 CHAPTER 45 OF THE TENANT OF WILDFILL HALL, BAYANN BRONTÉ Well, Hullford, what do you think of all this? And while you read it, did you ever picture to yourself what my feelings would probably be during its perusal? Most likely not, but I am not going to discount upon them now. I will only make this acknowledgment little honourable as it may be to human nature, and especially to myself. That the former half of the narrative was, to me, more painful than the latter, not that I was at all insensible to Mrs. Huntington's wrongs or unmoved by her sufferings. But, I must confess, I felt a kind of selfish gratification in watching her husband's gradual decline in her good graces, and seeing how completely he extinguished all her affection at last. The effect of the whole, however, in spite of all my sympathy for her, and my fury against him, was to relieve my mind of an intolerable burden, and to fill my heart with joy as if some friend had roused me from a dreadful nightmare. It was now near eight o'clock in the morning, for my candle had expired in the midst of my perusal, leaving me no alternative but to get another, at the expense of alarming the house, or to go to bed and wait for the return of daylight. On my mother's account I chose the latter, but how willingly I sought my pillow, and how much sleep it brought me, I leave you to imagine. At the first appearance of dawn I rose, and brought the manuscript to the window, but it was impossible to read it yet. I devoted half an hour to dressing, and then returned to it again. Now, with a little difficulty I could manage, and with intense and eager interest I devoured the remainder of its contents. When it was ended, and my transient regret at its abrupt conclusion was over, I opened the window and put out my head to catch the cooling breeze, and imbibe deep droughs of the morning air. A splendid morning it was, the half-frozen dew lay thick on the grass. The swallows were twittering round me, the rooks cawing, and the cows lowing in the distance. An early frost and summer sunshine mingled their sweetness in the air. But I did not think of that. A confusion of countless thoughts and varied emotions crowded upon me, while I gazed abstractly on the lovely face of nature. Soon, however, this chaos of thoughts and passions cleared away, giving place to two distinct emotions. Joy unspeakable that my adored Helen was all I wished to think her. That through the noisome vapours of the world's aspersions and my own fancied convictions, her character shone bright and clear and stainless as that sun I could not bear to look on, and shame and deep remorse for my own conduct. Immediately after breakfast I hurried over to Wildfell Hall. Rachel had risen many degrees in my estimation since yesterday. I was ready to greet her quite as an old friend. But every kindly impulse was checked by the look of cold distrust she cast upon me on opening the door. The old virgin had constituted herself the guardian of her lady's honour, I suppose, and doubtless she saw in me another Mr. Hardgrave, only the more dangerous in being more esteemed and trusted by her mistress. Mrs. can't see anyone today, sir. She's poorly, said she, in answer to my inquiry for Mrs. Graham. But I must see her, Rachel, said I, placing my hand on the door to prevent its being shut against me. Indeed, sir, you can't, replied she, sailing her countenance into still more iron-fragidity than before. Be so good as to announce me. It's no manner of use, Mr. Markham. She's poorly, I tell you. Just in time to prevent me from committing the impropriety of taking the citadel by storm and pushing forward unannounced, an inner door opened and the little Arthur appeared with his frolics and play-fellowed the dog. He seized my hand between both his and smilingly drew me forward. Mama says you're to come in, Mr. Markham, said he, and I am to go out and play with Rover. Rachel retired with a sigh, and I stepped into the parlour and shut the door. There, before the fireplace, stood the tall, graceful figure wasted with many sorrows. I cast the manuscript on the table and looked her in the face. Anxious and pale, it was turned towards me. Her clear, dark eyes were fixed on mine with a gaze so intensely earnest that they bound me like a spell. Have you looked it over, she murmured? The spell was broken. I've read it through, said I, advancing into the room, and I want to know if you'll forgive me. If you can forgive me. She did not answer, but her eyes glistened and a faint red mantled on her lip and cheek. As I approached she abruptly turned away and went to the window. It was not an anger I was well assured, only to conceal or control her emotion. I therefore ventured to follow and stand beside her there, but not to speak. She gave me her hand without turning her head, and murmured in a voice she had strove in vain to steady. Can you forgive me? It might be deemed a breach of trust, I thought, to convey that lily hand to my lips so I only gently pressed it between my own, and smilingly replied, I hardly can. You should have told me this before. It shows a want of confidence. Oh, no, cried she, eagerly interrupting me. It was not that. It was no want of confidence in you. But if I told you anything of my history, I must have told you all in order to excuse my conduct, and I might well shrink from such a disclosure till necessity obliged me to make it. But you forgive me. I have done very, very wrong, I know, but as usual I have reaped the bitter fruits of my own error, and must reap them to the end. Bitter indeed was the tone of anguish repressed by resolute firmness in which this was spoken. Now I raised her hand to my lips and fervently kissed it again and again, for tears prevented any other reply. She suffered these wild caresses without resistance or resentment, then suddenly turning from me, she paced twice or thrice through the room. I knew by the contraction of her brow the tight compression of her lips and ringing of her hands, that meantime a violent conflict between reason and passion was silently passing within. At length she paused before the empty fireplace, and turning to me said calmly, if that may be called calmness which was so evidently the result of a violent effort. Now, girl, you must leave me, not this moment, but soon, and you must never come again. Never again, Helen? Just when I love you more than ever? For that very reason if it be so, we should not meet again. I thought this interview was necessary, at least I persuaded myself that it was so, that we might severally ask and receive each other's pardon for the past. But there can be no excuse for another. I shall leave this place, as soon as I have means to seek another asylum. But our inner course must end here. And here, I go to I, approaching the high, carved chimney-piece, I lend my hand against its heavy moldings, and dropped my forehead upon it in silent, silent despondency. You must not come again, continued she. There was a slight tremor in her voice, but I thought her whole manner was provokingly composed, considering the dreadful sentence she pronounced. You must know why I tell you so, she resumed, and you must see that it is better depart at once. It would be hard to say adieu forever. You ought to help me. She paused. I did not answer. When you promise not to come, if you won't, and if you do come here again, you will drive me away before I know where to find another place of refuge, or how to seek it. Helen, said I, turning impatiently towards her, I cannot discuss the matter of eternal separation calmly and dispassionately as you can do. It is no question of mere expedience with me. It is a question of life and death. She was silent. Her pale lips quivered, and her fingers trembled with agitation, as she nervously entwined them in the hair-chain, to which was appended her small gold watch. The only thing of value she had permitted herself to keep. I had said an unjust and cruel thing, but I must need to follow it up with something worse. But Helen, I began, in a soft, low tone, not daring to raise my eyes to her face. That man is not your husband, and the sight of heaven he has forfeited all claim to. She seized my arm with a grasp of startling energy. Gilbert, don't! she cried in a tone that would have pierced a heart of adamant. For God's sake, don't you attempt these arguments. No fiend could torture me like this. I won't, I won't, said I, gently laying my hand on hers, almost as much alarmed at her vehemence as ashamed of my own misconduct. Instead of acting like a true friend, continued she, breaking from me and transferring herself into the old armchair, and helping me with all your might, or rather taking your own part in the struggle of right against passion. You leave all the burden to me, and not satisfied with that you do your utmost to fight against me. When you know that, she paused and hit her face in her handkerchief. Forgive me, Helen, pleaded I. I will never utter another word on the subject, but will we not still meet as friends? We will not do, she replied, mournfully shaking her head, and then she raised her eyes to mine with a mildly reproachful look that seemed to say, You must know that as well as I. Then what must we do, cried I, passionately, but immediately I added in a quieter tone. I'll do whatever you desire, only don't say that this meeting is to be our last. And why not? Don't you know that every time we meet the thoughts of the final parting will become more painful? Don't you feel that every interview makes us dearer to each other than the last? The utterance of this last question was hurried and low, and the downcast eyes and burning blush too plainly showed that she, at least, had felt it. It was scarcely prudent to make such an admission or to add, as she presently did. I have power to bid you go now. Another time it might be different. But I was not base enough to attempt to take advantage of her candour. But we may write, I timidly suggested. You will not deny me that consolation. We can hear of each other through my brother. Your brother! A pang of remorse and shame shot through me. She had not heard of the injury he had sustained at my hands, and I had not the courage to tell her. Your brother will not help us, I said. He would have all communion between us to be entirely at an end. And he would be right, I suppose. As a friend of both he would wish us both well, and every friend would tell us it was our interest, as well as our duty to forget each other, that we might not see it ourselves. But don't be afraid, Gilbert, she added, smiling sadly at my manifest discomposure. There is little chance of my forgetting you. But I did not mean that Frederick should be the means of transmitting messages between us, only that each might know, through him, of the other's welfare. And more than this ought not to be, for you are young, Gilbert, and you ought to marry, and will some time, though you may think it impossible now. And though I can hardly say I wish you to forget me, I know it is right that you should, both for your own happiness and that of your future wife. And therefore I must, and will wish it, she added resolutely. And you were young too, Helen, I boldly replied, and when that profligate scoundrel has run through his career, you will give your hand to me. Await till then. But she would not leave me this support, independently of the moral evil of basing our hopes on the death of another, who, if unfit for this world, was at least no less so for the next, and whose amelioration would thus become our bane, and his greatest transgression our greatest benefit. She maintained it to be madness. Many men of Mr. Huntington's habits had lived to ripe, though miserable, old age. And if I, said she, am young in years, I am old and sorrow, but even if trouble should fail to kill me before vice destroys him, think, if he reached but fifty years or so, would you wait twenty or fifteen, in vague uncertainty and suspense, through all the prime of youth and manhood, and marry at last a woman faded and worn as I shall be, without ever having seen me from this day to that? You would not, she continued interrupting my earnest protestations of unfailing constancy, or if you would, you should not. Trust me, Galbert, in this matter I know better than you. You think me cold and stony-hearted, and you may, but I don't, Helen. Well, never mind. You might, if you would, but I have not spent my solitude in utter idleness, and I am not speaking now from the impulse of the moment as you do. I have thought of all of these matters again and again. I have argued these questions with myself and pondered well our past and present and future career. And believe me, I have come to the right conclusion at last. Trust my words rather than your own feelings now, and in a few years you will see that I was right. Though at present I can hardly see it myself. She murmured with a sigh as she rested her head on her hand. And don't argue against me any more. All you can say has already been said by my own heart and refuted by my reason. It was hard enough to combat those suggestions as they were whispered within me. In your mouth they are ten times worse, and if you knew how much they pained me you would cease it once, I know. And if you knew my present feelings you would even try to relieve them at the expense of your own. I will go, in a minute if that can relieve you, and never return, said I, with bitter emphasis. But if we may never meet, and never hope to meet again, is it a crime to exchange our thoughts by letter? May not kindred spirits meet and mingle in communion, whatever be the fate and circumstances of their earthly tenements? They may, they may! cried she with a momentary burst of glad enthusiasm. I thought of that too, Gilbert, but I feared to mention it, because I feared you would not understand my views upon the subject. I feared even now. I fear any kind friend would tell us we were both deluding ourselves with the thought of keeping up a spiritual intercourse without hope or prospect of anything further, without fostering vain regrets and hurtful aspirations, and feeding thoughts that should be sternly and piteously left to perish of in a nation. Never mind our kind friends, if they can part our bodies it is enough, and God's name let them not send to our souls. Cried I, in terror lest she should deem it her duty to deny us this last remaining consolation. But no letters can pass between us here, said she, without giving fresh food for scandal, and when I departed I had intended that my new abode should be unknown to you as to the rest of the world. Not that I should doubt your word if you promise not to visit me, but I thought you would be more tranquil in your own mind if you knew you could not do it, and likely to find less difficulty in abstracting yourself from me if you could not picture my situation to your mind. But listen, said she, smilingly putting up her finger to check my impatient reply. In six months you shall hear from Frederick precisely where I am, and if you still retain your wish to write to me, and think you can maintain a correspondence all thought, all spirits such as disembodied souls or unimpassioned friends at least might hold, write, and I will answer you. Six months? Yes, to give your present ardour time to cool, and to try the truth in constancy of your soul's love for mine, and now enough has been said between us. Why can't we part at once, exclaimed she, almost wildly after a moment's pause, as she suddenly rose from her chair with her hands resolutely clasped together. I thought it was my duty to go without delay, and I approached and half extended my hand as if to take leave. She grasped it in silence. But this thought of final separation was too intolerable, and seemed to squeeze the blood out of my heart, and my feet were glued to the floor. And must we never meet again, I murmured in the anguish of my soul. We shall meet in heaven, let us think of that, said she, in a tone of desperate calmness, but her eyes glittered wildly, and her face was deadly pale. But not as we are now, I could not help replying. It gives me little consolation to think I shall next behold you as a disembodied spirit, or an altered being with a frame perfect and glorious, but not like this, and a heart perhaps entirely estranged from me. No, Gilbert, there is perfect love in heaven. So perfect, I suppose, that it soars above distinctions, and you will have no closer sympathy with me than with any one of the ten thousand thousand angels and the innumerable multitude of happy spirits round us. Whatever I am, you will be the same, and therefore cannot possibly regret it. And whatever that change may be, we know it must be for the better. But if I am to be so changed that I shall cease to adore you with my whole heart and soul, and love you beyond every other creature, I shall not be myself. And though if I ever win heaven at all, I must, I know, be infinitely better and happier than I am now, my earthly nature cannot rejoice in the anticipation of such a beatitude from which itself and its chief joy must be excluded. Is your love all earthly then? No, but I am supposing we shall have no more intimate communion with each other than with the rest. If so, it will be because we love them more, and not each other less. Increase of love brings increase of happiness, when it is mutual and pure as that will be. But can you, Helen, contemplate with delight this prospect of losing me in a sea of glory? I own I cannot, but we know not that it will be so. And I do know that to regret the exchange of earthly pleasures for the joys of heaven is as if the groveling caterpillar should lament that it must one day quit the nibbled leaf to soar aloft, and flutter through the air, roving it will from flower to flower, sipping sweet honey from their cups or basking in their sunny petals. If these little creatures knew how great a change awaited them, no doubt they would regret it, but would not all such sorrow be misplaced. And if that illustration will not move you, here is another. We are children now. We feel as children, and we understand as children. And when we are told that men and women do not play with toys, and that our companions will one day weary of the trivial sports and occupations that interest them in us so deeply now, we cannot help being saddened that the thoughts of such an alteration. Because we cannot conceive that as we grow up, our own minds will become so enlarged and elevated that we ourselves shall then regard as trifling those objects and pursuits we now so fondly cherish, and that though our companions will no longer join us in those childish pastimes, they will drink with us at other fountains of delight, and mingle their souls with ours in higher aims and nobler occupations beyond our present comprehension, but not less deeply relished or less truly good for that, while yet both we and they remain essentially the same individuals as before. But Gilbert, can you really derive no consolation from the thought that we may meet together when there is no more pain and sorrow, no more striving against sin and struggling of the spirit against the flesh, where both will behold the same glorious truths and drink exalted and supreme felicity from the same fountain of light and goodness, that being whom both will worship with the same intensity of holy ardor, where pure and happy creatures both will love with the same divine affection? If you cannot never write to me, Helen, I can, if faith would never fail. Now then, exclaimed she, while this hope is strong within us, we will part, I cried. You shall not have the pain of another effort to dismiss me, I will go at once, but I did not put my request into words. She understood it instinctively, and this time she yielded to, or rather there was nothing so deliberate as requesting or yielding in the matter. There was a sudden impulse that neither could resist. One moment I stood and looked into her face, the next I held her to my heart, and we seemed to grow together in a close embrace from which no physical or mental force could rend us. A whispered, God bless you, and go, go, was all she said. But while she spoke, she held me so fast that without violence I could not have obeyed her. At length, however, by some heroic effort, we tore ourselves apart, and I rushed from the house. I have a confused remembrance of seeing little Arthur running up the garden walk to meet me, and of bolting over the wall to avoid him, and subsequently running down the steep fields, clearing the stone fences and hedges as they came in my way, till I got completely out of sight of the old hall, down to the bottom of the hill, and then of long hours spent in bitter tears and lamentations, and melancholy musings in the lonely valley with the eternal music in my ears, of the west wind rushing through the overshadowing trees, and the brook babbling and gurgling along its stony bed. My eyes, for the most part, vacantly fixed on the deep checkered shades, restlessly playing of the bright sunny grass at my feet, where now and then a withered leaf or two would come dancing to shell the reverie. But my heart was away up the hill, in the dark room where she was weeping desolate and alone. She whom I was not to comfort, not to see again, till years or suffering had overcome us both, and torn our spirits from their perishing abodes of clay. There was little business done that day, you may be sure. The farm was abandoned to the laborers, and the laborers were left to their own devices. But one duty must be attended to. I had not forgotten my assault upon Frederick Lawrence, and I must see him to apologize for the unhappy deed. I would feign have put it off till tomorrow, but what if he should announce me to his sister in the meantime? No, no, I must ask his pardon today, and entreat him to be lenient in his accusation, if the revelation must be made. I deferred it, however, till the evening, when my spirits were more composed, and when, a wonderful perversity of human nature, some faint germs of indefinite hopes were beginning to rise in my mind. Not that I intended to cherish them after all that had been said on the subject, but there they must lie for a while, uncrushed, though not encouraged, till I had learned to live without them. Arrived at Woodford, the young squire's abode, I found no little difficulty in obtaining admission to his presence. The servant that opened the door told me his master was very ill, and seemed to think doubtful whether he would be able to see me. I was not going to be balked, however. I waited calmly in the hall to be announced, but inwardly determined to take no denial. The message was such as I expected. A polite intimation that Mr. Lawrence could see no one. He was feverish, and must not be disturbed. I shall not disturb him long, said I, but I must see him for a moment. It is on business of importance that I wish to speak to him. I'll tell him, sir, said the man, and I advanced further into the hall and followed him nearly to the door of the apartment where his master was, for it seemed he was not in bed. The answer at return was that Mr. Lawrence hoped I would be so good as to leave a message or note with the servant, as he could attend to no business at the present. He may as well see me as you, said I, and stepping past the astonished footman, I boldly wrapped at the door, entered and closed it behind me. The room was spacious and handsomely furnished, very comfortably, too, for a bachelor. A clear red fire was burning in the polished grate, a superannuated greyhound, given up to idleness and good living, lay basking before it on the thick, soft rug, on one corner of which, beside the sofa, set a smart young springer, looking wistfully up in its master's face, perhaps asking permission to share his couch, or, it might be, only soliciting a caress from his hand or a kind word from his lips. The invalid himself looked very interesting as he lay reclining there, in his elegant dressing gown, with his silk handkerchief bound across his temples. His usually pale face was flushed and feverish, his eyes were half closed until he became sensible of my presence, and then he opened them wide enough. One hand was thrown listlessly over the back of the sofa, and held a small volume with which, apparently, he had been vainly attempting to beguile the weary hours. He dropped it, however, in his start of indignant surprise, as I advanced into the room, and stood before him on the rug. He raised himself on his pillows, and gazed upon me with equal degrees of nervous horror, anger, and amazement depicted on his countenance. Mr. Markham, I scarcely expected this, he said, and the blood left his cheek as he spoke. I know you didn't, I answered, but be quiet a minute, and I'll tell you what I came for. I'm thinkingly advanced a step or two nearer. He winced at my approach with an expression of aversion and an instinctive physical fear, anything but conciliatory to my feelings. I stepped back, however. Make your story a short one, said he, putting his hand on the small silver bell that stood on the table beside him. Or I shall be obliged to call for assistance. I am in no state to bear your brutalities now, or your presence, either. And in truth the moisture started from his pores, and stood out on his pale forehead like a dew. Such a reception was hardly calculated to diminish the difficulties of my unenviable task. It must be performed, however, in some fashion, and so I plunged into it at once, and floundered through it as I could. The truth is, Lawrence, said I, I have not acted quite correctly towards you of late, especially on this last occasion, and I am come to, in short, to express my regret for what has been done and to beg your pardon. If you don't choose to grant it, I added hastily not liking the aspect of his face. It's no matter. Only I've done my duty. That's all. It's easily done, replied he, with a faint smile bordering on a snare, to abuse your friend and knock him on the head without any assignable cause, and then tell him the deed was not quite correct, but it's no matter whether he pardons it or not. I forgot to tell you it was a consequence of a mistake, muttered I. I should have made a very handsome apology, but you provoked me so confoundedly with your— well, I suppose it's my fault. The fact is, I didn't know that you were Mrs. Graham's brother, and I saw and heard some things respecting your context towards her, which were calculated to awaken unpleasant suspicions that allowed me to say a little candor and confidence on your part might have removed, and at last I had chance to overhear a part of a conversation between you and her that made me think I had a right to hate you. And how came you to know that I was her brother, as he, in some anxiety? She told me herself. She told me all. She knew I might be trusted, but you needn't disturb yourself about that, Mr. Lawrence, for I've seen the last of her. The last? Is she gone, then? No, but she has bit a do to me, and I have promised never to go near that house again while she inhabits it. I could have groaned aloud at the bitter thoughts awakened by this turn in the discourse, but I only clenched my hands and stamped my foot upon the rug. My companion, however, was evidently relieved. You have done right, he said, in a tone of unqualified approbation, while his face brightened into almost sunny expression. And as for the mistake, I am sorry for both our sakes that it should have occurred. Perhaps you can forgive my want of candor, and remember, as some partial mitigation of the offence, how little encouragement to friendly confidence you have given me of late. Yes, yes, I remember it all. Nobody can blame me more than I blame myself in my own heart. At any rate, nobody can regret more sincerely than I do the result of my brutality, as you rightly term it. Never mind that, said he, faintly smiling. Let us forget all unpleasant words on both sides, as well as deeds, and consign to oblivion everything that we have caused to regret. Have you any objection to take my hand, or you'd rather not? It trembled through weakness as he held it out, and dropped before I had time to catch it and give it a hearty squeeze, when she had not the strength to return. How dry and burning your hand is, Lawrence, said I. You are really ill, and I have made you worse by all this talk. Oh, it is nothing. Only a cold got by the rain. My doing too. Never mind that, but tell me, did you mention this affair to my sister? To confess the truth I had not the courage to do so. But when you tell her, will you just say that I deeply regret it, and— Oh, never fear, I shall say nothing against you, as long as you keep your good resolution of remaining aloof from her. She has not heard of my illness, then, that you are aware of. I think not. I am glad of that, for I have been all this time tormenting myself with the fear that somebody would tell her I was dying, or desperately ill, and she would either be distressing herself on account of her inability to hear from me, or do me any good, or perhaps committing the madness of coming to see me. I must contrive to let her know something about it if I can, continued he reflectively, or she will be hearing some such story. Many would be glad to tell her such news, just to see how she would take it, and then she might expose herself to fresh scandal. I wish I had told her, said I, if it were not for my promise I would tell her now. By no means! I am not dreaming of that, but if I were to write a short note, now not mentioning you, Markham, but just giving a slight account of my illness, by way of excuse for my not coming to see her, and to put her on her guard against any exaggerated reports she may hear, and address it in a disguised hand, would you do me the favor to slip it into the post office as you pass, for I dare not trust any of the servants in such a case. Most willingly I consented, and immediately brought him his desk. There was little need to disguise his hand, for the poor fellow seemed to have considerable difficulty in writing at all, so as to be legible. When the note was done I thought it time to retire, and took leave after asking if there was anything in the world I could do for him, little or great in the way of alleviating his sufferings, and repairing the injury I had done. No, said he, you have already done much towards it. You have done more for me than the most skillful physician could do, for you have relieved my mind of two great burdens, anxiety on my sister's account, and deep regret upon your own. For I do believe these two sources of torment have had more effect in working me up into a fever than anything else, and I am persuaded I shall soon recover now. There is one more thing that you can do for me, and that is come and see me now and then, for you see I am very lonely here, and I promise your entrance shall not be disputed again. I engaged to do so, and departed with a cordial pressure of the hand. I posted the letter on my way home, most manfully resisting the temptation of dropping a word in from myself at the same time. End of Chapter 45 of the Tenant of Wildfell Hall by Anne Bronte Chapter 46 of the Tenant of Wildfell Hall I felt strongly tempted at times to enlighten my mother and sister on the real character and circumstances of the persecuted Tenant of Wildfell Hall, and at first I greatly regretted having omitted to ask that lady's permission to do so. But, on due reflection, I considered that if it were known to them, it could not long remain a secret to the Millwards and Wilsons, and such was my present appreciation of Eliza Millwards' disposition, that if once she got a clue of the story, I should fear she would soon find means to enlighten Mr. Huntingdon upon the place of his wife's retreat. I would therefore wait patiently till these weary six months were over, and then when the fugitive had found another home, and I was permitted to write to her, I would beg to be allowed to clear her name from these vile Calomnes. At present I must content myself with simply asserting that I knew them to be false, and would prove it some day, to the shame of those who slandered her. I don't think anybody believed me, but everybody soon learned to avoid insinuating a word against her. Or even mentioning her name in my presence. They thought I was so madly infatuated by the seductions of that unhappy lady that I was determined to support her in the very face of reason. And in meantime I grew insupportably morose and misanthropical from the idea that every one I met was harboring unworthy thoughts of the supposed Mrs. Graham, and would express them if he dared. My poor mother was quite distressed about me, but I couldn't help it. At least I thought I could not, though sometimes I felt a pang of remorse for my undue toful conduct to her, and made an effort to amend, attended with some partial success. And indeed I was generally more humanized in my demeanor to her than to any one else, Mr. Lawrence accepted. Rose and Fergus usually shunned my presence, and it was well they did, for I was not fit company for them, nor they for me, under the present circumstances. Mrs. Huntingdon did not leave Wildfell Hall till about two months after our farewell interview. During that time she never appeared at church, and I never went near the house. I only knew she was still there by her brother's brief answers to my many and varied inquiries respecting her. I was a very constant and attentive visitor to him throughout the whole period of his illness and convolescence. Not only from the interest I took in his recovery and my desire to cheer him up and make the utmost possible immense for my former brutality, but for my growing attachment to himself and the increasing pleasure I found in his society, partly from his increased cordiality to me, but chiefly on account of his close connection, both in blood and in affection with my adored Helen. I loved him for it better than I like to express. And I took a secret delight in pressing those slender white fingers so marvelously like her own, considering he was not a woman, and in watching the passing changes in his fair, pale features, and observing the intonations of his voice, detecting resemblances which I wondered had never struck me before. He provoked me at times indeed, by his evident reluctance to talk to me about his sister, though I did not question the frilliness of his motives in wishing to discourage my remembrance of her. His recovery was not quite so rapid as he had expected it to be. He was not able to mount his pony till a fortnight after the date of our reconciliation, and the first use he made of his returning strength was to ride over by night to Wildfell Hall, to see his sister. It was a hazardous enterprise, both for him and for her, but he thought it necessary to consult with her on the subject of her projected departure. If not to calm her apprehensions respecting his health, and the worst result was a slight relapse of his illness, for no one knew of the visit by the inmates of the Old Hall except himself, and I believe it had not been his intention to mention it to me, for when I came to see him the next day and observed he was not so well as he ought to have been, he merely said he had caught cold by being out too late in the evening. You'll never be able to see your sister if you don't take care of yourself, said I, a little provoked at the circumstance on her account, instead of commiserating him. I have seen her, said he quietly. You've seen her, cried I, in astonishment? Yes. And then he told me what considerations had impelled him to make the venture, and with what precautions he had made it. And how was she, I eagerly asked. As usual, was the brief, the sad reply. As usual, that is, far from happy and far from strong. She is not positively ill, returned he. And she will recover her spirits in a while, I have no doubt. But so many trials have been almost too much for her. How threatening those clouds look, continued he, turning towards the window. We shall have thundershowers before night, I imagine, and they are just in the midst of stacking my corn. Have you got yours all in yet? No. And Lawrence, did she, did your sister mention me? She asked if I had seen you lately. And what else did she say? I cannot tell you all she said, replied he with a slight smile, for we talked a good deal, though my stay was but short. But our conversation was chiefly on the subject of her intended departure, which I begged her to delay till I was better able to assist her in her search for another home. But did she say no more about me? She did not say much about you, Markham. I should not have encouraged her to do so had she been inclined. But happily she was not. She only asked a few questions concerning you, and seemed satisfied with my brief answers. Wherein she showed herself wiser than her friend. And I may tell you, too, that she seemed to be far more anxious lest you should think too much of her than lest you should forget her. She was right. But I fear your anxiety is quite the other way respecting her. No, it is not. I wish her to be happy, but I don't wish her to forget me altogether. She knows it is impossible that I should forget her, and she is right to wish me not to remember her too well. I should not desire her to regret me too deeply. But I can scarcely imagine she will make herself very unhappy about me, because I know I am not worthy of it, except in my appreciation of her. You are neither of you worthy of a broken heart, nor of all the sighs and tears and sorrowful thoughts that have been, and I fear will be wasted upon you both. But at present each has a more exalted opinion of the other than I fear he or she deserves. And my sister's feelings are naturally full as keen as yours, and I believe more constant, that she has the good sense and fortitude to strive against them in this particular, and I trust she will not rest till she has entirely weaned her thoughts. He hesitated. From me, said I, and I wish you would make the like exertions, continued he. Did she tell you that that was her intention? No, the question was not broached between us. There was no necessity for it, for I had no doubt that such was her determination. To forget me? Yes, Markham, why not? Oh, well. Was my only audible reply. But I internally answered. No, Lawrence, you're wrong there. She is not determined to forget me. It would be wrong to forget one so deeply and fondly devoted to her, who can so thoroughly appreciate her excellencies, and sympathize with all her thoughts as I can do, and it would be wrong in me to forget so excellent and divine a peace of God's creation as she, when I have once so truly loved and known her. But I said no more to him on that subject. I instantly started a new topic of conversation, and soon took leave of my companion, with a feeling of less cordiality towards him than usual. Perhaps I had no right to be annoyed at him, but I was so nevertheless. In little more than a week after this I met him returning from a visit to the Wilson's, and I now resolved to do him a good turn, though at the expense of his feelings, and perhaps at the risk of incurring that displeasure which is so commonly the reward of those who give disagreeable information, or tender their advice unasked. In this, believe me, I was actuated by no motives of revenge for the occasional annoyances I had lately sustained from him, nor yet by any feeling of malevolent enmity towards Miss Wilson, but purely by the fact that I could not endure that such a woman should be Mrs. Huntington's sister, and that, as well for his own sake, is for hers. I could not bear to think of his being deceived into a union with one so unworthy of him, and so utterly unfitted to be the partner of his quiet home, and the companion of his life. He had had uncomfortable suspicions on that head himself, I imagined. But such was his inexperience, and such were the lady's powers of attraction, and her skill in bringing them to bear upon his young imagination, that they had not disturbed him long, and I believe the only effectual causes of the vacillating indecision that had preserved him hitherto for making an actual declaration of love was the consideration of her connections, and especially of her mother, whom he could not abide. Had they lived at a distance he might have surmounted the objection, but within two or three miles of Woodford it was really no light matter. You've been to call on the Wilson's, Lawrence, said I as I walked beside his pony? Yes, replied he, slightly averting his face. I thought it but civil to take the first opportunity of returning their kind attentions, since they have been so very particular and constant in their inquiries throughout the whole course of my illness. It's all Miss Wilson's doing. And if it is, returned he, with a very perceptible blush, is that any reason why I should not make a suitable acknowledgement? It is a reason why you should not make the acknowledgement she looks for. Let us drop that subject if you please, said he, an evident displeasure. No, Lawrence, with your leave we'll continue it a while longer, and I'll tell you something now where about it, which you may believe or not as you choose. Only please do remember that it is not my custom to speak falsely, and that in this case I can have no motive for misrepresenting the truth. Well, Markham, what now? Miss Wilson hates your sister. It may be natural enough that, in her ignorance of the relationship, she should feel some degree of enmity against her. But no good or amulable woman would be capable of evincing that bitter, cold-blooded, designing malice towards a fancied rival that I have observed in her. Markham. Yes, and it is my belief that Eliza Millward and she, if not the very originators of the slanderous reports that have been propagated, were designedly the encouragers and chief disseminators of them. She was not desirous to mix up your name in the matter, of course, but her delight was, and still is, to blacken your sister's character to the utmost of her power, without risking too greatly the exposure of her own malevolence. I cannot believe it. I cannot believe it, interrupted my companion, his face burning with indignation. Well, as I cannot prove it, I must content myself with asserting that it is so to the best of my belief. But as you would not willingly marry Miss Wilson if it were so, you will do well to be cautious till you have proved it to be otherwise. I never told you, Markham, that I intended to marry Miss Wilson, said he proudly. No, but whether you do or not, she intends to marry you. Did she tell you so? No, but— Then you have no right to make such an assertion respecting her. He slightly quickened his pony's pace, but I laid my hand on its mane, determined he should not leave me yet. Wait a moment, Lawrence, and let me explain myself. And don't be so very—I don't know what to call it— inaccessible as you are. I know what you think of Jane Wilson, and I believe I know how far you are mistaken in your opinion. You think she is singularly charming, elegant, sensible, and refined. You are not aware that she is selfish, cold-hearted, ambitious, artful, shallow-minded? Enough, Markham, enough! No, let me finish. You don't know that, if you married her. Your home would be railess and comfortless, and it would break your heart at last to find yourself united to one so wholly incapable of sharing your taste, feelings, and ideas—so utterly destitute of sensibility, good feeling, and true nobility of soul. Have you done? asked my companion quietly. Yes, I know you hate me for my impertinence, but I don't care if it only conduces to preserve you from that fatal mistake. Well, returned he with a rather wintry smile, I am glad you have overcome or forgotten your own affliction so far as to be able to study so deeply the affairs of others, and trouble your head so unnecessarily about the fancied or possible calamities of their future life. We parted, somewhat coldly again, but still we did not cease to be friends. Am I well meant warning, though it might have been more judiciously delivered, as well as more thankfully received, was not wholly unproductive of the desired effect? His visit to the Wilson's was not repeated, and though in our subsequent interviews he never mentioned her name to me, nor I to him. I have reason to believe he pondered my words in his mind. Eagerly though covertly sought information respecting the fair lady from other quarters, secretly compared my character of her with what he had himself observed and what he heard from others, and finally came to the conclusion that all things considered she had much better remained Miss Wilson of Rycote Farm than to be transmuted into Mrs. Lawrence of Woodford Hall. I believe, too, that he soon learned to contemplate with secret amazement his former predilection, and to congratulate himself on the lucky escape he had made. But he never confessed it to me, or hinted one word of acknowledgment for the part I had had in his deliverance. But this was not surprising to any one that knew him as I did. As for Jane Wilson, she, of course, was disappointed and embittered by the sudden cold neglect and ultimate desertion of her former admirer. Had I done wrong to blight her cherished hopes? I think not, and certainly my conscience has never accused me from that day to this of any evil design in the matter. One morning, about the beginning of November, while I was indicting some business letters shortly after breakfast, Eliza Mildworth came to call upon my sister. Rose had neither the discrimination nor the violence to regard little them 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 Ferguson myself, my mother and sister being both of them absent, on household care's intent. But I was not going to lay myself out for her amusement, whoever else might so incline. I merely honored her with a careless salutation and a few words, of course, and then returned with my writing, leaving my brother to be more polite if he choose. But she wanted to tease me. What a pleasure it is to find you at home, Mr. Mark Ham. 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 impugnant 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 have been strange in neglecting your business these last few months. Somebody said wrong, for, these last two months especially, I have been particularly plodding and diligent. Well, there's nothing like active employment, I suppose, to console the afflicted. And, excuse me, Mr. Mark Ham, 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 freeing on your spirits. Formerly, said she timidly, I could venture 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. Praise you! I suppose I may not guess what it is I troubled you. There's no necessity, for I'll tell you plainly. The thing that troubles me the most at present is the 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 entailment speech, Rose entered the room, and, metallized her rising to greet her, they both seated themselves near the fire, where the idle lad forgots was standing, leaning his shoulder against the corner of the chimney-piece, with his legs crossed and his hands in his breechy pockets. Now, Rose, I'll tell you a piece of news. I hope you have not heard it before. For good, bad, or indifference, one always likes to be first to tell. It's about that said Mrs. Graham. Hush! whispered Fergus in a tone of solemn import. We never mentioned her. Her name is never heard. And glancing up, I caught him with his eye-askings on me, and his finger pointed to his forehead. Then, winking at young lady with the dull full shake of the head, he whispered. A monomania. But don't mention it. All right, but that. I should be sorry to injure anyone's feelings. Returned she, speaking below her breath. Another time, perhaps. Speak out, Miss Eliza. Said I, not taking to notice the other's beforeneries. In even future say anything in my presence. Well, answered she. Perhaps in the old rate 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 ladder, 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 the perfect reconciliation has taken place between them. Only think. She continued, tuning to the confounded rows. 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 an observance at Woodford. Oh, I was not aware that you are 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 scars the one half of it true. While I spoke, I completed sitting in directions 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 story was a lame one. That, suppose, Mrs. Greyham 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 became 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 someone might have betrayed her, and she had been taken away by force. Determined to know the words, I hastily pocketed my two letters, and muttered something about being too late for the post, left the room, rushing to the yard, and was she fearlessly called for my horse. No one being there, I dragged him out of the stable myself, strapped sad long to his back, and brittle long to his head, mounted, and spindly 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 usual inquiry after his health? Yes, she's gone. Was his answer so calmly spoken that my chair was at once removed? I suppose I may not know where she is. Said I, as I dismounted, and relinquished my horse to the gardener, who, being the only servant within call, having summoned by his master from his employment of racking up dead leaves on the lawn to check him to the stables. My companion gravely took my arm, and leaving me away to the garden does answer my question. She is at Gressel Manor, in Chire. Where? Cried I, with a convulsive start, at Gressel Manor. How was it? I gasped. Who betrayed her? She went of her own accord. Impossible, Laura's. She could not be so frantic, as claimed I, vehemently grasping his arm as if to force him to unsay those hateful words. She did, persisted he, in the same grave, collected Manor 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. Full. I could not help exclaiming, and Laura's looked up with a rather reproachful glance. Is he dying, then? I think not, Markham. And how many more nurses as he? How many ladies are there besides to take care of him? None. He was alone, nor she would not have gone. O confounded! This is intolerable! What is? That they should be alone. I attended no reply, for I was not sure that this circumstance did not partially 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 tuning to my companion, I impatiently exclaimed, Why did she take this infatuated step? What thing 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 falls fair promises for the future, and she will believe him, and then her condition will be ten times worse and ten times more irremindable than before. There does not appear to be much ground for such appropriations at present. Said he, producing a letter from his pocket. From the count I received this morning, I should say. It was a writing. By an irresistible impulse I held out my hand and the words, Let me see it. Involuntarily passed my lips. It was evidently reluctant to grant a request, but while he hesitated I snatched it from his hand. Recollecting myself however a 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, November 4th. Dear Frederick, I know the answers 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 a house in sad confusion. Mrs. Graves, Benson, every decent servant had left, and those that were come to supply their places were annexed, desertedly sad to say no words. I must change them again if I stay. A professional nurse, a grim, hard old woman, have been hired to attend a ratchet invalid. It 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. At night of my arrival, when I first entered this room, he was lying in a kind of hafty lyrium. If 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 Ellen, your wife. I replied, My wife, said he with a start. For heaven's sake, not 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 up on me, for I thought he might be dying, and I wanted him to know me. For a long time he lay silently looking up on 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 mending in a horrified whisper with his eyes still fixed up on me. Who is it? It is Ellen Huntingdon, said I, quietly rising at the same time, and removing too less conspicuous position. I must be going mad, cried he, or something clear as perhaps, but leave me, whoever you are. I can't pair 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 to him. At first he addressed me as the nurse, but on my cross in the room to draw up the window-blinds, inhibidious 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 went to the chamber, and then he went to the chamber, 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 in temples with vinegar and water, to relieve the heat and pain in his head, he observed, after looking earnestly up on me for some minutes, I have such strange fancies. I can 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 seemed just like hers. I could say 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 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 aspect stank 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 what none of them would do. For God's sake don't torment me now. Cried he, in pitiful agitation. And then he began to mutter bitter curses against me, or the evil fortune that had brought me there, while I put on sponge and basin, and resumed my seat at bedside. Where are they? Said he. Have they all left me, servants and all? There are servants who didn't call if you want them. But you have better lights out now and be quiet. None of them could or would attend it 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 all your wants, and I will try to satisfy them. There is no one else to care for you, and I shall not upgrade 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 in your situation required, and if I could benefit your soul as well as your body, and awaken some sense of constriction and— Oh, yes, if you could overwhelm me with remorse and confusion of faith now is the time. What have you done with my son? He is well, and you may see him some time if you'll compute yourself, but not now. Where is he? He is safe. Is he here? Wherever he is, you will not see him do have promised to leave him in Charlie under my current protection, and let me take him away whenever and wherever I please if I should hear after just it necessary to remove him again. But we will talk of that tomorrow. He 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 oath and promises. I must have a written agreement, and you must sign it in present of a witness, but not today, tomorrow. No, today, now! persisted he. And he was in such a state of feverish excitement and so bad upon the immediate gratification of his witch 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. Huntington to give up on a slip of paper, I have liberally 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 for faith in my confidence he must take the consequence. He next pleaded inability to hold the pen. Then he must wait until we 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 no power to form the letters. In that case he must be too ill to see the child, said I, and finding being inexorable, he at length managed to ratify the agreement and I bid Rachel send the boy. All this might 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 mistake and tenderness for this man's feelings. Little Arthur had not forgotten his father, the 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 hushed 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 later, extending his hand towards him. The child went and timidly touched that punning hand, but almost started an 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. Here not. He replied as a pointed 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, Sora, 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 clung to assure him that he was entirely mistaken. I have never once attempted to prejudice his child against him. I did indeed desire him to forget you. I said, and specially to forget 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. Discursed thirst is burning my heart to ashes. Will nobody— Before he could finish the sentence, I have poured out the glass of some acysylated 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 hipping 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 his confounded bedclothes. 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. We 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 one true 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 it untroubled 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 than 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 excepted 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 moral, that is to say, in proportion as he recovered from state of exhaustion and stoop faction, his ill nature appeared to revive. Oh, this sweet revenge! Cried he, when I have been doing all I could to make him comfortable and to remedy the callousness 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 replace. For it is only comfort I have, and 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'll think me a liar if I tell you, but I did hope to benefit you, as well to bury your mind as to alleviate your present sufferings. But it appeared 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 earthy comfort that was left me, to no purpose, and every little thing I do for you, it ascribes to self-righteous malice and refined revenge. It's all very fine, I dare say. Said he, I me with stupid amazement. And, of course, I ought be melted to tears of penitence and admiration at sight of so much generosity and cheaper human 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 tenets than before, for these wretched 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 is always a chance of death. 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, Dr. Tullner 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. 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 appell you very much? It's just only thing I can bear to think of. So if you have any, but it must come some time. Interrupted I. And if it be ear's ends, it will be a certainly overtake you as if it came today. 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 stand it, I tell you. I have sufferings enough without that. If you think there is danger, save me from it. And then, in gratitude, I'll hear whatever you like to say. I accord only drop 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'll write again to tell you how we get on. But now that my presence is tolerated and even required in sick room, I shall have but little time to spare between my husband and my son. For I must not entirely neglect later. 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 gets worth, I shall ask Essar Argrif to take charge of him for a time, till I have reorganized 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 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. Goodbye, dear Frederick. Ellen Huntingdon. What do you think of it? Saint Lawrence, as I silently refolded later. 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 solution to me. Therefore, there can be no improper to your harm in it. And therefore, why should you wish to keep it? Were not these characters written by your hand, and were not these words conceived in your mind, and many of them spoken by your lips? Well, said he, and so I kept it, otherwise, Alfred, 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 a real history and circumstance, just too far as is necessary to make the neighborhood 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 favor she could do me. And tell her, no, nothing more. You see I know the address, and I might write 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, will you let me know? If all be well, I'll come myself and tell you immediately. End of Chapter 47. Chapter 48, at the 10th of Walthall Hall. This is a Librebox recording. All Librebox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librebox.org. Recording by Enes Fiesimão de Portugal. The 10th of Walthall Hall by Anne Bronte. Chapter 48. Five or six days after this, Mr. Lawrence pethes the honor of a call. And when he and I were alone together, which I contrived as soon as possible by bringing him out to look at my corn steaks, he showed me another letter from his sister. This one he was quite willing to submit to my longing gaze. He thought, I suppose, it would do me good. The only answer it gave to my message was this. Mr. Markham is at liberty to make such revelations concerning me as it is such as necessary. He will know that I should wish but little to be said on subject. I hope he is well. But tell him he must not think of me. I can give you a few extracts from the rest of the letter, for I was permitted to keep this also. Perhaps as an antidote to all pernicious hopes and fancies. He is decidedly better, but very low from the depressing effects of his severe illness and the strict regime he is obliged to observe, so opposite to all his previous habits. It is deplorable to see how completely his past life as generated is once noble constitution and viciated the whole system of his organization. But the doctor says he may now be considered out of danger if he will only continue to observe the necessary restrictions. Some stimulating cordials he must have, but they should be judiciously diluted and sparingly used. And I find it very difficult to keep him to this. At first, his extreme dread of death rendered the task an easy one. But in proportion as he feels his acute suffering abating and sees the dangers receiving, the more intractable he becomes. Now also, his appetite for food is beginning to return, and here too his long habits of self-indulgence are greatly against him. I watch and restrain him as well as I can and often get bitterly abused from my rigid severity. And sometimes he contrives to elude my vigilance and sometimes acts in opposition to my will. But he is now so completely reconciled to my attendance in general that he is never satisfied when I am not by his side. I am obliged to be a little stiff with him sometimes, or he would make a complete slave of me. And I know it would be an unpardonable weakness to give up all other interests for him. I have servants to overlook and a little Arthur to attend to, and my own health too, all of which would be entirely neglected where I would satisfy his exorbitant demands. I do not generally sit up at night, for I think nurse who has made it her business is better qualified for such undertakings than I am. But still, an unbroken night's rest is what I but seldom enjoy, and never can venture to reckon upon. For my patient makes no scribble of calling me up but an hour when his wants or his fancies require my presence. But he is most vastly afraid of my displeasure, and if at one time he tries my patience by his unreasonable executions and dreadful complaints and reproaches, at another he depresses me by his abstract submission and the precachery self-abasement when he fears he has gone too far. But all this I can readily pardon. I know it is chiefly the result of his unfibally frame and zoordered nerves. What annoys me the most is his occasional attempts at the factional fullness that I can neither credit nor return. Not that I hate him. His sufferings and my own laborious care have given him some claim to my regard, to my affection even, if he would only be quite and sincere and content to let things remain as they are. But the more he tries to conciliate me, the more I shrink from him and from the future. Ellen, what do you mean to do when I get well? He asked this morning, will you run away again? It entirely depends upon your own conduct. Oh, I'll be very good. But if I find it necessary to leave you, Arthur, I shall not run away. You know I have your own promise that I may go whenever I please and take my son with me. Oh, but you shall have no cause. And then follow the variety of professions which I rather coolly check. Will you not forgive me then? Said he. Yes, I have forgiven you, but I know you cannot love me as you once did, and I should very sorry if you were to, for I could not pretend to return it. So let us drop the subject and never encourage you it again. By what I have done for you, you may judge of what I will do. If it be not uncomfortable with the higher duty I owe to my son, higher because he never forfeited his claims and because I hope to do more good to him than I can ever do to you. And if you wish me to feel kindly towards you, it is deeds not words which must purchase my affection and esteem. A soul replied to this with a slight grimace and a scarcely perceptible shrug. Hail us unhappy man. Words with him are so much cheaper than deeds. It was as if I had said, pounds not pens must buy the article you want. And then he cited the quarrelous, self-commiserating side, as if in pure regret had he, the love and courted of so many worshippers, should be now abandoned to the mercy of a harsh, exacting, call-hearted woman like that, and even glad that what kindness she choose to bestow. It's a pity, isn't it? Said I, and whether I rightly divine these musings or not, and the observation chimed in with his thoughts, for he answered, it can be helped. With a rueful smile at my penetration, I have seen Esther I grave twice. She is a charming creature, but her blood spirit is almost broken and the sweet temper almost spoiled by the still unremitting prosecutions of her mother in behalf of a rejected suitor. Not violent, but worrisome, and unremitting like a continual dropping. Their natural parents seems determined to make her daughter's life a burden if she will not yell towards zires. Mama does all she can, said she, to make me feel myself a burden on an incumbranced family, a most ungrateful, selfish, and unyutiful daughter that ever was born. And Walter, too, is as soon and cold and hard as if he hated me outright. I believe I should have yelled at once if I had known, from the beginning, how much resistance would have cost me. But now, for very obstinacy's sake, I will stand out. A bad motive for a good resolve, I answered. But, however, I know you have better motives, really, for your perseverance. And I can show you to keep them still in view. Trust me, I will. I threaten Mama sometimes that I'll run away and disgraced family by earning my own lifehood if she torments me any more. And then that threatens her a little. But I will do it in good earnest if they don't mind. Be quiet and patient a while, said I, and better times will come. Poor girl. I wish somebody that was worthy to possess her would come and take her away. Don't you, Frederick? If spruce love this letter filled me with dismay for Ellen's future life and mine, there was one great source of consolation. It was now in my power to clear her name from every follower's portion. The millwards and the willsons should see with their own eyes the bright sun bursting from the cloud, and they should be scorched and dazzled by its beams. And my own friends, too, should see it. They, whose suspicions have been such a gull and worm-hood to my soul. To effect this, I have only to drop seed into the ground, and it would soon become a stately, branching herb. A few words to my mother and sister, I knew, would suffice to spread news throughout the old neighborhood without any further exertion on my part. Rose was lighted, and as soon as I had told her all I thought proper, which was all I effected to know, she flew with the liquidity to put on her boney and shawl and hasten to carry the glad tidings to the millwards and willsons. Glad tidings, I suspect, to none but herself and Mary millward. That steady, sensible girl, whose sterling words had been so quickly perceived and duly valid by suppose Mrs. Graham, in spite of her playing outside. And who, on her part, had been better able to see and appreciate that lady's true character and qualities than the brightest genius among them. As I may never have occasion to mention her again, I may as well tell you here that she was at this time previously engaged to Richard Wilson, a secret I believe to everyone but themselves. That worst student was now at Cambridge, where his most exemplary conduct and his diligent perseverance in the pursuit of learning carried him safely through and eventually brought him with hard-earned honors and an untarnished reputation to the close of his collegiate career. In that time he became Mr. Millward's first and only curate. For that gentleman's declining ears forced him at last to acknowledge that duties of extensive parish were little too much for those wanted energies, which he was not want to boast over his younger and less active breath than of the cloth. This was what the patient, faithful lovers, had privately planned and quietly waited for years ago. And in due time they were united to the astonishment of the little world they lived in that had long since declared them both born to single blessedness. Affirming it impossible that the pale, returning bookworm should ever summon courage to seek a wife or be able to obtain one if he did. And equally impossible that the plain-looking, plain-dealing, unattractive and conciliating Miss Millward should ever find a husband. They still continued to live at Vicarage, delayed dividing her time between her father, her husband, and their poor parishioners, and subsequently her rising family. And now that Reverend Michael Millward has been gathered to his father, full of years and honors, Reverend Richard Wilson has succeeded him to the Vicarage of Lindenhope, greatly to the satisfaction of its inhabitants, who had long since tried and fully proved his merits, and those of his excellent and well-loved partner. If you are interested in the after-faith of that lady's sister, I can only tell you what perhaps we have heard from another quarter. That some twelve or thirteen years ago she relieved a happy couple of her presence by marrying a wealthy tradesman of Elle, and I don't envy him, Miss Bargan. I fear she leads him a rather uncomfortable life, though happily he is too dull to perceive the extent of his misfortune. I have little enough to do with her myself. We have not met for many years. But, I am well assured, she has not yet forgotten or forgiven either her former lover, or the lazy who superior qualities first opened his eyes to the fullness of his boyish attachment. As for Richard Wilson's sister, she, having been only unable to recapture Mr. Lawrence, or obtain any partner rich and elegant enough to suit her ideas of what the husband of Jane Wilson are to be, is yet in single blessedness. Shortly after the death of her mother, she withdrew the light of her presence for a bright-cut farm, finding it impossible any longer to endure rough manners and unsophisticated habits of her honest brother Robert and his worthy wife, or the ideas being identified with such vulgar people in the eyes of the world, and took lodgings in the county town where she lived, and still lives, I suppose, in a kind of closed-fisted, cold, uncomfortable gentility, doing no good to others and but little to herself, spending her days in fancy work and scandal, referring frequently to her brother Dvika, and her sister Dvika's lady, but never to a brothered farmer and her sister the farmer's wife. Seeing as much company as she can without too much expense, but loving no one and beloved by none, a cold-hearted, supercilious, keenly, insidiously-sensurious old maid.