`And you, Madam,' said he sternly, arresting his walk 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 too 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 fire-side 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.
`Hallow, Lowborough!' he began.-- `Oh! I beg your pardon,' he exclaimed on seeing me; `I didn't know it was a tête-a-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 dare say, to a desperate fellow like you.--me 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'
`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.'