Well, Halford, 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 descant
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. Huntingdon'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 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 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 draughts
of the pure 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 cows
lowing in the distance; and 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 abstractedly 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. Hargrave,
only the more dangerous in being
more esteemed and trusted by
her mistress.
'Missis can't see any one to-day,
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, settling her countenance
in still more iron frigidity
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 little
Arthur appeared with his frolicsome
playfellow, the dog. He seized
my hand between both his, and
smilingly drew me forward.
'Mamma 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 fire-place, stood the tall,
graceful figure, wasted with
many sorrows. I cast the manuscript
on the table, and looked in her
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 in anger,
I was well assured, but 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 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 had 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 wringing of her
hands, that meantime a violent
conflict between reason and passion
was silently passing within.
At length she paused before the
empty fire-place, and turning
to me, said calmly - if that
might be called calmness which
was so evidently the result of
a violent effort, - 'Now, Gilbert,
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 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 intercourse
must end here.'
'End here!' echoed I; and approaching
the high, carved chimney- piece,
I leant my hand against its heavy
mouldings, and dropped my forehead
upon it in silent, sullen 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 to part at
once: - if it be hard to say
adieu for ever, you ought to
help me.' She paused. I did not
answer. 'Will 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 needs
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: in 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 throwing herself
into the old arm-chair, '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 hid her face
in her handkerchief.
'Forgive me, Helen!' pleaded
I. 'I will never utter another
word on the subject. But may
we not still meet as friends?'
'It 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, though
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 hardly can 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 are young too, Helen,'
I boldly replied; 'and when that
profligate scoundrel has run
through his career, you will
give your hand to me - I'll wait
till then.'
But she would not leave me
this support. Independently of
the moral evil of basing our
hopes upon 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. Huntingdon's habits had lived
to a ripe though miserable old
age. 'And if I,' said she, 'am
young in years, I am old in 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, Gilbert;
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
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 hardly can 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 been
already 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 pain me you
would cease at once, I know.
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 fear it even
now - I fear any kind friend
would tell us we are both deluding
ourselves with the idea 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 pitilessly left
to perish of inanition.'
'Never mind our kind friends:
if they can part our bodies,
it is enough; in God's name,
let them not sunder 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 promised 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 spirit - 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 try
the truth and 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: it 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 ever I 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 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 grovelling caterpillar
should lament that it must one
day quit the nibbled leaf to
soar aloft and flutter through
the air, roving at 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 and us so
deeply now, we cannot help being
saddened at 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 where 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
ardour - and 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 in
words: she understood it instinctively,
and this time she yielded too
- 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 and 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, chequered shades
restlessly playing over the bright
sunny grass at my feet, where
now and then a withered leaf
or two would come dancing to
share the revelry; but my heart
was away up the hill in that
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 labourers,
and the labourers 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 apologise for the unhappy
deed. I would fain have put it
off till the morrow; but what
if he should denounce me to his
sister in the meantime? No, no!
I must ask his pardon to-day,
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 - oh, 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 learnt 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 it doubtful whether
he would be able to see me. I
was not going to be baulked,
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 returned was that Mr.
Lawrence hoped I would be so
good as to leave a message or
a note with the servant, as he
could attend to no business at
present.
'He may as well see me as you,'
said I; and, stepping past the
astonished footman, I boldly
rapped 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,
sat 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 a 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,' answered
I; 'but be quiet a minute, and
I'll tell you what I came for.'
Unthinkingly, I advanced a step
or two nearer. He winced at my
approach, with an expression
of aversion and 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 on his
pale forehead like 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'm
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 sneer: '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 that
it was in 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 conduct towards her which
were calculated to awaken unpleasant
suspicions, that, allow me to
say, a little candour and confidence
on your part might have removed;
and, at last, I chanced 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?' asked 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 bid adieu
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 a 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 candour, 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 cause 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,
which he 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'm 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
be either 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 favour 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
skilful 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
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 in
a word from myself at the same
time.
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