Chương Chương 45 · Chapter XLV Reconciliation

. Chapter XLV Reconciliation

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.