Читать книгу Незнакомка из Уайлдфелл-Холла. Уровень 2 / The Tenant of Wildfell Hall - Эмили Бронте, Энн Бронте - Страница 16

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.