The Tenant of Wildfell Hall
I hoped, I trusted they had no foundation but in some idle rumour of
the servants from what they had seen in Lady Lowborough’s manner last
month; or perhaps from something that had passed between their master
and her during her former visit. At dinner I narrowly observed both her
and Arthur, and saw nothing extraordinary in the conduct of either,
nothing calculated to excite suspicion, except in distrustful minds,
which mine was not, and therefore I would not suspect.
Almost immediately after dinner Annabella went out with her husband to
share his moonlight ramble, for it was a splendid evening like the
last. Mr. Hargrave entered the drawing-room a little before the others,
and challenged me to a game of chess. He did it without any of that sad
but proud humility he usually assumes in addressing me, unless he is
excited with wine. I looked at his face to see if that was the case
now. His eye met mine keenly, but steadily: there was something about
him I did not understand, but he seemed sober enough. Not choosing to
engage with him, I referred him to Milicent.
“She plays badly,” said he, “I want to match my skill with yours. Come
now! you can’t pretend you are reluctant to lay down your work. I know
you never take it up except to pass an idle hour, when there is nothing
better you can do.”
“But chess-players are so unsociable,” I objected; “they are no company
for any but themselves.”
“There is no one here but Milicent, and she—”
“Oh, I shall be delighted to watch you!” cried our mutual friend. “Two
_such_ players—it will be quite a treat! I wonder which will conquer.”
I consented.
“Now, Mrs. Huntingdon,” said Hargrave, as he arranged the men on the
board, speaking distinctly, and with a peculiar emphasis, as if he had
a double meaning to all his words, “you are a good player, but I am a
better: we shall have a long game, and you will give me some trouble;
but I can be as patient as you, and in the end I shall certainly win.”
He fixed his eyes upon me with a glance I did not like, keen, crafty,
bold, and almost impudent;—already half triumphant in his anticipated
success.
“I hope not, Mr. Hargrave!” returned I, with vehemence that must have
startled Milicent at least; but _he_ only smiled and murmured, “Time
will show.”
We set to work: he sufficiently interested in the game, but calm and
fearless in the consciousness of superior skill: I, intensely eager to
disappoint his expectations, for I considered this the type of a more
serious contest, as I imagined he did, and I felt an almost
superstitious dread of being beaten: at all events, I could ill endure
that present success should add one tittle to his conscious power (his
insolent self-confidence I ought to say), or encourage for a moment his
dream of future conquest. His play was cautious and deep, but I
struggled hard against him. For some time the combat was doubtful: at
length, to my joy, the victory seemed inclining to my side: I had taken
several of his best pieces, and manifestly baffled his projects. He put
his hand to his brow and paused, in evident perplexity. I rejoiced in
my advantage, but dared not glory in it yet. At length, he lifted his
head, and quietly making his move, looked at me and said, calmly, “Now
you think you will win, don’t you?”
“I hope so,” replied I, taking his pawn that he had pushed into the way
of my bishop with so careless an air that I thought it was an
oversight, but was not generous enough, under the circumstances, to
direct his attention to it, and too heedless, at the moment, to foresee
the after-consequences of my move. “It is those bishops that trouble
me,” said he; “but the bold knight can overleap the reverend
gentlemen,” taking my last bishop with his knight; “and now, those
sacred persons once removed, I shall carry all before me.”
“Oh, Walter, how you talk!” cried Milicent; “she has far more pieces
than you still.”
“I intend to give you some trouble yet,” said I; “and perhaps, sir, you
will find yourself checkmated before you are aware. Look to your
queen.”
The combat deepened. The game was a long one, and I _did_ give him some
trouble: but he was a better player than I.
“What keen gamesters you are!” said Mr. Hattersley, who had now
entered, and been watching us for some time. “Why, Mrs. Huntingdon,
your hand trembles as if you had staked your all upon it! and, Walter,
you dog, you look as deep and cool as if you were certain of success,
and as keen and cruel as if you would drain her heart’s blood! But if I
were you, I wouldn’t beat her, for very fear: she’ll hate you if you
do—she will, by heaven! I see it in her eye.”
“Hold your tongue, will you?” said I: his talk distracted me, for I was
driven to extremities. A few more moves, and I was inextricably
entangled in the snare of my antagonist.
“Check,” cried he: I sought in agony some means of escape. “Mate!” he
added, quietly, but with evident delight. He had suspended the
utterance of that last fatal syllable the better to enjoy my dismay. I
was foolishly disconcerted by the event. Hattersley laughed; Milicent
was troubled to see me so disturbed. Hargrave placed his hand on mine
that rested on the table, and squeezing it with a firm but gentle
pressure, murmured, “Beaten, beaten!” and gazed into my face with a
look where exultation was blended with an expression of ardour and
tenderness yet more insulting.
“_No, never_, Mr. Hargrave!” exclaimed I, quickly withdrawing my hand.
“Do you deny?” replied he, smilingly pointing to the board. “No, no,” I
answered, recollecting how strange my conduct must appear: “you have
beaten me in that game.”
“Will you try another, then?”
“No.”
“You acknowledge my superiority?”
“Yes, as a chess-player.”
I rose to resume my work.
“Where is Annabella?” said Hargrave, gravely, after glancing round the
room.
“Gone out with Lord Lowborough,” answered I, for he looked at me for a
reply.
“And not yet returned!” he said, seriously.
“I suppose not.”
“Where is Huntingdon?” looking round again.
“Gone out with Grimsby, as you know,” said Hattersley, suppressing a
laugh, which broke forth as he concluded the sentence. Why did he
laugh? Why did Hargrave connect them thus together? Was it true, then?
And was this the dreadful secret he had wished to reveal to me? I must
know, and that quickly. I instantly rose and left the room to go in
search of Rachel and demand an explanation of her words; but Mr.
Hargrave followed me into the anteroom, and before I could open its
outer door, gently laid his hand upon the lock. “May I tell you
something, Mrs. Huntingdon?” said he, in a subdued tone, with serious,
downcast eyes.
“If it be anything worth hearing,” replied I, struggling to be
composed, for I trembled in every limb.
He quietly pushed a chair towards me. I merely leant my hand upon it,
and bid him go on.
“Do not be alarmed,” said he: “what I wish to say is nothing in itself;
and I will leave you to draw your own inferences from it. You say that
Annabella is not yet returned?”
“Yes, yes—go on!” said I, impatiently; for I feared my forced calmness
would leave me before the end of his disclosure, whatever it might be.
“And you hear,” continued he, “that Huntingdon is gone out with
Grimsby?”
“Well?”
“I heard the latter say to your husband—or the man who calls himself
so—”
“Go on, sir!”
He bowed submissively, and continued: “I heard him say,—‘I shall manage
it, you’ll see! They’re gone down by the water; I shall meet them
there, and tell him I want a bit of talk with him about some things
that we needn’t trouble the lady with; and she’ll say she can be
walking back to the house; and then I shall apologise, you know, and
all that, and tip her a wink to take the way of the shrubbery. I’ll
keep him talking there, about those matters I mentioned, and anything
else I can think of, as long as I can, and then bring him round the
other way, stopping to look at the trees, the fields, and anything else
I can find to discourse of.’” Mr. Hargrave paused, and looked at me.
Without a word of comment or further questioning, I rose, and darted
from the room and out of the house. The torment of suspense was not to
be endured: I would not suspect my husband falsely, on this man’s
accusation, and I would not trust him unworthily—I must know the truth
at once. I flew to the shrubbery. Scarcely had I reached it, when a
sound of voices arrested my breathless speed.
“We have lingered too long; he will be back,” said Lady Lowborough’s
voice.
“Surely not, dearest!” was _his_ reply; “but you can run across the
lawn, and get in as quietly as you can; I’ll follow in a while.”
My knees trembled under me; my brain swam round. I was ready to faint.
She must not see me thus. I shrunk among the bushes, and leant against
the trunk of a tree to let her pass.
“Ah, Huntingdon!” said she reproachfully, pausing where I had stood
with him the night before—“it was here you kissed that woman!” she
looked back into the leafy shade. Advancing thence, he answered, with a
careless laugh,—
“Well, dearest, I couldn’t help it. You know I must keep straight with
her as long as I can. Haven’t I seen you kiss your dolt of a husband
scores of times?—and do _I_ ever complain?”
“But tell me, don’t you love her still—a _little?_” said she, placing
her hand on his arm, looking earnestly in his face—for I could see
them, plainly, the moon shining full upon them from between the
branches of the tree that sheltered me.
“Not _one bit_, by all that’s sacred!” he replied, kissing her glowing
cheek.
“Good heavens, I _must_ be gone!” cried she, suddenly breaking from
him, and away she flew.
There he stood before me; but I had not strength to confront him now:
my tongue cleaved to the roof of my mouth; I was well-nigh sinking to
the earth, and I almost wondered he did not hear the beating of my
heart above the low sighing of the wind and the fitful rustle of the
falling leaves. My senses seemed to fail me, but still I saw his
shadowy form pass before me, and through the rushing sound in my ears I
distinctly heard him say, as he stood looking up the lawn,—“There goes
the fool! Run, Annabella, run! There—in with you! Ah,—he didn’t see!
That’s right, Grimsby, keep him back!” And even his low laugh reached
me as he walked away.
“God help me now!” I murmured, sinking on my knees among the damp weeds
and brushwood that surrounded me, and looking up at the moonlit sky,
through the scant foliage above. It seemed all dim and quivering now to
my darkened sight. My burning, bursting heart strove to pour forth its
agony to God, but could not frame its anguish into prayer; until a gust
of wind swept over me, which, while it scattered the dead leaves, like
blighted hopes, around, cooled my forehead, and seemed a little to
revive my sinking frame. Then, while I lifted up my soul in speechless,
earnest supplication, some heavenly influence seemed to strengthen me
within: I breathed more freely; my vision cleared; I saw distinctly the
pure moon shining on, and the light clouds skimming the clear, dark
sky; and then I saw the eternal stars twinkling down upon me; I knew
their God was mine, and He was strong to save and swift to hear. “I
will never leave thee, nor forsake thee,” seemed whispered from above
their myriad orbs. No, no; I felt He would not leave me comfortless: in
spite of earth and hell I should have strength for all my trials, and
win a glorious rest at last!
Refreshed, invigorated, if not composed, I rose and returned to the
house. Much of my new-born strength and courage forsook me, I confess,
as I entered it, and shut out the fresh wind and the glorious sky:
everything I saw and heard seemed to sicken my heart—the hall, the