Female guest

Author: Anne Bront?
Translator: Lianke, Xihai / Country: United Kingdom
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2000-12-01
Features: "May I come in?" asked the wife. "Yes, I'd like to see what improvements you've made in the garden." "You should also see how the rootstock your sister sent me is growing," she added as she opened the garden gate. So we strolled through the garden, talking about flowers, trees, and books—and then about other things. It was a gentle and pleasant evening, and so was my companion. Gradually, I grew more enthusiastic and tender, perhaps never having reached this point before; but I still said nothing, nor did she try to refuse; until later, when we passed a rose bush, which I had sent to her a few weeks ago in my sister's name. She plucked a bud that was just beginning to open from the tree and asked me to take it back to Rose. "Can I keep it for myself?" I asked. "No, there's another one for you here." I didn't just take it silently but grasped the hand that was offering it to me, while staring at her face. She allowed me to hold it for a moment, and I saw a flash of wild joy in her eyes, her face flushed with happiness and excitement—I thought that was my moment of victory—but then she seemed to suddenly recall a painful past; a deep shadow of suffering instantly crossed her brow, her cheeks and lips turning as pale as marble. She seemed to struggle inwardly for a moment—then suddenly pulled her hand back and took a step or two backward. "Look, Mr. Makham," she said in an extremely composed tone, "I must make it clear that I don't want to do this. I enjoy your company because I'm very lonely here, and the things you talk about are more to my heart than anything anyone else says; but if you're not satisfied with treating me as a friend—a common, calm friend like a mother or sister—then I must ask you to leave and never come to see me again—actually, we must keep our distance from now on." "Then I will—be your friend—or your brother, or whatever you wish me to be—as long as you let me continue to visit you. But tell me why our relationship can't be deeper?" She hesitated for a moment, bewildered. "Is it because of some rash vow you made?" "It's something like that," she replied—"I might tell you someday, but for now, you'd better leave me; and Gilbert, don't make me repeat the words I just told you in pain!"—she added earnestly, extending her hand to me in a serious yet kind manner. How sweet my own name sounded in her mouth, like music! "I won't do it again," I replied. "But can you forgive me for this offense?" "As long as you don't do it again." "Then can I visit you occasionally?" "Perhaps—I might come now and then, if you don't abuse this privilege." "I won't make empty promises; you'll see." "If you do that, our friendly relationship will end immediately, just like that." "Then will you always call me Gilbert?"—such a name sounds more like what a sister would say, and it will remind me of the promise we made." She smiled and urged me to leave once more—I decided it was best to obey her. So she went back inside, and I walked down the hill. But as I was walking, I heard the sound of hooves, breaking the silence of the sweet evening; I looked down the path and saw someone riding toward me. Even as twilight approached, I recognized him at once: it was Mr. Lawrence on his gray horse. I ran across the fields—jumped over stone fences—heading toward him along the path. When he saw me, he reined in his small horse as if to turn back, but then clearly decided it was better to continue on his way. As he approached me, he nodded slightly, moved closer to the wall, and tried to pass through—but I wouldn't let him, so I grabbed the reins and shouted, "Hey, Mr. Lawrence, you need to explain this! Tell me where you're going and what you intend to do—right now, without any hesitation!" "Please let go of the reins, if you don't mind?" he said calmly. "You hurt my little horse's mouth." "Go to hell with you and your horse—" "Makham, what makes you so rude and aggressive? I'm ashamed of you." "Answer my question—or don't expect to leave! I must know what makes you so treacherous and two-faced?" "If you don't let go of the reins, I won't answer any questions, not even if I stand here until tomorrow morning." "Alright," I said, letting go but still standing before him. "No, dear," I said—"nor do I envy him," I added inwardly. "So do you like him, Annabella?" "Like him! Of course—I love him deeply!" "Oh, I hope you'll be a good wife to him." "Thank you, dear! And what else do you hope for?" "I hope you both love each other and are happy." "Thank you—And I hope you'll be a very good wife to Mr. Huntington!" she said, bowing like a queen and then leaving. "Oh, Miss! How could you say that to her?" Rachel exclaimed. "What did you say?" "What? That you hope she'll be a good wife to him—I've never heard such a thing!" "It's because I truly hope so—or rather, I wish it were so—because there's almost nothing to expect from her." "Well," she said, "I do hope he'll be a good husband to her. They're talking about some strange things about him downstairs. They say—" "I know, Rachel—about him, I've heard everything, but he's changed now. Besides, they have no right to talk badly about their masters behind their backs." "Yes, Miss—And they've also been talking about Mr. Huntington." "I don't want to hear it, Rachel; they're lying." "Yes, Miss," she said softly, continuing to comb my hair. "Do you believe those things, Rachel?" I asked after a while. "Not entirely, Miss. You know, many servants like to talk about their masters when they're together; some like to boast and pretend to know more than they actually do, just to surprise others and let slip a little secret. But I think, if I were you, Miss Helen, I'd think twice about it. I truly believe that a young lady should never be too careful about her own marriage, no matter how much she considers it." "Of course not," I said—"But, Rachel, please hurry? I need to change clothes." I was indeed eager to get away from this kind woman, because when she helped me change, my heart was so heavy that I almost couldn't hold back my tears. The tears welling in my eyes weren't for Lord Robert—or for Annabella—or for myself—but for Arthur Huntington.
13th. They left—they left. We'll be apart for more than two months—more than ten weeks! That's a long time, and I'll have to live without seeing him. But he promised to write often and asked me to do the same, saying he'd be busy with his affairs and that I wouldn't have anything better to do. Well, I think I'll have plenty to talk about—I wish we could stay together forever so we wouldn't need cold mediums like pens, ink, and paper to express our thoughts!
22nd. I've already received several letters from Arthur. His letters aren't long, but they're very kind, and just like him—they're full of passionate emotion and playful, lively humor; but—there's always a "but" in this imperfect world—I wish he could be serious sometimes. I can't make him write or speak with true, earnest seriousness. I don't mind it now, but if he always does, what will I do with the serious side of my own nature?
Diary ends here. The rest has been torn out. How heartless! Just as she was about to mention me! Because I have no doubt that she was about to mention me, though of course not in very flattering terms—I can tell this from these few words, from her entire attitude and behavior toward me when we first met. Well! When I know that her experience is limited to only a few outstanding models, I can fully excuse her prejudice against me and her harsh views of men in general. However, regarding me, she has already discovered her mistake and may have made another extreme opposite mistake. Because if her initial impression of me was lower than I deserved, I'm sure that the qualities I now deserve praise for are lower than her current view of me; and if this part of the diary was torn out to avoid hurting my feelings, then perhaps she didn't give me the rest because she feared I might become too arrogant if I read it.
Anyway, I would be willing to pay any price to read it all—to see the gradual changes, to notice the development of her respect and friendship for me—to see whatever stronger feelings she might have had—to see how much love there was on her side, and how, despite her determination to remain steadfast and do her best to suppress it, her love was growing in her heart. But no, I don't have the right to see it; it's too sacred, and no one but she has the right to see it, and she did the right thing by not letting me.