to talk about their betters; and some, for a bit of swagger, likes to make it appear as though they knew more than they do, and to throw out hints and things just to astonish the others. But I think, if I was you, Miss Helen, I’d look very well before I leaped. I do believe a young lady can’t be too careful who she marries.”

“Of course not,” said I; “but be quick, will you, Rachel? I want to be dressed.”

And, indeed, I was anxious to be rid of the good woman, for I was in such a melancholy frame I could hardly keep the tears out of my eyes while she dressed me. It was not for Lord Lowborough⁠—it was not for Annabella⁠—it was not for myself⁠—it was for Arthur Huntingdon that they rose.

13th.⁠—They are gone, and he is gone. We are to be parted for more than two months, above ten weeks! a long, long time to live and not to see him. But he has promised to write often, and made me promise to write still oftener, because he will be busy settling his affairs, and I shall have nothing better to do. Well, I think I shall always have plenty to say. But oh! for the time when we shall be always together, and can exchange our thoughts without the intervention of these cold go-betweens, pen, ink, and paper!

22nd.⁠—I have had several letters from Arthur already. They are not long, but passing sweet, and just like himself, full of ardent affection, and playful lively humour; but there is always a “but” in this imperfect world, and I do wish he would sometimes be serious. I cannot get him to write or speak in real, solid earnest. I don’t much mind it now, but if it be always so, what shall I do with the serious part of myself?

Feb. 18, 1822.⁠—Early this morning Arthur mounted his hunter and set off in high glee to meet the ⸻ hounds. He will be