Kitabı oku: «Незнакомка из Уайлдфелл-Холла. Уровень 2 / The Tenant of Wildfell Hall», sayfa 3

Chapter X

But the vile slander was born. Rose, however, vowed she did not believe it, and my mother made the same declaration.

Anyway, she said one day,

“Well! I always thought there was something odd about her. This is a sad, sad business!”

“Why, mother, you said you didn't believe these tales,” said Fergus.

“No more I do, my dear; but then, you know, there must be some foundation.”

“The foundation is in the wickedness and falsehood of the people,” said I, “and in the fact that Mr. Lawrence went that way once or twice. The scandal-mongers have greedily seized the rumour.”

“Well, but, Gilbert, there must be something in her manner to countenance such reports.”

“Did you see anything in her manner?”

“No, certainly; but then, you know, I always said there was something strange about her.”

That evening I went to Wildfell Hall. By this time, you see, I was in love with her. I took from the book-case an old volume to offer her, and hastened away.

Arthur was playing with his frolicsome little dog in the garden. I looked over the gate and called him to me.

“Arthur, tell your mother I want to speak to her.”

He ran to perform my bidding, and quickly returned with his mother. How lovely she looked with her dark ringlets!

“Well, Mr. Markham, what is it?” said the young mother.

“I want you to look at this book, and, if you please, to take it, and peruse it at your leisure.”

“Tell him to come in, mamma,” said Arthur.

And we sauntered through the garden, and talked of the flowers, the trees, and the book, and then of other things. The evening was kind and genial, and so was my companion. We passed a rose-tree. She plucked a beautiful half-open bud and bade me give it to Rose.

“May I not keep it myself?” I asked.

“No; but here is another for you.”

I took the hand that offered it, and looked into her face.

“Mr. Markham,” said she, with desperate calmness, “I must tell you something. I like your company, because I am alone here, and your conversation pleases me more than that of any other person. But if you cannot regard me as a friend – a plain, cold, motherly, or sisterly friend – I must beg you to leave me now, and let me alone hereafter. In fact, we must be strangers for the future.”

“I will, then – be your friend, or brother, or anything you wish. But tell me why I cannot be anything more?”

There was a perplexed and thoughtful pause.

“Is it in consequence of some rash vow?”

“It is something of the kind,” she answered. “Some day I may tell you, but at present please leave me, Gilbert.”

How sweet, how musical my own name sounded in her mouth!

“May I come to see you now and then¹³?”

“Perhaps – occasionally.”

“And will you always call me Gilbert? It sounds more sisterly.”

She smiled and re-entered the house and I went down the hill. But suddenly the tramp of horses' hoofs fell on my ear, and broke the stillness of the dewy evening. I saw a solitary equestrian. I knew him at a glance: it was Mr. Lawrence on his grey pony. He saw me and wanted to turn back, but then continued his course as before. He accosted me with a slight bow, and wanted to pass on; but I seized his horse by the bridle, and exclaimed,

“Now, Lawrence, tell me where you are going, and what you mean to do!”

“Will you take your hand off the bridle?” said he quietly, “you're hurting my pony's mouth.”

“You and your pony be – ”

“What makes you so coarse and brutal, Markham? I'm quite ashamed of you.”

“You answer my questions – before you leave this spot! I will know what you mean by this perfidious duplicity!”

“I shall answer no questions till you let go the bridle.”

“Now then,” said I and unclosed my hand.

“Ask me some other time, when you can speak like a gentleman,” returned he. “Mr. Markham, this is too much!¹⁴ Can I not go to see my tenant?”

“This is no time for business, sir! I'll tell you, now, what I think of your conduct.”

“Really? Here's the vicar.”

And, in truth, the vicar was just behind me. I immediately released the squire; and he went on his way.

“What! Quarrelling, Markham?” cried the vicar, “and about that young widow, I think?” he added. “But let me tell you, young man, she's not worth it.”

“Mr. Millward!” I exclaimed, turned away, and hastened homewards.

Chapter XI

Three weeks passed over. Mrs. Graham and I were now friends – or brother and sister. She called me Gilbert, and I called her Helen. I saw her twice a week. I behaved with such propriety that she never had occasion to reprove me once. This assumption of brotherly nonchalance was very hard to sustain, and I often felt myself a hypocrite with it all. I saw too, or rather I felt, that, in spite of herself, I was not indifferent to her.

“Where are you going, Gilbert?” said Rose, one evening, shortly after tea.

“To take a walk,” was the reply.

“You're going to Wildfell Hall, aren't you?”

“So what?”

“It's better not to go there so often.”

“Nonsense, child! I don't go once in six weeks – what do you mean?”

“Well, I've heard so much about her lately, both at the Wilsons' and the vicarage… And don't you remember last winter, Gilbert, all that about the false name to the picture; and how she explained it; and then, how suddenly she started up and left the room when that person came – and who Arthur told us was his mamma's friend?”

“Yes, Rose, I remember it all. But thank God, I know her.”

“Oh, Gilbert! You know nothing of her former life; and last year, at this time, you did not know that such a person existed. But what will mamma say, Gilbert?”

“Mamma needn't know.”

“But she must know some time.”

“Mrs. Graham and I are two friends – and will be.”

“Jane Wilson thinks your visits to the old hall are another proof of her depravity.”

“Confound Jane Wilson!”

“And Eliza Millward is quite grieved about you.”

“How do they know that I go there?”

“They spy out everything.”

“Oh, I never thought of this! And so they dare to turn my friendship into food for further scandal against her! That proves the falsehood of their other lies.”

Just at that moment the vicar entered the room. Just then my mother came in, and offered him a cup of tea.

“I thank you,” replied the vicar; “but I prefer to take a glass of your excellent ale, if it's possible.”

“With pleasure!” cried my mother, pulled the bell and ordered the beverage.

“I've visited Mrs. Graham, you know” continued he.

“Have you, indeed?”

He nodded gravely, and added with awful emphasis. Then he struck his stick on the floor. My “'Mrs. Graham,' said I,” he continued, “'these are terrible reports!' 'What, sir?' says she. 'It is my duty as your pastor,' said I, 'to tell you them.' So I told her!”

“You did, sir?” cried I.

He merely glanced towards me, and continued:

“It was a painful duty, Mrs. Markham – but I told her!”

“And how did she take it?” asked my mother.

“She turned white in the face,” he replied; “and drew her breath through her teeth. But she offered no extenuation or defence. She told me that my remonstrance was unavailing, that my presence was displeasing while I spoke such things. I sadly grieved to find her case so hopeless.

Mrs. Markham, my daughters must not consort with her. As for your sons, as for you, young man…” he continued.

“As for me, sir,” I began, but snatched up my hat and bolted from the room. The next minute I was hurrying in the direction of Wildfell Hall.

Chapter XII

In little more than twenty minutes the journey was accomplished. I paused at the gate to wipe my forehead, and recover my breath. The rapid walking mitigated my excitement; and with a firm and steady tread I paced the garden-walk. I caught a sight of Mrs. Graham, through the open window. She seemed agitated and even dismayed at my arrival.

“I am come at an unseasonable hour,” said I; “but I won't stay long.”

She smiled upon me.

“How dismal you are, Helen! Why have you no fire?” I said.

“It is summer yet,” she replied.

“But we always have a fire in the evenings; and you especially require one in this cold house and dreary room.”

“You must not stay long, Gilbert,” said she.

“I'm not going to,” said I. “But, Helen, I've something to say to you before I go.”

“What is it?”

“No, not now – I don't know yet precisely what it is, or how to say it,” replied I.

Meanwhile Rachel came in to kindle the fire.

“Gilbert, it is getting late,” Helen said.

“I see,” said I. “You want me to go, I suppose?”

“I think you ought. If my kind neighbours know of this visit – as no doubt they will – they will not turn it much to my advantage.”

“Let them turn it as they will,” said I. “What are their thoughts to you or me, so long as we are satisfied with ourselves – and each other. Let them go to the deuce with their vile constructions and their lying inventions!”

“You have heard, then, what they say of me?”

“I heard some detestable falsehoods; but none but fools credit them, Helen, so don't let them trouble you.”

“I did not think Mr. Millward a fool, and he believes it all. However little you may esteem them as individuals, it is not pleasant to be a liar and a hypocrite.”

“True. So authorise me to clear your name from every. Give me the right to identify your honour with my own, and to defend your reputation as more precious than my life!”

“Are you hero enough to unite yourself to one whom everybody despises? Think! It is a serious thing.”

“I shall be proud to do it, Helen! And if that is the obstacle to our union, it is demolished, and you must be mine!”

I seized her hand and wanted to press it to my lips, but she suddenly caught it away:

“No, no, it is not all!”

“What is it, then? You promised to tell me.”

“You will know some time – but not now – my head aches terribly,” she said, “and I must have some repose.”

“But if you tell me,” I persisted: “it will ease your mind; and I shall then know how to comfort you.”

She shook her head despondingly.

“You will blame me – perhaps even more than I deserve.”

“You, Helen? Impossible!”

“I did not know the strength and depth of your feelings.”

She clasped her hands upon her knee, and calmly said,

“Tomorrow, if you meet me on the moor about midday, I will tell you all.”

“I will; but answer me this one question first. Do you love me?”

“I will not answer it!”

“Then I will conclude you do; and so good-night.”

She turned from me. I took her hand and fervently kissed it.

“Gilbert, do leave me!” she cried.

It was cruel to disobey. I left.

I went up to the garden wall, and stood there. Then I vaulted over the barrier, unable to resist the temptation: I wanted to see her one more time.

I looked. Her chair was vacant: so was the room. But at that moment someone opened the door, and a voice – her voice! said,

“Let's come out. I want to see the moon, and breathe the evening air.”

I stood in the shadow of the tall bush, which was standing between the window and the porch. I saw two figures in the moonlight: Mrs. Graham and another, a young man, slender and rather tall. O heavens, how my temples throbbed! It was Mr. Lawrence!

“I must leave this place, Frederick,” she said, “I never can be happy here, nor anywhere else, indeed.”

“But where can you find a better place?” replied he, “so secluded – so near me, if you think anything of that.”

“Yes,” interrupted she, “it is all I wish, if they only leave me alone.”

“But wherever you go, Helen, there will be the same sources of annoyance. I cannot lose you:I must go with you, or come to you. There are fools elsewhere, as well as here.”

They sauntered slowly past me, and I heard no more of their discourse. But he put his arm round her waist, while she lovingly rested her hand on his shoulder. Then a tremulous darkness obscured my sight, my heart sickened and my head burned like fire. I dashed myself on the ground and lay there in a paroxysm of anger and despair – how long, I cannot say. Then I rose and journeyed homewards.

“Oh, Gilbert! Where have you been? Do come in and take your supper, ” my mother said. “But you look ill! Oh, gracious! What is the matter?”

“Nothing, nothing – give me a candle.”

“But won't you take some supper?”

“No; I want to go to bed,” said I.

“Oh, Gilbert, how you tremble!” exclaimed she. “How white you look! Tell me what it is? Has anything happened?”

“It's nothing!” cried I.

What a miserable night it was! I was deceived, duped, hopeless, my angel was not an angel!

Chapter XIII

“My dear Gilbert, can you be a little more amiable?” said my mother one morning. “You say nothing has happened to grieve you, and yet I never saw anyone so altered as you within these last few days. You haven't a good word for anybody. You don't know how it spoils you.”

I took up a book, and opened it on the table before me. My mischievous brother suddenly called out,

“Don't touch him, mother! He'll bite! He's a tiger in human form. He nearly fractured my skull because I was singing a pretty, inoffensive love-song, on purpose to amuse him.”

“I told you to hold your noise, Fergus,” said I.

I recollected that I had business with Robert Wilson. I was going to buy his field.

He was absent; and I stepped into the parlour and waited. Mrs. Wilson was busy in the kitchen, but the room was not empty. There sat Miss Wilson, she was chattering with Eliza Millward. However, I determined to be cool and civil. Eliza asked:

“Have you seen Mrs. Graham lately?”

“Not lately,” I replied.

“What! Are you beginning to tire already?”

“I prefer not to speak of her now.”

“Ah! You have at length discovered that your divinity is not quite the immaculate – ”

“I desired you not to speak of her, Miss Eliza.”

“Oh, I beg your pardon! I perceive Cupid's arrows are too sharp for you:the wounds are not yet healed and bleed afresh.”

“Mr. Markham feels,” interposed Miss Wilson, “that this name is unworthy to be mentioned.”

I rose and walked to the window. Mr. Wilson soon arrived. I quickly concluded the bargain. Then I gladly quitted the house.

I ascended the hill. Then I beheld Mrs. Graham and her son. They saw me; and Arthur already was running to meet me; but I immediately turned back and walked steadily homeward. I determined never to encounter his mother again.

This incident agitated and disturbed me. Cupid's arrows were not too sharp for me, but they were barbed and deeply rooted. I was not able to wrench them from my heart. So I was miserable for the remainder of the day.

Chapter XIV

Next morning I mounted my horse. It was a dull, drizzly day. As I trotted along, I heard another horse at no great distance behind me. It was Mr. Lawrence! He began to talk about the weather and the crops. I gave the briefest possible answers to his queries and observations. He asked if my horse was lame. I replied with a look, at which he placidly smiled.

“Markham,” said he, “why do you quarrel with your friends? Your hopes are defeated; but how am I to blame for it? I warned you beforehand, you know, but you – ”

I seized my whip by the small end, and brought the other down upon his head. He reeled a moment in his saddle, and then fell backward to the ground.

I left the fellow to his fate, and galloped away. Shortly, however, the effervescence began to abate, and I turned and went back. It was no generous impulse; it was, simply, the voice of conscience.

Mr. Lawrence and his pony both altered their positions in some degree. The pony wandered eight or ten yards further away; and he managed, somehow, to remove himself from the middle of the road. He was looking very white and sickly, and holding his cambric handkerchief (now more red than white) to his head.

I dismounted, fastened my horse to the nearest tree, and picked up his hat. I was going to clap it on his head. But he took it from my hand, and scornfully cast it aside.

“It's good enough for you,” I muttered.

Then I wanted to catch his pony and bring it to him.

“Here, you fellow – scoundrel – dog – give me your hand, and I'll help you to mount.”

No; he turned from me in disgust. I attempted to take him by the arm. He shrank away.

“Well! You may sit there till doomsday.”

“Let me alone, if you please.”

“Humph; with all my heart. You may go to the devil – and say I sent you.”

I threw him my handkerchief, as his own was saturated with blood. He took it and cast it back to me in abhorrence and contempt. I remounted my horse and trotted away to the town.

Bad news flies fast. It was hardly four o'clock when I got home, but my mother gravely accosted me with,

“Oh, Gilbert! Such an accident! Rose was shopping in the village, and she heard that Mr. Lawrence was thrown from his horse. He is dying!”

This shocked me.

“You must go and see him tomorrow,” said my mother.

“Or today,” suggested Rose: “there's plenty of time; and you can have the pony, as your horse is tired.”

“Fergus may go.”

“Why not you?”

“He has more time. I am busy just now.”

“Oh! Gilbert, how can you be so indifferent? Your friend is dying!”

“He is not, I tell you.”

I sent Fergus next morning, with my mother's compliments, to make the requisite inquiries. The young squire had a broken head and a severe cold; but there were no broken bones.

Chapter XV

That day was rainy like its predecessor, and the next morning was fair and promising. I was out on the hill with the reapers. While I stood with folded arms, something gently pulled my shirt. A voice said,

“Mr. Markham, mamma wants to see you.”

“Wants to see me, Arthur?”

“Yes. Why do you look so queer?” said he. “Come! Won't you come?”

“I'm busy just now,” I replied.

He looked up in childish bewilderment. But before I spoke again, the lady herself was at my side.

“Gilbert, I must speak with you!” said she.

I looked at her pale cheek and glittering eye, but answered nothing.

“Only for a moment,” pleaded she. “Just step aside into this other field.”

I accompanied her through the gap.

“Arthur, darling, run and gather those bluebells,” said she.

The child hesitated.

“Go, Arthur!” repeated she more urgently.

“Well, Mrs. Graham?” said I, calmly and coldly.

She fixed her eyes upon me with a look that pierced me to the heart.

“I don't ask the reason of this change, Gilbert,” said she, with bitter calmness. “I know it too well. But though I can be condemned by everyone else, and bear it with calmness, I cannot endure it from you. Why did you not come to hear my explanation?”

“Because I learned everything – and a trifle more, I imagine.”

“Impossible!” cried she, passionately. “I wanted to tell you everything, but I won't now. I see you are not worthy of it!”

And her pale lips quivered with agitation.

“Why not, may I ask?”

“Because you never understood me. Because you listened to my traducers. Go! I won't care what you think of me.”

She turned away, and I went. Little Arthur was running by her side and apparently talking as he went. And I returned to my business.

But I soon began to regret my precipitancy. It was evident she loved me – probably she was tired of Mr. Lawrence, and wished to exchange him for me. But still I was curious to know her explanation. I wanted to know what to despise, and what to admire in her; how much to pity, and how much to hate. But what a fool I was! She deceived me, injured me!

“Well, I'll see her, however,” was my resolve, “but not today: today and tonight she may think upon her sins. Tomorrow I will see her once again, and know something more about her.”

I came to the old Hall the next day. I approached the shrine of my former divinity. Rachel admitted me into the parlour, and went to call her mistress. She was not there, but there was her little round table with a book upon it. This volume I did not see before. It was Sir Humphry Davy's “Last Days of a Philosopher,” and on the first leaf was written, “Frederick Lawrence.”

I closed the book, but kept it in my hand. She entered, calm, pale, collected.

“Mr. Markham?” said she, with severe but quiet dignity.

I answered with a smile,

“Well, I have come to hear your explanation.”

“I won't give it,” said she. “I said you were unworthy of my confidence.”

“Oh, very well,” replied I and moved to the door.

“Stay a moment,” said she. “This is the last time I shall see you:don't go just yet.”

I remained.

“Tell me,” resumed she, “why did you believe these things against me? who told you; and what did they say?”

I paused a moment. Then I showed her the book that I still held in my hand. I pointed to the name and asked,

“Do you know that gentleman?”

“Of course I do,” replied she. “What next, sir?”

“How long is it since you saw him?”

“Who gave you the right to catechize me on this or any other subject?”

“Oh, no one! God only knows what a blind, incredulous fool I have been. I was shutting my eyes and stopping my ears against everything that threatened to shake my confidence in you, till proof itself confounded my infatuation!”

“What proof, sir?”

“Well, I'll tell you. You remember that evening when I was here last?”

“I do.”

“After I left you I turned back, just to see through the window how you were. I stood still, in the shadow. Then you both passed by.”

“And how much of our conversation did you hear?”

“I heard quite enough, Helen. You did me an injury you can never repair, you blighted the freshness and promise of youth. You made my life a wilderness! I will never forget it!..

You smile, Mrs. Graham,” said I.

“Did I?” replied she; “I was not aware of it. If I did, it was not for pleasure. It was for joy to find that you had some depth of soul and feeling after all. But smiles and tears are alike with me. I often cry when I am happy, and smile when I am sad.”

She looked at me.

“Will you be glad,” resumed she, “to find that you were mistaken in your conclusions?”

“How can you ask it, Helen?”

“Will you be glad to discover I was better than you think?”

“Anything that can restore my former opinion of you, to excuse the regard I still feel for you, and alleviate the pangs of unutterable regret that accompany it, will be gladly and eagerly received!”

Her cheeks burned. She did not speak, but came to her desk, and took a thick album or manuscript. She hastily tore away a few leaves from the end, and thrust the rest into my hand:

“You needn't read it all; but take it home with you,” and hurried from the room.

But when I left the house, and was proceeding down the walk, she opened the window and said,

“Bring it back when you have read it. Don't tell about it to anybody. I trust to your honour.”

Then she closed the casement and turned away. I hurried home, and rushed upstairs to my room. And I began to read.