THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL
PART 17
CHAPTER XXXVII
December
20th, 1825.—Another year is past; and I am weary of this life. And yet I
cannot wish to leave it: whatever afflictions assail me here, I cannot wish to
go and leave my darling in this dark and wicked world alone, without a friend
to guide him through its weary mazes, to warn him of its thousand snares, and
guard him from the perils that beset him on every hand. I am not well
fitted to be his only companion, I know; but there is no other to supply my
place. I am too grave to minister to his amusements and enter into his
infantile sports as a nurse or a mother ought to do, and often his bursts of
gleeful merriment trouble and alarm me; I see in them his father’s spirit and
temperament, and I tremble for the consequences; and too often damp the innocent
mirth I ought to share. That father, on the contrary, has no weight of
sadness on his mind; is troubled with no fears, no scruples concerning his
son’s future welfare; and at evenings especially, the times when the child sees
him the most and the oftenest, he is always particularly jocund and
open-hearted: ready to laugh and to jest with anything or anybody but me, and I
am particularly silent and sad: therefore, of course, the child dotes upon his
seemingly joyous amusing, ever-indulgent papa, and will at any time gladly
exchange my company for his. This disturbs me greatly; not so much for
the sake of my son’s affection (though I do prize that highly, and though I
feel it is my right, and know I have done much to earn it) as for that influence
over him which, for his own advantage, I would strive to purchase and retain,
and which for very spite his father delights to rob me of, and, from motives of
mere idle egotism, is pleased to win to himself; making no use of it but to
torment me and ruin the child. My only consolation is, that he spends
comparatively little of his time at home, and, during the months he passes in
London or elsewhere, I have a chance of recovering the ground I had lost, and
overcoming with good the evil he has wrought by his wilful mismanagement.
But then it is a bitter trial to behold him, on his return, doing his utmost to
subvert my labours and transform my innocent, affectionate, tractable darling
into a selfish, disobedient, and mischievous boy; thereby preparing the soil for
those vices he has so successfully cultivated in his own perverted nature.
Happily,
there were none of Arthur’s ‘friends’ invited to Grassdale last autumn: he took
himself off to visit some of them instead. I wish he would always do so,
and I wish his friends were numerous and loving enough to keep him amongst them
all the year round. Mr. Hargrave, considerably to my annoyance, did not
go with him; but I think I have done with that gentleman at last.
For seven
or eight months he behaved so remarkably well, and managed so skilfully too,
that I was almost completely off my guard, and was really beginning to look
upon him as a friend, and even to treat him as such, with certain prudent
restrictions (which I deemed scarcely necessary); when, presuming upon my
unsuspecting kindness, he thought he might venture to overstep the bounds of
decent moderation and propriety that had so long restrained him. It was
on a pleasant evening at the close of May: I was wandering in the park, and he,
on seeing me there as he rode past, made bold to enter and approach me,
dismounting and leaving his horse at the gate. This was the first time he
had ventured to come within its inclosure since I had been left alone, without
the sanction of his mother’s or sister’s company, or at least the excuse of a
message from them. But he managed to appear so calm and easy, so
respectful and self-possessed in his friendliness, that, though a little
surprised, I was neither alarmed nor offended at the unusual liberty, and he
walked with me under the ash-trees and by the water-side, and talked, with
considerable animation, good taste, and intelligence, on many subjects, before
I began to think about getting rid of him. Then, after a pause, during
which we both stood gazing on the calm, blue water—I revolving in my mind the
best means of politely dismissing my companion, he, no doubt, pondering other
matters equally alien to the sweet sights and sounds that alone were present to
his senses,—he suddenly electrified me by beginning, in a peculiar tone, low,
soft, but perfectly distinct, to pour forth the most unequivocal expressions of
earnest and passionate love; pleading his cause with all the bold yet artful
eloquence he could summon to his aid. But I cut short his appeal, and
repulsed him so determinately, so decidedly, and with such a mixture of
scornful indignation, tempered with cool, dispassionate sorrow and pity for his
benighted mind, that he withdrew, astonished, mortified, and discomforted; and,
a few days after, I heard that he had departed for London. He returned,
however, in eight or nine weeks, and did not entirely keep aloof from me, but
comported himself in so remarkable a manner that his quick-sighted sister could
not fail to notice the change.
‘What have
you done to Walter, Mrs. Huntingdon?’ said she one morning, when I had called
at the Grove, and he had just left the room after exchanging a few words of the
coldest civility. ‘He has been so extremely ceremonious and stately of
late, I can’t imagine what it is all about, unless you have desperately
offended him. Tell me what it is, that I may be your mediator, and make
you friends again.’
‘I have
done nothing willingly to offend him,’ said I. ‘If he is offended, he can
best tell you himself what it is about.’
‘I’ll ask
him,’ cried the giddy girl, springing up and putting her head out of the
window: ‘he’s only in the garden—Walter!’
‘No, no,
Esther! you will seriously displease me if you do; and I shall leave you
immediately, and not come again for months—perhaps years.’
‘Did you
call, Esther?’ said her brother, approaching the window from without.
‘Yes; I
wanted to ask you—’
‘Good-morning,
Esther,’ said I, taking her hand and giving it a severe squeeze.
‘To ask
you,’ continued she, ‘to get me a rose for Mrs. Huntingdon.’ He
departed. ‘Mrs. Huntingdon,’ she exclaimed, turning to me and still
holding me fast by the hand, ‘I’m quite shocked at you—you’re just as angry,
and distant, and cold as he is: and I’m determined you shall be as good friends
as ever before you go.’
‘Esther,
how can you be so rude!’ cried Mrs. Hargrave, who was seated gravely knitting
in her easy-chair. ‘Surely, you never will learn to conduct yourself like
a lady!’
‘Well,
mamma, you said yourself—‘ But the young lady was silenced by the uplifted
finger of her mamma, accompanied with a very stern shake of the head.
‘Isn’t she
cross?’ whispered she to me; but, before I could add my share of reproof, Mr.
Hargrave reappeared at the window with a beautiful moss-rose in his hand.
‘Here,
Esther, I’ve brought you the rose,’ said he, extending it towards her.
‘Give it
her yourself, you blockhead!’ cried she, recoiling with a spring from between
us.
‘Mrs.
Huntingdon would rather receive it from you,’ replied he, in a very serious
tone, but lowering his voice that his mother might not hear. His sister
took the rose and gave it to me.
‘My
brother’s compliments, Mrs. Huntingdon, and he hopes you and he will come to a
better understanding by-and-by. Will that do, Walter?’ added the saucy
girl, turning to him and putting her arm round his neck, as he stood leaning
upon the sill of the window—‘or should I have said that you are sorry you were
so touchy? or that you hope she will pardon your offence?’
‘You silly
girl! you don’t know what you are talking about,’ replied he gravely.
‘Indeed I
don’t: for I’m quite in the dark!’
‘Now,
Esther,’ interposed Mrs. Hargrave, who, if equally benighted on the subject of
our estrangement, saw at least that her daughter was behaving very improperly,
‘I must insist upon your leaving the room!’
‘Pray
don’t, Mrs. Hargrave, for I’m going to leave it myself,’ said I, and
immediately made my adieux.
About a
week after Mr. Hargrave brought his sister to see me. He conducted
himself, at first, with his usual cold, distant, half-stately, half-melancholy,
altogether injured air; but Esther made no remark upon it this time: she had
evidently been schooled into better manners. She talked to me, and
laughed and romped with little Arthur, her loved and loving playmate. He,
somewhat to my discomfort, enticed her from the room to have a run in the hall,
and thence into the garden. I got up to stir the fire. Mr. Hargrave
asked if I felt cold, and shut the door—a very unseasonable piece of
officiousness, for I had meditated following the noisy playfellows if they did
not speedily return. He then took the liberty of walking up to the fire
himself, and asking me if I were aware that Mr. Huntingdon was now at the seat
of Lord Lowborough, and likely to continue there some time.
‘No; but
it’s no matter,’ I answered carelessly; and if my cheek glowed like fire, it
was rather at the question than the information it conveyed.
‘You don’t
object to it?’ he said.
‘Not at
all, if Lord Lowborough likes his company.’
‘You have
no love left for him, then?’
‘Not the
least.’
‘I knew
that—I knew you were too high-minded and pure in your own nature to continue to
regard one so utterly false and polluted with any feelings but those of
indignation and scornful abhorrence!’
‘Is he not
your friend?’ said I, turning my eyes from the fire to his face, with perhaps a
slight touch of those feelings he assigned to another.
‘He was,’
replied he, with the same calm gravity as before; ‘but do not wrong me by
supposing that I could continue my friendship and esteem to a man who could so
infamously, so impiously forsake and injure one so transcendently—well, I won’t
speak of it. But tell me, do you never think of revenge?’
‘Revenge!
No—what good would that do?—it would make him no better, and me no happier.’
‘I don’t
know how to talk to you, Mrs. Huntingdon,’ said he, smiling; ‘you are only half
a woman—your nature must be half human, half angelic. Such goodness
overawes me; I don’t know what to make of it.’
‘Then,
sir, I fear you must be very much worse than you should be, if I, a mere
ordinary mortal, am, by your own confession, so vastly your superior; and since
there exists so little sympathy between us, I think we had better each look out
for some more congenial companion.’ And forthwith moving to the window, I
began to look out for my little son and his gay young friend.
‘No, I am
the ordinary mortal, I maintain,’ replied Mr. Hargrave. ‘I will not allow
myself to be worse than my fellows; but you, Madam—I equally maintain there is
nobody like you. But are you happy?’ he asked in a serious tone.
‘As happy
as some others, I suppose.’
‘Are you
as happy as you desire to be?’
‘No one is
so blest as that comes to on this side of eternity.’
‘One thing
I know,’ returned he, with a deep sad sigh; ‘you are immeasurably happier than
I am.’
‘I am very
sorry for you, then,’ I could not help replying.
‘Are you,
indeed? No, for if you were you would be glad to relieve me.’
‘And so I
should if I could do so without injuring myself or any other.’
‘And can
you suppose that I should wish you to injure yourself? No: on the
contrary, it is your own happiness I long for more than mine. You are
miserable now, Mrs. Huntingdon,’ continued he, looking me boldly in the
face. ‘You do not complain, but I see—and feel—and know that you are
miserable—and must remain so as long as you keep those walls of impenetrable
ice about your still warm and palpitating heart; and I am miserable, too.
Deign to smile on me and I am happy: trust me, and you shall be happy also, for
if you are a woman I can make you so—and I will do it in spite of yourself!’ he
muttered between his teeth; ‘and as for others, the question is between
ourselves alone: you cannot injure your husband, you know, and no one else has
any concern in the matter.’
‘I have a
son, Mr. Hargrave, and you have a mother,’ said I, retiring from the window,
whither he had followed me.
‘They need
not know,’ he began; but before anything more could be said on either side,
Esther and Arthur re-entered the room. The former glanced at Walter’s
flushed, excited countenance, and then at mine—a little flushed and excited
too, I daresay, though from far different causes. She must have thought
we had been quarrelling desperately, and was evidently perplexed and disturbed
at the circumstance; but she was too polite or too much afraid of her brother’s
anger to refer to it. She seated herself on the sofa, and putting back
her bright, golden ringlets, that were scattered in wild profusion over her
face, she immediately began to talk about the garden and her little playfellow,
and continued to chatter away in her usual strain till her brother summoned her
to depart.
‘If I have
spoken too warmly, forgive me,’ he murmured on taking his leave, ‘or I shall
never forgive myself.’ Esther smiled and glanced at me: I merely bowed,
and her countenance fell. She thought it a poor return for Walter’s
generous concession, and was disappointed in her friend. Poor child, she
little knows the world she lives in!
Mr.
Hargrave had not an opportunity of meeting me again in private for several
weeks after this; but when he did meet me there was less of pride and more of
touching melancholy in his manner than before. Oh, how he annoyed
me! I was obliged at last almost entirely to remit my visits to the
Grove, at the expense of deeply offending Mrs. Hargrave and seriously
afflicting poor Esther, who really values my society for want of better, and
who ought not to suffer for the fault of her brother. But that
indefatigable foe was not yet vanquished: he seemed to be always on the
watch. I frequently saw him riding lingeringly past the premises, looking
searchingly round him as he went—or, if I did not, Rachel did. That
sharp-sighted woman soon guessed how matters stood between us, and descrying
the enemy’s movements from her elevation at the nursery-window, she would give
me a quiet intimation if she saw me preparing for a walk when she had reason to
believe he was about, or to think it likely that he would meet or overtake me
in the way I meant to traverse. I would then defer my ramble, or confine
myself for that day to the park and gardens, or, if the proposed excursion was
a matter of importance, such as a visit to the sick or afflicted, I would take
Rachel with me, and then I was never molested.
But one
mild, sunshiny day, early in November, I had ventured forth alone to visit the
village school and a few of the poor tenants, and on my return I was alarmed at
the clatter of a horse’s feet behind me, approaching at a rapid, steady
trot. There was no stile or gap at hand by which I could escape into the
fields, so I walked quietly on, saying to myself, ‘It may not be he after all;
and if it is, and if he do annoy me, it shall be for the last time, I am
determined, if there be power in words and looks against cool impudence and
mawkish sentimentality so inexhaustible as his.’
The horse
soon overtook me, and was reined up close beside me. It was Mr.
Hargrave. He greeted me with a smile intended to be soft and melancholy,
but his triumphant satisfaction at having caught me at last so shone through
that it was quite a failure. After briefly answering his salutation and
inquiring after the ladies at the Grove, I turned away and walked on; but he
followed and kept his horse at my side: it was evident he intended to be my
companion all the way.
‘Well!
I don’t much care. If you want another rebuff, take it—and welcome,’ was
my inward remark. ‘Now, sir, what next?’
This
question, though unspoken, was not long unanswered; after a few passing observations
upon indifferent subjects, he began in solemn tones the following appeal to my
humanity:—
‘It will
be four years next April since I first saw you, Mrs. Huntingdon—you may have
forgotten the circumstance, but I never can. I admired you then most
deeply, but I dared not love you. In the following autumn I saw so much
of your perfections that I could not fail to love you, though I dared not show
it. For upwards of three years I have endured a perfect martyrdom.
From the anguish of suppressed emotions, intense and fruitless longings, silent
sorrow, crushed hopes, and trampled affections, I have suffered more than I can
tell, or you imagine—and you were the cause of it, and not altogether the
innocent cause. My youth is wasting away; my prospects are darkened; my
life is a desolate blank; I have no rest day or night: I am become a burden to
myself and others, and you might save me by a word—a glance, and will not do
it—is this right?’
‘In the
first place, I don’t believe you,’ answered I; ‘in the second, if you will be
such a fool, I can’t hinder it.’
‘If you
affect,’ replied he, earnestly, ‘to regard as folly the best, the strongest,
the most godlike impulses of our nature, I don’t believe you. I know you
are not the heartless, icy being you pretend to be—you had a heart once, and
gave it to your husband. When you found him utterly unworthy of the
treasure, you reclaimed it; and you will not pretend that you loved that
sensual, earthly-minded profligate so deeply, so devotedly, that you can never
love another? I know that there are feelings in your nature that have
never yet been called forth; I know, too, that in your present neglected lonely
state you are and must be miserable. You have it in your power to raise
two human beings from a state of actual suffering to such unspeakable beatitude
as only generous, noble, self-forgetting love can give (for you can love me if
you will); you may tell me that you scorn and detest me, but, since you have
set me the example of plain speaking, I will answer that I do not believe
you. But you will not do it! you choose rather to leave us miserable; and
you coolly tell me it is the will of God that we should remain so. You
may call this religion, but I call it wild fanaticism!’
‘There is
another life both for you and for me,’ said I. ‘If it be the will of God
that we should sow in tears now, it is only that we may reap in joy
hereafter. It is His will that we should not injure others by the
gratification of our own earthly passions; and you have a mother, and sisters,
and friends who would be seriously injured by your disgrace; and I, too, have
friends, whose peace of mind shall never be sacrificed to my enjoyment, or
yours either, with my consent; and if I were alone in the world, I have still
my God and my religion, and I would sooner die than disgrace my calling and
break my faith with heaven to obtain a few brief years of false and fleeting
happiness—happiness sure to end in misery even here—for myself or any other!’
‘There
need be no disgrace, no misery or sacrifice in any quarter,’ persisted
he. ‘I do not ask you to leave your home or defy the world’s
opinion.’ But I need not repeat all his arguments. I refuted them
to the best of my power; but that power was provokingly small, at the moment,
for I was too much flurried with indignation—and even shame—that he should thus
dare to address me, to retain sufficient command of thought and language to
enable me adequately to contend against his powerful sophistries.
Finding, however, that he could not be silenced by reason, and even covertly
exulted in his seeming advantage, and ventured to deride those assertions I had
not the coolness to prove, I changed my course and tried another plan.
‘Do you
really love me?’ said I, seriously, pausing and looking him calmly in the face.
‘Do I love
you!’ cried he.
‘Truly?’ I
demanded.
His
countenance brightened; he thought his triumph was at hand. He commenced
a passionate protestation of the truth and fervour of his attachment, which I
cut short by another question:—
‘But is it
not a selfish love? Have you enough disinterested affection to enable you
to sacrifice your own pleasure to mine?’
‘I would
give my life to serve you.’
‘I don’t
want your life; but have you enough real sympathy for my afflictions to induce
you to make an effort to relieve them, at the risk of a little discomfort to
yourself?’
‘Try me,
and see.’
‘If you
have, never mention this subject again. You cannot recur to it in any way
without doubling the weight of those sufferings you so feelingly deplore.
I have nothing left me but the solace of a good conscience and a hopeful trust
in heaven, and you labour continually to rob me of these. If you persist,
I must regard you as my deadliest foe.’
‘But hear
me a moment—’
‘No,
sir! You said you would give your life to serve me; I only ask your
silence on one particular point. I have spoken plainly; and what I say I
mean. If you torment me in this way any more, I must conclude that your
protestations are entirely false, and that you hate me in your heart as
fervently as you profess to love me!’
He bit his
lip, and bent his eyes upon the ground in silence for a while.
‘Then I
must leave you,’ said he at length, looking steadily upon me, as if with the
last hope of detecting some token of irrepressible anguish or dismay awakened
by those solemn words. ‘I must leave you. I cannot live here, and
be for ever silent on the all-absorbing subject of my thoughts and wishes.’
‘Formerly,
I believe, you spent but little of your time at home,’ I answered; ‘it will do
you no harm to absent yourself again, for a while—if that be really necessary.’
‘If that
be really possible,’ he muttered; ‘and can you bid me go so coolly? Do
you really wish it?’
‘Most
certainly I do. If you cannot see me without tormenting me as you have
lately done, I would gladly say farewell and never see you more.’
He made no
answer, but, bending from his horse, held out his hand towards me. I
looked up at his face, and saw therein such a look of genuine agony of soul,
that, whether bitter disappointment, or wounded pride, or lingering love, or
burning wrath were uppermost, I could not hesitate to put my hand in his as
frankly as if I bade a friend farewell. He grasped it very hard, and
immediately put spurs to his horse and galloped away. Very soon after, I
learned that he was gone to Paris, where he still is; and the longer he stays
there the better for me.
I thank
God for this deliverance!
CHAPTER XXXVIII
December
20th, 1826.—The fifth anniversary of my wedding-day, and, I trust, the last I
shall spend under this roof. My resolution is formed, my plan concocted,
and already partly put in execution. My conscience does not blame me, but
while the purpose ripens let me beguile a few of these long winter evenings in
stating the case for my own satisfaction: a dreary amusement enough, but having
the air of a useful occupation, and being pursued as a task, it will suit me
better than a lighter one.
In
September, quiet Grassdale was again alive with a party of ladies and gentlemen
(so called), consisting of the same individuals as those invited the year
before last, with the addition of two or three others, among whom were Mrs.
Hargrave and her younger daughter. The gentlemen and Lady Lowborough were
invited for the pleasure and convenience of the host; the other ladies, I
suppose, for the sake of appearances, and to keep me in check, and make me discreet
and civil in my demeanour. But the ladies stayed only three weeks; the
gentlemen, with two exceptions, above two months: for their hospitable
entertainer was loth to part with them and be left alone with his bright
intellect, his stainless conscience, and his loved and loving wife.
On the day
of Lady Lowborough’s arrival, I followed her into her chamber, and plainly told
her that, if I found reason to believe that she still continued her criminal
connection with Mr. Huntingdon, I should think it my absolute duty to inform
her husband of the circumstance—or awaken his suspicions at least—however
painful it might be, or however dreadful the consequences. She was
startled at first by the declaration, so unexpected, and so determinately yet
calmly delivered; but rallying in a moment, she coolly replied that, if I saw
anything at all reprehensible or suspicious in her conduct, she would freely
give me leave to tell his lordship all about it. Willing to be satisfied
with this, I left her; and certainly I saw nothing thenceforth particularly
reprehensible or suspicious in her demeanour towards her host; but then I had
the other guests to attend to, and I did not watch them narrowly—for, to
confess the truth, I feared to see anything between them. I no longer regarded
it as any concern of mine, and if it was my duty to enlighten Lord Lowborough,
it was a painful duty, and I dreaded to be called to perform it.
But my
fears were brought to an end in a manner I had not anticipated. One
evening, about a fortnight after the visitors’ arrival, I had retired into the
library to snatch a few minutes’ respite from forced cheerfulness and wearisome
discourse, for after so long a period of seclusion, dreary indeed as I had
often found it, I could not always bear to be doing violence to my feelings,
and goading my powers to talk, and smile and listen, and play the attentive
hostess, or even the cheerful friend: I had just ensconced myself within the
bow of the window, and was looking out upon the west, where the darkening hills
rose sharply defined against the clear amber light of evening, that gradually
blended and faded away into the pure, pale blue of the upper sky, where one
bright star was shining through, as if to promise—‘When that dying light is
gone, the world will not be left in darkness, and they who trust in God, whose
minds are unbeclouded by the mists of unbelief and sin, are never wholly
comfortless,’—when I heard a hurried step approaching, and Lord Lowborough
entered. This room was still his favourite resort. He flung the
door to with unusual violence, and cast his hat aside regardless where it
fell. What could be the matter with him? His face was ghastly pale;
his eyes were fixed upon the ground; his teeth clenched: his forehead glistened
with the dews of agony. It was plain he knew his wrongs at last!
Unconscious
of my presence, he began to pace the room in a state of fearful agitation,
violently wringing his hands and uttering low groans or incoherent
ejaculations. I made a movement to let him know that he was not alone;
but he was too preoccupied to notice it. Perhaps, while his back was
towards me, I might cross the room and slip away unobserved. I rose to
make the attempt, but then he perceived me. He started and stood still a
moment; then wiped his streaming forehead, and, advancing towards me, with a
kind of unnatural composure, said in a deep, almost sepulchral tone,—‘Mrs.
Huntingdon, I must leave you to-morrow.’
‘To-morrow!’
I repeated. ‘I do not ask the cause.’
‘You know
it then, and you can be so calm!’ said he, surveying me with profound
astonishment, not unmingled with a kind of resentful bitterness, as it appeared
to me.
‘I have so
long been aware of—‘ I paused in time, and added, ‘of my husband’s character,
that nothing shocks me.’
‘But
this—how long have you been aware of this?’ demanded he, laying his clenched
hand on the table beside him, and looking me keenly and fixedly in the face.
I felt
like a criminal.
‘Not
long,’ I answered.
‘You knew
it!’ cried he, with bitter vehemence—‘and you did not tell me! You helped
to deceive me!’
‘My lord,
I did not help to deceive you.’
‘Then why
did you not tell me?’
‘Because I
knew it would be painful to you. I hoped she would return to her duty,
and then there would be no need to harrow your feelings with such—’
‘O God!
how long has this been going on? How long has it been, Mrs.
Huntingdon?—Tell me—I must know!’ exclaimed, with intense and fearful
eagerness.
‘Two
years, I believe.’
‘Great
heaven! and she has duped me all this time!’ He turned away with a
suppressed groan of agony, and paced the room again in a paroxysm of renewed
agitation. My heart smote me; but I would try to console him, though I
knew not how to attempt it.
‘She is a
wicked woman,’ I said. ‘She has basely deceived and betrayed you.
She is as little worthy of your regret as she was of your affection. Let
her injure you no further; abstract yourself from her, and stand alone.’
‘And you,
Madam,’ said he sternly, arresting himself, and turning round upon me, ‘you have
injured me too by this ungenerous concealment!’
There was
a sudden revulsion in my feelings. Something rose within me, and urged me
to resent this harsh return for my heartfelt sympathy, and defend myself with
answering severity. Happily, I did not yield to the impulse. I saw
his anguish as, suddenly smiting his forehead, he turned abruptly to the
window, and, looking upward at the placid sky, murmured passionately, ‘O God,
that I might die!’—and felt that to add one drop of bitterness to that already
overflowing cup would be ungenerous indeed. And yet I fear there was more
coldness than gentleness in the quiet tone of my reply:—‘I might offer many
excuses that some would admit to be valid, but I will not attempt to enumerate
them—’
‘I know
them,’ said he hastily: ‘you would say that it was no business of yours: that I
ought to have taken care of myself; that if my own blindness has led me into
this pit of hell, I have no right to blame another for giving me credit for a
larger amount of sagacity than I possessed—’
‘I confess
I was wrong,’ continued I, without regarding this bitter interruption; ‘but
whether want of courage or mistaken kindness was the cause of my error, I think
you blame me too severely. I told Lady Lowborough two weeks ago, the very
hour she came, that I should certainly think it my duty to inform you if she
continued to deceive you: she gave me full liberty to do so if I should see
anything reprehensible or suspicious in her conduct; I have seen nothing; and I
trusted she had altered her course.’
He
continued gazing from the window while I spoke, and did not answer, but, stung
by the recollections my words awakened, stamped his foot upon the floor, ground
his teeth, and corrugated his brow, like one under the influence of acute physical
pain.
‘It was
wrong, it was wrong!’ he muttered at length. ‘Nothing can excuse it;
nothing can atone for it,—for nothing can recall those years of cursed
credulity; nothing obliterate them!—nothing, nothing!’ he repeated in a
whisper, whose despairing bitterness precluded all resentment.
‘When I
put the case to myself, I own it was wrong,’ I answered; ‘but I can only now
regret that I did not see it in this light before, and that, as you say,
nothing can recall the past.’
Something
in my voice or in the spirit of this answer seemed to alter his mood.
Turning towards me, and attentively surveying my face by the dim light, he
said, in a milder tone than he had yet employed,—‘You, too, have suffered, I
suppose.’
‘I
suffered much, at first.’
‘When was
that?’
‘Two years
ago; and two years hence you will be as calm as I am now, and far, far happier,
I trust, for you are a man, and free to act as you please.’
Something
like a smile, but a very bitter one, crossed his face for a moment.
‘You have
not been happy, lately?’ he said, with a kind of effort to regain composure,
and a determination to waive the further discussion of his own calamity.
‘Happy?’ I
repeated, almost provoked at such a question. ‘Could I be so, with such a
husband?’
‘I have noticed
a change in your appearance since the first years of your marriage,’ pursued
he: ‘I observed it to—to that infernal demon,’ he muttered between his teeth;
‘and he said it was your own sour temper that was eating away your bloom: it
was making you old and ugly before your time, and had already made his fireside
as comfortless as a convent cell. You smile, Mrs. Huntingdon; nothing
moves you. I wish my nature were as calm as yours.’
‘My nature
was not originally calm,’ said I. ‘I have learned to appear so by dint of
hard lessons and many repeated efforts.’
At this
juncture Mr. Hattersley burst into the room.
‘Hallo,
Lowborough!’ he began—‘Oh! I beg your pardon,’ he exclaimed on seeing me.
‘I didn’t know it was a tête-à-tête. Cheer up, man,’ he continued,
giving Lord Lowborough a thump on the back, which caused the latter to recoil
from him with looks of ineffable disgust and irritation. ‘Come, I want to
speak with you a bit.’
‘Speak,
then.’
‘But I’m
not sure it would be quite agreeable to the lady what I have to say.’
‘Then it
would not be agreeable to me,’ said his lordship, turning to leave the room.
‘Yes, it
would,’ cried the other, following him into the hall. ‘If you’ve the
heart of a man, it would be the very ticket for you. It’s just this, my
lad,’ he continued, rather lowering his voice, but not enough to prevent me
from hearing every word he said, though the half-closed door stood between
us. ‘I think you’re an ill-used man—nay, now, don’t flare up; I don’t
want to offend you: it’s only my rough way of talking. I must speak right
out, you know, or else not at all; and I’m come—stop now! let me explain—I’m
come to offer you my services, for though Huntingdon is my friend, he’s a
devilish scamp, as we all know, and I’ll be your friend for the nonce. I
know what it is you want, to make matters straight: it’s just to exchange a
shot with him, and then you’ll feel yourself all right again; and if an
accident happens—why, that’ll be all right too, I daresay, to a desperate fellow
like you. Come now, give me your hand, and don’t look so black upon
it. Name time and place, and I’ll manage the rest.’
‘That,’
answered the more low, deliberate voice of Lord Lowborough, ‘is just the remedy
my own heart, or the devil within it, suggested—to meet him, and not to part
without blood. Whether I or he should fall, or both, it would be an
inexpressible relief to me, if—’
‘Just
so! Well then,—’
‘No!’
exclaimed his lordship, with deep, determined emphasis. ‘Though I hate
him from my heart, and should rejoice at any calamity that could befall him,
I’ll leave him to God; and though I abhor my own life, I’ll leave that, too, to
Him that gave it.’
‘But you
see, in this case,’ pleaded Hattersley—
‘I’ll not
hear you!’ exclaimed his companion, hastily turning away. ‘Not another
word! I’ve enough to do against the fiend within me.’
‘Then
you’re a white-livered fool, and I wash my hands of you,’ grumbled the tempter,
as he swung himself round and departed.
‘Right,
right, Lord Lowborough,’ cried I, darting out and clasping his burning hand, as
he was moving away to the stairs. ‘I begin to think the world is not
worthy of you!’ Not understanding this sudden ebullition, he turned upon
me with a stare of gloomy, bewildered amazement, that made me ashamed of the
impulse to which I had yielded; but soon a more humanised expression dawned
upon his countenance, and before I could withdraw my hand, he pressed it
kindly, while a gleam of genuine feeling flashed from his eyes as he murmured,
‘God help us both!’
‘Amen!’
responded I; and we parted.
I returned
to the drawing-room, where, doubtless, my presence would be expected by most,
desired by one or two. In the ante-room was Mr. Hattersley, railing
against Lord Lowborough’s poltroonery before a select audience, viz. Mr.
Huntingdon, who was lounging against the table, exulting in his own treacherous
villainy, and laughing his victim to scorn, and Mr. Grimsby, standing by,
quietly rubbing his hands and chuckling with fiendish satisfaction.
In the
drawing-room I found Lady Lowborough, evidently in no very enviable state of
mind, and struggling hard to conceal her discomposure by an overstrained
affectation of unusual cheerfulness and vivacity, very uncalled-for under the
circumstances, for she had herself given the company to understand that her
husband had received unpleasant intelligence from home, which necessitated his
immediate departure, and that he had suffered it so to bother his mind that it
had brought on a bilious headache, owing to which, and the preparations he
judged necessary to hasten his departure, she believed they would not have the
pleasure of seeing him to-night. However, she asserted, it was only a
business concern, and so she did not intend it should trouble her. She
was just saying this as I entered, and she darted upon me such a glance of
hardihood and defiance as at once astonished and revolted me.
‘But I am
troubled,’ continued she, ‘and vexed too, for I think it my duty to accompany
his lordship, and of course I am very sorry to part with all my kind friends so
unexpectedly and so soon.’
‘And yet,
Annabella,’ said Esther, who was sitting beside her, ‘I never saw you in better
spirits in my life.’
‘Precisely
so, my love: because I wish to make the best of your society, since it appears
this is to be the last night I am to enjoy it till heaven knows when; and I
wish to leave a good impression on you all,’—she glanced round, and seeing her
aunt’s eye fixed upon her, rather too scrutinizingly, as she probably thought,
she started up and continued: ‘To which end I’ll give you a song—shall I, aunt?
shall I, Mrs. Huntingdon? shall I ladies and gentlemen all? Very
well. I’ll do my best to amuse you.’
She and
Lord Lowborough occupied the apartments next to mine. I know not how she
passed the night, but I lay awake the greater part of it listening to his heavy
step pacing monotonously up and down his dressing-room, which was nearest my
chamber. Once I heard him pause and throw something out of the window
with a passionate ejaculation; and in the morning, after they were gone, a
keen-bladed clasp-knife was found on the grass-plot below; a razor, likewise,
was snapped in two and thrust deep into the cinders of the grate, but partially
corroded by the decaying embers. So strong had been the temptation to end
his miserable life, so determined his resolution to resist it.
My heart
bled for him as I lay listening to that ceaseless tread. Hitherto I had
thought too much of myself, too little of him: now I forgot my own afflictions,
and thought only of his; of the ardent affection so miserably wasted, the fond
faith so cruelly betrayed, the—no, I will not attempt to enumerate his
wrongs—but I hated his wife and my husband more intensely than ever, and not
for my sake, but for his.
They
departed early in the morning, before any one else was down, except myself, and
just as I was leaving my room Lord Lowborough was descending to take his place
in the carriage, where his lady was already ensconced; and Arthur (or Mr.
Huntingdon, as I prefer calling him, for the other is my child’s name) had the
gratuitous insolence to come out in his dressing-gown to bid his ‘friend’
good-by.
‘What,
going already, Lowborough!’ said he. ‘Well, good-morning.’ He smilingly
offered his hand.
I think
the other would have knocked him down, had he not instinctively started back
before that bony fist quivering with rage and clenched till the knuckles
gleamed white and glistening through the skin. Looking upon him with a
countenance livid with furious hate, Lord Lowborough muttered between his
closed teeth a deadly execration he would not have uttered had he been calm
enough to choose his words, and departed.
‘I call
that an unchristian spirit now,’ said the villain. ‘But I’d never give up
an old friend for the sake of a wife. You may have mine if you like, and
I call that handsome; I can do no more than offer restitution, can I?’
But
Lowborough had gained the bottom of the stairs, and was now crossing the hall;
and Mr. Huntingdon, leaning over the banisters, called out, ‘Give my love to
Annabella! and I wish you both a happy journey,’ and withdrew, laughing, to his
chamber.
He
subsequently expressed himself rather glad she was gone. ‘She was so
deuced imperious and exacting,’ said he. ‘Now I shall be my own man again,
and feel rather more at my ease.’
To be continued
