Wildfell Hall 21

THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL

PART 20

CHAPTER XLIV

 

October 24th.—Thank heaven, I am free and safe at last.  Early we rose, swiftly and quietly dressed, slowly and stealthily descended to the hall, where Benson stood ready with a light, to open the door and fasten it after us.  We were obliged to let one man into our secret on account of the boxes, &c.  All the servants were but too well acquainted with their master’s conduct, and either Benson or John would have been willing to serve me; but as the former was more staid and elderly, and a crony of Rachel’s besides, I of course directed her to make choice of him as her assistant and confidant on the occasion, as far as necessity demanded, I only hope he may not be brought into trouble thereby, and only wish I could reward him for the perilous service he was so ready to undertake.  I slipped two guineas into his hand, by way of remembrance, as he stood in the doorway, holding the candle to light our departure, with a tear in his honest grey eye, and a host of good wishes depicted on his solemn countenance.  Alas!  I could offer no more: I had barely sufficient remaining for the probable expenses of the journey.

What trembling joy it was when the little wicket closed behind us, as we issued from the park!  Then, for one moment, I paused, to inhale one draught of that cool, bracing air, and venture one look back upon the house.  All was dark and still: no light glimmered in the windows, no wreath of smoke obscured the stars that sparkled above it in the frosty sky.  As I bade farewell for ever to that place, the scene of so much guilt and misery, I felt glad that I had not left it before, for now there was no doubt about the propriety of such a step—no shadow of remorse for him I left behind.  There was nothing to disturb my joy but the fear of detection; and every step removed us further from the chance of that.

We had left Grassdale many miles behind us before the round red sun arose to welcome our deliverance; and if any inhabitant of its vicinity had chanced to see us then, as we bowled along on the top of the coach, I scarcely think they would have suspected our identity.  As I intend to be taken for a widow, I thought it advisable to enter my new abode in mourning: I was, therefore, attired in a plain black silk dress and mantle, a black veil (which I kept carefully over my face for the first twenty or thirty miles of the journey), and a black silk bonnet, which I had been constrained to borrow of Rachel, for want of such an article myself.  It was not in the newest fashion, of course; but none the worse for that, under present circumstances.  Arthur was clad in his plainest clothes, and wrapped in a coarse woollen shawl; and Rachel was muffled in a grey cloak and hood that had seen better days, and gave her more the appearance of an ordinary though decent old woman, than of a lady’s-maid.

Oh, what delight it was to be thus seated aloft, rumbling along the broad, sunshiny road, with the fresh morning breeze in my face, surrounded by an unknown country, all smiling—cheerfully, gloriously smiling in the yellow lustre of those early beams; with my darling child in my arms, almost as happy as myself, and my faithful friend beside me: a prison and despair behind me, receding further, further back at every clatter of the horses’ feet; and liberty and hope before!  I could hardly refrain from praising God aloud for my deliverance, or astonishing my fellow-passengers by some surprising outburst of hilarity.

But the journey was a very long one, and we were all weary enough before the close of it.  It was far into the night when we reached the town of L—, and still we were seven miles from our journey’s end; and there was no more coaching, nor any conveyance to be had, except a common cart, and that with the greatest difficulty, for half the town was in bed.  And a dreary ride we had of it, that last stage of the journey, cold and weary as we were; sitting on our boxes, with nothing to cling to, nothing to lean against, slowly dragged and cruelly shaken over the rough, hilly roads.  But Arthur was asleep in Rachel’s lap, and between us we managed pretty well to shield him from the cold night air.

At last we began to ascend a terribly steep and stony lane, which, in spite of the darkness, Rachel said she remembered well: she had often walked there with me in her arms, and little thought to come again so many years after, under such circumstances as the present.  Arthur being now awakened by the jolting and the stoppages, we all got out and walked.  We had not far to go; but what if Frederick should not have received my letter? or if he should not have had time to prepare the rooms for our reception, and we should find them all dark, damp, and comfortless, destitute of food, fire, and furniture, after all our toil?

At length the grim, dark pile appeared before us.  The lane conducted us round by the back way.  We entered the desolate court, and in breathless anxiety surveyed the ruinous mass.  Was it all blackness and desolation?  No; one faint red glimmer cheered us from a window where the lattice was in good repair.  The door was fastened, but after due knocking and waiting, and some parleying with a voice from an upper window, we were admitted by an old woman who had been commissioned to air and keep the house till our arrival, into a tolerably snug little apartment, formerly the scullery of the mansion, which Frederick had now fitted up as a kitchen.  Here she procured us a light, roused the fire to a cheerful blaze, and soon prepared a simple repast for our refreshment; while we disencumbered ourselves of our travelling-gear, and took a hasty survey of our new abode.  Besides the kitchen, there were two bedrooms, a good-sized parlour, and another smaller one, which I destined for my studio, all well aired and seemingly in good repair, but only partly furnished with a few old articles, chiefly of ponderous black oak, the veritable ones that had been there before, and which had been kept as antiquarian relics in my brother’s present residence, and now, in all haste, transported back again.

The old woman brought my supper and Arthur’s into the parlour, and told me, with all due formality, that ‘the master desired his compliments to Mrs. Graham, and he had prepared the rooms as well as he could upon so short a notice; but he would do himself the pleasure of calling upon her to-morrow, to receive her further commands.’

I was glad to ascend the stern-looking stone staircase, and lie down in the gloomy, old-fashioned bed, beside my little Arthur.  He was asleep in a minute; but, weary as I was, my excited feelings and restless cogitations kept me awake till dawn began to struggle with the darkness; but sleep was sweet and refreshing when it came, and the waking was delightful beyond expression.  It was little Arthur that roused me, with his gentle kisses.  He was here, then, safely clasped in my arms, and many leagues away from his unworthy father!  Broad daylight illumined the apartment, for the sun was high in heaven, though obscured by rolling masses of autumnal vapour.

The scene, indeed, was not remarkably cheerful in itself, either within or without.  The large bare room, with its grim old furniture, the narrow, latticed windows, revealing the dull, grey sky above and the desolate wilderness below, where the dark stone walls and iron gate, the rank growth of grass and weeds, and the hardy evergreens of preternatural forms, alone remained to tell that there had been once a garden,—and the bleak and barren fields beyond might have struck me as gloomy enough at another time; but now, each separate object seemed to echo back my own exhilarating sense of hope and freedom: indefinite dreams of the far past and bright anticipations of the future seemed to greet me at every turn.  I should rejoice with more security, to be sure, had the broad sea rolled between my present and my former homes; but surely in this lonely spot I might remain unknown; and then I had my brother here to cheer my solitude with his occasional visits.

He came that morning; and I have had several interviews with him since; but he is obliged to be very cautious when and how he comes; not even his servants or his best friends must know of his visits to Wildfell—except on such occasions as a landlord might be expected to call upon a stranger tenant—lest suspicion should be excited against me, whether of the truth or of some slanderous falsehood.

I have now been here nearly a fortnight, and, but for one disturbing care, the haunting dread of discovery, I am comfortably settled in my new home: Frederick has supplied me with all requisite furniture and painting materials: Rachel has sold most of my clothes for me, in a distant town, and procured me a wardrobe more suitable to my present position: I have a second-hand piano, and a tolerably well-stocked bookcase in my parlour; and my other room has assumed quite a professional, business-like appearance already.  I am working hard to repay my brother for all his expenses on my account; not that there is the slightest necessity for anything of the kind, but it pleases me to do so: I shall have so much more pleasure in my labour, my earnings, my frugal fare, and household economy, when I know that I am paying my way honestly, and that what little I possess is legitimately all my own; and that no one suffers for my folly—in a pecuniary way at least.  I shall make him take the last penny I owe him, if I can possibly effect it without offending him too deeply.  I have a few pictures already done, for I told Rachel to pack up all I had; and she executed her commission but too well—for among the rest, she put up a portrait of Mr. Huntingdon that I had painted in the first year of my marriage.  It struck me with dismay, at the moment, when I took it from the box and beheld those eyes fixed upon me in their mocking mirth, as if exulting still in his power to control my fate, and deriding my efforts to escape.

How widely different had been my feelings in painting that portrait to what they now were in looking upon it!  How I had studied and toiled to produce something, as I thought, worthy of the original! what mingled pleasure and dissatisfaction I had had in the result of my labours!—pleasure for the likeness I had caught; dissatisfaction, because I had not made it handsome enough.  Now, I see no beauty in it—nothing pleasing in any part of its expression; and yet it is far handsomer and far more agreeable—far less repulsive I should rather say—than he is now: for these six years have wrought almost as great a change upon himself as on my feelings regarding him.  The frame, however, is handsome enough; it will serve for another painting.  The picture itself I have not destroyed, as I had first intended; I have put it aside; not, I think, from any lurking tenderness for the memory of past affection, nor yet to remind me of my former folly, but chiefly that I may compare my son’s features and countenance with this, as he grows up, and thus be enabled to judge how much or how little he resembles his father—if I may be allowed to keep him with me still, and never to behold that father’s face again—a blessing I hardly dare reckon upon.

It seems Mr. Huntingdon is making every exertion to discover the place of my retreat.  He has been in person to Staningley, seeking redress for his grievances—expecting to hear of his victims, if not to find them there—and has told so many lies, and with such unblushing coolness, that my uncle more than half believes him, and strongly advocates my going back to him and being friends again.  But my aunt knows better: she is too cool and cautious, and too well acquainted with both my husband’s character and my own to be imposed upon by any specious falsehoods the former could invent.  But he does not want me back; he wants my child; and gives my friends to understand that if I prefer living apart from him, he will indulge the whim and let me do so unmolested, and even settle a reasonable allowance on me, provided I will immediately deliver up his son.  But heaven help me!  I am not going to sell my child for gold, though it were to save both him and me from starving: it would be better that he should die with me than that he should live with his father.

Frederick showed me a letter he had received from that gentleman, full of cool impudence such as would astonish any one who did not know him, but such as, I am convinced, none would know better how to answer than my brother.  He gave me no account of his reply, except to tell me that he had not acknowledged his acquaintance with my place of refuge, but rather left it to be inferred that it was quite unknown to him, by saying it was useless to apply to him, or any other of my relations, for information on the subject, as it appeared I had been driven to such extremity that I had concealed my retreat even from my best friends; but that if he had known it, or should at any time be made aware of it, most certainly Mr. Huntingdon would be the last person to whom he should communicate the intelligence; and that he need not trouble himself to bargain for the child, for he (Frederick) fancied he knew enough of his sister to enable him to declare, that wherever she might be, or however situated, no consideration would induce her to deliver him up.

30th.—Alas! my kind neighbours will not let me alone.  By some means they have ferreted me out, and I have had to sustain visits from three different families, all more or less bent upon discovering who and what I am, whence I came, and why I have chosen such a home as this.  Their society is unnecessary to me, to say the least, and their curiosity annoys and alarms me: if I gratify it, it may lead to the ruin of my son, and if I am too mysterious it will only excite their suspicions, invite conjecture, and rouse them to greater exertions—and perhaps be the means of spreading my fame from parish to parish, till it reach the ears of some one who will carry it to the Lord of Grassdale Manor.

I shall be expected to return their calls, but if, upon inquiry, I find that any of them live too far away for Arthur to accompany me, they must expect in vain for a while, for I cannot bear to leave him, unless it be to go to church, and I have not attempted that yet: for—it may be foolish weakness, but I am under such constant dread of his being snatched away, that I am never easy when he is not by my side; and I fear these nervous terrors would so entirely disturb my devotions, that I should obtain no benefit from the attendance.  I mean, however, to make the experiment next Sunday, and oblige myself to leave him in charge of Rachel for a few hours.  It will be a hard task, but surely no imprudence; and the vicar has been to scold me for my neglect of the ordinances of religion.  I had no sufficient excuse to offer, and I promised, if all were well, he should see me in my pew next Sunday; for I do not wish to be set down as an infidel; and, besides, I know I should derive great comfort and benefit from an occasional attendance at public worship, if I could only have faith and fortitude to compose my thoughts in conformity with the solemn occasion, and forbid them to be for ever dwelling on my absent child, and on the dreadful possibility of finding him gone when I return; and surely God in His mercy will preserve me from so severe a trial: for my child’s own sake, if not for mine, He will not suffer him to be torn away.

November 3rd.—I have made some further acquaintance with my neighbours.  The fine gentleman and beau of the parish and its vicinity (in his own estimation, at least) is a young . . . .

* * * * *

Here it ended.  The rest was torn away.  How cruel, just when she was going to mention me! for I could not doubt it was your humble servant she was about to mention, though not very favourably, of course.  I could tell that, as well by those few words as by the recollection of her whole aspect and demeanour towards me in the commencement of our acquaintance.  Well!  I could readily forgive her prejudice against me, and her hard thoughts of our sex in general, when I saw to what brilliant specimens her experience had been limited.

Respecting me, however, she had long since seen her error, and perhaps fallen into another in the opposite extreme: for if, at first, her opinion of me had been lower than I deserved, I was convinced that now my deserts were lower than her opinion; and if the former part of this continuation had been torn away to avoid wounding my feelings, perhaps the latter portion had been removed for fear of ministering too much to my self-conceit.  At any rate, I would have given much to have seen it all—to have witnessed the gradual change, and watched the progress of her esteem and friendship for me, and whatever warmer feeling she might have; to have seen how much of love there was in her regard, and how it had grown upon her in spite of her virtuous resolutions and strenuous exertions to—but no, I had no right to see it: all this was too sacred for any eyes but her own, and she had done well to keep it from me.

CHAPTER XLV

 

Well, Halford, what do you think of all this? and while you read it, did you ever picture to yourself what my feelings would probably be during its perusal?  Most likely not; but I am not going to descant upon them now: I will only make this acknowledgment, little honourable as it may be to human nature, and especially to myself,—that the former half of the narrative was, to me, more painful than the latter, not that I was at all insensible to Mrs. Huntingdon’s wrongs or unmoved by her sufferings, but, I must confess, I felt a kind of selfish gratification in watching her husband’s gradual decline in her good graces, and seeing how completely he extinguished all her affection at last.  The effect of the whole, however, in spite of all my sympathy for her, and my fury against him, was to relieve my mind of an intolerable burden, and fill my heart with joy, as if some friend had roused me from a dreadful nightmare.

It was now near eight o’clock in the morning, for my candle had expired in the midst of my perusal, leaving me no alternative but to get another, at the expense of alarming the house, or to go to bed, and wait the return of daylight.  On my mother’s account, I chose the latter; but how willingly I sought my pillow, and how much sleep it brought me, I leave you to imagine.

At the first appearance of dawn, I rose, and brought the manuscript to the window, but it was impossible to read it yet.  I devoted half an hour to dressing, and then returned to it again.  Now, with a little difficulty, I could manage; and with intense and eager interest, I devoured the remainder of its contents.  When it was ended, and my transient regret at its abrupt conclusion was over, I opened the window and put out my head to catch the cooling breeze, and imbibe deep draughts of the pure morning air.  A splendid morning it was; the half-frozen dew lay thick on the grass, the swallows were twittering round me, the rooks cawing, and cows lowing in the distance; and early frost and summer sunshine mingled their sweetness in the air.  But I did not think of that: a confusion of countless thoughts and varied emotions crowded upon me while I gazed abstractedly on the lovely face of nature.  Soon, however, this chaos of thoughts and passions cleared away, giving place to two distinct emotions: joy unspeakable that my adored Helen was all I wished to think her—that through the noisome vapours of the world’s aspersions and my own fancied convictions, her character shone bright, and clear, and stainless as that sun I could not bear to look on; and shame and deep remorse for my own conduct.

Immediately after breakfast I hurried over to Wildfell Hall.  Rachel had risen many degrees in my estimation since yesterday.  I was ready to greet her quite as an old friend; but every kindly impulse was checked by the look of cold distrust she cast upon me on opening the door.  The old virgin had constituted herself the guardian of her lady’s honour, I suppose, and doubtless she saw in me another Mr. Hargrave, only the more dangerous in being more esteemed and trusted by her mistress.

‘Missis can’t see any one to-day, sir—she’s poorly,’ said she, in answer to my inquiry for Mrs. Graham.

‘But I must see her, Rachel,’ said I, placing my hand on the door to prevent its being shut against me.

‘Indeed, sir, you can’t,’ replied she, settling her countenance in still more iron frigidity than before.

‘Be so good as to announce me.’

‘It’s no manner of use, Mr. Markham; she’s poorly, I tell you.’

Just in time to prevent me from committing the impropriety of taking the citadel by storm, and pushing forward unannounced, an inner door opened, and little Arthur appeared with his frolicsome playfellow, the dog.  He seized my hand between both his, and smilingly drew me forward.

‘Mamma says you’re to come in, Mr. Markham,’ said he, ‘and I am to go out and play with Rover.’

Rachel retired with a sigh, and I stepped into the parlour and shut the door.  There, before the fire-place, stood the tall, graceful figure, wasted with many sorrows.  I cast the manuscript on the table, and looked in her face.  Anxious and pale, it was turned towards me; her clear, dark eyes were fixed on mine with a gaze so intensely earnest that they bound me like a spell.

‘Have you looked it over?’ she murmured.  The spell was broken.

‘I’ve read it through,’ said I, advancing into the room,—‘and I want to know if you’ll forgive me—if you can forgive me?’

She did not answer, but her eyes glistened, and a faint red mantled on her lip and cheek.  As I approached, she abruptly turned away, and went to the window.  It was not in anger, I was well assured, but only to conceal or control her emotion.  I therefore ventured to follow and stand beside her there,—but not to speak.  She gave me her hand, without turning her head, and murmured in a voice she strove in vain to steady,—‘Can you forgive me?’

It might be deemed a breach of trust, I thought, to convey that lily hand to my lips, so I only gently pressed it between my own, and smilingly replied,—‘I hardly can.  You should have told me this before.  It shows a want of confidence—’

‘Oh, no,’ cried she, eagerly interrupting me; ‘it was not that.  It was no want of confidence in you; but if I had told you anything of my history, I must have told you all, in order to excuse my conduct; and I might well shrink from such a disclosure, till necessity obliged me to make it.  But you forgive me?—I have done very, very wrong, I know; but, as usual, I have reaped the bitter fruits of my own error,—and must reap them to the end.’

Bitter, indeed, was the tone of anguish, repressed by resolute firmness, in which this was spoken.  Now, I raised her hand to my lips, and fervently kissed it again and again; for tears prevented any other reply.  She suffered these wild caresses without resistance or resentment; then, suddenly turning from me, she paced twice or thrice through the room.  I knew by the contraction of her brow, the tight compression of her lips, and wringing of her hands, that meantime a violent conflict between reason and passion was silently passing within.  At length she paused before the empty fire-place, and turning to me, said calmly—if that might be called calmness which was so evidently the result of a violent effort,—‘Now, Gilbert, you must leave me—not this moment, but soon—and you must never come again.’

‘Never again, Helen? just when I love you more than ever.’

‘For that very reason, if it be so, we should not meet again.  I thought this interview was necessary—at least, I persuaded myself it was so—that we might severally ask and receive each other’s pardon for the past; but there can be no excuse for another.  I shall leave this place, as soon as I have means to seek another asylum; but our intercourse must end here.’

‘End here!’ echoed I; and approaching the high, carved chimney-piece, I leant my hand against its heavy mouldings, and dropped my forehead upon it in silent, sullen despondency.

‘You must not come again,’ continued she.  There was a slight tremor in her voice, but I thought her whole manner was provokingly composed, considering the dreadful sentence she pronounced.  ‘You must know why I tell you so,’ she resumed; ‘and you must see that it is better to part at once: —if it be hard to say adieu for ever, you ought to help me.’  She paused.  I did not answer.  ‘Will you promise not to come?—if you won’t, and if you do come here again, you will drive me away before I know where to find another place of refuge—or how to seek it.’

‘Helen,’ said I, turning impatiently towards her, ‘I cannot discuss the matter of eternal separation calmly and dispassionately as you can do.  It is no question of mere expedience with me; it is a question of life and death!’

She was silent.  Her pale lips quivered, and her fingers trembled with agitation, as she nervously entwined them in the hair-chain to which was appended her small gold watch—the only thing of value she had permitted herself to keep.  I had said an unjust and cruel thing; but I must needs follow it up with something worse.

‘But, Helen!’ I began in a soft, low tone, not daring to raise my eyes to her face, ‘that man is not your husband: in the sight of heaven he has forfeited all claim to—‘  She seized my arm with a grasp of startling energy.

‘Gilbert, don’t!’ she cried, in a tone that would have pierced a heart of adamant.  ‘For God’s sake, don’t you attempt these arguments!  No fiend could torture me like this!’

‘I won’t, I won’t!’ said I, gently laying my hand on hers; almost as much alarmed at her vehemence as ashamed of my own misconduct.

‘Instead of acting like a true friend,’ continued she, breaking from me, and throwing herself into the old arm-chair, ‘and helping me with all your might—or rather taking your own part in the struggle of right against passion—you leave all the burden to me;—and not satisfied with that, you do your utmost to fight against me—when you know that!—‘ she paused, and hid her face in her handkerchief.

‘Forgive me, Helen!’ pleaded I.  ‘I will never utter another word on the subject.  But may we not still meet as friends?’

‘It will not do,’ she replied, mournfully shaking her head; and then she raised her eyes to mine, with a mildly reproachful look that seemed to say, ‘You must know that as well as I.’

‘Then what must we do?’ cried I, passionately.  But immediately I added in a quieter tone—‘I’ll do whatever you desire; only don’t say that this meeting is to be our last.’

‘And why not?  Don’t you know that every time we meet the thoughts of the final parting will become more painful?  Don’t you feel that every interview makes us dearer to each other than the last?’

The utterance of this last question was hurried and low, and the downcast eyes and burning blush too plainly showed that she, at least, had felt it.  It was scarcely prudent to make such an admission, or to add—as she presently did—‘I have power to bid you go, now: another time it might be different,’—but I was not base enough to attempt to take advantage of her candour.

‘But we may write,’ I timidly suggested.  ‘You will not deny me that consolation?’

‘We can hear of each other through my brother.’

‘Your brother!’  A pang of remorse and shame shot through me.  She had not heard of the injury he had sustained at my hands; and I had not the courage to tell her.  ‘Your brother will not help us,’ I said: ‘he would have all communion between us to be entirely at an end.’

‘And he would be right, I suppose.  As a friend of both, he would wish us both well; and every friend would tell us it was our interest, as well as our duty, to forget each other, though we might not see it ourselves.  But don’t be afraid, Gilbert,’ she added, smiling sadly at my manifest discomposure; ‘there is little chance of my forgetting you.  But I did not mean that Frederick should be the means of transmitting messages between us—only that each might know, through him, of the other’s welfare;—and more than this ought not to be: for you are young, Gilbert, and you ought to marry—and will some time, though you may think it impossible now: and though I hardly can say I wish you to forget me, I know it is right that you should, both for your own happiness, and that of your future wife;—and therefore I must and will wish it,’ she added resolutely.

‘And you are young too, Helen,’ I boldly replied; ‘and when that profligate scoundrel has run through his career, you will give your hand to me—I’ll wait till then.’

But she would not leave me this support.  Independently of the moral evil of basing our hopes upon the death of another, who, if unfit for this world, was at least no less so for the next, and whose amelioration would thus become our bane and his greatest transgression our greatest benefit,—she maintained it to be madness: many men of Mr. Huntingdon’s habits had lived to a ripe though miserable old age.  ‘And if I,’ said she, ‘am young in years, I am old in sorrow; but even if trouble should fail to kill me before vice destroys him, think, if he reached but fifty years or so, would you wait twenty or fifteen—in vague uncertainty and suspense—through all the prime of youth and manhood—and marry at last a woman faded and worn as I shall be—without ever having seen me from this day to that?—You would not,’ she continued, interrupting my earnest protestations of unfailing constancy,—‘or if you would, you should not.  Trust me, Gilbert; in this matter I know better than you.  You think me cold and stony-hearted, and you may, but—’

‘I don’t, Helen.’

‘Well, never mind: you might if you would: but I have not spent my solitude in utter idleness, and I am not speaking now from the impulse of the moment, as you do.  I have thought of all these matters again and again; I have argued these questions with myself, and pondered well our past, and present, and future career; and, believe me, I have come to the right conclusion at last.  Trust my words rather than your own feelings now, and in a few years you will see that I was right—though at present I hardly can see it myself,’ she murmured with a sigh as she rested her head on her hand.  ‘And don’t argue against me any more: all you can say has been already said by my own heart and refuted by my reason.  It was hard enough to combat those suggestions as they were whispered within me; in your mouth they are ten times worse, and if you knew how much they pain me you would cease at once, I know.  If you knew my present feelings, you would even try to relieve them at the expense of your own.’

‘I will go—in a minute, if that can relieve you—and never return!’ said I, with bitter emphasis.  ‘But, if we may never meet, and never hope to meet again, is it a crime to exchange our thoughts by letter?  May not kindred spirits meet, and mingle in communion, whatever be the fate and circumstances of their earthly tenements?’

‘They may, they may!’ cried she, with a momentary burst of glad enthusiasm.  ‘I thought of that too, Gilbert, but I feared to mention it, because I feared you would not understand my views upon the subject.  I fear it even now—I fear any kind friend would tell us we are both deluding ourselves with the idea of keeping up a spiritual intercourse without hope or prospect of anything further—without fostering vain regrets and hurtful aspirations, and feeding thoughts that should be sternly and pitilessly left to perish of inanition.’

‘Never mind our kind friends: if they can part our bodies, it is enough; in God’s name, let them not sunder our souls!’ cried I, in terror lest she should deem it her duty to deny us this last remaining consolation.

‘But no letters can pass between us here,’ said she, ‘without giving fresh food for scandal; and when I departed, I had intended that my new abode should be unknown to you as to the rest of the world; not that I should doubt your word if you promised not to visit me, but I thought you would be more tranquil in your own mind if you knew you could not do it, and likely to find less difficulty in abstracting yourself from me if you could not picture my situation to your mind.  But listen,’ said she, smilingly putting up her finger to check my impatient reply: ‘in six months you shall hear from Frederick precisely where I am; and if you still retain your wish to write to me, and think you can maintain a correspondence all thought, all spirit—such as disembodied souls or unimpassioned friends, at least, might hold,—write, and I will answer you.’

‘Six months!’

‘Yes, to give your present ardour time to cool, and try the truth and constancy of your soul’s love for mine.  And now, enough has been said between us.  Why can’t we part at once?’ exclaimed she, almost wildly, after a moment’s pause, as she suddenly rose from her chair, with her hands resolutely clasped together.  I thought it was my duty to go without delay; and I approached and half extended my hand as if to take leave—she grasped it in silence.  But this thought of final separation was too intolerable: it seemed to squeeze the blood out of my heart; and my feet were glued to the floor.

‘And must we never meet again?’ I murmured, in the anguish of my soul.

‘We shall meet in heaven.  Let us think of that,’ said she in a tone of desperate calmness; but her eyes glittered wildly, and her face was deadly pale.

‘But not as we are now,’ I could not help replying.  ‘It gives me little consolation to think I shall next behold you as a disembodied spirit, or an altered being, with a frame perfect and glorious, but not like this!—and a heart, perhaps, entirely estranged from me.’

‘No, Gilbert, there is perfect love in heaven!’

‘So perfect, I suppose, that it soars above distinctions, and you will have no closer sympathy with me than with any one of the ten thousand thousand angels and the innumerable multitude of happy spirits round us.’

‘Whatever I am, you will be the same, and, therefore, cannot possibly regret it; and whatever that change may be we know it must be for the better.’

‘But if I am to be so changed that I shall cease to adore you with my whole heart and soul, and love you beyond every other creature, I shall not be myself; and though, if ever I win heaven at all, I must, I know, be infinitely better and happier than I am now, my earthly nature cannot rejoice in the anticipation of such beatitude, from which itself and its chief joy must be excluded.’

‘Is your love all earthly, then?’

‘No, but I am supposing we shall have no more intimate communion with each other than with the rest.’

‘If so, it will be because we love them more, and not each other less.  Increase of love brings increase of happiness, when it is mutual, and pure as that will be.’

‘But can you, Helen, contemplate with delight this prospect of losing me in a sea of glory?’

‘I own I cannot; but we know not that it will be so;—and I do know that to regret the exchange of earthly pleasures for the joys of heaven, is as if the grovelling caterpillar should lament that it must one day quit the nibbled leaf to soar aloft and flutter through the air, roving at will from flower to flower, sipping sweet honey from their cups, or basking in their sunny petals.  If these little creatures knew how great a change awaited them, no doubt they would regret it; but would not all such sorrow be misplaced?  And if that illustration will not move you, here is another:—We are children now; we feel as children, and we understand as children; and when we are told that men and women do not play with toys, and that our companions will one day weary of the trivial sports and occupations that interest them and us so deeply now, we cannot help being saddened at the thoughts of such an alteration, because we cannot conceive that as we grow up our own minds will become so enlarged and elevated that we ourselves shall then regard as trifling those objects and pursuits we now so fondly cherish, and that, though our companions will no longer join us in those childish pastimes, they will drink with us at other fountains of delight, and mingle their souls with ours in higher aims and nobler occupations beyond our present comprehension, but not less deeply relished or less truly good for that, while yet both we and they remain essentially the same individuals as before.  But, Gilbert, can you really derive no consolation from the thought that we may meet together where there is no more pain and sorrow, no more striving against sin, and struggling of the spirit against the flesh; where both will behold the same glorious truths, and drink exalted and supreme felicity from the same fountain of light and goodness—that Being whom both will worship with the same intensity of holy ardour—and where pure and happy creatures both will love with the same divine affection?  If you cannot, never write to me!’

‘Helen, I can! if faith would never fail.’

‘Now, then,’ exclaimed she, ‘while this hope is strong within us—’

‘We will part,’ I cried.  ‘You shall not have the pain of another effort to dismiss me.  I will go at once; but—’

I did not put my request in words: she understood it instinctively, and this time she yielded too—or rather, there was nothing so deliberate as requesting or yielding in the matter: there was a sudden impulse that neither could resist.  One moment I stood and looked into her face, the next I held her to my heart, and we seemed to grow together in a close embrace from which no physical or mental force could rend us.  A whispered ‘God bless you!’ and ‘Go—go!’ was all she said; but while she spoke she held me so fast that, without violence, I could not have obeyed her.  At length, however, by some heroic effort, we tore ourselves apart, and I rushed from the house.

I have a confused remembrance of seeing little Arthur running up the garden-walk to meet me, and of bolting over the wall to avoid him—and subsequently running down the steep fields, clearing the stone fences and hedges as they came in my way, till I got completely out of sight of the old hall and down to the bottom of the hill; and then of long hours spent in bitter tears and lamentations, and melancholy musings in the lonely valley, with the eternal music in my ears, of the west wind rushing through the overshadowing trees, and the brook babbling and gurgling along its stony bed; my eyes, for the most part, vacantly fixed on the deep, chequered shades restlessly playing over the bright sunny grass at my feet, where now and then a withered leaf or two would come dancing to share the revelry; but my heart was away up the hill in that dark room where she was weeping desolate and alone—she whom I was not to comfort, not to see again, till years or suffering had overcome us both, and torn our spirits from their perishing abodes of clay.

There was little business done that day, you may be sure.  The farm was abandoned to the labourers, and the labourers were left to their own devices.  But one duty must be attended to; I had not forgotten my assault upon Frederick Lawrence; and I must see him to apologise for the unhappy deed.  I would fain have put it off till the morrow; but what if he should denounce me to his sister in the meantime?  No, no!  I must ask his pardon to-day, and entreat him to be lenient in his accusation, if the revelation must be made.  I deferred it, however, till the evening, when my spirits were more composed, and when—oh, wonderful perversity of human nature!—some faint germs of indefinite hopes were beginning to rise in my mind; not that I intended to cherish them, after all that had been said on the subject, but there they must lie for a while, uncrushed though not encouraged, till I had learnt to live without them.

Arrived at Woodford, the young squire’s abode, I found no little difficulty in obtaining admission to his presence.  The servant that opened the door told me his master was very ill, and seemed to think it doubtful whether he would be able to see me.  I was not going to be baulked, however.  I waited calmly in the hall to be announced, but inwardly determined to take no denial.  The message was such as I expected—a polite intimation that Mr. Lawrence could see no one; he was feverish, and must not be disturbed.

‘I shall not disturb him long,’ said I; ‘but I must see him for a moment: it is on business of importance that I wish to speak to him.’

‘I’ll tell him, sir,’ said the man.  And I advanced further into the hall and followed him nearly to the door of the apartment where his master was—for it seemed he was not in bed.  The answer returned was that Mr. Lawrence hoped I would be so good as to leave a message or a note with the servant, as he could attend to no business at present.

‘He may as well see me as you,’ said I; and, stepping past the astonished footman, I boldly rapped at the door, entered, and closed it behind me.  The room was spacious and handsomely furnished—very comfortably, too, for a bachelor.  A clear, red fire was burning in the polished grate: a superannuated greyhound, given up to idleness and good living, lay basking before it on the thick, soft rug, on one corner of which, beside the sofa, sat a smart young springer, looking wistfully up in its master’s face—perhaps asking permission to share his couch, or, it might be, only soliciting a caress from his hand or a kind word from his lips.  The invalid himself looked very interesting as he lay reclining there, in his elegant dressing-gown, with a silk handkerchief bound across his temples.  His usually pale face was flushed and feverish; his eyes were half closed, until he became sensible of my presence—and then he opened them wide enough: one hand was thrown listlessly over the back of the sofa, and held a small volume, with which, apparently, he had been vainly attempting to beguile the weary hours.  He dropped it, however, in his start of indignant surprise as I advanced into the room and stood before him on the rug.  He raised himself on his pillows, and gazed upon me with equal degrees of nervous horror, anger, and amazement depicted on his countenance.

‘Mr. Markham, I scarcely expected this!’ he said; and the blood left his cheek as he spoke.

‘I know you didn’t,’ answered I; ‘but be quiet a minute, and I’ll tell you what I came for.’  Unthinkingly, I advanced a step or two nearer.  He winced at my approach, with an expression of aversion and instinctive physical fear anything but conciliatory to my feelings.  I stepped back, however.

‘Make your story a short one,’ said he, putting his hand on the small silver bell that stood on the table beside him, ‘or I shall be obliged to call for assistance.  I am in no state to bear your brutalities now, or your presence either.’  And in truth the moisture started from his pores and stood on his pale forehead like dew.

Such a reception was hardly calculated to diminish the difficulties of my unenviable task.  It must be performed however, in some fashion; and so I plunged into it at once, and floundered through it as I could.

‘The truth is, Lawrence,’ said I, ‘I have not acted quite correctly towards you of late—especially on this last occasion; and I’m come to—in short, to express my regret for what has been done, and to beg your pardon.  If you don’t choose to grant it,’ I added hastily, not liking the aspect of his face, ‘it’s no matter; only I’ve done my duty—that’s all.’

‘It’s easily done,’ replied he, with a faint smile bordering on a sneer: ‘to abuse your friend and knock him on the head without any assignable cause, and then tell him the deed was not quite correct, but it’s no matter whether he pardons it or not.’

‘I forgot to tell you that it was in consequence of a mistake,’—muttered I.  ‘I should have made a very handsome apology, but you provoked me so confoundedly with your—.  Well, I suppose it’s my fault.  The fact is, I didn’t know that you were Mrs. Graham’s brother, and I saw and heard some things respecting your conduct towards her which were calculated to awaken unpleasant suspicions, that, allow me to say, a little candour and confidence on your part might have removed; and, at last, I chanced to overhear a part of a conversation between you and her that made me think I had a right to hate you.’

‘And how came you to know that I was her brother?’ asked he, in some anxiety.

‘She told me herself.  She told me all.  She knew I might be trusted.  But you needn’t disturb yourself about that, Mr. Lawrence, for I’ve seen the last of her!’

‘The last!  Is she gone, then?’

‘No; but she has bid adieu to me, and I have promised never to go near that house again while she inhabits it.’  I could have groaned aloud at the bitter thoughts awakened by this turn in the discourse.  But I only clenched my hands and stamped my foot upon the rug.  My companion, however, was evidently relieved.

‘You have done right,’ he said, in a tone of unqualified approbation, while his face brightened into almost a sunny expression.  ‘And as for the mistake, I am sorry for both our sakes that it should have occurred.  Perhaps you can forgive my want of candour, and remember, as some partial mitigation of the offence, how little encouragement to friendly confidence you have given me of late.’

‘Yes, yes—I remember it all: nobody can blame me more than I blame myself in my own heart; at any rate, nobody can regret more sincerely than I do the result of my brutality, as you rightly term it.’

‘Never mind that,’ said he, faintly smiling; ‘let us forget all unpleasant words on both sides, as well as deeds, and consign to oblivion everything that we have cause to regret.  Have you any objection to take my hand, or you’d rather not?’  It trembled through weakness as he held it out, and dropped before I had time to catch it and give it a hearty squeeze, which he had not the strength to return.

‘How dry and burning your hand is, Lawrence,’ said I.  ‘You are really ill, and I have made you worse by all this talk.’

‘Oh, it is nothing; only a cold got by the rain.’

‘My doing, too.’

‘Never mind that.  But tell me, did you mention this affair to my sister?’

‘To confess the truth, I had not the courage to do so; but when you tell her, will you just say that I deeply regret it, and—?’

‘Oh, never fear!  I shall say nothing against you, as long as you keep your good resolution of remaining aloof from her.  She has not heard of my illness, then, that you are aware of?’

‘I think not.’

‘I’m glad of that, for I have been all this time tormenting myself with the fear that somebody would tell her I was dying, or desperately ill, and she would be either distressing herself on account of her inability to hear from me or do me any good, or perhaps committing the madness of coming to see me.  I must contrive to let her know something about it, if I can,’ continued he, reflectively, ‘or she will be hearing some such story.  Many would be glad to tell her such news, just to see how she would take it; and then she might expose herself to fresh scandal.’

‘I wish I had told her,’ said I.  ‘If it were not for my promise, I would tell her now.’

‘By no means!  I am not dreaming of that;—but if I were to write a short note, now, not mentioning you, Markham, but just giving a slight account of my illness, by way of excuse for my not coming to see her, and to put her on her guard against any exaggerated reports she may hear,—and address it in a disguised hand—would you do me the favour to slip it into the post-office as you pass? for I dare not trust any of the servants in such a case.’

Most willingly I consented, and immediately brought him his desk.  There was little need to disguise his hand, for the poor fellow seemed to have considerable difficulty in writing at all, so as to be legible.  When the note was done, I thought it time to retire, and took leave, after asking if there was anything in the world I could do for him, little or great, in the way of alleviating his sufferings, and repairing the injury I had done.

‘No,’ said he; ‘you have already done much towards it; you have done more for me than the most skilful physician could do: for you have relieved my mind of two great burdens—anxiety on my sister’s account, and deep regret upon your own: for I do believe these two sources of torment have had more effect in working me up into a fever than anything else; and I am persuaded I shall soon recover now.  There is one more thing you can do for me, and that is, come and see me now and then—for you see I am very lonely here, and I promise your entrance shall not be disputed again.’

I engaged to do so, and departed with a cordial pressure of the hand.  I posted the letter on my way home, most manfully resisting the temptation of dropping in a word from myself at the same time.

To be continued

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