Delphi Complete Works of the Brontes Charlotte, Emily, Anne Brontë (Illustrated) (379 page)

‘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.’

CHAPTER XXXIX

My greatest source of uneasiness, in this time of trial, was my son, whom his father and his father’s friends delighted to encourage in all the embryo vices a little child can show, and to instruct in all the evil habits he could acquire — in a word, to ‘make a man of him’ was one of their staple amusements; and I need say no more to justify my alarm on his account, and my determination to deliver him at any hazard from the hands of such instructors.  I first attempted to keep him always with me, or in the nursery, and gave Rachel particular injunctions never to let him come down to dessert as long as these ‘gentlemen’ stayed; but it was no use: these orders were immediately countermanded and overruled by his father; he was not going to have the little fellow moped to death between an old nurse and a cursed fool of a mother.  So the little fellow came down every evening in spite of his cross mamma, and learned to tipple wine like papa, to swear like Mr. Hattersley, and to have his own way like a man, and sent mamma to the devil when she tried to prevent him.  To see such things done with the roguish naïveté of that pretty little child, and hear such things spoken by that small infantile voice, was as peculiarly piquant and irresistibly droll to them as it was inexpressibly distressing and painful to me; and when he had set the table in a roar he would look round delightedly upon them all, and add his shrill laugh to theirs.  But if that beaming blue eye rested on me, its light would vanish for a moment, and he would say, in some concern, ‘Mamma, why don’t you laugh?  Make her laugh, papa — she never will.’

Hence was I obliged to stay among these human brutes, watching an opportunity to get my child away from them instead of leaving them immediately after the removal of the cloth, as I should always otherwise have done.  He was never willing to go, and I frequently had to carry him away by force, for which he thought me very cruel and unjust; and sometimes his father would insist upon my letting him remain; and then I would leave him to his kind friends, and retire to indulge my bitterness and despair alone, or to rack my brains for a remedy to this great evil.

But here again I must do Mr. Hargrave the justice to acknowledge that I never saw him laugh at the child’s misdemeanours, nor heard him utter a word of encouragement to his aspirations after manly accomplishments.  But when anything very extraordinary was said or done by the infant profligate, I noticed, at times, a peculiar expression in his face that I could neither interpret nor define: a slight twitching about the muscles of the mouth; a sudden flash in the eye, as he darted a sudden glance at the child and then at me: and then I could fancy there arose a gleam of hard, keen, sombre satisfaction in his countenance at the look of impotent wrath and anguish he was too certain to behold in mine.  But on one occasion, when Arthur had been behaving particularly ill, and Mr. Huntingdon and his guests had been particularly provoking and insulting to me in their encouragement of him, and I particularly anxious to get him out of the room, and on the very point of demeaning myself by a burst of uncontrollable passion — Mr. Hargrave suddenly rose from his seat with an aspect of stern determination, lifted the child from his father’s knee, where he was sitting half-tipsy, cocking his head and laughing at me, and execrating me with words he little knew the meaning of, handed him out of the room, and, setting him down in the hall, held the door open for me, gravely bowed as I withdrew, and closed it after me.  I heard high words exchanged between him and his already half-inebriated host as I departed, leading away my bewildered and disconcerted boy.

But this should not continue: my child must not be abandoned to this corruption: better far that he should live in poverty and obscurity, with a fugitive mother, than in luxury and affluence with such a father.  These guests might not be with us long, but they would return again: and he, the most injurious of the whole, his child’s worst enemy, would still remain.  I could endure it for myself, but for my son it must be borne no longer: the world’s opinion and the feelings of my friends must be alike unheeded here, at least — alike unable to deter me from my duty.  But where should I find an asylum, and how obtain subsistence for us both?  Oh, I would take my precious charge at early dawn, take the coach to M — , flee to the port of — , cross the Atlantic, and seek a quiet, humble home in New England, where I would support myself and him by the labour of my hands.  The palette and the easel, my darling playmates once, must be my sober toil-fellows now.  But was I sufficiently skilful as an artist to obtain my livelihood in a strange land, without friends and without recommendation?  No; I must wait a little; I must labour hard to improve my talent, and to produce something worth while as a specimen of my powers, something to speak favourably for me, whether as an actual painter or a teacher.  Brilliant success, of course, I did not look for, but some degree of security from positive failure was indispensable: I must not take my son to starve.  And then I must have money for the journey, the passage, and some little to support us in our retreat in case I should be unsuccessful at first: and not too little either: for who could tell how long I might have to struggle with the indifference or neglect of others, or my own inexperience or inability to suit their tastes?

What should I do then?  Apply to my brother and explain my circumstances and my resolves to him?  No, no: even if I told him all my grievances, which I should be very reluctant to do, he would be certain to disapprove of the step: it would seem like madness to him, as it would to my uncle and aunt, or to Milicent.  No; I must have patience and gather a hoard of my own.  Rachel should be my only confidante — I thought I could persuade her into the scheme; and she should help me, first, to find out a picture-dealer in some distant town; then, through her means, I would privately sell what pictures I had on hand that would do for such a purpose, and some of those I should thereafter paint.  Besides this, I would contrive to dispose of my jewels, not the family jewels, but the few I brought with me from home, and those my uncle gave me on my marriage.  A few months’ arduous toil might well be borne by me with such an end in view; and in the interim my son could not be much more injured than he was already.

Having formed this resolution, I immediately set to work to accomplish it, I might possibly have been induced to wax cool upon it afterwards, or perhaps to keep weighing the pros and cons in my mind till the latter overbalanced the former, and I was driven to relinquish the project altogether, or delay the execution of it to an indefinite period, had not something occurred to confirm me in that determination, to which I still adhere, which I still think I did well to form, and shall do better to execute.

Since Lord Lowborough’s departure I had regarded the library as entirely my own, a secure retreat at all hours of the day.  None of our gentlemen had the smallest pretensions to a literary taste, except Mr. Hargrave; and he, at present, was quite contented with the newspapers and periodicals of the day.  And if, by any chance, he should look in here, I felt assured he would soon depart on seeing me, for, instead of becoming less cool and distant towards me, he had become decidedly more so since the departure of his mother and sisters, which was just what I wished.  Here, then, I set up my easel, and here I worked at my canvas from daylight till dusk, with very little intermission, saving when pure necessity, or my duties to little Arthur, called me away: for I still thought proper to devote some portion of every day exclusively to his instruction and amusement.  But, contrary to my expectation, on the third morning, while I was thus employed, Mr. Hargrave did look in, and did not immediately withdraw on seeing me.  He apologized for his intrusion, and said he was only come for a book; but when he had got it, he condescended to cast a glance over my picture.  Being a man of taste, he had something to say on this subject as well as another, and having modestly commented on it, without much encouragement from me, he proceeded to expatiate on the art in general.  Receiving no encouragement in that either, he dropped it, but did not depart.

‘You don’t give us much of your company, Mrs. Huntingdon,’ observed he, after a brief pause, during which I went on coolly mixing and tempering my colours; ‘and I cannot wonder at it, for you must be heartily sick of us all.  I myself am so thoroughly ashamed of my companions, and so weary of their irrational conversation and pursuits — now that there is no one to humanize them and keep them in check, since you have justly abandoned us to our own devices — that I think I shall presently withdraw from amongst them, probably within this week; and I cannot suppose you will regret my departure.’

He paused.  I did not answer.

‘Probably,’ he added, with a smile, ‘your only regret on the subject will be that I do not take all my companions along with me.  I flatter myself, at times, that though among them I am not of them; but it is natural that you should be glad to get rid of me.  I may regret this, but I cannot blame you for it.’

‘I shall not rejoice at your departure, for you can conduct yourself like a gentleman,’ said I, thinking it but right to make some acknowledgment for his good behaviour; ‘but I must confess I shall rejoice to bid adieu to the rest, inhospitable as it may appear.’

‘No one can blame you for such an avowal,’ replied he gravely: ‘not even the gentlemen themselves, I imagine.  I’ll just tell you,’ he continued, as if actuated by a sudden resolution, ‘what was said last night in the dining-room, after you left us: perhaps you will not mind it, as you’re so very philosophical on certain points,’ he added with a slight sneer.  ‘They were talking about Lord Lowborough and his delectable lady, the cause of whose sudden departure is no secret amongst them; and her character is so well known to them all, that, nearly related to me as she is, I could not attempt to defend it.  Curse me!’ he muttered, par parenthese, ‘if I don’t have vengeance for this!  If the villain must disgrace the family, must he blazon it abroad to every low-bred knave of his acquaintance?  I beg your pardon, Mrs. Huntingdon.  Well, they were talking of these things, and some of them remarked that, as she was separated from her husband, he might see her again when he pleased.’

‘“Thank you,” said he; “I’ve had enough of her for the present: I’ll not trouble to see her, unless she comes to me.”

‘“Then what do you mean to do, Huntingdon, when we’re gone?” said Ralph Hattersley.  “Do you mean to turn from the error of your ways, and be a good husband, a good father, and so forth; as I do, when I get shut of you and all these rollicking devils you call your friends?  I think it’s time; and your wife is fifty times too good for you, you know — ”

‘And he added some praise of you, which you would not thank me for repeating, nor him for uttering; proclaiming it aloud, as he did, without delicacy or discrimination, in an audience where it seemed profanation to utter your name: himself utterly incapable of understanding or appreciating your real excellences.  Huntingdon, meanwhile, sat quietly drinking his wine, — or looking smilingly into his glass and offering no interruption or reply, till Hattersley shouted out, — “Do you hear me, man?”

‘“Yes, go on,” said he.

‘“Nay, I’ve done,” replied the other: “I only want to know if you intend to take my advice.”

‘“What advice?”

‘“To turn over a new leaf, you double-dyed scoundrel,” shouted Ralph, “and beg your wife’s pardon, and be a good boy for the future.”

‘“My wife! what wife?  I have no wife,” replied Huntingdon, looking innocently up from his glass, “or if I have, look you, gentlemen: I value her so highly that any one among you, that can fancy her, may have her and welcome: you may, by Jove, and my blessing into the bargain!”

‘I — hem — someone asked if he really meant what he said; upon which he solemnly swore he did, and no mistake.  What do you think of that, Mrs. Huntingdon?’ asked Mr. Hargrave, after a short pause, during which I had felt he was keenly examining my half-averted face.

‘I say,’ replied I, calmly, ‘that what he prizes so lightly will not be long in his possession.’

‘You cannot mean that you will break your heart and die for the detestable conduct of an infamous villain like that!’

‘By no means: my heart is too thoroughly dried to be broken in a hurry, and I mean to live as long as I can.’

‘Will you leave him then?’

‘Yes.’

‘When: and how?’ asked he, eagerly.

‘When I am ready, and how I can manage it most effectually.’

‘But your child?’

‘My child goes with me.’

‘He will not allow it.’

‘I shall not ask him.’

‘Ah, then, it is a secret flight you meditate! but with whom, Mrs. Huntingdon?’

‘With my son: and possibly, his nurse.’

‘Alone — and unprotected!  But where can you go? what can you do?  He will follow you and bring you back.’