The Tenant of Wildfell Hall (Penguin Classics) (44 page)

9th
. Yesterday, when Rachel came to dress me for dinner, I saw that she had been crying. I wanted to know the cause of it, but she seemed reluctant to tell. Was she unwell? No. Had she heard bad news from her friends? No. Had any of the servants vexed her?

‘Oh, no ma’am!’ she answered – ‘It’s not for myself

‘What then, Rachel? Have you been reading novels?’

‘Bless you, no!’ said she with a sorrowful shake of the head; and then she sighed and continued, ‘But to tell you the truth, ma’am, I don’t like master’s ways of going on.’

‘What do you mean Rachel? – He’s going on very properly – at present’

‘Well ma’am, if you think so, it’s right’

And she went on dressing my hair, in a hurried way, quite unlike her usual calm, collected manner, – murmuring, half to herself, she was sure it was beautiful hair, she ‘could like to see ‘em match it’ When it was done, she fondly stroked it and gently patted my head.

‘Is that affectionate ebullition intended for my hair, or myself, nurse?’ said I, laughingly turning round upon her; – but a tear was even now in her eye.

‘What
do
you mean, Rachel?’ I exclaimed.

‘Well, ma’am, I don’t know, – but if–’

‘If what?’

‘Well, if I was you, I wouldn’t have that Lady Lowborough in the house another minute – not another
minute
I wouldn’t!’

I was thunderstruck; but before I could recover from the shock sufficiently to demand an explanation, Milicent entered my room – as she frequently does, when she is dressed before me; and she stayed with me till it was time to go down. She must have found me a very unsociable companion this time, for Rachel’s last words rung in my ears. But still, I hoped – I trusted they had no foundation but in some idle rumour of the servants from what they had seen in Lady Lowborough’s manner last month; or, perhaps, from something that had passed between their master and her during her former visit. At dinner, I narrowly observed both her and Arthur, and saw nothing extraordinary in the conduct of either – nothing calculated to excite suspicion, except in distrustful minds – which mine was not, and therefore I would not suspect.

Almost immediately after dinner, Annabella went out with her husband to share his moonlight ramble, for it was a splendid evening like the last. Mr Hargrave entered the drawing-room a little before the others, and challenged me to a game of chess.
²
He did it without any of that sad but proud humility he usually assumes in addressing me, unless he is excited with wine. I looked at his face to see if that was the case now. His eye met mine keenly, but steadily: there was something about him I did not understand, but he seemed sober enough. Not choosing to engage with him, I referred him to Milicent.

‘She plays badly,’ said he: ‘I want to match my skill with yours.
Come now! – you can’t pretend you are reluctant to lay down your work – I know you never take it up except to pass an idle hour, when there is nothing better you can do.’

‘But chess players are so unsociable,’ I objected; ‘they are no company for any but themselves.’

‘There is no one here – but Milicent, and she –’

‘Oh, I shall be delighted to watch you!’ cried our mutual friend – ‘Two
such
players – it will be quite a treat! I wonder which will conquer.’

I consented.

‘Now Mrs Huntingdon,’ said Hargrave, as he arranged the men on the board, speaking distinctly, and with a peculiar emphasis as if he had a double meaning to all his words, ‘you are a good player, – but I am a better we shall have a long game, and you will give me some trouble; but I can be as patient as you, and, in the end, I shall certainly win.’ He fixed his eyes upon me with a glance I did not like – keen, crafty, bold, and almost impudent; already half triumphant in his anticipated success.

‘I hope not, Mr Hargrave!’ returned I, with vehemence that must have startled Milicent at least; but
be
only smiled and murmured, –

‘Time will show.’

We set to work; he, sufficiently interested in the game, but calm and fearless in the consciousness of superior skill; I, intensely eager to disappoint his expectations, for I considered this the type of a more serious contest – as I imagined he did – and I felt an almost superstitious dread of being beaten: at all events, I could ill endure that present success should add one title to his conscious power (his insolent self-confidence, I ought to say), or encourage, for a moment, his dream of future conquest. His play was cautious and deep, but I struggled hard against him. For some time the combat was doubtful, at length, to my joy, the victory seemed inclining to my side: I had taken several of his best pieces, and manifestly baffled his projects. He put his hand to his brow and paused, in evident perplexity. I rejoiced in my advantage, but dared not glory in it yet. At length, he lifted his head, and, quietly making his move, looked at me and said, calmly, –

‘Now, you think you will win, don’t you.’

‘I hope so,’ replied I, taking his pawn that he had pushed into the way of my bishop
³
with so careless an air that I thought it was an oversight, but was not generous enough, under the circumstances, to direct his attention to it, and too heedless, at the moment, to foresee the after consequences of my move.

‘It is those bishops that trouble me,’ said he; ‘but the bold knight can overleap the reverend gentleman,’ taking my last bishop with his knight; – ‘and now, those sacred persons once removed, I shall carry all before me.’

‘Oh Walter, how you talk!’ cried Milicent – ‘She has far more pieces than you still.’

‘I intend to give you some trouble yet,’ said I; ‘and perhaps, sir, you will find yourself checkmated before you are aware. Look to your queen.’

The combat deepened. The game
was
a long one, and I
did
give him some trouble: but he
was
a better player than I.

‘What keen gamesters you are!’ said Mr Hattersley, who had now entered, and been watching us for some time. ‘Why, Mrs Huntingdon, your hand trembles as if you had staked your all upon it! and Walter – you dog – you look as deep and cool as if you were certain of success, – and as keen and cruel as if you would drain her heart’s blood! – But if I were you, I wouldn’t beat her, for very fear she’ll hate you if you do – she will, by Heaven! – I see it in her eye.’

‘Hold your tongue, will you?’ said I – his talk distracted me, for I was driven to extremities. A few more moves and I was inextricably entangled in the snare of my antagonist.

‘Check,’ – cried he: I sought in agony some means of escape – ’mate!’ he added, quietly but with evident delight. He had suspended the utterance of that last fatal syllable the better to enjoy my dismay. I was foolishly disconcerted by the event. Hattersley laughed; Milicent was troubled to see me so disturbed. Hargrave placed his hand on mine that rested on the table, and, squeezing it with a firm but gentle pressure, murmured ‘Beaten – beaten!’ and gazed into my face with a look where exultation was blended with an expression of ardour and tenderness yet more insulting.

‘No, never
, Mr Hargrave!’ exclaimed I, quickly withdrawing my hand.

‘Do you deny?’ replied he, smilingly pointing to the board.

‘No, no,’ I answered, recollecting how strange my conduct must appear; ‘you have beaten me in that game.’

‘Will you try another, then?’

‘No.’

‘You acknowledge my superiority?’

‘Yes – as a chess-player.’

I rose to resume my work.

‘Where is Annabella?’ said Hargrave, gravely, after glancing round the room.

‘Gone out with Lord Lowborough,’ answered I, for he looked at me for a reply.

‘And not yet returned!’ he said seriously.

‘I suppose not.’

‘Where is Huntingdon?’ looking round again.

‘Gone out with Grimsby – as you know,’ said Hattersley suppressing a laugh, which broke forth as he concluded the sentence.

Why did he laugh? Why did Hargrave connect them thus together? Was it true, then? – And was this the dreadful secret he had wished to reveal to me? I must know – and that quickly. I instantly rose and left the room to go in search of Rachel, and demand an explanation of her words; but Mr Hargrave followed me into the ante-room, and before I could open its outer door, gently laid his hand upon the lock.

‘May I tell you something, Mrs Huntingdon?’ said he, in a subdued tone, with serious, downcast eyes.

‘If it be anything worth hearing,’ replied I, struggling to be composed, for I trembled in every limb.

He quietly pushed a chair towards me. I merely leant my hand upon it, and bid him go on.

‘Do not be alarmed,’ said he: ‘what I wish to say is nothing in itself; and I will leave you to draw your own inferences from it You say that. Annabella is not yet returned?’

‘Yes, yes – go on!’ said I, impatiently, for I feared my forced
calmness would leave me before the end of his disclosure, whatever it might be.

‘And you hear,’ continued he, ‘that Huntingdon is gone out with Grimsby?’

‘Well?’

‘I heard the latter say to your husband – or the man who calls himself so –’

‘Go on, sir!’

He bowed submissively, and continued, ‘I heard him say, – “I shall manage it, you’ll see! They’re gone down by the water; I shall meet them there, and tell him I want a bit of talk with him about some things that we needn’t trouble the lady with; and she’ll say she can be walking back to the house; and then I shall apologize, you know, and all that, and tip her a wink to take the way of the shrubbery. I’ll keep him talking there, about those matters I mentioned, and anything else I can think of, as long as I can, and then bring him round the other way, stopping to look at the trees, the fields, and anything else I can find to discourse of” Mr Hargrave paused, and looked at me.

Without a word of comment or further questioning, I rose, and darted from the room and out of the house. The torment of suspense was not to be endured: I would not suspect my husband falsely, on this man’s accusation, and I would not trust him unworthily – I must know the truth at once. I flew to the shrubbery. Scarcely had I reached it, when a sound of voices arrested my breathless speed.

‘We have lingered too long; he will be back,’ said Lady Lowbor-ough’s voice.

‘Surely not, dearest!’ was
his
reply, ‘but you can run across the lawn, and get in as quietly as you can: I’ll follow in a while.’

My knees trembled under me; my brain swam round: I was ready to faint. She must not see me thus. I shrunk among the bushes, and leant against the trunk of a tree to let her pass.

‘Ah, Huntingdon!’ said she reproachfully, pausing where I had stood with him the night before – ‘it was here you kissed that woman!’ she looked back into the leafy shade. Advancing thence, he answered, with a careless laugh –

‘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:
⁹
in 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.’