Though 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 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 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
looked 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.
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