Five or six days after this
Mr. Lawrence paid us the honour
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 cornstacks - 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 he judges necessary. He
will know that I should wish
but little to be said on the
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 regimen he is
obliged to observe - so opposite
to all his previous habits. It
is deplorable to see how completely
his past life has degenerated
his once noble constitution,
and vitiated 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 danger
receding, 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 for 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 unpardonable weakness
to give up all other interests
for him. I have the servants
to overlook, and my little Arthur
to attend to, - and my own health
too, all of which would be entirely
neglected were I to satisfy his
exorbitant demands. I do not
generally sit up at night, for
I think the 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 scruple of calling me
up at an hour when his wants
or his fancies require my presence.
But he is manifestly afraid of
my displeasure; and if at one
time he tries my patience by
his unreasonable exactions, and
fretful complaints and reproaches,
at another he depresses me by
his abject submission and deprecatory
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 enfeebled frame and disordered
nerves. What annoys me the most,
is his occasional attempts at
affectionate fondness 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 quiet 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.
'Helen, 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 followed a variety
of professions, which I rather
coldly checked.
'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
be very sorry if you were to,
for I could not pretend to return
it: so let us drop the subject,
and never recur to it again.
By what I have done for you,
you may judge of what I will
do - if it be not incompatible
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.'
His sole reply to this was
a slight grimace, and a scarcely
perceptible shrug. Alas, unhappy
man! words, with him, are so
much cheaper than deeds; it was
as if I had said, 'Pounds, not
pence, must buy the article you
want.' And then he sighed a querulous,
self-commiserating sigh, as if
in pure regret that he, the loved
and courted of so many worshippers,
should be now abandoned to the
mercy of a harsh, exacting, cold-hearted
woman like that, and even glad
of what kindness she chose to
bestow.
'It's a pity, isn't it?' said
I; and whether I rightly divined
his musings or not, the observation
chimed in with his thoughts,
for he answered - 'It can't be
helped,' with a rueful smile
at my penetration.
* * * * *
I have I seen Esther Hargrave
twice. She is a charming creature,
but her blithe spirit is almost
broken, and her sweet temper
almost spoiled, by the still
unremitting persecutions of her
mother in behalf of her rejected
suitor - not violent, but wearisome
and unremitting like a continual
dropping. The unnatural parent
seems determined to make her
daughter's life a burden, if
she will not yield to her desires.
'Mamma does all she can,' said
she, 'to make me feel myself
a burden and incumbrance to the
family, and the most ungrateful,
selfish, and undutiful daughter
that ever was born; and Walter,
too, is as stern and cold and
haughty as if he hated me outright.
I believe I should have yielded
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 counsel you to keep them
still in view.'
'Trust me I will. I threaten
mamma sometimes that I'll run
away, and disgrace the family
by earning my own livelihood,
if she torments me any more;
and then that frightens 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 the perusal of this letter
filled me with dismay for Helen's
future life and mine, there was
one great source of consolation:
it was now in my power to clear
her name from every foul aspersion.
The Millwards and the Wilsons
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
had been such gall and wormwood
to my soul. To effect this I
had only to drop the 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 the news throughout
the whole neighbourhood, without
any further exertion on my part.
Rose was delighted; and as
soon as I had told her all I
thought proper - which was all
I affected to know - she flew
with alacrity to put on her bonnet
and shawl, and hasten to carry
the glad tidings to the Millwards
and Wilsons - glad tidings, I
suspect, to none but herself
and Mary Millward - that steady,
sensible girl, whose sterling
worth had been so quickly perceived
and duly valued by the supposed
Mrs. Graham, in spite of her
plain 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 privately engaged
to Richard Wilson - a secret,
I believe, to every one but themselves.
That worthy 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
honours, and an untarnished reputation,
to the close of his collegiate
career. In due time he became
Mr. Millward's first and only
curate - for that gentleman's
declining years forced him at
last to acknowledge that the
duties of his extensive parish
were a little too much for those
vaunted energies which he was
wont to boast over his younger
and less active brethren 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, retiring 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, unconciliating
Miss Millward should ever find
a husband.
They still continued to live
at the vicarage, the lady dividing
her time between her father,
her husband, and their poor parishioners,
- and subsequently her rising
family; and now that the Reverend
Michael Millward has been gathered
to his fathers, full of years
and honours, the Reverend Richard
Wilson has succeeded him to the
vicarage of Linden-hope, greatly
to the satisfaction of its inhabitants,
who had so long tried and fully
proved his merits, and those
of his excellent and well-loved
partner.
If you are interested in the
after fate of that lady's sister,
I can only tell you - what perhaps
you have heard from another quarter
- that some twelve or thirteen
years ago she relieved the happy
couple of her presence by marrying
a wealthy tradesman of L-; and
I don't envy him his bargain.
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 lady whose superior qualities
first opened his eyes to the
folly of his boyish attachment.
As for Richard Wilson's sister,
she, having been wholly unable
to recapture Mr. Lawrence, or
obtain any partner rich and elegant
enough to suit her ideas of what
the husband of Jane Wilson ought
to be, is yet in single blessedness.
Shortly after the death of her
mother she withdrew the light
of her presence from Ryecote
Farm, finding it impossible any
longer to endure the rough manners
and unsophisticated habits of
her honest brother Robert and
his worthy wife, or the idea
of 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 close-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 the
vicar,' and her 'sister, the
vicar's lady,' but never to her
brother the 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 censorious
old maid.
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