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

after, the company broke up, and, as the guests were retiring to their rooms, Arthur approached me, smiling with the utmost assurance.

“Are you very angry, Helen?” murmured he.

“This is no jest, Arthur,” said I, seriously, but as calmly as I could⁠—“unless you think it a jest to lose my affection forever.”

“What! so bitter?” he exclaimed, laughingly, clasping my hand between both his; but I snatched it away, in indignation⁠—almost in disgust, for he was obviously affected with wine.

“Then I must go down on my knees,” said he; and kneeling before me, with clasped hands, uplifted in mock humiliation, he continued imploringly⁠—“Forgive me, Helen⁠—dear Helen, forgive me, and I’ll never do it again!” and, burying his face in his handkerchief, he affected to sob aloud.

Leaving him thus employed, I took my candle, and, slipping quietly from the room, hastened upstairs as fast as I could. But he soon discovered that I had left him, and, rushing up after me, caught me in his arms, just as I had entered the chamber, and was about to shut the door in his face.

“No, no, by heaven, you shan’t escape me so!” he cried. Then, alarmed at my agitation, he begged me not to put myself in such a passion, telling me I was white in the face, and should kill myself if I did so.

“Let me go, then,” I murmured; and immediately he released me⁠—and it was well he did, for I was really in a passion. I sank into the easy-chair and endeavoured to compose myself, for I wanted to speak to him calmly. He stood beside me, but did not venture to touch me or to speak for a few seconds; then, approaching a little nearer, he dropped on one knee⁠—not in mock humility, but to bring himself nearer my level, and leaning his hand on the arm of the chair, he began in a low voice: “It is all nonsense, Helen⁠—a jest, a mere nothing⁠—not worth a thought. Will you never learn,” he continued more boldly, “that you have nothing to fear from me? that I love you wholly and entirely?⁠—or if,” he added with a lurking smile, “I ever give a thought to another, you may well spare it, for those fancies are here and gone like a flash of lightning, while my love for you burns on steadily, and forever, like the sun. You little exorbitant tyrant, will not that⁠—?”

“Be quiet a moment, will you, Arthur?” said I, “and listen to me⁠—and don’t think I’m in a jealous fury: I am perfectly calm. Feel my hand.” And I gravely extended it towards him⁠—but closed it upon his with an energy that seemed to disprove the assertion, and made him smile. “You needn’t smile, sir,” said I, still tightening my grasp, and looking steadfastly on him till he almost quailed before me. “You may think it all very fine, Mr. Huntingdon, to amuse yourself with rousing my jealousy; but take care you don’t rouse my hate instead. And when you have once extinguished my love, you will find it no easy matter to kindle it again.”

“Well, Helen, I won’t repeat the offence. But I meant nothing by it, I assure you. I had taken too much wine, and I was scarcely myself at the time.”

“You often take too much; and that is another practice I detest.” He looked up astonished at my warmth. “Yes,” I continued; “I never mentioned it before, because I was ashamed to do so; but now I’ll tell you that it distresses me, and may disgust me, if you go on and suffer the habit to grow upon you, as it will if you don’t check it in time. But the whole system of your conduct to Lady Lowborough is not referable to wine; and this night you knew perfectly well what you were doing.”

“Well, I’m sorry for it,” replied he, with more of sulkiness than contrition: “what more would you have?”

“You are sorry that I saw you, no doubt,” I answered coldly.

“If you had not seen me,” he muttered, fixing his eyes on the carpet, “it would have done no harm.”

My heart felt ready to burst; but I resolutely swallowed back my emotion, and answered calmly,

“You think not?”

“No,” replied he, boldly. “After all, what have I done? It’s nothing⁠—except as you choose to make it a subject of accusation and distress.”

“What would Lord Lowborough, your friend, think, if he knew all? or what would you yourself think, if he or any other had acted the same part to me, throughout, as you have to Annabella?”

“I would blow his brains out.”

“Well, then, Arthur, how can you call it nothing⁠—an offence for which you would think yourself justified in blowing another man’s brains out? Is it nothing to trifle with your friend’s feelings and mine⁠—to endeavour to steal a woman’s affections from her husband⁠—what he values more than his gold, and therefore what it is more dishonest to take? Are the marriage vows a jest; and is it nothing to make it your sport to break them, and to tempt another to do the same? Can I love a man that does such things, and coolly maintains it is nothing?”

“You are breaking your marriage vows yourself,” said he, indignantly rising and pacing to and fro. “You promised to honour and obey me, and now you attempt to hector over me, and threaten and accuse me, and call me worse than a highwayman. If it were not for your situation, Helen, I would not submit to it so tamely. I won’t be dictated to by a woman, though she be my wife.”

“What will you do then? Will you go on till I hate you, and then accuse me of breaking my vows?”

He was silent a moment, and then replied: “You never will hate me.” Returning and resuming his former position at my feet, he repeated more vehemently⁠—“You cannot hate me as long as I love you.”

“But how can I believe that you love me, if you continue to