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.
CHAPTER XXXV
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NINETEENTH.—IN PROPORTION as Lady Lowborough finds she has nothing to fear from me, and as the time of departure draws nigh, the more audacious and insolent she becomes. She does not scruple to speak to my husband with affectionate familiarity in my presence, when no one else is by, and is particularly fond of displaying her interest in his health and welfare, or in anything that concerns him, as if for the purpose of contrasting her kind solicitude with my cold indifference. And he rewards her by such smiles and glances, such whispered words, or boldly-spoken insinuations, indicative of his sense of her goodness and my neglect, as make the blood rush into my face, in spite of myself—for I would be utterly regardless of it all—deaf and blind to everything that passes between them, since the more I show myself sensible of their wickedness the more she triumphs in her victory, and the more he flatters himself that I love him devotedly still, in spite of my pretended indifference. On such occasions I have sometimes been startled by a subtle, fiendish suggestion inciting me to show him the contrary by a seeming encouragement of Hargrave’s advances; but such ideas are banished in a moment with horror and self-abasement; and then I hate him tenfold more than ever for having brought me to this!—God pardon me for it and all my sinful thoughts! Instead of being humbled and purified by my afflictions, I feel that they are turning my nature into gall. This must be my fault as much as theirs that wrong me. No true Christian could cherish such bitter feelings as I do against him and her, especially the latter: him, I still feel that I could pardon—freely, gladly—on the slightest token of repentance; but she—words cannot utter my abhorrence. Reason forbids, but passion urges strongly; and I must pray and struggle long ere I subdue it.
It is well that she is leaving to-morrow, for I could not well endure her presence for another day. This morning she rose earlier than usual. I found her in the room alone, when I went down to breakfast.
‘Oh, Helen! is it you?’ said she, turning as I entered.
I gave an involuntary start back on seeing her, at which she uttered a short laugh, observing, ‘I think we are both disappointed.’
I came forward and busied myself with the breakfast things.
‘This is the last day I shall burden your hospitality,’ said she, as she seated herself at the table. ‘Ah, here comes one that will not rejoice at it!’ she murmured, half to herself, as Arthur entered the room.
He shook hands with her and wished her good-morning: then, looking lovingly in her face, and still retaining her hand in his, murmured pathetically, ‘The last—last day!’
‘Yes,’ said she with some asperity; ‘and I rose early to make the best of it—I have been here alone this half-hour, and you—you lazy creature—’
‘Well, I thought I was early too,’ said he; ‘but,’ dropping his voice almost to a whisper, ‘you see we are not alone.’
‘We never are,’ returned she. But they were almost as good as alone, for I was now standing at the window, watching the clouds, and struggling to suppress my wrath.
Some more words passed between them, which, happily, I did not overhear; but Annabella had the audacity to come and place herself beside me, and even to put her hand upon my shoulder and say softly, ‘You need not grudge him to me, Helen, for I love him more than ever you could do.’
This put me beside myself. I
