The Tenant of Wildfell Hall

hough Mr. Lawrence’s health was now quite re-established, my visits to
Woodford were as unremitting as ever; though often less protracted than
before. We seldom talked about Mrs. Huntingdon; but yet we never met
without mentioning her, for I never sought his company but with the
hope of hearing something about her, and he never sought mine at all,
because he saw me often enough without. But I always began to talk of
other things, and waited first to see if he would introduce the
subject. If he did not, I would casually ask, “Have you heard from your
sister lately?” If he said “No,” the matter was dropped: if he said
“Yes,” I would venture to inquire, “How is she?” but never “How is her
husband?” though I might be burning to know; because I had not the
hypocrisy to profess any anxiety for his recovery, and I had not the
face to express any desire for a contrary result. Had I any such
desire?—I fear I must plead guilty; but since you have heard my
confession, you must hear my justification as well—a few of the
excuses, at least, wherewith I sought to pacify my own accusing
conscience.

In the first place, you see, his life did harm to others, and evidently
no good to himself; and though I wished it to terminate, I would not
have hastened its close if, by the lifting of a finger, I could have
done so, or if a spirit had whispered in my ear that a single effort of
the will would be enough,—unless, indeed, I had the power to exchange
him for some other victim of the grave, whose life might be of service
to his race, and whose death would be lamented by his friends. But was
there any harm in wishing that, among the many thousands whose souls
would certainly be required of them before the year was over, this
wretched mortal might be one? I thought not; and therefore I wished
with all my heart that it might please heaven to remove him to a better
world, or if that might not be, still to take him out of this; for if
he were unfit to answer the summons now, after a warning sickness, and
with such an angel by his side, it seemed but too certain that he never
would be—that, on the contrary, returning health would bring returning
lust and villainy, and as he grew more certain of recovery, more
accustomed to her generous goodness, his feelings would become more
callous, his heart more flinty and impervious to her persuasive
arguments—but God knew best. Meantime, however, I could not but be
anxious for the result of His decrees; knowing, as I did, that (leaving
myself entirely out of the question), however Helen might feel
interested in her husband’s welfare, however she might deplore his
fate, still while he lived she must be miserable.

A fortnight passed away, and my inquiries were always answered in the
negative. At length a welcome “yes” drew from me the second question.
Lawrence divined my anxious thoughts, and appreciated my reserve. I
feared, at first, he was going to torture me by unsatisfactory replies,
and either leave me quite in the dark concerning what I wanted to know,
or force me to drag the information out of him, morsel by morsel, by
direct inquiries. “And serve you right,” you will say; but he was more
merciful; and in a little while he put his sister’s letter into my
hand. I silently read it, and restored it to him without comment or
remark. This mode of procedure suited him so well, that thereafter he
always pursued the plan of showing me her letters at once, when
“inquired” after her, if there were any to show—it was so much less
trouble than to tell me their contents; and I received such confidences
so quietly and discreetly that he was never induced to discontinue
them.

But I devoured those precious letters with my eyes, and never let them
go till their contents were stamped upon my mind; and when I got home,
the most important passages were entered in my diary among the
remarkable events of the day.

The first of these communications brought intelligence of a serious
relapse in Mr. Huntingdon’s illness, entirely the result of his own
infatuation in persisting in the indulgence of his appetite for
stimulating drink. In vain had she remonstrated, in vain she had
mingled his wine with water: her arguments and entreaties were a
nuisance, her interference was an insult so intolerable that, at
length, on finding she had covertly diluted the pale port that was
brought him, he threw the bottle out of the window, swearing he would
not be cheated like a baby, ordered the butler, on pain of instant
dismissal, to bring a bottle of the strongest wine in the cellar, and
affirming that he should have been well long ago if he had been let to
have his own way, but she wanted to keep him weak in order that she
might have him under her thumb—but, by the Lord Harry, he would have no
more humbug—seized a glass in one hand and the bottle in the other, and
never rested till he had drunk it dry. Alarming symptoms were the
immediate result of this “imprudence,” as she mildly termed it—symptoms
which had rather increased than diminished since; and this was the
cause of her delay in writing to her brother. Every former feature of
his malady had returned with augmented virulence: the slight external
wound, half healed, had broken out afresh; internal inflammation had
taken place, which might terminate fatally if not soon removed. Of
course, the wretched sufferer’s temper was not improved by this
calamity—in fact, I suspect it was well nigh insupportable, though his
kind nurse did not complain; but she said she had been obliged at last
to give her son in charge to Esther Hargrave, as her presence was so
constantly required in the sick-room that she could not possibly attend
to him herself; and though the child had begged to be allowed to
continue with her there, and to help her to nurse his papa, and though
she had no doubt he would have been very good and quiet, she could not
think of subjecting his young and tender feelings to the sight of so
much suffering, or of allowing him to witness his father’s impatience,
or hear the dreadful language he was wont to use in his paroxysms of
pain or irritation.

The latter (continued she) most deeply regrets the step that has
occasioned his relapse; but, as usual, he throws the blame upon me. If
I had reasoned with him like a rational creature, he says, it never
would have happened; but to be treated like a baby or a fool was enough
to put any man past his patience, and drive him to assert his
independence even at the sacrifice of his own interest. He forgets how
often I had reasoned him “past his patience” before. He appears to be
sensible of his danger; but nothing can induce him to behold it in the
proper light. The other night, while I was waiting on him, and just as
I had brought him a draught to assuage his burning thirst, he observed,
with a return of his former sarcastic bitterness, “Yes, you’re mighty
attentive now! I suppose there’s nothing you wouldn’t do for me
now?”

“You know,” said I, a little surprised at his manner, “that I am
willing to do anything I can to relieve you.”

“Yes, now, my immaculate angel; but when once you have secured your
reward, and find yourself safe in heaven, and me howling in hell-fire,
catch you lifting a finger to serve me then! No, you’ll look
complacently on, and not so much as dip the tip of your finger in water
to cool my tongue!”

“If so, it will be because of the great gulf over which I cannot pass;
and if I could look complacently on in such a case, it would be only
from the assurance that you were being purified from your sins, and
fitted to enjoy the happiness I felt.—But are you determined, Arthur,
that I shall not meet you in heaven?”

“Humph! What should I do there, I should like to know?”

“Indeed, I cannot tell; and I fear it is too certain that your tastes
and feelings must be widely altered before you can have any enjoyment
there. But do you prefer sinking, without an effort, into the state of
torment you picture to yourself?”

“Oh, it’s all a fable,” said he, contemptuously.

“Are you sure, Arthur? are you quite sure? Because, if there is any
doubt, and if you should find yourself mistaken after all, when it is
too late to turn—”

“It would be rather awkward, to be sure,” said he; “but don’t bother me
now—I’m not going to die yet. I can’t and won’t,” he added vehemently,
as if suddenly struck with the appalling aspect of that terrible event.
“Helen, you must save me!” And he earnestly seized my hand, and
looked into my face with such imploring eagerness that my heart bled
for him, and I could not speak for tears.

* * * * *

The next letter brought intelligence that the malady was fast
increasing; and the poor sufferer’s horror of death was still more
distressing than his impatience of bodily pain. All his friends had
not forsaken him; for Mr. Hattersley, hearing of his danger, had come
to see him from his distant home in the north. His wife had accompanied
him, as much for the pleasure of seeing her dear friend, from whom she
had been parted so long, as to visit her mother and sister.

Mrs. Huntingdon expressed herself glad to see Milicent once more, and
pleased to behold her so happy and well. She is now at the Grove,
continued the letter, but she often calls to see me. Mr. Hattersley
spends much of his time at Arthur’s bed-side. With more good feeling
than I gave him credit for, he evinces considerable sympathy for his
unhappy friend, and is far more willing than able to comfort him.
Sometimes he tries to joke and laugh with him, but that will not do;
sometimes he endeavours to cheer him with talk about old times, and
this at one time may serve to divert the sufferer from his own sad
thoughts; at another, it will only plunge him into deeper melancholy
than before; and then Hattersley is confounded, and knows not what to
say, unless it be a timid suggestion that the clergyman might be sent
for. But Arthur will never consent to that: he knows he has rejected
the clergyman’s well-meant admonitions with scoffing levity at other
times, and cannot dream of turning to him for consolation now.

Mr. Hattersley sometimes offers his services instead of mine, but
Arthur will not let me go: that strange whim still increases, as his
strength declines—the fancy to have me always by his side. I hardly
ever leave him, except to go into the next room, where I sometimes
snatch an hour or so of sleep when he is quiet; but even then the door
is left ajar, that he may know me to be within call. I am with him now,
while I write, and I fear my occupation annoys him; though I frequently
break off to attend to him, and though Mr. Hattersley is also by his
side. That gentleman came, as he said, to beg a holiday for me, that I
might have a run in the park, this fine frosty morning, with Milicent
and Esther and little Arthur, whom he had driven over to see me. Our
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.