Незнакомка из Уайлдфелл-Холла. Уровень 2 / The Tenant of Wildfell Hall. Энн Бронте

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      “Well! Here they both are![1]” cried my mother. “Now shut the door, and come to the fire. I'm sure you must be starved. Tell me what you were doing all day.”

      “I'll tell you what I was doing,” said Rose. “You know that somebody was going to take Wildfell

      Hall – and – what do you think? It was inhabited a week! – and we never knew!”

      “Impossible!” cried my mother.

      “Preposterous!” shrieked my brother Fergus.

      “It has indeed! – and by a single lady!”

      “Good gracious, my dear! The place is in ruins!”

      “But there she lives, all alone – except an old woman for a servant!”

      “Oh, dear! That spoils it – I hoped she was a witch,” observed Fergus.

      “Nonsense,

      Fergus! But isn't it strange, mamma?”

      “Strange! I can hardly believe it.”

      “But you may believe it; for Jane Wilson saw her. She went with her mother. So the tenant is called Mrs. Graham, and she is in mourning[2]. She is quite young, they say, not above five or six and twenty, but very reserved! They tried to find out who she was and where she came from, and, all about her. But neither Mrs. Wilson, nor Miss Wilson managed to elicit a single satisfactory answer, or even a casual remark. Eliza Millward says her father intends to call upon her[3] soon, to offer some pastoral advice, which he fears she needs. And we must see here, too, some time, mamma.”

      “Of course, my dear. How lonely she must feel!”

      The next day my mother and Rose visited the fair recluse. Mrs. Graham betrayed a lamentable ignorance on certain points, they said.

      “On what points, mother?” asked I.

      “On household matters and cookery. I gave her some useful pieces of information, however, and several excellent receipts. But she begged not to trouble her, as she lived in such a plain, quiet way, that she was sure she did not need them. 'No matter, my dear,' said I; 'it is what every respectable female ought to know. Though you are alone now, you will not be always so. You were married, and probably will be again.' 'You are mistaken there, ma'am,' said she, almost haughtily; 'I am certain I never shall.' But I told her I knew better.”

      “Some romantic young widow, I suppose,” said I. “She came there to end her days in solitude – but it won't last long.”

      “No, I think not,” observed Rose; “and she's excessively pretty – handsome rather – you must see her, Gilbert. Though you can hardly pretend to discover a resemblance between her and Eliza Millward.”

      The next day was Saturday; and, on Sunday, everybody wondered whether or not the fair unknown profited by the vicar's remonstrance. Will she come to church?

      Yes, she came there. And there I beheld a tall, lady-like figure in black. Her face was towards me, and there was something in it which invited me to look again. Her hair was black, she had long glossy. Her complexion was clear and pale. Her eyes were concealed by their lids and long black lashes. The forehead was lofty and intellectual.

      She raised her eyes, and they met mine. I did not withdrew my gaze, and she turned again to her prayer-book, but with a momentary, indefinable expression of quiet scorn.

      Now, Halford, before I close this letter, I'll tell you who Eliza Millward was. She was the vicar's younger daughter. I liked her; and she knew. But my mother did not bear the thoughts of my marrying that girl, who had not even twenty pounds, as my mother said. Eliza's figure was plump, her face small and round. Her eyes were long and narrow in shape. Her voice was gentle and childish.

      Her sister, Mary, was several years older and several inches taller. Her father, all dogs, cats, children, and poor people loved her very much.

      The Reverend Michael Millward himself was a tall, ponderous elderly gentleman, who placed a shovel hat[4] above his large, square, massive-featured face. He carried a stout walking-stick in his hand. He was a man of fixed principles, strong prejudices, and regular habits.

      He cared for his bodily health. He took a walk before breakfast, was vastly particular about warm and dry clothing. He was gifted with good lungs and a powerful voice, – and was, generally, extremely particular about what he ate and drank.

      I will mention two other persons. These are Mrs. Wilson and her daughter. The former was the widow, whose character is not worth describing. She had two sons, Robert, a farmer, and Richard, a studious young man, who was preparing for college.

      Their sister Jane was a young lady of some talents, and more ambition. She received a regular education. She was about six and twenty, rather tall and very slender. Her hair was neither chestnut nor auburn, but light red. Her complexion was remarkably fair and brilliant, her head small, neck long, lips thin and red, eyes quick. She had many suitors in her own rank of life, but she scornfully repulsed or rejected them all. She was waiting for a rich gentleman. One gentleman there was. This was Mr. Lawrence, the young squire, whose family formerly occupied Wildfell Hall, but deserted it, fifteen years ago.

      Now, Halford, I bid you adieu for the present[5].

      Yours immutably,

      Gilbert Markham.

      Chapter II

      On Tuesday I was out with my dog and gun. I turned my arms against the hawks and carrion crows. I mounted the steep acclivity of Wildfell, the wildest and the loftiest eminence in our neighbourhood. Near the top of this hill, about two miles from Linden-Car, stood Wildfell Hall, a mansion of the Elizabethan era, venerable and picturesque, but doubtless, cold and gloomy enough to inhabit.

      I killed a hawk and two crows when I came to the mansion. I paused beside the garden wall, and looked. I beheld a tiny hand above the wall. It clung to the topmost stone, and then another little hand raised. Then appeared a small white forehead, with wreaths of light brown hair, with a pair of deep blue eyes beneath, and a diminutive ivory nose.

      The eyes did not notice me, but beheld Sancho, my beautiful black and white setter. The child (a little boy, apparently about five years old) raised his face and called aloud to the dog. The dog looked up, and wagged his tail, but made no further advances. The boy called and called again and again; then he attempted to get over. But an old cherry-tree caught him by the frock. There was a silent struggle, and then a piercing shriek. I dropped my gun on the grass, and caught the little fellow in my arms.

      I wiped his eyes with his frock, and called Sancho to pacify him. He was just putting little hand on the dog's neck and beginning to smile through his tears, when I heard behind me a click of the iron gate, and a rustle of female garments, and lo! Mrs. Graham darted upon me.

      “Give me the child!” she said. She seized the boy and snatched him from me.

      “I was not harming the child, madam,” said I; “he was tumbling off the wall there. I was so fortunate as to catch him, while he hung from that tree.”

      “I beg your pardon, sir,” stammered she; “I did not know you; and I thought – ”

      She СКАЧАТЬ