The Tenant of Wildfell Hall

poor invalid evidently felt it a heartless proposition, and would have felt it still more heartless in me to accede to it. I therefore said I would only go and speak to them a minute, and then come back. I did but exchange a few words with them, just outside the portico, inhaling the fresh, bracing air as I stood, and then, resisting the earnest and eloquent entreaties of all three to stay a little longer, and join them in a walk round the garden, I tore myself away and returned to my patient. I had not been absent five minutes, but he reproached me bitterly for my levity and neglect. His friend espoused my cause. “Nay, nay, Huntingdon,” said he, “you’re too hard upon her; she must have food and sleep, and a mouthful of fresh air now and then, or she can’t stand it, I tell you. Look at her, man! she’s worn to a shadow already.” “What are her sufferings to mine?” said the poor invalid. “You don’t grudge me these attentions, do you, Helen?” “No, Arthur, if I could really serve you by them. I would give my life to save you, if I might.” “Would you, _indeed?_ No!” “Most willingly I would.” “Ah! that’s because you think yourself more fit to die!” There was a painful pause. He was evidently plunged in gloomy reflections; but while I pondered for something to say that might benefit without alarming him, Hattersley, whose mind had been pursuing almost the same course, broke silence with, “I say, Huntingdon, I _would_ send for a parson of some sort: if you didn’t like the vicar, you know, you could have his curate, or somebody else.” “No; none of them can benefit me if _she_ can’t,” was the answer. And the tears gushed from his eyes as he earnestly exclaimed, “Oh, Helen, if I had listened to you, it never would have come to this! and if I had heard you long ago—oh, God! how different it would have been!” “Hear me now, then, Arthur,” said I, gently pressing his hand. “It’s too late now,” said he despondingly. And after that another paroxysm of pain came on; and then his mind began to wander, and we feared his death was approaching: but an opiate was administered: his sufferings began to abate, he gradually became more composed, and at length sank into a kind of slumber. He has been quieter since; and now Hattersley has left him, expressing a hope that he shall find him better when he calls to-morrow. “Perhaps I _may_ recover,” he replied; “who knows? This may have been the crisis. What do _you_ think, Helen?” Unwilling to depress him, I gave the most cheering answer I could, but still recommended him to prepare for the possibility of what I inly feared was but too certain. But he was determined to hope. Shortly after he relapsed into a kind of doze, but now he groans again. There is a change. Suddenly he called me to his side, with such a strange, excited manner, that I feared he was delirious, but he was not. “That _was_ the crisis, Helen!” said he, delightedly. “I had an infernal pain here—it is quite gone now. I never was so easy since the fall—quite gone, by heaven!” and he clasped and kissed my hand in the very fulness of his heart; but finding I did not participate in his joy, he quickly flung it from him, and bitterly cursed my coldness and insensibility. How could I reply? Kneeling beside him, I took his hand and fondly pressed it to my lips—for the first time since our separation—and told him, as well as tears would let me speak, that it was not _that_ that kept me silent: it was the fear that this sudden cessation of pain was not so favourable a symptom as he supposed. I immediately sent for the doctor: we are now anxiously awaiting him. I will tell you what he says. There is still the same freedom from pain, the same deadness to all sensation where the suffering was most acute. My worst fears are realised: mortification has commenced. The doctor has told him there is no hope. No words can describe his anguish. I can write no more. * * * * * The next was still more distressing in the tenor of its contents. The sufferer was fast approaching dissolution—dragged almost to the verge of that awful chasm he trembled to contemplate, from which no agony of prayers or tears could save him. Nothing could comfort him now; Hattersley’s rough attempts at consolation were utterly in vain. The world was nothing to him: life and all its interests, its petty cares and transient pleasures, were a cruel mockery. To talk of the past was to torture him with vain remorse; to refer to the future was to increase his anguish; and yet to be silent was to leave him a prey to his own regrets and apprehensions. Often he dwelt with shuddering minuteness on the fate of his perishing clay—the slow, piecemeal dissolution already invading his frame: the shroud, the coffin, the dark, lonely grave, and all the horrors of corruption. “If I try,” said his afflicted wife, “to divert him from these things—to raise his thoughts to higher themes, it is no better:—‘Worse and worse!’ he groans. ‘If there be really life beyond the tomb, and judgment after death, how _can_ I face it?’—I cannot do him any good; he will neither be enlightened, nor roused, nor comforted by anything I say; and yet he clings to me with unrelenting pertinacity—with a kind of childish desperation, as if _I_ could save him from the fate he dreads. He keeps me night and day beside him. He is holding my left hand now, while I write; he has held it thus for hours: sometimes quietly, with his pale face upturned to mine: sometimes clutching my arm with violence—the big drops starting from his forehead at the thoughts of what he sees, or thinks he sees, before him. If I withdraw my hand for a moment it distresses him. “‘Stay with me, Helen,’ he says; ‘let me hold you so: it seems as if harm could not reach me while you are here. But death _will_ come—it is coming now—fast, fast!—and—oh, if I _could_ believe there was nothing after!’ “‘Don’t try to believe it, Arthur; there is joy and glory after, if you will but try to reach it!’ “‘What, for _me?_’ he said, with something like a laugh. ‘Are we not to be judged according to the deeds done in the body? Where’s the use of a probationary existence, if a man may spend it as he pleases, just contrary to God’s decrees, and then go to heaven with the best—if the vilest sinner may win the reward of the holiest saint, by merely saying, ‘I repent!’” “‘But if you _sincerely_ repent—’ “‘I _can’t_ repent; I only fear.’ “‘You only regret the past for its consequences to yourself?’ “‘Just so—except that I’m sorry to have wronged you, Nell, because you’re so good to me.’ “‘Think of the goodness of God, and you cannot but be grieved to have offended Him.’ “‘What _is_ God?—I cannot see Him or hear Him.—God is only an idea.’ “‘God is Infinite Wisdom, and Power, and Goodness—and LOVE; but if this idea is too vast for your human faculties—if your mind loses itself in its overwhelming infinitude, fix it on Him who condescended to take our nature upon Him, who was raised to heaven even in His glorified human body, in whom the fulness of the Godhead shines.’ “But he only shook his head and sighed. Then, in another paroxysm of shuddering horror, he tightened his grasp on my hand and arm, and, groaning and lamenting, still clung to me with that wild, desperate earnestness so harrowing to my soul, because I know I cannot help him. I did my best to soothe and comfort him. “‘Death is so terrible,’ he cried, ‘I cannot bear it! _You_ don’t know, Helen—you can’t imagine what it is, because you haven’t it before you! and when I’m buried, you’ll return to your old ways and be as happy as ever, and all the world will go on just as busy and merry as if I had never been; while I—’ He burst into tears. “‘You needn’t let _that_ distress you,’ I said; ‘we shall all follow you soon enough.’ “‘I wish to God I could take you with me now!’ he exclaimed: ‘you should plead for me.’ “‘No man can deliver his brother, nor make agreement unto God for him,’ I replied: ‘it cost more to redeem their souls—it cost the blood of an incarnate God, perfect and sinless in Himself, to redeem us from the bondage of the evil one:—let _Him_ plead for you.’ “But I seem to speak in vain. He does not now, as formerly, laugh these blessed truths to scorn: but still he cannot trust, or will not comprehend them. He cannot linger long. He suffers dreadfully, and so do those that wait upon him. But I will not harass you with further details: I have said enough, I think, to convince you that I did well to go to him.” * * * * * Poor, poor Helen! dreadful indeed her trials must have been! And I could do nothing to lessen them—nay, it almost seemed as if I had brought them upon her myself by my own secret desires; and whether I looked at her husband’s sufferings or her own, it seemed almost like a judgment upon myself for having cherished such a wish. The next day but one there came another letter. That too was put into my hands without a remark, and these are its contents:— Dec. 5th. He is gone at last. I sat beside him all night, with my hand fast locked in his, watching the changes of his features and listening to his failing breath. He had been silent a long time, and I thought he would never speak again, when he murmured, faintly but distinctly,—“Pray for me, Helen!” “I do pray for you, every hour and every minute, Arthur; but you must pray for yourself.” His lips moved, but emitted no sound;—then his looks became unsettled; and, from the incoherent, half-uttered words that escaped him from time to time, supposing him to be now unconscious, I gently disengaged my hand from his, intending to steal away for a breath of air, for I was almost ready to faint; but a convulsive movement of the fingers, and a faintly whispered “Don’t leave me!” immediately recalled me: I took his hand again, and held it till he was no more—and then I fainted. It was not grief; it was exhaustion, that, till then, I had been enabled successfully to combat. Oh, Frederick! none can imagine the miseries, bodily and mental, of that death-bed! How could I endure to think that that poor trembling soul was hurried away to everlasting torment? it would drive me mad. But, thank God, I have hope—not only from a vague dependence on the possibility that penitence and pardon might have reached him at the last, but from the blessed confidence that, through whatever purging fires the erring spirit may be doomed to pass—whatever fate awaits it—still it is not lost, and God, who hateth nothing that He hath made, _will_ bless it in the end! His body will be consigned on Thursday to that dark grave he so much dreaded; but the coffin must be closed as soon as possible. If you will attend the funeral, come quickly, for I need help. HELEN HUNTINGDON. CHAPTER L On reading this I had no reason to disguise my joy and hope from Frederick Lawrence, for I had none to be ashamed of. I felt no joy but that his sister was at length released from her afflictive, overwhelming toil—no hope but that she would in time recover from the effects of it, and be suffered to rest in peace and quietness, at least, for the remainder of her life. I experienced a painful commiseration for her unhappy husband (though fully aware that he had brought every particle of his sufferings upon himself, and but too well deserved them all), and a profound sympathy for her own afflictions, and deep anxiety for the consequences of those harassing cares, those dreadful vigils, that incessant and deleterious confinement beside a living corpse—for I was persuaded she had not hinted half the sufferings she had had to endure. “You will go to her, Lawrence?” said I, as I put the letter into his hand. “Yes, immediately.”