The Tenant of Wildfell Hall
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