One morning, about the beginning
of November, while I was inditing
some business letters, shortly
after breakfast, Eliza Millward
came to call upon my sister.
Rose had neither the discrimination
nor the virulence to regard the
little demon as I did, and they
still preserved their former
intimacy. At the moment of her
arrival, however, there was no
one in the room but Fergus and
myself, my mother and sister
being both of them absent, 'on
household cares intent'; but
I was not going to lay myself
out for her amusement, whoever
else might so incline: I merely
honoured her with a careless
salutation and a few words of
course, and then went on with
my writing, leaving my brother
to be more polite if he chose.
But she wanted to tease me.
'What a pleasure it is to find
you at home, Mr. Markham!' said
she, with a disingenuously malicious
smile. 'I so seldom see you now,
for you never come to the vicarage.
Papa, is quite offended, I can
tell you,' she added playfully,
looking into my face with an
impertinent laugh, as she seated
herself, half beside and half
before my desk, off the corner
of the table.
'I have had a good deal to
do of late,' said I, without
looking up from my letter.
'Have you, indeed! Somebody
said you had been strangely neglecting
your business these last few
months.'
'Somebody said wrong, for,
these last two months especially,
I have been particularly plodding
and diligent.'
'Ah! well, there's nothing
like active employment, I suppose,
to console the afflicted; - and,
excuse me, Mr. Markham, but you
look so very far from well, and
have been, by all accounts, so
moody and thoughtful of late,
- I could almost think you have
some secret care preying on your
spirits. Formerly,' said she
timidly, 'I could have ventured
to ask you what it was, and what
I could do to comfort you: I
dare not do it now.'
'You're very kind, Miss Eliza.
When I think you can do anything
to comfort me, I'll make bold
to tell you.'
'Pray do! - I suppose I mayn't
guess what it is that troubles
you?'
'There's no necessity, for
I'll tell you plainly. The thing
that troubles me the most at
present is a young lady sitting
at my elbow, and preventing me
from finishing my letter, and,
thereafter, repairing to my daily
business.'
Before she could reply to this
ungallant speech, Rose entered
the room; and Miss Eliza rising
to greet her, they both seated
themselves near the fire, where
that idle lad Fergus was standing,
leaning his shoulder against
the corner of the chimney-piece,
with his legs crossed and his
hands in his breeches-pockets.
'Now, Rose, I'll tell you a
piece of news - I hope you have
not heard it before: for good,
bad, or indifferent, one always
likes to be the first to tell.
It's about that sad Mrs. Graham
- '
'Hush-sh-sh!'
whispered Fergus,
in a tone of solemn import. '"We
never mention her; her name is
never heard."' And glancing up,
I caught him with his eye askance
on me, and his finger pointed
to his forehead; then, winking
at the young lady with a doleful
shake of the head, be whispered
- 'A monomania - but don't mention
it - all right but that.'
'I should be sorry to injure
any one's feelings,' returned
she, speaking below her breath.
'Another time, perhaps.'
'Speak out, Miss Eliza!' said
I, not deigning to notice the
other's buffooneries: 'you needn't
fear to say anything in my presence.'
'Well,' answered she, 'perhaps
you know already that Mrs. Graham's
husband is not really dead, and
that she had run away from him?'
I started, and felt my face glow;
but I bent it over my letter,
and went on folding it up as
she proceeded. 'But perhaps you
did not know that she is now
gone back to him again, and that
a perfect reconciliation has
taken place between them? Only
think,' she continued, turning
to the confounded Rose, 'what
a fool the man must be!'
'And who gave you this piece
of intelligence, Miss Eliza?'
said I, interrupting my sister's
exclamations.
'I had it from a very authentic
source.'
'From whom, may I ask?'
'From one of the servants at
Woodford.'
'Oh! I was not aware that you
were on such intimate terms with
Mr. Lawrence's household.'
'It was not from the man himself
that I heard it, but he told
it in confidence to our maid
Sarah, and Sarah told it to me.'
'In confidence, I suppose?
And you tell it in confidence
to us? But I can tell you that
it is but a lame story after
all, and scarcely one-half of
it true.'
While I spoke I completed the
sealing and direction of my letters,
with a somewhat unsteady hand,
in spite of all my efforts to
retain composure, and in spite
of my firm conviction that the
story was a lame one - that the
supposed Mrs. Graham, most certainly,
had not voluntarily gone back
to her husband, or dreamt of
a reconciliation. Most likely
she was gone away, and the tale-
bearing servant, not knowing
what was become of her, had conjectured
that such was the case, and our
fair visitor had detailed it
as a certainty, delighted with
such an opportunity of tormenting
me. But it was possible - barely
possible - that some one might
have betrayed her, and she had
been taken away by force. Determined
to know the worst, I hastily
pocketed my two letters, and
muttered something about being
too late for the post, left the
room, rushed into the yard, and
vociferously called for my horse.
No one being there, I dragged
him out of the stable myself,
strapped the saddle on to his
back and the bridle on to his
head, mounted, and speedily galloped
away to Woodford. I found its
owner pensively strolling in
the grounds.
'Is your sister gone?' were
my first words as I grasped his
hand, instead of the usual inquiry
after his health.
'Yes, she's gone,' was his
answer, so calmly spoken that
my terror was at once removed.
'I suppose I mayn't know where
she is?' said I, as I dismounted,
and relinquished my horse to
the gardener, who, being the
only servant within call, had
been summoned by his master,
from his employment of raking
up the dead leaves on the lawn,
to take him to the stables.
My companion gravely took my
arm, and leading me away to the
garden, thus answered my question,
- 'She is at Grassdale Manor,
in -shire.'
'Where?' cried I, with a convulsive
start.
'At Grassdale Manor.'
'How was it?' I gasped. 'Who
betrayed her?'
'She went of her own accord.'
'Impossible, Lawrence! She
could not be so frantic!' exclaimed
I, vehemently grasping his arm,
as if to force him to unsay those
hateful words.
'She did,' persisted he in
the same grave, collected manner
as before; 'and not without reason,'
he continued, gently disengaging
himself from my grasp. 'Mr. Huntingdon
is ill.'
'And so she went to nurse him?'
'Yes.'
'Fool!' I could not help exclaiming,
and Lawrence looked up with a
rather reproachful glance. 'Is
he dying, then?'
'I think not, Markham.'
'And how many more nurses has
he? How many ladies are there
besides to take care of him?'
'None; he was alone, or she
would not have gone.'
'Oh, confound it! This is intolerable!'
'What is? That he should be
alone?'
I attempted no reply, for I
was not sure that this circumstance
did not partly conduce to my
distraction. I therefore continued
to pace the walk in silent anguish,
with my hand pressed to my forehead;
then suddenly pausing and turning
to my companion, I impatiently
exclaimed, 'Why did she take
this infatuated step? What fiend
persuaded her to it?'
'Nothing persuaded her but
her own sense of duty.'
'Humbug!'
'I was half inclined to say
so myself, Markham, at first.
I assure you it was not by my
advice that she went, for I detest
that man as fervently as you
can do, - except, indeed, that
his reformation would give me
much greater pleasure than his
death; but all I did was to inform
her of the circumstance of his
illness (the consequence of a
fall from his horse in hunting),
and to tell her that that unhappy
person, Miss Myers, had left
him some time ago.'
'It was ill done! Now, when
he finds the convenience of her
presence, he will make all manner
of lying speeches and false,
fair promises for the future,
and she will believe him, and
then her condition will be ten
times worse and ten times more
irremediable than before.'
'There does not appear to be
much ground for such apprehensions
at present,' said he, producing
a letter from his pocket. 'From
the account I received this morning,
I should say - '
It was her writing! By an irresistible
impulse I held out my hand, and
the words, 'Let me see it,' involuntarily
passed my lips. He was evidently
reluctant to grant the request,
but while he hesitated I snatched
it from his hand. Recollecting
myself, however, the minute after,
I offered to restore it.
'Here, take it,' said I, 'if
you don't want me to read it.'
'No,' replied he, 'you may
read it if you like.'
I read it, and so may you.
Grassdale, Nov. 4th.
Dear Frederick, - I know you
will be anxious to hear from
me, and I will tell you all I
can. Mr. Huntingdon is very ill,
but not dying, or in any immediate
danger; and he is rather better
at present than he was when I
came. I found the house in sad
confusion: Mrs. Greaves, Benson,
every decent servant had left,
and those that were come to supply
their places were a negligent,
disorderly set, to say no worse
- I must change them again, if
I stay. A professional nurse,
a grim, hard old woman, had been
hired to attend the wretched
invalid. He suffers much, and
has no fortitude to bear him
through. The immediate injuries
he sustained from the accident,
however, were not very severe,
and would, as the doctor says,
have been but trifling to a man
of temperate habits, but with
him it is very different. On
the night of my arrival, when
I first entered his room, he
was lying in a kind of half delirium.
He did not notice me till I spoke,
and then he mistook me for another.
'Is it you, Alice, come again?'
he murmured. 'What did you leave
me for?'
'It is I, Arthur - it is Helen,
your wife,' I replied.
'My wife!' said he, with a
start. 'For heaven's sake, don't
mention her - I have none. Devil
take her,' he cried, a moment
after, 'and you, too! What did
you do it for?'
I said no more; but observing
that he kept gazing towards the
foot of the bed, I went and sat
there, placing the light so as
to shine full upon me, for I
thought he might be dying, and
I wanted him to know me. For
a long time he lay silently looking
upon me, first with a vacant
stare, then with a fixed gaze
of strange growing intensity.
At last he startled me by suddenly
raising himself on his elbow
and demanding in a horrified
whisper, with his eyes still
fixed upon me, 'Who is it?'
'It is Helen Huntingdon,' said
I, quietly rising at the same
time, and removing to a less
conspicuous position.
'I must be going mad,' cried
he, 'or something - delirious,
perhaps; but leave me, whoever
you are. I can't bear that white
face, and those eyes. For God's
sake go, and send me somebody
else that doesn't look like that!'
I went at once, and sent the
hired nurse; but next morning
I ventured to enter his chamber
again, and, taking the nurse's
place by his bedside, I watched
him and waited on him for several
hours, showing myself as little
as possible, and only speaking
when necessary, and then not
above my breath. At first he
addressed me as the nurse, but,
on my crossing the room to draw
up the window- blinds, in obedience
to his directions, he said, 'No,
it isn't nurse; it's Alice. Stay
with me, do! That old hag will
be the death of me.'
'I mean to stay with you,'
said I. And after that he would
call me Alice, or some other
name almost equally repugnant
to my feelings. I forced myself
to endure it for a while, fearing
a contradiction might disturb
him too much; but when, having
asked for a glass of water, while
I held it to his lips, he murmured,
'Thanks, dearest!' I could not
help distinctly observing, 'You
would not say so if you knew
me,' intending to follow that
up with another declaration of
my identity; but he merely muttered
an incoherent reply, so I dropped
it again, till some time after,
when, as I was bathing his forehead
and temples with vinegar and
water to relieve the heat and
pain in his head, he observed,
after looking earnestly upon
me for some minutes, 'I have
such strange fancies - I can't
get rid of them, and they won't
let me rest; and the most singular
and pertinacious of them all
is your face and voice - they
seem just like hers. I could
swear at this moment that she
was by my side.'
'She is,' said I.
'That seems comfortable,' continued
he, without noticing my words;
'and while you do it, the other
fancies fade away - but this
only strengthens. - Go on - go
on, till it vanishes, too. I
can't stand such a mania as this;
it would kill me!'
'It never will vanish,' said
I, distinctly, 'for it is the
truth!'
'The truth!' he cried, starting,
as if an asp had stung him. 'You
don't mean to say that you are
really she?'
'I do; but you needn't shrink
away from me, as if I were your
greatest enemy: I am come to
take care of you, and do what
none of them would do.'
'For God's sake, don't torment
me now!' cried he in pitiable
agitation; and then he began
to mutter bitter curses against
me, or the evil fortune that
had brought me there; while I
put down the sponge and basin,
and resumed my seat at the bed-side.
'Where are they?' said he:
'have they all left me - servants
and all?'
'There are servants within
call if you want them; but you
had better lie down now and be
quiet: none of them could or
would attend you as carefully
as I shall do.'
'I can't understand it at all,'
said he, in bewildered perplexity.
'Was it a dream that - ' and
he covered his eyes with his
hands, as if trying to unravel
the mystery.
'No, Arthur, it was not a dream,
that your conduct was such as
to oblige me to leave you; but
I heard that you were ill and
alone, and I am come back to
nurse you. You need not fear
to trust me tell me all your
wants, and I will try to satisfy
them. There is no one else to
care for you; and I shall not
upbraid you now.'
'Oh! I see,' said he, with
a bitter smile; 'it's an act
of Christian charity, whereby
you hope to gain a higher seat
in heaven for yourself, and scoop
a deeper pit in hell for me.'
'No; I came to offer you that
comfort and assistance your situation
required; and if I could benefit
your soul as well as your body,
and awaken some sense of contrition
and - '
'Oh, yes; if you could overwhelm
me with remorse and confusion
of face, now's the time. What
have you done with my son?'
'He is well, and you may see
him some time, if you will compose
yourself, but not now.'
'Where is he?'
'He is safe.'
'Is he here?'
'Wherever he is, you will not
see him till you have promised
to leave him entirely under my
care and protection, and to let
me take him away whenever and
wherever I please, if I should
hereafter judge it necessary
to remove him again. But we will
talk of that to-morrow: you must
be quiet now.'
'No, let me see him now, I
promise, if it must be so.'
'No - '
'I swear it, as God is in heaven!
Now, then, let me see him.'
'But I cannot trust your oaths
and promises: I must have a written
agreement, and you must sign
it in presence of a witness:
but not to-day - to-morrow.'
'No, to-day; now,' persisted
he: and he was in such a state
of feverish excitement, and so
bent upon the immediate gratification
of his wish, that I thought it
better to grant it at once, as
I saw he would not rest till
I did. But I was determined my
son's interest should not be
forgotten; and having clearly
written out the promise I wished
Mr. Huntingdon to give upon a
slip of paper, I deliberately
read it over to him, and made
him sign it in the presence of
Rachel. He begged I would not
insist upon this: it was a useless
exposure of my want of faith
in his word to the servant. I
told him I was sorry, but since
he had forfeited my confidence,
he must take the consequence.
He next pleaded inability to
hold the pen. 'Then we must wait
until you can hold it,' said
I. Upon which he said he would
try; but then he could not see
to write. I placed my finger
where the signature was to be,
and told him he might write his
name in the dark, if he only
knew where to put it. But he
had not power to form the letters.
'In that case, you must be too
ill to see the child,' said I;
and finding me inexorable, he
at length managed to ratify the
agreement; and I bade Rachel
send the boy.
All this may strike you as
harsh, but I felt I must not
lose my present advantage, and
my son's future welfare should
not be sacrificed to any mistaken
tenderness for this man's feelings.
Little Arthur had not forgotten
his father, but thirteen months
of absence, during which he had
seldom been permitted to hear
a word about him, or hardly to
whisper his name, had rendered
him somewhat shy; and when he
was ushered into the darkened
room where the sick man lay,
so altered from his former self,
with fiercely flushed face and
wildly-gleaming eyes - he instinctively
clung to me, and stood looking
on his father with a countenance
expressive of far more awe than
pleasure.
'Come here, Arthur,' said the
latter, extending his hand towards
him. The child went, and timidly
touched that burning hand, but
almost started in alarm, when
his father suddenly clutched
his arm and drew him nearer to
his side.
'Do you know me?' asked Mr.
Huntingdon, intently perusing
his features.
'Yes.'
'Who am I?'
'Papa.'
'Are you glad to see me?'
'Yes.'
'You're not!' replied the disappointed
parent, relaxing his hold, and
darting a vindictive glance at
me.
Arthur, thus released, crept
back to me and put his hand in
mine. His father swore I had
made the child hate him, and
abused and cursed me bitterly.
The instant he began I sent our
son out of the room; and when
he paused to breathe, I calmly
assured him that he was entirely
mistaken; I had never once attempted
to prejudice his child against
him.
'I did indeed desire him to
forget you,' I said, 'and especially
to forget the lessons you taught
him; and for that cause, and
to lessen the danger of discovery,
I own I have generally discouraged
his inclination to talk about
you; but no one can blame me
for that, I think.'
The invalid only replied by
groaning aloud, and rolling his
head on a pillow in a paroxysm
of impatience.
'I am in hell, already!' cried
he. 'This cursed thirst is burning
my heart to ashes! Will nobody
-?'
Before he could finish the
sentence I had poured out a glass
of some acidulated, cooling drink
that was on the table, and brought
it to him. He drank it greedily,
but muttered, as I took away
the glass, - 'I suppose you're
heaping coals of fire on my head,
you think?'
Not noticing this speech, I
asked if there was anything else
I could do for him.
'Yes; I'll give you another
opportunity of showing your Christian
magnanimity,' sneered he: 'set
my pillow straight, and these
confounded bed-clothes.' I did
so. 'There: now get me another
glass of that slop.' I complied.
'This is delightful, isn't it?'
said he with a malicious grin,
as I held it to his lips; 'you
never hoped for such a glorious
opportunity?'
'Now, shall I stay with you?'
said I, as I replaced the glass
on the table: 'or will you be
more quiet if I go and send the
nurse?'
'Oh, yes, you're wondrous gentle
and obliging! But you've driven
me mad with it all!' responded
he, with an impatient toss.
'I'll leave you, then,' said
I; and I withdrew, and did not
trouble him with my presence
again that day, except for a
minute or two at a time, just
to see how he was and what he
wanted.
Next morning the doctor ordered
him to be bled; and after that
he was more subdued and tranquil.
I passed half the day in his
room at different intervals.
My presence did not appear to
agitate or irritate him as before,
and he accepted my services quietly,
without any bitter remarks: indeed,
he scarcely spoke at all, except
to make known his wants, and
hardly then. But on the morrow,
that is to say, in proportion
as he recovered from the state
of exhaustion and stupefaction,
his ill-nature appeared to revive.
'Oh, this sweet revenge!' cried
he, when I had been doing all
I could to make him comfortable
and to remedy the carelessness
of his nurse. 'And you can enjoy
it with such a quiet conscience
too, because it's all in the
way of duty.'
'It is well for me that I am
doing my duty,' said I, with
a bitterness I could not repress,
'for it is the only comfort I
have; and the satisfaction of
my own conscience, it seems,
is the only reward I need look
for!'
He looked rather surprised
at the earnestness of my manner.
'What reward did you look for?'
he asked.
'You will think me a liar if
I tell you; but I did hope to
benefit you: as well to better
your mind as to alleviate your
present sufferings; but it appears
I am to do neither; your own
bad spirit will not let me. As
far as you are concerned, I have
sacrificed my own feelings, and
all the little earthly comfort
that was left me, to no purpose;
and every little thing I do for
you is ascribed to self-righteous
malice and refined revenge!'
'It's all very fine, I daresay,'
said he, eyeing me with stupid
amazement; 'and of course I ought
to be melted to tears of penitence
and admiration at the sight of
so much generosity and superhuman
goodness; but you see I can't
manage it. However, pray do me
all the good you can, if you
do really find any pleasure in
it; for you perceive I am almost
as miserable just now as you
need wish to see me. Since you
came, I confess, I have had better
attendance than before, for these
wretches neglected me shamefully,
and all my old friends seem to
have fairly forsaken me. I've
had a dreadful time of it, I
assure you: I sometimes thought
I should have died: do you think
there's any chance?'
'There's always a chance of
death; and it is always well
to live with such a chance in
view.'
'Yes, yes! but do you think
there's any likelihood that this
illness will have a fatal termination?'
'I cannot tell; but, supposing
it should, how are you prepared
to meet the event?'
'Why, the doctor told me I
wasn't to think about it, for
I was sure to get better if I
stuck to his regimen and prescriptions.'
'I hope you may, Arthur; but
neither the doctor nor I can
speak with certainty in such
a case; there is internal injury,
and it is difficult to know to
what extent.'
'There now! you want to scare
me to death.'
'No; but I don't want to lull
you to false security. If a consciousness
of the uncertainty of life can
dispose you to serious and useful
thoughts, I would not deprive
you of the benefit of such reflections,
whether you do eventually recover
or not. Does the idea of death
appal you very much?'
'It's just the only thing I
can't bear to think of; so if
you've any - '
'But it must come some time,'
interrupted I, 'and if it be
years hence, it will as certainly
overtake you as if it came to-day,
- and no doubt be as unwelcome
then as now, unless you - '
'Oh, hang it! don't torment
me with your preachments now,
unless you want to kill me outright.
I can't stand it, I tell you.
I've sufferings enough without
that. If you think there's danger,
save me from it; and then, in
gratitude, I'll hear whatever
you like to say.'
I accordingly dropped the unwelcome
topic. And now, Frederick, I
think I may bring my letter to
a close. From these details you
may form your own judgment of
the state of my patient, and
of my own position and future
prospects. Let me hear from you
soon, and I will write again
to tell you how we get on; but
now that my presence is tolerated,
and even required, in the sick-room,
I shall have but little time
to spare between my husband and
my son, - for I must not entirely
neglect the latter: it would
not do to keep him always with
Rachel, and I dare not leave
him for a moment with any of
the other servants, or suffer
him to be alone, lest he should
meet them. If his father get
worse, I shall ask Esther Hargrave
to take charge of him for a time,
till I have reorganised the household
at least; but I greatly prefer
keeping him under my own eye.
I find myself in rather a singular
position: I am exerting my utmost
endeavours to promote the recovery
and reformation of my husband,
and if I succeed, what shall
I do? My duty, of course, - but
how? No matter; I can perform
the task that is before me now,
and God will give me strength
to do whatever He requires hereafter.
Good-by, dear Frederick.
HELEN HUNTINGDON.
'What do you think of it?'
said Lawrence, as I silently
refolded the letter.
'It seems to me,' returned
I, 'that she is casting her pearls
before swine. May they be satisfied
with trampling them under their
feet, and not turn again and
rend her! But I shall say no
more against her: I see that
she was actuated by the best
and noblest motives in what she
has done; and if the act is not
a wise one, may heaven protect
her from its consequences! May
I keep this letter, Lawrence?
- you see she has never once
mentioned me throughout - or
made the most distant allusion
to me; therefore, there can be
no impropriety or harm in it.'
'And, therefore, why should
you wish to keep it?'
'Were not these characters
written by her hand? and were
not these words conceived in
her mind, and many of them spoken
by her lips?'
'Well,' said he. And so I kept
it; otherwise, Halford, you could
never have become so thoroughly
acquainted with its contents.
'And when you write,' said
I, 'will you have the goodness
to ask her if I may be permitted
to enlighten my mother and sister
on her real history and circumstance,
just so far as is necessary to
make the neighbourhood sensible
of the shameful injustice they
have done her? I want no tender
messages, but just ask her that,
and tell her it is the greatest
favour she could do me; and tell
her - no, nothing more. You see
I know the address, and I might
write to her myself, but I am
so virtuous as to refrain.'
'Well, I'll do this for you,
Markham.'
'And as soon as you receive
an answer, you'll let me know?'
'If all be well, I'll come
myself and tell you immediately.'
|