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

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 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!” 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