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

“I had a letter from him this morning. I wish it were such a one as I could show to his lady.” He half drew from his waistcoat-pocket a letter with Arthur’s still beloved hand on the address, scowled at it, and put it back again, adding⁠—“But he tells me he is about to return next week.”

“He tells me so every time he writes.”

“Indeed! well, it is like him. But to me he always avowed it his intention to stay till the present month.”

It struck me like a blow, this proof of premeditated transgression and systematic disregard of truth.

“It is only of a piece with the rest of his conduct,” observed Mr. Hargrave, thoughtfully regarding me, and reading, I suppose, my feelings in my face.

“Then he is really coming next week?” said I, after a pause.

“You may rely upon it, if the assurance can give you any pleasure. And is it possible, Mrs. Huntingdon, that you can rejoice at his return?” he exclaimed, attentively perusing my features again.

“Of course, Mr. Hargrave; is he not my husband?”

“Oh, Huntingdon; you know not what you slight!” he passionately murmured.

I took up my baby, and, wishing him good morning, departed, to indulge my thoughts unscrutinized, within the sanctum of my home.

And was I glad? Yes, delighted; though I was angered by Arthur’s conduct, and though I felt that he had wronged me, and was determined he should feel it too.

On the following morning I received a few lines from him myself, confirming Hargrave’s intimations respecting his approaching return. And he did come next week, but in a condition of body and mind even worse than before. I did not, however, intend to pass over his derelictions this time without a remark; I found it would not do. But the first day he was weary with his journey, and I was glad to get him back: I would not upbraid him then; I would wait till tomorrow. Next morning he was weary still: I would wait a little longer. But at dinner, when, after breakfasting at twelve o’clock on a bottle of soda-water and a cup of strong coffee, and lunching at two on another bottle of soda-water mingled with brandy, he was finding fault with everything on the table, and declaring we must change our cook, I thought the time was come.

“It is the same cook as we had before you went, Arthur,” said I. “You were generally pretty well satisfied with her then.”

“You must have been letting her get into slovenly habits, then, while I was away. It is enough to poison one, eating such a disgusting mess!” And he pettishly pushed away his plate, and leant back despairingly in his chair.

“I think it is you that are changed, not she,” said I, but with the utmost gentleness, for I did not wish to irritate him.

“It may be so,” he replied carelessly, as he seized a tumbler of wine and water, adding, when he had tossed it off, “for I have an infernal fire in my veins, that all the waters of the ocean cannot quench!”

“What kindled it?” I was about to ask, but at that moment the butler entered and began to take away the things.

“Be quick, Benson; do have done with that infernal clatter!” cried his master. “And don’t bring the cheese, unless you want to make me sick outright!”

Benson, in some surprise, removed the cheese, and did his best to effect a quiet and speedy clearance of the rest; but, unfortunately, there was a rumple in the carpet, caused by the hasty pushing back of his master’s chair, at which he tripped and stumbled, causing a rather alarming concussion with the trayful of crockery in his hands, but no positive damage, save the fall and breaking of a sauce tureen; but, to my unspeakable shame and dismay, Arthur turned furiously around upon him, and swore at him with savage coarseness. The poor man turned pale, and visibly trembled as he stooped to pick up the fragments.

“He couldn’t help it, Arthur,” said I; “the carpet caught his foot, and there’s no great harm done. Never mind the pieces now, Benson; you can clear them away afterwards.”

Glad to be released, Benson expeditiously set out the dessert and withdrew.

“What could you mean, Helen, by taking the servant’s part against me,” said Arthur, as soon as the door was closed, “when you knew I was distracted?”

“I did not know you were distracted, Arthur: and the poor man was quite frightened and hurt at your sudden explosion.”

“Poor man, indeed! and do you think I could stop to consider the feelings of an insensate brute like that, when my own nerves were racked and torn to pieces by his confounded blunders?”

“I never heard you complain of your nerves before.”

“And why shouldn’t I have nerves as well as you?”

“Oh, I don’t dispute your claim to their possession, but I never complain of mine.”

“No, how should you, when you never do anything to try them?”

“Then why do you try yours, Arthur?”

“Do you think I have nothing to do but to stay at home and take care of myself like a woman?”

“Is it impossible, then, to take care of yourself like a man when you go abroad? You told me that you could, and would too; and you promised⁠—”

“Come, come, Helen, don’t begin with that nonsense now; I can’t bear it.”

“Can’t bear what?⁠—to be reminded of the promises you have broken?”

“Helen, you are cruel. If you knew how my heart throbbed, and how every nerve thrilled through me while you spoke, you would spare me. You can pity a dolt of a servant for breaking a dish; but you have no compassion for me when my head is split in two and all on fire with this consuming fever.”

He leant his head on his hand, and sighed. I went to him and put my hand on his forehead. It was burning indeed.

“Then come with me into the drawing-room, Arthur; and don’t take