The Tenant of Wildfell Hall - Anne Brontë (best e reader for manga txt) 📗

this! Could I ever have imagined that I should be doomed to bear such insults under my own roof⁠—to hear such things spoken in my presence; nay, spoken to me and of me; and by those who arrogated to themselves the name of gentlemen? And could I have imagined that I should have been able to endure it as calmly, and to repel their insults as firmly and as boldly as I had done? A hardness such as this is taught by rough experience and despair alone.

Such thoughts as these chased one another through my mind, as I paced to and fro the room, and longed⁠—oh, how I longed⁠—to take my child and leave them now, without an hour’s delay! But it could not be; there was work before me: hard work, that must be done.

“Then let me do it,” said I, “and lose not a moment in vain repinings and idle chafings against my fate, and those who influence it.”

And conquering my agitation with a powerful effort, I immediately resumed my task, and laboured hard all day.

Mr. Hargrave did depart on the morrow; and I have never seen him since. The others stayed on for two or three weeks longer; but I kept aloof from them as much as possible, and still continued my labour, and have continued it, with almost unabated ardour, to the present day. I soon acquainted Rachel with my design, confiding all my motives and intentions to her ear, and, much to my agreeable surprise, found little difficulty in persuading her to enter into my views. She is a sober, cautious woman, but she so hates her master, and so loves her mistress and her nursling, that after several ejaculations, a few faint objections, and many tears and lamentations that I should be brought to such a pass, she applauded my resolution and consented to aid me with all her might: on one condition only: that she might share my exile: otherwise, she was utterly inexorable, regarding it as perfect madness for me and Arthur to go alone. With touching generosity, she modestly offered to aid me with her little hoard of savings, hoping I would “excuse her for the liberty, but really, if I would do her the favour to accept it as a loan, she would be very happy.” Of course I could not think of such a thing; but now, thank heaven, I have gathered a little hoard of my own, and my preparations are so far advanced that I am looking forward to a speedy emancipation. Only let the stormy severity of this winter weather be somewhat abated, and then, some morning, Mr. Huntingdon will come down to a solitary breakfast-table, and perhaps be clamouring through the house for his invisible wife and child, when they are some fifty miles on their way to the Western world, or it may be more: for we shall leave him hours before the dawn, and it is not probable he will discover the loss of both until the day is far advanced.

I am fully alive to the evils that may and must result upon the step I am about to take; but I never waver in my resolution, because I never forget my son. It was only this morning, while I pursued my usual employment, he was sitting at my feet, quietly playing with the shreds of canvas I had thrown upon the carpet; but his mind was otherwise occupied, for, in a while, he looked up wistfully in my face, and gravely asked⁠—“Mamma, why are you wicked?”

“Who told you I was wicked, love?”

“Rachel.”

“No, Arthur, Rachel never said so, I am certain.”

“Well, then, it was papa,” replied he, thoughtfully. Then, after a reflective pause, he added, “At least, I’ll tell you how it was I got to know: when I’m with papa, if I say mamma wants me, or mamma says I’m not to do something that he tells me to do, he always says, ‘Mamma be damned,’ and Rachel says it’s only wicked people that are damned. So, mamma, that’s why I think you must be wicked: and I wish you wouldn’t.”

“My dear child, I am not. Those are bad words, and wicked people often say them of others better than themselves. Those words cannot make people be damned, nor show that they deserve it. God will judge us by our own thoughts and deeds, not by what others say about us. And when you hear such words spoken, Arthur, remember never to repeat them: it is wicked to say such things of others, not to have them said against you.”

“Then it’s papa that’s wicked,” said he, ruefully.

“Papa is wrong to say such things, and you will be very wrong to imitate him now that you know better.”

“What is imitate?”

“To do as he does.”

“Does he know better?”

“Perhaps he does; but that is nothing to you.”

“If he doesn’t, you ought to tell him, mamma.”

“I have told him.”

The little moralist paused and pondered. I tried in vain to divert his mind from the subject.

“I’m sorry papa’s wicked,” said he mournfully, at length, “for I don’t want him to go to hell.” And so saying he burst into tears.

I consoled him with the hope that perhaps his papa would alter and become good before he died⁠—; but is it not time to deliver him from such a parent?

XL

January 10th, 1827.⁠—While writing the above, yesterday evening, I sat in the drawing-room. Mr. Huntingdon was present, but, as I thought, asleep on the sofa behind me. He had risen, however, unknown to me, and, actuated by some base spirit of curiosity, been looking over my shoulder for I know not how long; for when I had laid aside my pen, and was about to close the book, he suddenly placed his hand upon it, and saying⁠—“With your leave, my dear, I’ll have a look at this,” forcibly wrested it from me, and, drawing a chair to the table, composedly sat down to examine