The Tenant of Wildfell Hall Anne Brontë (librera reader .txt) 📖

no scene⁠—nothing to complain or to boast of to his companions⁠—nothing to laugh at with his ladylove. When the company were retiring to their chambers I gently opened the door, and just as he passed, 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-lo! 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 exclamation 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.”

“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.”

“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. Good night; 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 thoughts 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