CHAPTER XXXIV

The Tenent of Windfell Hall

by Anne Bronte

CHAPTER XXXIV, THE TENENT OF WINDFELL HALL by Anne Bronte
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Evening. - Breakfast passed well over: I was calm and cool
throughout. I answered composedly all inquiries respecting my
health; and whatever was unusual in my look or manner was generally
attributed to the trifling indisposition that had occasioned my
early retirement last night. But how am I to get over the ten or
twelve days that must yet elapse before they go? Yet why so long
for their departure? When they are gone, how shall I get through
the months or years of my future life in company with that man - my
greatest enemy? for none could injure me as he has done. Oh! when
I think how fondly, how foolishly I have loved him, how madly I
have trusted him, how constantly I have laboured, and studied, and
prayed, and struggled for his advantage; and how cruelly he has
trampled on my love, betrayed my trust, scorned my prayers and
tears, and efforts for his preservation, crushed my hopes,
destroyed my youth's best feelings, and doomed me to a life of
hopeless misery, as far as man can do it, it is not enough to say
that I no longer love my husband - I HATE him! The word stares me
in the face like a guilty confession, but it is true: I hate him -
I hate him! But God have mercy on his miserable soul! and make him
see and feel his guilt - I ask no other vengeance! If he could but
fully know and truly feel my wrongs I should be well avenged, and I
could freely pardon all; but he is so lost, so hardened in his
heartless depravity, that in this life I believe he never will.
But it is useless dwelling on this theme: let me seek once more to
dissipate reflection in the minor details of passing events.

Mr. Hargrave has annoyed me all day long with his serious,
sympathising, and (as he thinks) unobtrusive politeness. If it
were more obtrusive it would trouble me less, for then I could snub
him; but, as it is, he contrives to appear so really kind and
thoughtful that I cannot do so without rudeness and seeming
ingratitude. I sometimes think I ought to give him credit for the
good feeling he simulates so well; and then again, I think it is my
duty to suspect him under the peculiar circumstances in which I am
placed. His kindness may not all be feigned; but still, let not
the purest impulse of gratitude to him induce me to forget myself:
let me remember the game of chess, the expressions he used on the
occasion, and those indescribable looks of his, that so justly
roused my indignation, and I think I shall be safe enough. I have
done well to record them so minutely.

I think he wishes to find an opportunity of speaking to me alone:
he has seemed to be on the watch all day; but I have taken care to
disappoint him - not that I fear anything he could say, but I have
trouble enough without the addition of his insulting consolations,
condolences, or whatever else he might attempt; and, for Milicent's
sake, I do not wish to quarrel with him. He excused himself from
going out to shoot with the other gentlemen in the morning, under
the pretext of having letters to write; and instead of retiring for
that purpose into the library, he sent for his desk into the
morning-room, where I was seated with Milicent and Lady Lowborough.
They had betaken themselves to their work; I, less to divert my
mind than to deprecate conversation, had provided myself with a
book. Milicent saw that I wished to be quiet, and accordingly let
me alone. Annabella, doubtless, saw it too: but that was no
reason why she should restrain her tongue, or curb her cheerful
spirits: she accordingly chatted away, addressing herself almost
exclusively to me, and with the utmost assurance and familiarity,
growing the more animated and friendly the colder and briefer my
answers became. Mr. Hargrave saw that I could ill endure it, and,
looking up from his desk, he answered her questions and
observations for me, as far as he could, and attempted to transfer
her social attentions from me to himself; but it would not do.
Perhaps she thought I had a headache, and could not bear to talk;
at any rate, she saw that her loquacious vivacity annoyed me, as I
could tell by the malicious pertinacity with which she persisted.
But I checked it effectually by putting into her hand the book I
had been trying to read, on the fly-leaf of which I had hastily
scribbled, -

'I am too well acquainted with your character and conduct to feel
any real friendship for you, and as I am without your talent for
dissimulation, I cannot assume the appearance of it. I must,
therefore, beg that hereafter all familiar intercourse may cease
between us; and if I still continue to treat you with civility, as
if you were a woman worthy of consideration and respect, understand
that it is out of regard for your cousin Milicent's feelings, not
for yours.'

Upon perusing this she turned scarlet, and bit her lip. Covertly
tearing away the leaf, she crumpled it up and put it in the fire,
and then employed herself in turning over the pages of the book,
and, really or apparently, perusing its contents. In a little
while Milicent announced it her intention to repair to the nursery,
and asked if I would accompany her.

'Annabella will excuse us,' said she; 'she's busy reading.'

'No, I won't,' cried Annabella, suddenly looking up, and throwing
her book on the table; 'I want to speak to Helen a minute. You may
go, Milicent, and she'll follow in a while.' (Milicent went.)
'Will you oblige me, Helen?' continued she.

Her impudence astounded me; but I complied, and followed her into
the library. She closed the door, and walked up to the fire.

'Who told you this?' said she.

'No one: I am not incapable of seeing for myself.'

'Ah, you are suspicious!' cried she, smiling, with a gleam of hope.
Hitherto there had been a kind of desperation in her hardihood; now
she was evidently relieved.

'If I were suspicious,' I replied, 'I should have discovered your
infamy long before. No, Lady Lowborough, I do not found my charge
upon suspicion.'

'On what do you found it, then?' said she, throwing herself into an
arm-chair, and stretching out her feet to the fender, with an
obvious effort to appear composed.

'I enjoy a moonlight ramble as well as you,' I answered, steadily
fixing my eyes upon her; 'and the shrubbery happens to be one of my
favourite resorts.'

She coloured again excessively, and remained silent, pressing her
finger against her teeth, and gazing into the fire. I watched her
a few moments with a feeling of malevolent gratification; then,
moving towards the door, I calmly asked if she had anything more to
say.

'Yes, yes!' cried she eagerly, starting up from her reclining
posture. 'I want to know if you will tell Lord Lowborough?'

'Suppose I do?'

'Well, if you are disposed to publish the matter, I cannot dissuade
you, of course - but there will be terrible work if you do - and if
you don't, I shall think you the most generous of mortal beings -
and if there is anything in the world I can do for you - anything
short of - ' she hesitated.

'Short of renouncing your guilty connection with my husband, I
suppose you mean?' said I.

She paused, in evident disconcertion and perplexity, mingled with
anger she dared not show.

'I cannot renounce what is dearer than life,' she muttered, in a
low, hurried tone. Then, suddenly raising her head and fixing her
gleaming eyes upon me, she continued earnestly: 'But, Helen - or
Mrs. Huntingdon, or whatever you would have me call you - will you
tell him? If you are generous, here is a fitting opportunity for
the exercise of your magnanimity: if you are proud, here am I -
your rival - ready to acknowledge myself your debtor for an act of
the most noble forbearance.'

'I shall not tell him.'

'You will not!' cried she, delightedly. 'Accept my sincere thanks,
then!'

She sprang up, and offered me her hand. I drew back.

'Give me no thanks; it is not for your sake that I refrain.
Neither is it an act of any forbearance: I have no wish to publish
your shame. I should be sorry to distress your husband with the
knowledge of it.'

'And Milicent? will you tell her?'

'No: on the contrary, I shall do my utmost to conceal it from her.
I would not for much that she should know the infamy and disgrace
of her relation!'

'You use hard words, Mrs. Huntingdon, but I can pardon you.'

'And now, Lady Lowborough,' continued I, 'let me counsel you to
leave this house as soon as possible. You must be aware that your
continuance here is excessively disagreeable to me - not for Mr.
Huntingdon's sake,' said I, observing the dawn of a malicious smile
of triumph on her face - 'you are welcome to him, if you like him,
as far as I am concerned - but because it is painful to be always
disguising my true sentiments respecting you, and straining to keep
up an appearance of civility and respect towards one for whom I
have not the most distant shadow of esteem; and because, if you
stay, your conduct cannot possibly remain concealed much longer
from the only two persons in the house who do not know it already.
And, for your husband's sake, Annabella, and even for your own, I
wish - I earnestly advise and entreat you to break off this
unlawful connection at once, and return to your duty while you may,
before the dreadful consequences - '

'Yes, yes, of course,' said she, interrupting me with a gesture of
impatience. 'But I cannot go, Helen, before the time appointed for
our departure. What possible pretext could I frame for such a
thing? Whether I proposed going back alone - which Lowborough
would not hear of - or taking him with me, the very circumstance
itself would be certain to excite suspicion - and when our visit is
so nearly at an end too - little more than a week - surely you can
endure my presence so long! I will not annoy you with any more of
my friendly impertinences.'

'Well, I have nothing more to say to you.'

'Have you mentioned this affair to Huntingdon?' asked she, as I was
leaving the room.

'How dare you mention his name to me!' was the only answer I gave.

No words have passed between us since, but such as outward decency
or pure necessity demanded.