Шарлотта Бронте - Лучшие романы сестер Бронте / The best of the Brontë sisters

‘I am in hell, already!’ cried he. ‘This cursed thirst is burning my heart to ashes! Will nobody – ?’

Before he could finish the sentence I had poured out a glass of some acidulated, cooling drink that was on the table, and brought it to him. He drank it greedily, but muttered, as I took away the glass, – ‘I suppose you’re heaping coals of fire on my head, you think?’

Not noticing this speech, I asked if there was anything else I could do for him.

‘Yes; I’ll give you another opportunity of showing your Christian magnanimity,’ sneered he: ‘set my pillow straight, and these confounded bed-clothes.’ I did so. ‘There: now get me another glass of that slop.’ I complied. ‘This is delightful, isn’t it?’ said he with a malicious grin, as I held it to his lips; ‘you never hoped for such a glorious opportunity?’

‘Now, shall I stay with you?’ said I, as I replaced the glass on the table: ‘or will you be more quiet if I go and send the nurse?’

‘Oh, yes, you’re wondrous gentle and obliging! But you’ve driven me mad with it all!’ responded he, with an impatient toss.

‘I’ll leave you, then,’ said I; and I withdrew, and did not trouble him with my presence again that day, except for a minute or two at a time, just to see how he was and what he wanted.

Next morning the doctor ordered him to be bled; and after that he was more subdued and tranquil. I passed half the day in his room at different intervals. My presence did not appear to agitate or irritate him as before, and he accepted my services quietly, without any bitter remarks: indeed, he scarcely spoke at all, except to make known his wants, and hardly then. But on the morrow, that is to say, in proportion as he recovered from the state of exhaustion and stupefaction, his ill-nature appeared to revive.

‘Oh, this sweet revenge!’ cried he, when I had been doing all I could to make him comfortable and to remedy the carelessness of his nurse. ‘And you can enjoy it with such a quiet conscience too, because it’s all in the way of duty.’

‘It is well for me that I am doing my duty,’ said I, with a bitterness I could not repress, ‘for it is the only comfort I have; and the satisfaction of my own conscience, it seems, is the only reward I need look for!’

He looked rather surprised at the earnestness of my manner.

‘What reward did you look for?’ he asked.

‘You will think me a liar if I tell you; but I did hope to benefit you: as well to better your mind as to alleviate your present sufferings; but it appears I am to do neither; your own bad spirit will not let me. As far as you are concerned, I have sacrificed my own feelings, and all the little earthly comfort that was left me, to no purpose; and every little thing I do for you is ascribed to self-righteous malice and refined revenge!’

‘It’s all very fine, I daresay,’ said he, eyeing me with stupid amazement; ‘and of course I ought to be melted to tears of penitence and admiration at the sight of so much generosity and superhuman goodness; but you see I can’t manage it. However, pray do me all the good you can, if you do really find any pleasure in it; for you perceive I am almost as miserable just now as you need wish to see me. Since you came, I confess, I have had better attendance than before, for these wretches neglected me shamefully, and all my old friends seem to have fairly forsaken me. I’ve had a dreadful time of it, I assure you: I sometimes thought I should have died: do you think there’s any chance?’

‘There’s always a chance of death; and it is always well to live with such a chance in view.’

‘Yes, yes! but do you think there’s any likelihood that this illness will have a fatal termination?’

‘I cannot tell; but, supposing it should, how are you prepared to meet the event?’

‘Why, the doctor told me I wasn’t to think about it, for I was sure to get better if I stuck to his regimen and prescriptions.’

‘I hope you may, Arthur; but neither the doctor nor I can speak with certainty in such a case; there is internal injury, and it is difficult to know to what extent.’

‘There now! you want to scare me to death.’

‘No; but I don’t want to lull you to false security. If a consciousness of the uncertainty of life can dispose you to serious and useful thoughts, I would not deprive you of the benefit of such reflections, whether you do eventually recover or not. Does the idea of death appal you very much?’

‘It’s just the only thing I can’t bear to think of; so if you’ve any – ’

‘But it must come some time,’ interrupted I, ‘and if it be years hence, it will as certainly overtake you as if it came to-day, – and no doubt be as unwelcome then as now, unless you – ’

‘Oh, hang it! don’t torment me with your preachments now, unless you want to kill me outright. I can’t stand it, I tell you. I’ve sufferings enough without that. If you think there’s danger, save me from it; and then, in gratitude, I’ll hear whatever you like to say.’

I accordingly dropped the unwelcome topic. And now, Frederick, I think I may bring my letter to a close. From these details you may form your own judgment of the state of my patient, and of my own position and future prospects. Let me hear from you soon, and I will write again to tell you how we get on; but now that my presence is tolerated, and even required, in the sick-room, I shall have but little time to spare between my husband and my son, – for I must not entirely neglect the latter: it would not do to keep him always with Rachel, and I dare not leave him for a moment with any of the other servants, or suffer him to be alone, lest he should meet them. If his father get worse, I shall ask Esther Hargrave to take charge of him for a time, till I have reorganised the household at least; but I greatly prefer keeping him under my own eye.

I find myself in rather a singular position: I am exerting my utmost endeavours to promote the recovery and reformation of my husband, and if I succeed, what shall I do? My duty, of course, – but how? No matter; I can perform the task that is before me now, and God will give me strength to do whatever He requires hereafter. Good-by, dear Frederick.

Helen Huntingdon.

‘What do you think of it?’ said Lawrence, as I silently refolded the letter.

‘It seems to me,’ returned I, ‘that she is casting her pearls before swine. May they be satisfied with trampling them under their feet, and not turn again and rend her! But I shall say no more against her: I see that she was actuated by the best and noblest motives in what she has done; and if the act is not a wise one, may heaven protect her from its consequences! May I keep this letter, Lawrence? – you see she has never once mentioned me throughout – or made the most distant allusion to me; therefore, there can be no impropriety or harm in it.’

‘And, therefore, why should you wish to keep it?’

‘Were not these characters written by her hand? and were not these words conceived in her mind, and many of them spoken by her lips?’

‘Well,’ said he. And so I kept it; otherwise, Halford, you could never have become so thoroughly acquainted with its contents.

‘And when you write,’ said I, ‘will you have the goodness to ask her if I may be permitted to enlighten my mother and sister on her real history and circumstance, just so far as is necessary to make the neighbourhood sensible of the shameful injustice they have done her? I want no tender messages, but just ask her that, and tell her it is the greatest favour she could do me; and tell her – no, nothing more. You see I know the address, and I might write to her myself, but I am so virtuous as to refrain.’

‘Well, I’ll do this for you, Markham.’