The Tenant of Wildfell Hall
“There are servants within call if you want them; but you had better
lie down now and be quiet: none of them could or would attend you as
carefully as I shall do.”
“I can’t understand it at all,” said he, in bewildered perplexity. “Was
it a dream that—” and he covered his eyes with his hands, as if trying
to unravel the mystery.
“No, Arthur, it was not a dream, that your conduct was such as to
oblige me to leave you; but I heard that you were ill and alone, and I
am come back to nurse you. You need not fear to trust me: tell me all
your wants, and I will try to satisfy them. There is no one else to
care for you; and I shall not upbraid you now.”
“Oh! I see,” said he, with a bitter smile; “it’s an act of Christian
charity, whereby you hope to gain a higher seat in heaven for yourself,
and scoop a deeper pit in hell for me.”
“No; I came to offer you that comfort and assistance your situation
required; and if I could benefit your soul as well as your body, and
awaken some sense of contrition and—”
“Oh, yes; if you could overwhelm me with remorse and confusion of face,
now’s the time. What have you done with my son?”
“He is well, and you may see him some time, if you will compose
yourself, but not now.”
“Where is he?”
“He is safe.”
“Is he here?”
“Wherever he is, you will not see him till you have promised to leave
him entirely under my care and protection, and to let me take him away
whenever and wherever I please, if I should hereafter judge it
necessary to remove him again. But we will talk of that to-morrow: you
must be quiet now.”
“No, let me see him now, I promise, if it _must_ be so.”
“No—”
“I swear it, as God is in Heaven! Now, then, let me see him.”
“But I cannot trust your oaths and promises: I must have a written
agreement, and you must sign it in presence of a witness: but not
to-day—to-morrow.”
“No, to-day; now,” persisted he: and he was in such a state of feverish
excitement, and so bent upon the immediate gratification of his wish,
that I thought it better to grant it at once, as I saw he would not
rest till I did. But I was determined my son’s interest should not be
forgotten; and having clearly written out the promise I wished Mr.
Huntingdon to give upon a slip of paper, I deliberately read it over to
him, and made him sign it in the presence of Rachel. He begged I would
not insist upon this: it was a useless exposure of my want of faith in
his word to the servant. I told him I was sorry, but since he had
forfeited my confidence, he must take the consequence. He next pleaded
inability to hold the pen. “Then we must wait until you can hold it,”
said I. Upon which he said he would try; but then he could not see to
write. I placed my finger where the signature was to be, and told him
he might write his name in the dark, if he only knew where to put it.
But he had not power to form the letters. “In that case, you must be
too ill to see the child,” said I; and finding me inexorable, he at
length managed to ratify the agreement; and I bade Rachel send the boy.
All this may strike you as harsh, but I felt I must not lose my present
advantage, and my son’s future welfare should not be sacrificed to any
mistaken tenderness for this man’s feelings. Little Arthur had not
forgotten his father, but thirteen months of absence, during which he
had seldom been permitted to hear a word about him, or hardly to
whisper his name, had rendered him somewhat shy; and when he was
ushered into the darkened room where the sick man lay, so altered from
his former self, with fiercely flushed face and wildly-gleaming eyes—he
instinctively clung to me, and stood looking on his father with a
countenance expressive of far more awe than pleasure.
“Come here, Arthur,” said the latter, extending his hand towards him.
The child went, and timidly touched that burning hand, but almost
started in alarm, when his father suddenly clutched his arm and drew
him nearer to his side.
“Do you know me?” asked Mr. Huntingdon, intently perusing his features.
“Yes.”
“Who am I?”
“Papa.”
“Are you glad to see me?”
“Yes.”
“You’re _not!_” replied the disappointed parent, relaxing his hold, and
darting a vindictive glance at me.
Arthur, thus released, crept back to me and put his hand in mine. His
father swore I had made the child hate him, and abused and cursed me
bitterly. The instant he began I sent our son out of the room; and when
he paused to breathe, I calmly assured him that he was entirely
mistaken; I had never once attempted to prejudice his child against
him.
“I did indeed desire him to _forget_ you,” I said, “and especially to
forget the lessons you taught him; and for that cause, and to lessen
the danger of discovery, I own I have generally discouraged his
inclination to talk about you; but no one can blame me for that, I
think.”
The invalid only replied by groaning aloud, and rolling his head on a
pillow in a paroxysm of impatience.
“I am in hell, already!” cried he. “This cursed thirst is burning my
heart to ashes! Will _nobody_—”
Before he could finish the sentence I had poured out a glass of some
acidulated, cooling drink that was on the table, and brought it to him.
He drank it greedily, but muttered, as I took away the glass,—“I
suppose you’re heaping coals of fire on my head, you think?”
Not noticing this speech, I asked if there was anything else I could do
for him.
“Yes; I’ll give you another opportunity of showing your Christian
magnanimity,” sneered he: “set my pillow straight, and these confounded
bed-clothes.” I did so. “There: now get me another glass of that slop.”
I complied. “This is delightful, isn’t it?” said he with a malicious
grin, as I held it to his lips; “you never hoped for such a glorious
opportunity?”
“Now, shall I stay with you?” said I, as I replaced the glass on the
table: “or will you be more quiet if I go and send the nurse?”
“Oh, yes, you’re wondrous gentle and obliging! But you’ve driven me mad
with it all!” responded he, with an impatient toss.
“I’ll leave you, then,” said I; and I withdrew, and did not trouble him
with my presence again that day, except for a minute or two at a time,
just to see how he was and what he wanted.
Next morning the doctor ordered him to be bled; and after that he was
more subdued and tranquil. I passed half the day in his room at
different intervals. My presence did not appear to agitate or irritate
him as before, and he accepted my services quietly, without any bitter
remarks: indeed, he scarcely spoke at all, except to make known his
wants, and hardly then. But on the morrow, that is to say, in
proportion as he recovered from the state of exhaustion and
stupefaction, his ill-nature appeared to revive.
“Oh, this sweet revenge!” cried he, when I had been doing all I could
to make him comfortable and to remedy the carelessness of his nurse.
“And you can enjoy it with such a quiet conscience too, because it’s
all in the way of duty.”
“It is well for me that I _am_ doing my duty,” said I, with a
bitterness I could not repress, “for it is the only comfort I have; and
the satisfaction of my own conscience, it seems, is the only reward I
need look for!”
He looked rather surprised at the earnestness of my manner.
“What reward _did_ you look for?” he asked.
“You will think me a liar if I tell you; but I _did_ hope to benefit
you: as well to better your mind as to alleviate your present
sufferings; but it appears I am to do neither; your own bad spirit will
not let me. As far as _you_ are concerned, I have sacrificed my own
feelings, and all the little earthly comfort that was left me, to no
purpose; and every little thing I do for you is ascribed to
self-righteous malice and refined revenge!”
“It’s all very fine, I daresay,” said he, eyeing me with stupid
amazement; “and of course I ought to be melted to tears of penitence
and admiration at the sight of so much generosity and superhuman
goodness; but you see I can’t manage it. However, pray do me all the
good you can, if you do really find any pleasure in it; for you
perceive I am almost as miserable just now as you need wish to see me.
Since you came, I confess, I have had better attendance than before,
for these wretches neglected me shamefully, and all my old friends seem
to have fairly forsaken me. I’ve had a dreadful time of it, I assure
you: I sometimes thought I should have died: do you think there’s any
chance?”
“There’s always a chance of death; and it is always well to live with
such a chance in view.”
“Yes, yes! but do you think there’s any likelihood that this illness
will have a fatal termination?”
“I cannot tell; but, supposing it should, how are you prepared to meet
the event?”
“Why, the doctor told me I wasn’t to think about it, for I was sure to
get better if I stuck to his regimen and prescriptions.”
“I hope you may, Arthur; but neither the doctor nor I can speak with
certainty in such a case; there is internal injury, and it is difficult
to know to what extent.”
“There now! you want to scare me to death.”
“No; but I don’t want to lull you to false security. If a consciousness
of the uncertainty of life can dispose you to serious and useful
thoughts, I would not deprive you of the benefit of such reflections,
whether you do eventually recover or not. Does the idea of death appal
you very much?”
“It’s just the only thing I can’t bear to think of; so if you’ve any—”
“But it must come some time,” interrupted I, “and if it be years hence,
it will as certainly overtake you as if it came to-day,—and no doubt be
as unwelcome then as now, unless you—”
“Oh, hang it! don’t torment me with your preachments now, unless you
want to kill me outright. I can’t stand it, I tell you. I’ve sufferings
enough without that. If you think there’s danger, save me from it; and
then, in gratitude, I’ll hear whatever you like to say.”
I accordingly dropped the unwelcome topic. And now, Frederick, I think
I may bring my letter to a close. From these details you may form your
own judgment of the state of my patient, and of my own position and
future prospects. Let me hear from you soon, and I will write again to
tell you how we get on; but now that my presence is tolerated, and even
required, in the sick-room, I shall have but little time to spare
between my husband and my son,—for I must not entirely neglect the
latter: it would not do to keep him always with Rachel, and I dare not
leave him for a moment with any of the other servants, or suffer him to
be alone, lest he should meet them. If his father get worse, I shall
ask Esther Hargrave to take charge of him for a time, till I have
reorganised the household at least; but I greatly prefer keeping him
under my own eye.
I find myself in rather a singular position: I am exerting my utmost
endeavours to promote the recovery and reformation of my husband, and
if I succeed, what shall I do? My duty, of course,—but how? No matter;
I can perform the task that is before me now, and God will give me
strength to do whatever He requires hereafter. Good-by, dear Frederick.
HELEN HUNTINGDON.
“What do you think of it?” said Lawrence, as I silently refolded the
letter.
“It seems to me,” returned I, “that she is casting her pearls before
swine. May they be satisfied with trampling them under their feet, and
not turn again and rend her! But I shall say no more against her: I see
that she was actuated by the best and noblest motives in what she has
done; and if the act is not a wise one, may heaven protect her from its
consequences! May I keep this letter, Lawrence?—you see she has never
once mentioned me throughout—or made the most distant allusion to me;
therefore, there can be no impropriety or harm in it.”
“And, therefore, why should you wish to keep it?”