The Tenant of Wildfell Hall (Penguin Classics)

by Brontë, Anne

  ‘I have a son, Mr Hargrave, and you have a mother,’ said I, retiring from the window, whither he had followed me.

  ‘They need not know,’ he began, but before anything more could be said on either side, Esther and Arthur re-entered the room. The former glanced at Walter’s flushed, excited countenance, and then at mine – a little flushed and excited too, I dare say, though from far different causes. She must have thought we had been quarrelling desperately, and was evidently perplexed and disturbed at the circumstance; but she was too polite, or too much afraid of her brother’s anger to refer to it. She seated herself on the sofa, and putting back her bright, golden ringlets, that were scattered in wild profusion over her face, she immediately began to talk about the garden and her little playfellow, and continued to chatter away in her usual strain till her brother summoned her to depart.

  ‘If I have spoken too warmly, forgive me,’ he murmured on taking his leave, ‘or I shall never forgive myself

  Esther smiled and glanced at me: I merely bowed, and her countenance fell. She thought it a poor return for Walter’s generous concession, and was disappointed in her friend. Poor child, she little knows the world she lives in!

  Mr Hargrave had not an opportunity of meeting me again in private for several weeks after this; but when he did meet me, there was less of pride and more of touching melancholy in his manner than before. Oh, how he annoyed me! I was obliged, at last almost entirely to remit my visits to the Grove, at the expense of deeply offending Mrs Hargrave and seriously afflicting poor Esther, who really values my society – for want of better, and who ought not to suffer for the fault of her brother. But that indefatigable foe3 was not yet vanquished: he seemed to be always on the watch. I frequently saw him riding lingeringly past the premises, looking searchingly round him as he went – or if I did not, Rachel did. That sharp-sighted woman soon guessed how matters stood between us, and descrying the enemy’s movements from her elevation at the nursery window, she would give me a quiet intimation, if she saw me preparing for a walk when she had reason to believe he was about, or to think it likely that he would meet or overtake me in the way I meant to traverse. I would then defer my ramble, or confine myself for that day to the park and gardens – or if the proposed excursion was a matter of importance, such as a visit to the sick or afflicted, I would take Rachel with me, and then I was never molested.

  But one mild, sunshiny day, early in November, I had ventured forth alone, to visit the village school and a few of the poor tenants, and on my return, I was alarmed at the clatter of a horse’s feet behind me approaching at a rapid, steady trot There was no stile or gap at hand, by which I could escape into the fields: so I walked quietly on, saying to myself –

  ‘It may not be he after all; and if it is, and if he do annoy me – it shall be for the last time – I am determined, if there be power in words and looks against cool impudence and mawkish sentimentality so inexhaustible as his.’

  The horse soon overtook me, and was reined up close beside me. It was Mr Hargrave. He greeted me with a smile intended to be soft and melancholy, but his triumphant satisfaction at having caught me at last so shone through, that it was quite a failure. After briefly answering his salutation and enquiring after the ladies at the Grove, I turned away and walked on; but he followed, and kept his horse at my side: it was evident he intended to be my companion all the way.

  ‘Well! I don’t much care. If you want another rebuff, take it – and welcome,’ was my inward remark. ‘Now sir, what next?.’

  This question, though unspoken, was not long unanswered: after a few passing observations upon indifferent subjects, he began, in solemn tones, the following appeal to my humanity: –

  ‘It will be four years next April since I first saw you, Mrs Huntingdon, – you may have forgotten the circumstance, but I never can – I admired you then, most deeply, but I dared not love you: in the following autumn, I saw so much of your perfections that I could not fail to love you, though I dared not show it. For upwards of three years, I have endured a perfect martyrdom. From the anguish of suppressed emotions, intense and fruitless longings, silent sorrow, crushed hopes, and trampled affections, – I have suffered more than I can tell, or you imagine – and you were the cause of it – and not, altogether, the innocent cause. My youth is wasting away; my prospects are darkened; my life is a desolate blank; I have no rest day or night:4 I am become a burden to myself and others; – and you might save me by a word – a glance, and will not do it – Is this right?’

  ‘In the first place, I don’t believe you,’ answered I: ‘in the second, if you will be such a fool, I can’t hinder it.’

  ‘If you affect,’ replied he earnestly, ‘to regard as folly the best, the strongest, the most godlike impulses of our nature, – I don’t believe you – I know you are not the heartless, icy being you pretend to be – you had a heart once, and you gave it to your husband. When you found him utterly unworthy of the treasure you reclaimed it; – and you will not pretend that you loved that sensual, earthly minded profligate so deeply, so devotedly that you can never love another? – I know that there are feelings in your nature that have never yet been called forth – I know, too, that in your present neglected, lonely state you are, and must be miserable. You have it in your power to raise two human beings from a state of actual suffering to such unspeakable beatitude as only generous, noble self-forgetting love can give (for you can love me if you will; you may tell me that you scorn and detest me, but – since you have set me the example of plain speaking – I will answer that I do not believe you!) but you will not do it! you choose rather 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.5 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. Y
ou 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 forever 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!7

  END OF VOLUME II

  VOLUME III

  CHAPTER 38

  THE INJURED MAN

  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 loath 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 star1 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,’2 – 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 tomorrow.’

  ‘Tomorrow!’ 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!’ he 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 farther:3 abstract yourself from her, and stand alone.’

  ‘And you, madam,’ said he sternly, arresting his walk 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.4

  ‘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.