The Tenant of Wildfell Hall Anne Brontë (librera reader .txt) 📖

“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 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’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 sickroom, 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. Goodbye, 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?”

“Were not these characters written by her hand? and were not these words conceived in her mind, and many of them spoken by her lips?”

“Well,” said he. And so I kept it; otherwise, Halford, 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 her real history and circumstance, just so far as is necessary to make the neighbourhood 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 favour she could do me; and tell her⁠—no, nothing more. You see I know the address, and I might write to 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, you’ll let me know?”

“If all be well, I’ll come myself and tell you immediately.”

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;