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

a gruff elderly man, with a drab greatcoat buttoned up to the chin, and a cotton umbrella between his knees. “It’s old Maxwell’s, I suppose.”

“It was his, sir; but he’s dead now, you’re aware, and has left it all to his niece.”

“All?”

“Every rood of it, and the mansion-house and all! every hatom of his worldly goods, except just a trifle, by way of remembrance, to his nephew down in ⸺⁠shire, and an annuity to his wife.”

“It’s strange, sir!”

“It is, sir; and she wasn’t his own niece neither. But he had no near relations of his own⁠—none but a nephew he’d quarrelled with; and he always had a partiality for this one. And then his wife advised him to it, they say: she’d brought most of the property, and it was her wish that this lady should have it.”

“Humph! She’ll be a fine catch for somebody.”

“She will so. She’s a widow, but quite young yet, and uncommon handsome: a fortune of her own, besides, and only one child, and she’s nursing a fine estate for him in ⸻. There’ll be lots to speak for her! ’fraid there’s no chance for uz”⁠—(facetiously jogging me with his elbow, as well as his companion)⁠—“ha, ha, ha! No offence, sir, I hope?”⁠—(to me). “Ahem! I should think she’ll marry none but a nobleman myself. Look ye, sir,” resumed he, turning to his other neighbour, and pointing past me with his umbrella, “that’s the Hall: grand park, you see, and all them woods⁠—plenty of timber there, and lots of game. Hallo! what now?”

This exclamation was occasioned by the sudden stoppage of the coach at the park-gates.

“Gen’leman for Staningley Hall?” cried the coachman and I rose and threw my carpetbag on to the ground, preparatory to dropping myself down after it.

“Sickly, sir?” asked my talkative neighbour, staring me in the face. I daresay it was white enough.

“No. Here, coachman!”

“Thank’ee, sir.⁠—All right!”

The coachman pocketed his fee and drove away, leaving me, not walking up the park, but pacing to and fro before its gates, with folded arms, and eyes fixed upon the ground, an overwhelming force of images, thoughts, impressions crowding on my mind, and nothing tangibly distinct but this: My love had been cherished in vain⁠—my hope was gone forever; I must tear myself away at once, and banish or suppress all thoughts of her, like the remembrance of a wild, mad dream. Gladly would I have lingered round the place for hours, in the hope of catching at least one distant glimpse of her before I went, but it must not be⁠—I must not suffer her to see me; for what could have brought me hither but the hope of reviving her attachment, with a view hereafter to obtain her hand? And could I bear that she should think me capable of such a thing?⁠—of presuming upon the acquaintance⁠—the love, if you will⁠—accidentally contracted, or rather forced upon her against her will, when she was an unknown fugitive, toiling for her own support, apparently without fortune, family, or connections; to come upon her now, when she was reinstated in her proper sphere, and claim a share in her prosperity, which, had it never failed her, would most certainly have kept her unknown to me forever? And this, too, when we had parted sixteen months ago, and she had expressly forbidden me to hope for a reunion in this world, and never sent me a line or a message from that day to this. No! The very idea was intolerable.

And even if she should have a lingering affection for me still, ought I to disturb her peace by awakening those feelings? to subject her to the struggles of conflicting duty and inclination⁠—to whichsoever side the latter might allure, or the former imperatively call her⁠—whether she should deem it her duty to risk the slights and censures of the world, the sorrow and displeasure of those she loved, for a romantic idea of truth and constancy to me, or to sacrifice her individual wishes to the feelings of her friends and her own sense of prudence and the fitness of things? No⁠—and I would not! I would go at once, and she should never know that I had approached the place of her abode: for though I might disclaim all idea of ever aspiring to her hand, or even of soliciting a place in her friendly regard, her peace should not be broken by my presence, nor her heart afflicted by the sight of my fidelity.

“Adieu then, dear Helen, forever! Forever adieu!”

So said I⁠—and yet I could not tear myself away. I moved a few paces, and then looked back, for one last view of her stately home, that I might have its outward form, at least, impressed upon my mind as indelibly as her own image, which, alas! I must not see again⁠—then walked a few steps further; and then, lost in melancholy musings, paused again and leant my back against a rough old tree that grew beside the road.

LIII

While standing thus, absorbed in my gloomy reverie, a gentleman’s carriage came round the corner of the road. I did not look at it; and had it rolled quietly by me, I should not have remembered the fact of its appearance at all; but a tiny voice from within it roused me by exclaiming, “Mamma, mamma, here’s Mr. Markham!”

I did not hear the reply, but presently the same voice answered, “It is indeed, mamma⁠—look for yourself.”

I did not raise my eyes, but I suppose mamma looked, for a clear melodious voice, whose tones thrilled through my nerves, exclaimed, “Oh, aunt! here’s Mr. Markham, Arthur’s friend! Stop, Richard!”

There was such evidence of joyous though suppressed excitement in the utterance of those few words⁠—especially that tremulous, “Oh, aunt’⁠—that it threw me almost off my guard. The carriage stopped immediately, and I looked up and met the eye of a pale, grave, elderly lady surveying me from the open window. She bowed, and so did I,