الفصل الفصل 38 · Chapter XXXVIII The Injured Man

. Chapter XXXVIII The Injured Man

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 _tête-à-tête_. 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 sever 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.”