Chương Chương 48 · Chapter XLVIII Further Intelligence

. Chapter XLVIII Further Intelligence

Five or six days after this Mr. Lawrence paid us the honour of a call;

and when he and I were alone together—which I contrived as soon as

possible by bringing him out to look at my cornstacks—he showed me

another letter from his sister. This one he was quite willing to submit

to my longing gaze; he thought, I suppose, it would do me good. The

only answer it gave to my message was this:—

“Mr. Markham is at liberty to make such revelations concerning me as he

judges necessary. He will know that I should wish but little to be said

on the subject. I hope he is well; but tell him he must not think of

me.”

I can give you a few extracts from the rest of the letter, for I was

permitted to keep this also—perhaps, as an antidote to all pernicious

hopes and fancies.

* * * * *

He is decidedly better, but very low from the depressing effects of his

severe illness and the strict regimen he is obliged to observe—so

opposite to all his previous habits. It is deplorable to see how

completely his past life has degenerated his once noble constitution,

and vitiated the whole system of his organization. But the doctor says

he may now be considered out of danger, if he will only continue to

observe the necessary restrictions. Some stimulating cordials he must

have, but they should be judiciously diluted and sparingly used; and I

find it very difficult to keep him to this. At first, his extreme dread

of death rendered the task an easy one; but in proportion as he feels

his acute suffering abating, and sees the danger receding, the more

intractable he becomes. Now, also, his appetite for food is beginning

to return; and here, too, his long habits of self-indulgence are

greatly against him. I watch and restrain him as well as I can, and

often get bitterly abused for my rigid severity; and sometimes he

contrives to elude my vigilance, and sometimes acts in opposition to my

will. But he is now so completely reconciled to my attendance in

general that he is never satisfied when I am not by his side. I am

obliged to be a little stiff with him sometimes, or he would make a

complete slave of me; and I know it would be unpardonable weakness to

give up all other interests for him. I have the servants to overlook,

and my little Arthur to attend to,—and my own health too, all of which

would be entirely neglected were I to satisfy his exorbitant demands. I

do not generally sit up at night, for I think the nurse who has made it

her business is better qualified for such undertakings than I am;—but

still, an unbroken night’s rest is what I but seldom enjoy, and never

can venture to reckon upon; for my patient makes no scruple of calling

me up at an hour when his wants or his fancies require my presence. But

he is manifestly afraid of my displeasure; and if at one time he tries

my patience by his unreasonable exactions, and fretful complaints and

reproaches, at another he depresses me by his abject submission and

deprecatory self-abasement when he fears he has gone too far. But all

this I can readily pardon; I know it is chiefly the result of his

enfeebled frame and disordered nerves. What annoys me the most, is his

occasional attempts at affectionate fondness that I can neither credit

nor return; not that I hate him: his sufferings and my own laborious

care have given him some claim to my regard—to my affection even, if he

would only be quiet and sincere, and content to let things remain as

they are; but the more he tries to conciliate me, the more I shrink

from him and from the future.

“Helen, what do you mean to do when I get well?” he asked this morning.

“Will you run away again?”

“It entirely depends upon your own conduct.”

“Oh, I’ll be very good.”

“But if I find it necessary to leave you, Arthur, I shall not ‘run

away’: you know I have your own promise that I may go whenever I

please, and take my son with me.”

“Oh, but you shall have no cause.” And then followed a variety of

professions, which I rather coldly checked.

“Will you not forgive me, then?” said he.

“Yes,—I _have_ forgiven you: but I know you cannot love me as you once

did—and I should be very sorry if you were to, for I could not pretend

to return it: so let us drop the subject, and never recur to it again.

By what I _have_ done for you, you may judge of what I _will_ do—if it

be not incompatible with the higher duty I owe to my son (higher,

because he never forfeited his claims, and because I hope to do more

good to him than I can ever do to you); and if you wish me to feel

kindly towards you, it is _deeds_ not _words_ which must purchase my

affection and esteem.”

His sole reply to this was a slight grimace, and a scarcely perceptible

shrug. Alas, unhappy man! words, with him, are so much cheaper than

deeds; it was as if I had said, “Pounds, not pence, must buy the

article you want.” And then he sighed a querulous, self-commiserating

sigh, as if in pure regret that he, the loved and courted of so many

worshippers, should be now abandoned to the mercy of a harsh, exacting,

cold-hearted woman like that, and even glad of what kindness she chose

to bestow.

“It’s a pity, isn’t it?” said I; and whether I rightly divined his

musings or not, the observation chimed in with his thoughts, for he

answered—“It can’t be helped,” with a rueful smile at my penetration.

* * * * *

I have seen Esther Hargrave twice. She is a charming creature, but her

blithe spirit is almost broken, and her sweet temper almost spoiled, by

the still unremitting persecutions of her mother in behalf of her

rejected suitor—not violent, but wearisome and unremitting like a

continual dropping. The unnatural parent seems determined to make her

daughter’s life a burden, if she will not yield to her desires.

“Mamma does all she can,” said she, “to make me feel myself a burden

and incumbrance to the family, and the most ungrateful, selfish, and

undutiful daughter that ever was born; and Walter, too, is as stern and

cold and haughty as if he hated me outright. I believe I should have

yielded at once if I had known, from the beginning, how much resistance

would have cost me; but now, for very obstinacy’s sake, I _will_ stand

out!”

“A bad motive for a good resolve,” I answered. “But, however, I know

you have better motives, really, for your perseverance: and I counsel

you to keep them still in view.”

“Trust me I will. I threaten mamma sometimes that I’ll run away, and

disgrace the family by earning my own livelihood, if she torments me

any more; and then that frightens her a little. But I _will_ do it, in

good earnest, if they don’t mind.”

“Be quiet and patient a while,” said I, “and better times will come.”

Poor girl! I wish somebody that was worthy to possess her would come

and take her away—don’t you, Frederick?

* * * * *

If the perusal of this letter filled me with dismay for Helen’s future

life and mine, there was one great source of consolation: it was now in

my power to clear her name from every foul aspersion. The Millwards and

the Wilsons should see with their own eyes the bright sun bursting from

the cloud—and they should be scorched and dazzled by its beams;—and my

own friends too should see it—they whose suspicions had been such gall

and wormwood to my soul. To effect this I had only to drop the seed

into the ground, and it would soon become a stately, branching herb: a

few words to my mother and sister, I knew, would suffice to spread the

news throughout the whole neighbourhood, without any further exertion

on my part.

Rose was delighted; and as soon as I had told her all I thought

proper—which was all I affected to know—she flew with alacrity to put

on her bonnet and shawl, and hasten to carry the glad tidings to the

Millwards and Wilsons—glad tidings, I suspect, to none but herself and

Mary Millward—that steady, sensible girl, whose sterling worth had been

so quickly perceived and duly valued by the supposed Mrs. Graham, in

spite of her plain outside; and who, on her part, had been better able

to see and appreciate that lady’s true character and qualities than the

brightest genius among them.

As I may never have occasion to mention her again, I may as well tell

you here that she was at this time privately engaged to Richard

Wilson—a secret, I believe, to every one but themselves. That worthy

student was now at Cambridge, where his most exemplary conduct and his

diligent perseverance in the pursuit of learning carried him safely

through, and eventually brought him with hard-earned honours, and an

untarnished reputation, to the close of his collegiate career. In due

time he became Mr. Millward’s first and only curate—for that

gentleman’s declining years forced him at last to acknowledge that the

duties of his extensive parish were a little too much for those vaunted

energies which he was wont to boast over his younger and less active

brethren of the cloth. This was what the patient, faithful lovers had

privately planned and quietly waited for years ago; and in due time

they were united, to the astonishment of the little world they lived

in, that had long since declared them both born to single blessedness;

affirming it impossible that the pale, retiring bookworm should ever

summon courage to seek a wife, or be able to obtain one if he did, and

equally impossible that the plain-looking, plain-dealing, unattractive,

unconciliating Miss Millward should ever find a husband.

They still continued to live at the vicarage, the lady dividing her

time between her father, her husband, and their poor parishioners,—and

subsequently her rising family; and now that the Reverend Michael

Millward has been gathered to his fathers, full of years and honours,

the Reverend Richard Wilson has succeeded him to the vicarage of

Lindenhope, greatly to the satisfaction of its inhabitants, who had so

long tried and fully proved his merits, and those of his excellent and

well-loved partner.

If you are interested in the after fate of that lady’s sister, I can

only tell you—what perhaps you have heard from another quarter—that

some twelve or thirteen years ago she relieved the happy couple of her

presence by marrying a wealthy tradesman of L——; and I don’t envy him

his bargain. I fear she leads him a rather uncomfortable life, though,

happily, he is too dull to perceive the extent of his misfortune. I

have little enough to do with her myself: we have not met for many

years; but, I am well assured, she has not yet forgotten or forgiven

either her former lover, or the lady whose superior qualities first

opened his eyes to the folly of his boyish attachment.

As for Richard Wilson’s sister, she, having been wholly unable to

recapture Mr. Lawrence, or obtain any partner rich and elegant enough

to suit her ideas of what the husband of Jane Wilson ought to be, is

yet in single blessedness. Shortly after the death of her mother she

withdrew the light of her presence from Ryecote Farm, finding it

impossible any longer to endure the rough manners and unsophisticated

habits of her honest brother Robert and his worthy wife, or the idea of

being identified with such vulgar people in the eyes of the world, and

took lodgings in —— the county town, where she lived, and still lives,

I suppose, in a kind of close-fisted, cold, uncomfortable gentility,

doing no good to others, and but little to herself; spending her days

in fancy-work and scandal; referring frequently to her “brother the

vicar,” and her “sister, the vicar’s lady,” but never to her brother

the farmer and her sister the farmer’s wife; seeing as much company as

she can without too much expense, but loving no one and beloved by

none—a cold-hearted, supercilious, keenly, insidiously censorious old

maid.