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Though Mr. Lawrence's health
was now quite re-established,
my visits to Woodford were as
unremitting as ever; though often
less protracted than before.
We seldom talked about Mrs. Huntingdon;
but yet we never met without
mentioning her, for I never sought
his company but with the hope
of hearing something about her,
and he never sought mine at all,
because he saw me often enough
without. But I always began to
talk of other things, and waited
first to see if he would introduce
the subject. If he did not, I
would casually ask, 'Have you
heard from your sister lately?'
If he said 'No,' the matter was
dropped: if he said 'Yes,' I
would venture to inquire, 'How
is she?' but never 'How is her
husband?' though I might be burning
to know; because I had not the
hypocrisy to profess any anxiety
for his recovery, and I had not
the face to express any desire
for a contrary result. Had I
any such desire? - I fear I must
plead guilty; but since you have
heard my confession, you must
hear my justification as well
- a few of the excuses, at least,
wherewith I sought to pacify
my own accusing conscience.
In the first place, you see,
his life did harm to others,
and evidently no good to himself;
and though I wished it to terminate,
I would not have hastened its
close if, by the lifting of a
finger, I could have done so,
or if a spirit had whispered
in my ear that a single effort
of the will would be enough,
- unless, indeed, I had the power
to exchange him for some other
victim of the grave, whose life
might be of service to his race,
and whose death would be lamented
by his friends. But was there
any harm in wishing that, among
the many thousands whose souls
would certainly be required of
them before the year was over,
this wretched mortal might be
one? I thought not; and therefore
I wished with all my heart that
it might please heaven to remove
him to a better world, or if
that might not be, still to take
him out of this; for if he were
unfit to answer the summons now,
after a warning sickness, and
with such an angel by his side,
it seemed but too certain that
he never would be - that, on
the contrary, returning health
would bring returning lust and
villainy, and as he grew more
certain of recovery, more accustomed
to her generous goodness, his
feelings would become more callous,
his heart more flinty and impervious
to her persuasive arguments -
but God knew best. Meantime,
however, I could not but be anxious
for the result of His decrees;
knowing, as I did, that (leaving
myself entirely out of the question),
however Helen might feel interested
in her husband's welfare, however
she might deplore his fate, still
while he lived she must be miserable.
A fortnight passed away, and
my inquiries were always answered
in the negative. At length a
welcome 'yes' drew from me the
second question. Lawrence divined
my anxious thoughts, and appreciated
my reserve. I feared, at first,
he was going to torture me by
unsatisfactory replies, and either
leave me quite in the dark concerning
what I wanted to know, or force
me to drag the information out
of him, morsel by morsel, by
direct inquiries. 'And serve
you right,' you will say; but
he was more merciful; and in
a little while he put his sister's
letter into my hand. I silently
read it, and restored it to him
without comment or remark. This
mode of procedure suited him
so well, that thereafter he always
pursued the plan of showing me
her letters at once, when 'inquired'
after her, if there were any
to show - it was so much less
trouble than to tell me their
contents; and I received such
confidences so quietly and discreetly
that he was never induced to
discontinue them.
But I devoured those precious
letters with my eyes, and never
let them go till their contents
were stamped upon my mind; and
when I got home, the most important
passages were entered in my diary
among the remarkable events of
the day.
The first of these communications
brought intelligence of a serious
relapse in Mr. Huntingdon's illness,
entirely the result of his own
infatuation in persisting in
the indulgence of his appetite
for stimulating drink. In vain
had she remonstrated, in vain
she had mingled his wine with
water: her arguments and entreaties
were a nuisance, her interference
was an insult so intolerable
that, at length, on finding she
had covertly diluted the pale
port that was brought him, he
threw the bottle out of window,
swearing he would not be cheated
like a baby, ordered the butler,
on pain of instant dismissal,
to bring a bottle of the strongest
wine in the cellar, and affirming
that he should have been well
long ago if he had been let to
have his own way, but she wanted
to keep him weak in order that
she might have him under her
thumb - but, by the Lord Harry,
he would have no more humbug
- seized a glass in one hand
and the bottle in the other,
and never rested till he had
drunk it dry. Alarming symptoms
were the immediate result of
this 'imprudence,' as she mildly
termed it - symptoms which had
rather increased than diminished
since; and this was the cause
of her delay in writing to her
brother. Every former feature
of his malady had returned with
augmented virulence: the slight
external wound, half healed,
had broken out afresh; internal
inflammation had taken place,
which might terminate fatally
if not soon removed. Of course,
the wretched sufferer's temper
was not improved by this calamity
- in fact, I suspect it was well
nigh insupportable, though his
kind nurse did not complain;
but she said she had been obliged
at last to give her son in charge
to Esther Hargrave, as her presence
was so constantly required in
the sick-room that she could
not possibly attend to him herself;
and though the child had begged
to be allowed to continue with
her there, and to help her to
nurse his papa, and though she
had no doubt he would have been
very good and quiet, she could
not think of subjecting his young
and tender feelings to the sight
of so much suffering, or of allowing
him to witness his father's impatience,
or hear the dreadful language
he was wont to use in his paroxysms
of pain or irritation.
The latter (continued she)
most deeply regrets the step
that has occasioned his relapse;
but, as usual, he throws the
blame upon me. If I had reasoned
with him like a rational creature,
he says, it never would have
happened; but to be treated like
a baby or a fool was enough to
put any man past his patience,
and drive him to assert his independence
even at the sacrifice of his
own interest. He forgets how
often I had reasoned him 'past
his patience' before. He appears
to be sensible of his danger;
but nothing can induce him to
behold it in the proper light.
The other night, while I was
waiting on him, and just as I
had brought him a draught to
assuage his burning thirst, he
observed, with a return of his
former sarcastic bitterness,
'Yes, you're mighty attentive
now! I suppose there's nothing
you wouldn't do for me now?'
'You know,' said I, a little
surprised at his manner, 'that
I am willing to do anything I
can to relieve you.'
'Yes, now, my immaculate angel;
but when once you have secured
your reward, and find yourself
safe in heaven, and me howling
in hell- fire, catch you lifting
a finger to serve me then! No,
you'll look complacently on,
and not so much as dip the tip
of your finger in water to cool
my tongue!'
'If so, it will be because
of the great gulf over which
I cannot pass; and if I could
look complacently on in such
a case, it would be only from
the assurance that you were being
purified from your sins, and
fitted to enjoy the happiness
I felt. - But are you determined,
Arthur, that I shall not meet
you in heaven?'
'Humph! What should I do there,
I should like to know?'
'Indeed, I cannot tell; and
I fear it is too certain that
your tastes and feelings must
be widely altered before you
can have any enjoyment there.
But do you prefer sinking, without
an effort, into the state of
torment you picture to yourself?'
'Oh, it's all a fable,' said
he, contemptuously.
'Are you sure, Arthur? are
you quite sure? Because, if there
is any doubt, and if you should
find yourself mistaken after
all, when it is too late to turn
- '
'It would be rather awkward,
to be sure,' said he; 'but don't
bother me now - I'm not going
to die yet. I can't and won't,'
he added vehemently, as if suddenly
struck with the appalling aspect
of that terrible event. 'Helen,
you must save me!' And he earnestly
seized my hand, and looked into
my face with such imploring eagerness
that my heart bled for him, and
I could not speak for tears.
* * * * *
The next letter brought intelligence
that the malady was fast increasing;
and the poor sufferer's horror
of death was still more distressing
than his impatience of bodily
pain. All his friends had not
forsaken him; for Mr. Hattersley,
hearing of his danger, had come
to see him from his distant home
in the north. His wife had accompanied
him, as much for the pleasure
of seeing her dear friend, from
whom she had been parted so long,
as to visit her mother and sister.
Mrs. Huntingdon expressed herself
glad to see Milicent once more,
and pleased to behold her so
happy and well. She is now at
the Grove, continued the letter,
but she often calls to see me.
Mr. Hattersley spends much of
his time at Arthur's bed-side.
With more good feeling than I
gave him credit for, he evinces
considerable sympathy for his
unhappy friend, and is far more
willing than able to comfort
him. Sometimes he tries to joke
and laugh with him, but that
will not do; sometimes he endeavours
to cheer him with talk about
old times, and this at one time
may serve to divert the sufferer
from his own sad thoughts; at
another, it will only plunge
him into deeper melancholy than
before; and then Hattersley is
confounded, and knows not what
to say, unless it be a timid
suggestion that the clergyman
might be sent for. But Arthur
will never consent to that: he
knows he has rejected the clergyman's
well-meant admonitions with scoffing
levity at other times, and cannot
dream of turning to him for consolation
now.
Mr. Hattersley sometimes offers
his services instead of mine,
but Arthur will not let me go:
that strange whim still increases,
as his strength declines - the
fancy to have me always by his
side. I hardly ever leave him,
except to go into the next room,
where I sometimes snatch an hour
or so of sleep when he is quiet;
but even then the door is left
ajar, that he may know me to
be within call. I am with him
now, while I write, and I fear
my occupation annoys him; though
I frequently break off to attend
to him, and though Mr. Hattersley
is also by his side. That gentleman
came, as he said, to beg a holiday
for me, that I might have a run
in the park, this fine frosty
morning, with Milicent and Esther
and little Arthur, whom he had
driven over to see me. Our poor
invalid evidently felt it a heartless
proposition, and would have felt
it still more heartless in me
to accede to it. I therefore
said I would only go and speak
to them a minute, and then come
back. I did but exchange a few
words with them, just outside
the portico, inhaling the fresh,
bracing air as I stood, and then,
resisting the earnest and eloquent
entreaties of all three to stay
a little longer, and join them
in a walk round the garden, I
tore myself away and returned
to my patient. I had not been
absent five minutes, but he reproached
me bitterly for my levity and
neglect. His friend espoused
my cause.
'Nay, nay, Huntingdon,' said
he, 'you're too hard upon her;
she must have food and sleep,
and a mouthful of fresh air now
and then, or she can't stand
it, I tell you. Look at her,
man! she's worn to a shadow already.'
'What are her sufferings to
mine?' said the poor invalid.
'You don't grudge me these attentions,
do you, Helen?'
'No, Arthur, if I could really
serve you by them. I would give
my life to save you, if I might.'
'Would you, indeed? No!'
'Most willingly I would.'
'Ah! that's because you think
yourself more fit to die!'
There was a painful pause.
He was evidently plunged in gloomy
reflections; but while I pondered
for something to say that might
benefit without alarming him,
Hattersley, whose mind had been
pursuing almost the same course,
broke silence with, 'I say, Huntingdon,
I would send for a parson of
some sort: if you didn't like
the vicar, you know, you could
have his curate, or somebody
else.'
'No; none of them can benefit
me if she can't,' was the answer.
And the tears gushed from his
eyes as he earnestly exclaimed,
'Oh, Helen, if I had listened
to you, it never would have come
to this! and if I had heard you
long ago - oh, God! how different
it would have been!'
'Hear me now, then, Arthur,'
said I, gently pressing his hand.
'It's too late now,' said he
despondingly. And after that
another paroxysm of pain came
on; and then his mind began to
wander, and we feared his death
was approaching: but an opiate
was administered: his sufferings
began to abate, he gradually
became more composed, and at
length sank into a kind of slumber.
He has been quieter since; and
now Hattersley has left him,
expressing a hope that he shall
find him better when he calls
to-morrow.
'Perhaps I may recover,' he
replied; 'who knows? This may
have been the crisis. What do
you think, Helen?' Unwilling
to depress him, I gave the most
cheering answer I could, but
still recommended him to prepare
for the possibility of what I
inly feared was but too certain.
But he was determined to hope.
Shortly after he relapsed into
a kind of doze, but now he groans
again.
There is a change. Suddenly
he called me to his side, with
such a strange, excited manner,
that I feared he was delirious,
but he was not. 'That was the
crisis, Helen!' said he, delightedly.
'I had an infernal pain here
- it is quite gone now. I never
was so easy since the fall -
quite gone, by heaven!' and he
clasped and kissed my hand in
the very fulness of his heart;
but finding I did not participate
his joy, he quickly flung it
from him, and bitterly cursed
my coldness and insensibility.
How could I reply? Kneeling beside
him, I took his hand and fondly
pressed it to my lips - for the
first time since our separation
- and told him, as well as tears
would let me speak, that it was
not that that kept me silent:
it was the fear that this sudden
cessation of pain was not so
favourable a symptom as he supposed.
I immediately sent for the doctor:
we are now anxiously awaiting
him. I will tell you what he
says. There is still the same
freedom from pain, the same deadness
to all sensation where the suffering
was most acute.
My worst fears are realised:
mortification has commenced.
The doctor has told him there
is no hope. No words can describe
his anguish. I can write no more.
* * * * *
The next was still more distressing
in the tenor of its contents.
The sufferer was fast approaching
dissolution - dragged almost
to the verge of that awful chasm
he trembled to contemplate, from
which no agony of prayers or
tears could save him. Nothing
could comfort him now; Hattersley's
rough attempts at consolation
were utterly in vain. The world
was nothing to him: life and
all its interests, its petty
cares and transient pleasures,
were a cruel mockery. To talk
of the past was to torture him
with vain remorse; to refer to
the future was to increase his
anguish; and yet to be silent
was to leave him a prey to his
own regrets and apprehensions.
Often he dwelt with shuddering
minuteness on the fate of his
perishing clay - the slow, piecemeal
dissolution already invading
his frame: the shroud, the coffin,
the dark, lonely grave, and all
the horrors of corruption.
'If
I try,' said
his afflicted
wife, 'to divert him from these
things - to raise his thoughts
to higher themes, it is no better:- "Worse
and worse!" he groans. "If there
be really life beyond the tomb,
and judgment after death, how
can I face it?" - I cannot do
him any good; he will neither
be enlightened, nor roused, nor
comforted by anything I say;
and yet he clings to me with
unrelenting pertinacity - with
a kind of childish desperation,
as if I could save him from the
fate he dreads. He keeps me night
and day beside him. He is holding
my left hand now, while I write;
he has held it thus for hours:
sometimes quietly, with his pale
face upturned to mine: sometimes
clutching my arm with violence
- the big drops starting from
his forehead at the thoughts
of what he sees, or thinks he
sees, before him. If I withdraw
my hand for a moment it distresses
him.
'"Stay with me, Helen," he
says; "let me hold you so: it
seems as if harm could not reach
me while you are here. But death
will come - it is coming now
- fast, fast! - and - oh, if
I could believe there was nothing
after!"
'"Don't
try to believe
it, Arthur;
there is joy
and glory
after, if you will but try to
reach it!"
'"What, for me?" he said, with
something like a laugh. "Are
we not to be judged according
to the deeds done in the body?
Where's the use of a probationary
existence, if a man may spend
it as he pleases, just contrary
to God's decrees, and then go
to heaven with the best - if
the vilest sinner may win the
reward of the holiest saint,
by merely saying, "I repent!"'
'"But
if you sincerely
repent - "
'"I
can't repent;
I only fear."
'"You
only regret
the past for
its consequences
to yourself?"
'"Just
so - except
that I'm sorry
to have wronged
you, Nell,
because you're so good to me."
'"Think
of the goodness
of God, and
you cannot
but be grieved
to have offended Him."
'"What
is God? - I
cannot see
Him or hear
Him. - God
is only
an idea."
'"God
is Infinite
Wisdom, and
Power, and Goodness - and LOVE;
but if this idea is too vast
for your human faculties - if
your mind loses itself in its
overwhelming infinitude, fix
it on Him who condescended to
take our nature upon Him, who
was raised to heaven even in
His glorified human body, in
whom the fulness of the Godhead
shines."
'But he only shook his head
and sighed. Then, in another
paroxysm of shuddering horror,
he tightened his grasp on my
hand and arm, and, groaning and
lamenting, still clung to me
with that wild, desperate earnestness
so harrowing to my soul, because
I know I cannot help him. I did
my best to soothe and comfort
him.
'"Death is so terrible," he
cried, "I cannot bear it! You
don't know, Helen - you can't
imagine what it is, because you
haven't it before you! and when
I'm buried, you'll return to
your old ways and be as happy
as ever, and all the world will
go on just as busy and merry
as if I had never been; while
I - " He burst into tears.
'"You needn't let that distress
you," I said; "we shall all follow
you soon enough."
'"I wish to God I could take
you with me now!" he exclaimed: "you
should plead for me."
'"No man can deliver his brother,
nor make agreement unto God for
him," I replied: "it cost more
to redeem their souls - it cost
the blood of an incarnate God,
perfect and sinless in Himself,
to redeem us from the bondage
of the evil one:- let Him plead
for you."
'But I seem to speak in vain.
He does not now, as formerly,
laugh these blessed truths to
scorn: but still he cannot trust,
or will not comprehend them.
He cannot linger long. He suffers
dreadfully, and so do those that
wait upon him. But I will not
harass you with further details:
I have said enough, I think,
to convince you that I did well
to go to him.'
* * * * *
Poor, poor Helen! dreadful
indeed her trials must have been!
And I could do nothing to lessen
them - nay, it almost seemed
as if I had brought them upon
her myself by my own secret desires;
and whether I looked at her husband's
sufferings or her own, it seemed
almost like a judgment upon myself
for having cherished such a wish.
The next day but one there
came another letter. That too
was put into my hands without
a remark, and these are its contents:-
Dec. 5th.
He is gone at last. I sat beside
him all night, with my hand fast
looked in his, watching the changes
of his features and listening
to his failing breath. He had
been silent a long time, and
I thought he would never speak
again, when he murmured, faintly
but distinctly, - 'Pray for me,
Helen!'
'I do pray for you, every hour
and every minute, Arthur; but
you must pray for yourself.'
His lips moved, but emitted
no sound; - then his looks became
unsettled; and, from the incoherent,
half-uttered words that escaped
him from time to time, supposing
him to be now unconscious, I
gently disengaged my hand from
his, intending to steal away
for a breath of air, for I was
almost ready to faint; but a
convulsive movement of the fingers,
and a faintly whispered 'Don't
leave me!' immediately recalled
me: I took his hand again, and
held it till he was no more -
and then I fainted. It was not
grief; it was exhaustion, that,
till then, I had been enabled
successfully to combat. Oh, Frederick!
none can imagine the miseries,
bodily and mental, of that death-bed!
How could I endure to think that
that poor trembling soul was
hurried away to everlasting torment?
it would drive me mad. But, thank
God, I have hope - not only from
a vague dependence on the possibility
that penitence and pardon might
have reached him at the last,
but from the blessed confidence
that, through whatever purging
fires the erring spirit may be
doomed to pass - whatever fate
awaits it - still it is not lost,
and God, who hateth nothing that
He hath made, will bless it in
the end!
His body will be consigned
on Thursday to that dark grave
he so much dreaded; but the coffin
must be closed as soon as possible.
If you will attend the funeral,
come quickly, for I need help.
HELEN HUNTINGDON.
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