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

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      “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 СКАЧАТЬ