The Tenant of Wildfell Hall
observations for me, as far as he could, and attempted to transfer her
social attentions from me to himself; but it would not do. Perhaps she
thought I had a headache, and could not bear to talk; at any rate, she
saw that her loquacious vivacity annoyed me, as I could tell by the
malicious pertinacity with which she persisted. But I checked it
effectually by putting into her hand the book I had been trying to
read, on the fly-leaf of which I had hastily scribbled,—
“I am too well acquainted with your character and conduct to feel any
real friendship for you, and as I am without your talent for
dissimulation, I cannot assume the appearance of it. I must, therefore,
beg that hereafter all familiar intercourse may cease between us; and
if I still continue to treat you with civility, as if you were a woman
worthy of consideration and respect, understand that it is out of
regard for your cousin Milicent’s feelings, not for yours.”
Upon perusing this she turned scarlet, and bit her lip. Covertly
tearing away the leaf, she crumpled it up and put it in the fire, and
then employed herself in turning over the pages of the book, and,
really or apparently, perusing its contents. In a little while Milicent
announced it her intention to repair to the nursery, and asked if I
would accompany her.
“Annabella will excuse us,” said she; “she’s busy reading.”
“No, I won’t,” cried Annabella, suddenly looking up, and throwing her
book on the table; “I want to speak to Helen a minute. You may go,
Milicent, and she’ll follow in a while.” (Milicent went.) “Will you
oblige me, Helen?” continued she.
Her impudence astounded me; but I complied, and followed her into the
library. She closed the door, and walked up to the fire.
“Who told you this?” said she.
“No one: I am not incapable of seeing for myself.”
“Ah, you are suspicious!” cried she, smiling, with a gleam of hope.
Hitherto there had been a kind of desperation in her hardihood; now she
was evidently relieved.
“If I _were_ suspicious,” I replied, “I should have discovered your
infamy long before. No, Lady Lowborough, I do not found my charge upon
suspicion.”
“On what _do_ you found it, then?” said she, throwing herself into an
arm-chair, and stretching out her feet to the fender, with an obvious
effort to appear composed.
“I enjoy a moonlight ramble as well as you,” I answered, steadily
fixing my eyes upon her; “and the shrubbery happens to be one of my
favourite resorts.”
She coloured again excessively, and remained silent, pressing her
finger against her teeth, and gazing into the fire. I watched her a few
moments with a feeling of malevolent gratification; then, moving
towards the door, I calmly asked if she had anything more to say.
“Yes, yes!” cried she eagerly, starting up from her reclining posture.
“I want to know if you will tell Lord Lowborough?”
“Suppose I do?”
“Well, if you are disposed to publish the matter, _I_ cannot dissuade
you, of course—but there will be terrible work if you do—and if you
don’t, I shall think you the most generous of mortal beings—and if
there is anything in the world I can do for you—anything short of—” she
hesitated.
“Short of renouncing your guilty connection with my husband, I suppose
you mean?” said I.
She paused, in evident disconcertion and perplexity, mingled with anger
she dared not show.
“I cannot renounce what is dearer than life,” she muttered, in a low,
hurried tone. Then, suddenly raising her head and fixing her gleaming
eyes upon me, she continued earnestly: “But, Helen—or Mrs. Huntingdon,
or whatever you would have me call you—_will_ you tell him? If you are
generous, here is a fitting opportunity for the exercise of your
magnanimity: if you are proud, here am I—your rival—ready to
acknowledge myself your debtor for an act of the most noble
forbearance.”
“I shall not tell him.”
“You will not!” cried she, delightedly. “Accept my sincere thanks,
then!”
She sprang up, and offered me her hand. I drew back.
“Give me no thanks; it is not for _your_ sake that I refrain. Neither
is it an act of any forbearance: I have no wish to publish your shame.
I should be sorry to distress your husband with the knowledge of it.”
“And Milicent? will you tell her?”
“No: on the contrary, I shall do my utmost to conceal it from her. I
would not for much that she should know the infamy and disgrace of her
relation!”
“You use hard words, Mrs. Huntingdon, but I can pardon you.”
“And now, Lady Lowborough,” continued I, “let me counsel you to leave
this house as soon as _possible_. You must be aware that your
continuance here is excessively disagreeable to me—not for Mr.
Huntingdon’s sake,” said I, observing the dawn of a malicious smile of
triumph on her face—“you are welcome to him, if you like him, as far as
_I_ am concerned—but because it is painful to be always disguising my
true sentiments respecting you, and straining to keep up an appearance
of civility and respect towards one for whom I have not the most
distant shadow of esteem; and because, if you stay, your conduct cannot
possibly remain concealed much longer from the only two persons in the
house who do not know it already. And, for your husband’s sake,
Annabella, and even for your own, I wish—I earnestly advise and
_entreat_ you to break off this unlawful connection at once, and return
to your duty while you may, before the dreadful consequences—”
“Yes, yes, of course,” said she, interrupting me with a gesture of
impatience. “But I cannot go, Helen, before the time appointed for our
departure. What possible pretext could I frame for such a thing?
Whether I proposed going back alone—which Lowborough would not hear
of—or taking him with me, the very circumstance itself would be certain
to excite suspicion—and when our visit is so _nearly_ at an end
too—little more than a week—surely you can endure my presence _so_
long! I will not annoy you with any more of my friendly impertinences.”
“Well, I have nothing more to say to you.”
“Have you mentioned this affair to Huntingdon?” asked she, as I was
leaving the room.
“How dare you mention his name to me!” was the only answer I gave.
No words have passed between us since, but such as outward decency or
pure necessity demanded.
CHAPTER XXXV
Nineteenth.—In proportion as Lady Lowborough finds she has nothing to
fear from me, and as the time of departure draws nigh, the more
audacious and insolent she becomes. She does not scruple to speak to my
husband with affectionate familiarity in my presence, when no one else
is by, and is particularly fond of displaying her interest in his
health and welfare, or in anything that concerns him, as if for the
purpose of contrasting her kind solicitude with my cold indifference.
And he rewards her by such smiles and glances, such whispered words, or
boldly-spoken insinuations, indicative of his sense of her goodness and
my neglect, as make the blood rush into my face, in spite of myself—for
I would be utterly regardless of it all—deaf and blind to everything
that passes between them, since the more I show myself sensible of
their wickedness the more she triumphs in her victory, and the more he
flatters himself that I love him devotedly still, in spite of my
pretended indifference. On such occasions I have sometimes been
startled by a subtle, fiendish suggestion inciting me to show him the
contrary by a seeming encouragement of Hargrave’s advances; but such
ideas are banished in a moment with horror and self-abasement; and then
I hate him tenfold more than ever for having brought me to this!—God
pardon me for it and all my sinful thoughts! Instead of being humbled
and purified by my afflictions, I feel that they are turning my nature
into gall. This must be my fault as much as theirs that wrong me. No
true Christian could cherish such bitter feelings as I do against him
and her, especially the latter: him, I still feel that I could
pardon—freely, gladly—on the slightest token of repentance; but
_she_—words cannot utter my abhorrence. Reason forbids, but passion
urges strongly; and I must pray and struggle long ere I subdue it.
It is well that she is leaving to-morrow, for I could not well endure
her presence for another day. This morning she rose earlier than usual.
I found her in the room alone, when I went down to breakfast.
“Oh, Helen! is it you?” said she, turning as I entered.
I gave an involuntary start back on seeing her, at which she uttered a
short laugh, observing, “I think we are _both_ disappointed.”
I came forward and busied myself with the breakfast things.
“This is the last day I shall burden your hospitality,” said she, as
she seated herself at the table. “Ah, here comes one that will not
rejoice at it!” she murmured, half to herself, as Arthur entered the
room.
He shook hands with her and wished her good-morning: then, looking
lovingly in her face, and still retaining her hand in his, murmured
pathetically, “The last—last day!”
“Yes,” said she with some asperity; “and I rose early to make the best
of it—I have been here alone this half-hour, and _you_—you lazy
creature—”
“Well, I thought I was early too,” said he; “but,” dropping his voice
almost to a whisper, “you see we are not alone.”
“We never are,” returned she. But they were almost as good as alone,
for I was now standing at the window, watching the clouds, and
struggling to suppress my wrath.
Some more words passed between them, which, happily, I did not
overhear; but Annabella had the audacity to come and place herself
beside me, and even to put her hand upon my shoulder and say softly,
“You need not grudge him to me, Helen, for I love him more than ever
you could do.”
This put me beside myself. I took her hand and violently dashed it from
me, with an expression of abhorrence and indignation that could not be
suppressed. Startled, almost appalled, by this sudden outbreak, she
recoiled in silence. I would have given way to my fury and said more,
but Arthur’s low laugh recalled me to myself. I checked the
half-uttered invective, and scornfully turned away, regretting that I
had given him so much amusement. He was still laughing when Mr.
Hargrave made his appearance. How much of the scene he had witnessed I
do not know, for the door was ajar when he entered. He greeted his host
and his cousin both coldly, and me with a glance intended to express
the deepest sympathy mingled with high admiration and esteem.
“How much allegiance do you owe to that man?” he asked below his
breath, as he stood beside me at the window, affecting to be making
observations on the weather.
“None,” I answered. And immediately returning to the table, I employed
myself in making the tea. He followed, and would have entered into some
kind of conversation with me, but the other guests were now beginning
to assemble, and I took no more notice of him, except to give him his
coffee.
After breakfast, determined to pass as little of the day as possible in
company with Lady Lowborough, I quietly stole away from the company and
retired to the library. Mr. Hargrave followed me thither, under
pretence of coming for a book; and first, turning to the shelves, he
selected a volume, and then quietly, but by no means timidly,
approaching me, he stood beside me, resting his hand on the back of my
chair, and said softly, “And so you consider yourself free at last?”
“Yes,” said I, without moving, or raising my eyes from my book, “free
to do anything but offend God and my conscience.”
There was a momentary pause.
“Very right,” said he, “provided your conscience be not too morbidly
tender, and your ideas of God not too erroneously severe; but can you
suppose it would offend that benevolent Being to make the happiness of