怀尔德菲尔府的房客 英文版 The Tenant of Wildfell Hall
安妮.勃朗特 Anne Bronte
CHAPTER XLV Page 2
'Helen, I can! if faith would never fail.'
'Now, then,' exclaimed she, 'while this hope is strong within us -'
'We will part,' I cried. 'You shall not have the pain of anothereffort to dismiss me. I will go at once; but - '
I did not put my request in words: she understood itinstinctively, and this time she yielded too - or rather, there wasnothing so deliberate as requesting or yielding in the matter:there was a sudden impulse that neither could resist. One moment Istood and looked into her face, the next I held her to my heart,and we seemed to grow together in a close embrace from which nophysical or mental force could rend us. A whispered 'God blessyou!' and 'Go - go!' was all she said; but while she spoke she heldme so fast that, without violence, I could not have obeyed her. Atlength, however, by some heroic effort, we tore ourselves apart,and I rushed from the house.
I have a confused remembrance of seeing little Arthur running upthe garden-walk to meet me, and of bolting over the wall to avoidhim - and subsequently running down the steep fields, clearing thestone fences and hedges as they came in my way, till I gotcompletely out of sight of the old hall and down to the bottom ofthe hill; and then of long hours spent in bitter tears andlamentations, and melancholy musings in the lonely valley, with theeternal music in my ears, of the west wind rushing through theovershadowing trees, and the brook babbling and gurgling along itsstony bed; my eyes, for the most part, vacantly fixed on the deep,chequered shades restlessly playing over the bright sunny grass atmy feet, where now and then a withered leaf or two would comedancing to share the revelry; but my heart was away up the hill inthat dark room where she was weeping desolate and alone - she whomI was not to comfort, not to see again, till years or suffering hadovercome us both, and torn our spirits from their perishing abodesof clay.
There was little business done that day, you may be sure. The farmwas abandoned to the labourers, and the labourers were left totheir own devices. But one duty must be attended to; I had notforgotten my assault upon Frederick Lawrence; and I must see him toapologise for the unhappy deed. I would fain have put it off tillthe morrow; but what if he should denounce me to his sister in themeantime? No, no! I must ask his pardon to-day, and entreat himto be lenient in his accusation, if the revelation must be made. Ideferred it, however, till the evening, when my spirits were morecomposed, and when - oh, wonderful perversity of human nature! -some faint germs of indefinite hopes were beginning to rise in mymind; not that I intended to cherish them, after all that had beensaid on the subject, but there they must lie for a while, uncrushedthough not encouraged, till I had learnt to live without them.
Arrived at Woodford, the young squire's abode, I found no littledifficulty in obtaining admission to his presence. The servantthat opened the door told me his master was very ill, and seemed tothink it doubtful whether he would be able to see me. I was notgoing to be baulked, however. I waited calmly in the hall to beannounced, but inwardly determined to take no denial. The messagewas such as I expected - a polite intimation that Mr. Lawrencecould see no one; he was feverish, and must not be disturbed.
'I shall not disturb him long,' said I; 'but I must see him for amoment: it is on business of importance that I wish to speak tohim.'
'I'll tell him, sir,' said the man. And I advanced further intothe hall and followed him nearly to the door of the apartment wherehis master was - for it seemed he was not in bed. The answerreturned was that Mr. Lawrence hoped I would be so good as to leavea message or a note with the servant, as he could attend to nobusiness at present.
'He may as well see me as you,' said I; and, stepping past theastonished footman, I boldly rapped at the door, entered, andclosed it behind me. The room was spacious and handsomelyfurnished - very comfortably, too, for a bachelor. A clear, redfire was burning in the polished grate: a superannuated greyhound,given up to idleness and good living, lay basking before it on thethick, soft rug, on one corner of which, beside the sofa, sat asmart young springer, looking wistfully up in its master's face -perhaps asking permission to share his couch, or, it might be, onlysoliciting a caress from his hand or a kind word from his lips.The invalid himself looked very interesting as he lay recliningthere, in his elegant dressing-gown, with a silk handkerchief boundacross his temples. His usually pale face was flushed andfeverish; his eyes were half closed, until he became sensible of mypresence - and then he opened them wide enough: one hand wasthrown listlessly over the back of the sofa, and held a smallvolume, with which, apparently, he had been vainly attempting tobeguile the weary hours. He dropped it, however, in his start ofindignant surprise as I advanced into the room and stood before himon the rug. He raised himself on his pillows, and gazed upon mewith equal degrees of nervous horror, anger, and amazement depictedon his countenance.
'Mr. Markham, I scarcely expected this!' he said; and the bloodleft his cheek as he spoke.
'I know you didn't,' answered I; 'but be quiet a minute, and I'lltell you what I came for.' Unthinkingly, I advanced a step or twonearer. He winced at my approach, with an expression of aversionand instinctive physical fear anything but conciliatory to myfeelings. I stepped back, however.
'Make your story a short one,' said he, putting his hand on thesmall silver bell that stood on the table beside him, 'or I shallbe obliged to call for assistance. I am in no state to bear yourbrutalities now, or your presence either.' And in truth themoisture started from his pores and stood on his pale forehead likedew.
Such a reception was hardly calculated to diminish the difficultiesof my unenviable task. It must be performed however, in somefashion; and so I plunged into it at once, and floundered throughit as I could.
'The truth is, Lawrence,' said I, 'I have not acted quite correctlytowards you of late - especially on this last occasion; and I'mcome to - in short, to express my regret for what has been done,and to beg your pardon. If you don't choose to grant it,' I addedhastily, not liking the aspect of his face, 'it's no matter; onlyI've done my duty - that's all.'
'It's easily done,' replied he, with a faint smile bordering on asneer: 'to abuse your friend and knock him on the head without anyassignable cause, and then tell him the deed was not quite correct,but it's no matter whether he pardons it or not.'
'I forgot to tell you that it was in consequence of a mistake,' -muttered I. 'I should have made a very handsome apology, but youprovoked me so confoundedly with your -. Well, I suppose it's myfault. The fact is, I didn't know that you were Mrs. Graham'sbrother, and I saw and heard some things respecting your conducttowards her which were calculated to awaken unpleasant suspicions,that, allow me to say, a little candour and confidence on your partmight have removed; and, at last, I chanced to overhear a part of aconversation between you and her that made me think I had a rightto hate you.'
'And how came you to know that I was her brother?' asked he, insome anxiety.
'She told me herself. She told me all. She knew I might betrusted. But you needn't disturb yourself about that, Mr.Lawrence, for I've seen the last of her!'
'The last! Is she gone, then?'
'No; but she has bid adieu to me, and I have promised never to gonear that house again while she inhabits it.' I could have groanedaloud at the bitter thoughts awakened by this turn in thediscourse. But I only clenched my hands and stamped my foot uponthe rug. My companion, however, was evidently relieved.
'You have done right,' he said, in a tone of unqualifiedapprobation, while his face brightened into almost a sunnyexpression. 'And as for the mistake, I am sorry for both our sakesthat it should have occurred. Perhaps you can forgive my want ofcandour, and remember, as some partial mitigation of the offence,how little encouragement to friendly confidence you have given meof late.'
'Yes, yes - I remember it all: nobody can blame me more than Iblame myself in my own heart; at any rate, nobody can regret moresincerely than I do the result of my brutality, as you rightly termit.'
'Never mind that,' said he, faintly smiling; 'let us forget allunpleasant words on both sides, as well as deeds, and consign tooblivion everything that we have cause to regret. Have you anyobjection to take my hand, or you'd rather not?' It trembledthrough weakness as he held it out, and dropped before I had timeto catch it and give it a hearty squeeze, which he had not thestrength to return.
'How dry and burning your hand is, Lawrence,' said I. 'You arereally ill, and I have made you worse by all this talk.'
'Oh, it is nothing; only a cold got by the rain.'
'My doing, too.'
'Never mind that. But tell me, did you mention this affair to mysister?'
'To confess the truth, I had not the courage to do so; but when youtell her, will you just say that I deeply regret it, and - ?'
'Oh, never fear! I shall say nothing against you, as long as youkeep your good resolution of remaining aloof from her. She has notheard of my illness, then, that you are aware of?'
'I think not.'
'I'm glad of that, for I have been all this time tormenting myselfwith the fear that somebody would tell her I was dying, ordesperately ill, and she would be either distressing herself onaccount of her inability to hear from me or do me any good, orperhaps committing the madness of coming to see me. I mustcontrive to let her know something about it, if I can,' continuedhe, reflectively, 'or she will be hearing some such story. Manywould be glad to tell her such news, just to see how she would takeit; and then she might expose herself to fresh scandal.'
'I wish I had told her,' said I. 'If it were not for my promise, Iwould tell her now.'
'By no means! I am not dreaming of that; - but if I were to writea short note, now, not mentioning you, Markham, but just giving aslight account of my illness, by way of excuse for my not coming tosee her, and to put her on her guard against any exaggeratedreports she may hear, - and address it in a disguised hand - wouldyou do me the favour to slip it into the post-office as you pass?for I dare not trust any of the servants in such a case.'
Most willingly I consented, and immediately brought him his desk.There was little need to disguise his hand, for the poor fellowseemed to have considerable difficulty in writing at all, so as tobe legible. When the note was done, I thought it time to retire,and took leave, after asking if there was anything in the world Icould do for him, little or great, in the way of alleviating hissufferings, and repairing the injury I had done.
'No,' said he; 'you have already done much towards it; you havedone more for me than the most skilful physician could do: for youhave relieved my mind of two great burdens - anxiety on my sister'saccount, and deep regret upon your own: for I do believe these twosources of torment have had more effect in working me up into afever than anything else; and I am persuaded I shall soon recovernow. There is one more thing you can do for me, and that is, comeand see me now and then - for you see I am very lonely here, and Ipromise your entrance shall not be disputed again.'
I engaged to do so, and departed with a cordial pressure of thehand. I posted the letter on my way home, most manfully resistingthe temptation of dropping in a word from myself at the same time.