The Tenant of Wildfell Hall (Penguin Classics)

by Brontë, Anne

  ‘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,4 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,5 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:6 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.7 ‘I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee,’8 seemed whispered from above their myriad orbs. No, no; I felt He would not leave me comfortless:9in 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 newborn strength and courage forsook me,10 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 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 tonight, 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 confidant in my distress. I deserved none – and I wanted none. I had taken the burden11 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 tonight, 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, I 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-low! what the devil is this?’ he muttered.

  ‘I would leave you tomorrow,’ 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 exclamation12 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 – by fove I won’t!’

  ‘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.’13

  ‘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 upstairs.

  ‘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. Goodnight; – 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 thought 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 the victim of their guilt, I can pity their folly and despise their scorn.14

  CHAPTER 34

  CONCEALMENT

  Evening. Breakfast passed well over, I was calm and cool throughout. I answered composedly all enquiries 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 sympathizing, 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 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;1 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!’