The Tenant of Wildfell Hall
lamp, the staircase, the doors of the different apartments, the social
sound of talk and laughter from the drawing-room. How could I bear my
future life! In this house, among those people—oh, how could I endure
to live! John just then entered the hall, and seeing me, told me he had
been sent in search of me, adding that he had taken in the tea, and
master wished to know if I were coming.
“Ask Mrs. Hattersley to be so kind as to make the tea, John,” said I.
“Say I am not well to-night, and wish to be excused.”
I retired into the large, empty dining-room, where all was silence and
darkness, but for the soft sighing of the wind without, and the faint
gleam of moonlight that pierced the blinds and curtains; and there I
walked rapidly up and down, thinking of my bitter thoughts alone. How
different was this from the evening of yesterday! _That_, it seems, was
the last expiring flash of my life’s happiness. Poor, blinded fool that
I was to be so happy! I could now see the reason of Arthur’s strange
reception of me in the shrubbery; the burst of kindness was for his
paramour, the start of horror for his wife. Now, too, I could better
understand the conversation between Hattersley and Grimsby; it was
doubtless of his love for _her_ they spoke, not for me.
I heard the drawing-room door open: a light quick step came out of the
ante-room, crossed the hall, and ascended the stairs. It was Milicent,
poor Milicent, gone to see how I was—no one else cared for me; but
_she_ still was kind. I shed no tears before, but now they came, fast
and free. Thus she did me good, without approaching me. Disappointed in
her search, I heard her come down, more slowly than she had ascended.
Would she come in there, and find me out? No, she turned in the
opposite direction and re-entered the drawing-room. I was glad, for I
knew not how to meet her, or what to say. I wanted no confidante in my
distress. I deserved none, and I wanted none. I had taken the burden
upon myself; let me bear it alone.
As the usual hour of retirement approached I dried my eyes, and tried
to clear my voice and calm my mind. I must see Arthur to-night, and
speak to him; but I would do it calmly: there should be no
scene—nothing to complain or to boast of to his companions—nothing to
laugh at with his lady-love. When the company were retiring to their
chambers I gently opened the door, and just as he passed, beckoned him
in.
“What’s to do with _you_, Helen?” said he. “Why couldn’t you come to
make tea for us? and what the deuce are you here for, in the dark? What
ails you, young woman: you look like a ghost!” he continued, surveying
me by the light of his candle.
“No matter,” I answered, “to you; you have no longer any regard for me
it appears; and I have no longer any for you.”
“Hal-lo! what the devil is this?” he muttered.
“I would leave you to-morrow,” continued I, “and never again come under
this roof, but for my child”—I paused a moment to steady, my voice.
“What in the devil’s name _is_ this, Helen?” cried he. “What can you be
driving at?”
“You know perfectly well. Let us waste no time in useless explanation,
but tell me, will you—?”
He vehemently swore he knew nothing about it, and insisted upon hearing
what poisonous old woman had been blackening his name, and what
infamous lies I had been fool enough to believe.
“Spare yourself the trouble of forswearing yourself and racking your
brains to stifle truth with falsehood,” I coldly replied. “I have
trusted to the testimony of no third person. I was in the shrubbery
this evening, and I saw and heard for myself.”
This was enough. He uttered a suppressed exclamation of consternation
and dismay, and muttering, “I _shall_ catch it now!” set down his
candle on the nearest chair, and rearing his back against the wall,
stood confronting me with folded arms.
“Well, what then?” said he, with the calm insolence of mingled
shamelessness and desperation.
“Only this,” returned I; “will you let me take our child and what
remains of my fortune, and go?”
“Go where?”
“Anywhere, where he will be safe from your contaminating influence, and
I shall be delivered from your presence, and you from mine.”
“No.”
“Will you let me have the child then, without the money?”
“No, nor yourself without the child. Do you think I’m going to be made
the talk of the country for your fastidious caprices?”
“Then I must stay here, to be hated and despised. But henceforth we are
husband and wife only in the name.”
“Very good.”
“I am your child’s mother, and _your_ housekeeper, nothing more. So you
need not trouble yourself any longer to feign the love you cannot feel:
I will exact no more heartless caresses from you, nor offer nor endure
them either. I will not be mocked with the empty husk of conjugal
endearments, when you have given the substance to another!”
“Very good, if _you_ please. We shall see who will tire first, my
lady.”
“If I tire, it will be of living in the world with you: not of living
without your mockery of love. When _you_ tire of your sinful ways, and
show yourself truly repentant, I will forgive you, and, perhaps, try to
love you again, though that will be hard indeed.”
“Humph! and meantime you will go and talk me over to Mrs. Hargrave, and
write long letters to aunt Maxwell to complain of the wicked wretch you
have married?”
“I shall complain to no one. Hitherto I have struggled hard to hide
your vices from every eye, and invest you with virtues you never
possessed; but now you must look to yourself.”
I left him muttering bad language to himself, and went up-stairs.
“You are poorly, ma’am,” said Rachel, surveying me with deep anxiety.
“It is too true, Rachel,” said I, answering her sad looks rather than
her words.
“I knew it, or I wouldn’t have mentioned such a thing.”
“But don’t _you_ trouble yourself about it,” said I, kissing her pale,
time-wasted cheek. “I can bear it better than you imagine.”
“Yes, you were always for ‘bearing.’ But if I was you I wouldn’t bear
it; I’d give way to it, and cry right hard! and I’d talk too, I just
_would_—I’d let him know what it was to—”
“I have talked,” said I; “I’ve said enough.”
“Then I’d cry,” persisted she. “I wouldn’t look so white and so calm,
and burst my heart with keeping it in.”
“I _have_ cried,” said I, smiling, in spite of my misery; “and I _am_
calm now, really: so don’t discompose me again, nurse: let us say no
more about it, and _don’t_ mention it to the servants. There, you may
go now. Good-night; and don’t disturb your rest for me: I shall sleep
well—if I can.”
Notwithstanding this resolution, I found my bed so intolerable that,
before two o’clock, I rose, and lighting my candle by the rushlight
that was still burning, I got my desk and sat down in my dressing-gown
to recount the events of the past evening. It was better to be so
occupied than to be lying in bed torturing my brain with recollections
of the far past and anticipations of the dreadful future. I have found
relief in describing the very circumstances that have destroyed my
peace, as well as the little trivial details attendant upon their
discovery. No sleep I could have got this night would have done so much
towards composing my mind, and preparing me to meet the trials of the
day. I fancy so, at least; and yet, when I cease writing, I find my
head aches terribly; and when I look into the glass, I am startled at
my haggard, worn appearance.
Rachel has been to dress me, and says I have had a sad night of it, she
can see. Milicent has just looked in to ask me how I was. I told her I
was better, but to excuse my appearance admitted I had had a restless
night. I wish this day were over! I shudder at the thoughts of going
down to breakfast. How shall I encounter them all? Yet let me remember
it is not _I_ that am guilty: _I_ have no cause to fear; and if _they_
scorn me as a victim of their guilt, I can pity their folly and despise
their scorn.
CHAPTER XXXIV
Evening.—Breakfast passed well over: I was calm and cool throughout. I
answered composedly all inquiries respecting my health; and whatever
was unusual in my look or manner was generally attributed to the
trifling indisposition that had occasioned my early retirement last
night. But how am I to get over the ten or twelve days that must yet
elapse before they go? Yet why so long for their departure? When they
_are_ gone, how shall I get through the months or years of my future
life in company with that man—my greatest enemy? for none could injure
me as he has done. Oh! when I think how fondly, how foolishly I have
loved him, how madly I have trusted him, how constantly I have
laboured, and studied, and prayed, and struggled for his advantage; and
how cruelly he has trampled on my love, betrayed my trust, scorned my
prayers and tears, and efforts for his preservation, crushed my hopes,
destroyed my youth’s best feelings, and doomed me to a life of hopeless
misery, as far as man can do it, it is not enough to say that I no
longer love my husband—I HATE him! The word stares me in the face like
a guilty confession, but it is true: I hate him—I hate him! But God
have mercy on his miserable soul! and make him see and feel his guilt—I
ask no other vengeance! If he could but fully know and truly feel my
wrongs I should be well avenged, and I could freely pardon all; but he
is so lost, so hardened in his heartless depravity, that in this life I
believe he never will. But it is useless dwelling on this theme: let me
seek once more to dissipate reflection in the minor details of passing
events.
Mr. Hargrave has annoyed me all day long with his serious,
sympathising, and (as _he_ thinks) unobtrusive politeness. If it were
more obtrusive it would trouble me less, for then I could snub him;
but, as it is, he contrives to appear so really kind and thoughtful
that I cannot do so without rudeness and seeming ingratitude. I
sometimes think I ought to give him credit for the good feeling he
simulates so well; and then again, I think it is my _duty_ to suspect
him under the peculiar circumstances in which I am placed. His kindness
may not all be feigned; but still, let not the purest impulse of
gratitude to him induce me to forget myself: let me remember the game
of chess, the expressions he used on the occasion, and those
indescribable looks of his, that so justly roused my indignation, and I
think I shall be safe enough. I have done well to record them so
minutely.
I think he wishes to find an opportunity of speaking to me alone: he
has seemed to be on the watch all day; but I have taken care to
disappoint him—not that I fear anything he could say, but I have
trouble enough without the addition of his insulting consolations,
condolences, or whatever else he might attempt; and, for Milicent’s
sake, I do not wish to quarrel with him. He excused himself from going
out to shoot with the other gentlemen in the morning, under the pretext
of having letters to write; and instead of retiring for that purpose
into the library, he sent for his desk into the morning-room, where I
was seated with Milicent and Lady Lowborough. They had betaken
themselves to their work; I, less to divert my mind than to deprecate
conversation, had provided myself with a book. Milicent saw that I
wished to be quiet, and accordingly let me alone. Annabella, doubtless,
saw it too: but that was no reason why she should restrain her tongue,
or curb her cheerful spirits: _she_ accordingly chatted away,
addressing herself almost exclusively to me, and with the utmost
assurance and familiarity, growing the more animated and friendly the
colder and briefer my answers became. Mr. Hargrave saw that I could ill
endure it, and, looking up from his desk, he answered her questions and