The Tenant of Wildfell Hall

ecember 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 sever 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.”