Wildfell Hall 17

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

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