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 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 TETE-E-TETE. 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 part
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.'
|