One morning, about the beginning of November, while I was inditingsome business letters, shortly after breakfast, Eliza Millward cameto call upon my sister. Rose had neither the discrimination northe virulence to regard the little demon as I did, and they stillpreserved their former intimacy. At the moment of her arrival,however, there was no one in the room but Fergus and myself, mymother and sister being both of them absent, 'on household caresintent'; but I was not going to lay myself out for her amusement,whoever else might so incline: I merely honoured her with acareless salutation and a few words of course, and then went onwith my writing, leaving my brother to be more polite if he chose.But she wanted to tease me.

'What a pleasure it is to find you at home, Mr. Markham!' said she,with a disingenuously malicious smile. 'I so seldom see you now,for you never come to the vicarage. Papa, is quite offended, I cantell you,' she added playfully, looking into my face with animpertinent laugh, as she seated herself, half beside and halfbefore my desk, off the corner of the table.

'I have had a good deal to do of late,' said I, without looking upfrom my letter.

'Have you, indeed! Somebody said you had been strangely neglectingyour business these last few months.'

'Somebody said wrong, for, these last two months especially, I havebeen particularly plodding and diligent.'

'Ah! well, there's nothing like active employment, I suppose, toconsole the afflicted; - and, excuse me, Mr. Markham, but you lookso very far from well, and have been, by all accounts, so moody andthoughtful of late, - I could almost think you have some secretcare preying on your spirits. Formerly,' said she timidly, 'Icould have ventured to ask you what it was, and what I could do tocomfort you: I dare not do it now.'

'You're very kind, Miss Eliza. When I think you can do anything tocomfort me, I'll make bold to tell you.'

'Pray do! - I suppose I mayn't guess what it is that troubles you?'

'There's no necessity, for I'll tell you plainly. The thing thattroubles me the most at present is a young lady sitting at myelbow, and preventing me from finishing my letter, and, thereafter,repairing to my daily business.'

Before she could reply to this ungallant speech, Rose entered theroom; and Miss Eliza rising to greet her, they both seatedthemselves near the fire, where that idle lad Fergus was standing,leaning his shoulder against the corner of the chimney-piece, withhis legs crossed and his hands in his breeches-pockets.

'Now, Rose, I'll tell you a piece of news - I hope you have notheard it before: for good, bad, or indifferent, one always likesto be the first to tell. It's about that sad Mrs. Graham - '

'Hush-sh-sh!' whispered Fergus, in a tone of solemn import. '"Wenever mention her; her name is never heard."' And glancing up, Icaught him with his eye askance on me, and his finger pointed tohis forehead; then, winking at the young lady with a doleful shakeof the head, be whispered - 'A monomania - but don't mention it -all right but that.'

'I should be sorry to injure any one's feelings,' returned she,speaking below her breath. 'Another time, perhaps.'

'Speak out, Miss Eliza!' said I, not deigning to notice the other'sbuffooneries: 'you needn't fear to say anything in my presence.'

'Well,' answered she, 'perhaps you know already that Mrs. Graham'shusband is not really dead, and that she had run away from him?' Istarted, and felt my face glow; but I bent it over my letter, andwent on folding it up as she proceeded. 'But perhaps you did notknow that she is now gone back to him again, and that a perfectreconciliation has taken place between them? Only think,' shecontinued, turning to the confounded Rose, 'what a fool the manmust be!'

'And who gave you this piece of intelligence, Miss Eliza?' said I,interrupting my sister's exclamations.

'I had it from a very authentic source.'

'From whom, may I ask?'

'From one of the servants at Woodford.'

'Oh! I was not aware that you were on such intimate terms with Mr.Lawrence's household.'

'It was not from the man himself that I heard it, but he told it inconfidence to our maid Sarah, and Sarah told it to me.'

'In confidence, I suppose? And you tell it in confidence to us?But I can tell you that it is but a lame story after all, andscarcely one-half of it true.'

While I spoke I completed the sealing and direction of my letters,with a somewhat unsteady hand, in spite of all my efforts to retaincomposure, and in spite of my firm conviction that the story was alame one - that the supposed Mrs. Graham, most certainly, had notvoluntarily gone back to her husband, or dreamt of areconciliation. Most likely she was gone away, and the tale-bearing servant, not knowing what was become of her, hadconjectured that such was the case, and our fair visitor haddetailed it as a certainty, delighted with such an opportunity oftormenting me. But it was possible - barely possible - that someone might have betrayed her, and she had been taken away by force.Determined to know the worst, I hastily pocketed my two letters,and muttered something about being too late for the post, left theroom, rushed into the yard, and vociferously called for my horse.No one being there, I dragged him out of the stable myself,strapped the saddle on to his back and the bridle on to his head,mounted, and speedily galloped away to Woodford. I found its ownerpensively strolling in the grounds.

'Is your sister gone?' were my first words as I grasped his hand,instead of the usual inquiry after his health.

'Yes, she's gone,' was his answer, so calmly spoken that my terrorwas at once removed.

'I suppose I mayn't know where she is?' said I, as I dismounted,and relinquished my horse to the gardener, who, being the onlyservant within call, had been summoned by his master, from hisemployment of raking up the dead leaves on the lawn, to take him tothe stables.

My companion gravely took my arm, and leading me away to thegarden, thus answered my question, - 'She is at Grassdale Manor, in-shire.'

'Where?' cried I, with a convulsive start.

'At Grassdale Manor.'

'How was it?' I gasped. 'Who betrayed her?'

'She went of her own accord.'

'Impossible, Lawrence! She could not be so frantic!' exclaimed I,vehemently grasping his arm, as if to force him to unsay thosehateful words.

'She did,' persisted he in the same grave, collected manner asbefore; 'and not without reason,' he continued, gently disengaginghimself from my grasp. 'Mr. Huntingdon is ill.'

'And so she went to nurse him?'

'Yes.'

'Fool!' I could not help exclaiming, and Lawrence looked up with arather reproachful glance. 'Is he dying, then?'

'I think not, Markham.'

'And how many more nurses has he? How many ladies are therebesides to take care of him?'

'None; he was alone, or she would not have gone.'

'Oh, confound it! This is intolerable!'

'What is? That he should be alone?'

I attempted no reply, for I was not sure that this circumstance didnot partly conduce to my distraction. I therefore continued topace the walk in silent anguish, with my hand pressed to myforehead; then suddenly pausing and turning to my companion, Iimpatiently exclaimed, 'Why did she take this infatuated step?What fiend persuaded her to it?'

'Nothing persuaded her but her own sense of duty.'

'Humbug!'

'I was half inclined to say so myself, Markham, at first. I assureyou it was not by my advice that she went, for I detest that man asfervently as you can do, - except, indeed, that his reformationwould give me much greater pleasure than his death; but all I didwas to inform her of the circumstance of his illness (theconsequence of a fall from his horse in hunting), and to tell herthat that unhappy person, Miss Myers, had left him some time ago.'

'It was ill done! Now, when he finds the convenience of herpresence, he will make all manner of lying speeches and false, fairpromises for the future, and she will believe him, and then hercondition will be ten times worse and ten times more irremediablethan before.'

'There does not appear to be much ground for such apprehensions atpresent,' said he, producing a letter from his pocket. 'From theaccount I received this morning, I should say - '

It was her writing! By an irresistible impulse I held out my hand,and the words, 'Let me see it,' involuntarily passed my lips. Hewas evidently reluctant to grant the request, but while hehesitated I snatched it from his hand. Recollecting myself,however, the minute after, I offered to restore it.

'Here, take it,' said I, 'if you don't want me to read it.'

'No,' replied he, 'you may read it if you like.'

I read it, and so may you.

Grassdale, Nov. 4th.

Dear Frederick, - I know you will be anxious to hear from me, and Iwill tell you all I can. Mr. Huntingdon is very ill, but notdying, or in any immediate danger; and he is rather better atpresent than he was when I came. I found the house in sadconfusion: Mrs. Greaves, Benson, every decent servant had left,and those that were come to supply their places were a negligent,disorderly set, to say no worse - I must change them again, if Istay. A professional nurse, a grim, hard old woman, had been hiredto attend the wretched invalid. He suffers much, and has nofortitude to bear him through. The immediate injuries he sustainedfrom the accident, however, were not very severe, and would, as thedoctor says, have been but trifling to a man of temperate habits,but with him it is very different. On the night of my arrival,when I first entered his room, he was lying in a kind of halfdelirium. He did not notice me till I spoke, and then he mistookme for another.

'Is it you, Alice, come again?' he murmured. 'What did you leaveme for?'

'It is I, Arthur - it is Helen, your wife,' I replied.

'My wife!' said he, with a start. 'For heaven's sake, don'tmention her - I have none. Devil take her,' he cried, a momentafter, 'and you, too! What did you do it for?'

I said no more; but observing that he kept gazing towards the footof the bed, I went and sat there, placing the light so as to shinefull upon me, for I thought he might be dying, and I wanted him toknow me. For a long time he lay silently looking upon me, firstwith a vacant stare, then with a fixed gaze of strange growingintensity. At last he startled me by suddenly raising himself onhis elbow and demanding in a horrified whisper, with his eyes stillfixed upon me, 'Who is it?'

'It is Helen Huntingdon,' said I, quietly rising at the same time,and removing to a less conspicuous position.

'I must be going mad,' cried he, 'or something - delirious,perhaps; but leave me, whoever you are. I can't bear that whiteface, and those eyes. For God's sake go, and send me somebody elsethat doesn't look like that!'

I went at once, and sent the hired nurse; but next morning Iventured to enter his chamber again, and, taking the nurse's placeby his bedside, I watched him and waited on him for several hours,showing myself as little as possible, and only speaking whennecessary, and then not above my breath. At first he addressed meas the nurse, but, on my crossing the room to draw up the window-blinds, in obedience to his directions, he said, 'No, it isn'tnurse; it's Alice. Stay with me, do! That old hag will be thedeath of me.'

'I mean to stay with you,' said I. And after that he would call meAlice, or some other name almost equally repugnant to my feelings.I forced myself to endure it for a while, fearing a contradictionmight disturb him too much; but when, having asked for a glass ofwater, while I held it to his lips, he murmured, 'Thanks, dearest!'I could not help distinctly observing, 'You would not say so if youknew me,' intending to follow that up with another declaration ofmy identity; but he merely muttered an incoherent reply, so Idropped it again, till some time after, when, as I was bathing hisforehead and temples with vinegar and water to relieve the heat andpain in his head, he observed, after looking earnestly upon me forsome minutes, 'I have such strange fancies - I can't get rid ofthem, and they won't let me rest; and the most singular andpertinacious of them all is your face and voice - they seem justlike hers. I could swear at this moment that she was by my side.'

'She is,' said I.

'That seems comfortable,' continued he, without noticing my words;'and while you do it, the other fancies fade away - but this onlystrengthens. - Go on - go on, till it vanishes, too. I can't standsuch a mania as this; it would kill me!'

'It never will vanish,' said I, distinctly, 'for it is the truth!'

'The truth!' he cried, starting, as if an asp had stung him. 'Youdon't mean to say that you are really she?'

'I do; but you needn't shrink away from me, as if I were yourgreatest enemy: I am come to take care of you, and do what none ofthem would do.'

'For God's sake, don't torment me now!' cried he in pitiableagitation; and then he began to mutter bitter curses against me, orthe evil fortune that had brought me there; while I put down thesponge and basin, and resumed my seat at the bed-side.

'Where are they?' said he: 'have they all left me - servants andall?'

'There are servants within call if you want them; but you hadbetter lie down now and be quiet: none of them could or wouldattend you as carefully as I shall do.'

'I can't understand it at all,' said he, in bewildered perplexity.'Was it a dream that - ' and he covered his eyes with his hands, asif trying to unravel the mystery.

'No, Arthur, it was not a dream, that your conduct was such as tooblige me to leave you; but I heard that you were ill and alone,and I am come back to nurse you. You need not fear to trust metell me all your wants, and I will try to satisfy them. There isno one else to care for you; and I shall not upbraid you now.'

'Oh! I see,' said he, with a bitter smile; 'it's an act ofChristian charity, whereby you hope to gain a higher seat in heavenfor yourself, and scoop a deeper pit in hell for me.'

'No; I came to offer you that comfort and assistance your situationrequired; and if I could benefit your soul as well as your body,and awaken some sense of contrition and - '

'Oh, yes; if you could overwhelm me with remorse and confusion offace, now's the time. What have you done with my son?'

'He is well, and you may see him some time, if you will composeyourself, but not now.'

'Where is he?'

'He is safe.'

'Is he here?'

'Wherever he is, you will not see him till you have promised toleave him entirely under my care and protection, and to let me takehim away whenever and wherever I please, if I should hereafterjudge it necessary to remove him again. But we will talk of thatto-morrow: you must be quiet now.'

'No, let me see him now, I promise, if it must be so.'

'No - '

'I swear it, as God is in heaven! Now, then, let me see him.'

'But I cannot trust your oaths and promises: I must have a writtenagreement, and you must sign it in presence of a witness: but notto-day - to-morrow.'

'No, to-day; now,' persisted he: and he was in such a state offeverish excitement, and so bent upon the immediate gratificationof his wish, that I thought it better to grant it at once, as I sawhe would not rest till I did. But I was determined my son'sinterest should not be forgotten; and having clearly written outthe promise I wished Mr. Huntingdon to give upon a slip of paper, Ideliberately read it over to him, and made him sign it in thepresence of Rachel. He begged I would not insist upon this: itwas a useless exposure of my want of faith in his word to theservant. I told him I was sorry, but since he had forfeited myconfidence, he must take the consequence. He next pleadedinability to hold the pen. 'Then we must wait until you can holdit,' said I. Upon which he said he would try; but then he couldnot see to write. I placed my finger where the signature was tobe, and told him he might write his name in the dark, if he onlyknew where to put it. But he had not power to form the letters.'In that case, you must be too ill to see the child,' said I; andfinding me inexorable, he at length managed to ratify theagreement; and I bade Rachel send the boy.

All this may strike you as harsh, but I felt I must not lose mypresent advantage, and my son's future welfare should not besacrificed to any mistaken tenderness for this man's feelings.Little Arthur had not forgotten his father, but thirteen months ofabsence, during which he had seldom been permitted to hear a wordabout him, or hardly to whisper his name, had rendered him somewhatshy; and when he was ushered into the darkened room where the sickman lay, so altered from his former self, with fiercely flushedface and wildly-gleaming eyes - he instinctively clung to me, andstood looking on his father with a countenance expressive of farmore awe than pleasure.

'Come here, Arthur,' said the latter, extending his hand towardshim. The child went, and timidly touched that burning hand, butalmost started in alarm, when his father suddenly clutched his armand drew him nearer to his side.

'Do you know me?' asked Mr. Huntingdon, intently perusing hisfeatures.

'Yes.'

'Who am I?'

'Papa.'

'Are you glad to see me?'

'Yes.'

'You're not!' replied the disappointed parent, relaxing his hold,and darting a vindictive glance at me.

Arthur, thus released, crept back to me and put his hand in mine.His father swore I had made the child hate him, and abused andcursed me bitterly. The instant he began I sent our son out of theroom; and when he paused to breathe, I calmly assured him that hewas entirely mistaken; I had never once attempted to prejudice hischild against him.

'I did indeed desire him to forget you,' I said, 'and especially toforget the lessons you taught him; and for that cause, and tolessen the danger of discovery, I own I have generally discouragedhis inclination to talk about you; but no one can blame me forthat, I think.'

The invalid only replied by groaning aloud, and rolling his head ona pillow in a paroxysm of impatience.

'I am in hell, already!' cried he. 'This cursed thirst is burningmy heart to ashes! Will nobody -?'

Before he could finish the sentence I had poured out a glass ofsome acidulated, cooling drink that was on the table, and broughtit to him. He drank it greedily, but muttered, as I took away theglass, - 'I suppose you're heaping coals of fire on my head, youthink?'

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

'Yes; I'll give you another opportunity of showing your Christianmagnanimity,' sneered he: 'set my pillow straight, and theseconfounded bed-clothes.' I did so. 'There: now get me anotherglass 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 neverhoped for such a glorious opportunity?'

'Now, shall I stay with you?' said I, as I replaced the glass onthe 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 drivenme mad with it all!' responded he, with an impatient toss.

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

Next morning the doctor ordered him to be bled; and after that hewas more subdued and tranquil. I passed half the day in his roomat different intervals. My presence did not appear to agitate orirritate 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 themorrow, that is to say, in proportion as he recovered from thestate of exhaustion and stupefaction, his ill-nature appeared torevive.

'Oh, this sweet revenge!' cried he, when I had been doing all Icould to make him comfortable and to remedy the carelessness of hisnurse. '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 abitterness I could not repress, 'for it is the only comfort I have;and the satisfaction of my own conscience, it seems, is the onlyreward 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 benefityou: as well to better your mind as to alleviate your presentsufferings; but it appears I am to do neither; your own bad spiritwill not let me. As far as you are concerned, I have sacrificed myown feelings, and all the little earthly comfort that was left me,to no purpose; and every little thing I do for you is ascribed toself-righteous malice and refined revenge!'

'It's all very fine, I daresay,' said he, eyeing me with stupidamazement; 'and of course I ought to be melted to tears ofpenitence and admiration at the sight of so much generosity andsuperhuman goodness; but you see I can't manage it. However, praydo me all the good you can, if you do really find any pleasure init; for you perceive I am almost as miserable just now as you needwish to see me. Since you came, I confess, I have had betterattendance than before, for these wretches neglected me shamefully,and all my old friends seem to have fairly forsaken me. I've had adreadful time of it, I assure you: I sometimes thought I shouldhave died: do you think there's any chance?'

'There's always a chance of death; and it is always well to livewith such a chance in view.'

'Yes, yes! but do you think there's any likelihood that thisillness will have a fatal termination?'

'I cannot tell; but, supposing it should, how are you prepared tomeet the event?'

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

'I hope you may, Arthur; but neither the doctor nor I can speakwith certainty in such a case; there is internal injury, and it isdifficult 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 aconsciousness of the uncertainty of life can dispose you to seriousand useful thoughts, I would not deprive you of the benefit of suchreflections, whether you do eventually recover or not. Does theidea of death appal you very much?'

'It's just the only thing I can't bear to think of; so if you'veany - '

'But it must come some time,' interrupted I, 'and if it be yearshence, 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, unlessyou want to kill me outright. I can't stand it, I tell you. I'vesufferings enough without that. If you think there's danger, saveme from it; and then, in gratitude, I'll hear whatever you like tosay.'

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

I find myself in rather a singular position: I am exerting myutmost endeavours to promote the recovery and reformation of myhusband, 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 refoldedthe letter.

'It seems to me,' returned I, 'that she is casting her pearlsbefore swine. May they be satisfied with trampling them undertheir feet, and not turn again and rend her! But I shall say nomore against her: I see that she was actuated by the best andnoblest motives in what she has done; and if the act is not a wiseone, may heaven protect her from its consequences! May I keep thisletter, Lawrence? - you see she has never once mentioned methroughout - 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 thesewords conceived in her mind, and many of them spoken by her lips?'

'Well,' said he. And so I kept it; otherwise, Halford, you couldnever have become so thoroughly acquainted with its contents.

'And when you write,' said I, 'will you have the goodness to askher if I may be permitted to enlighten my mother and sister on herreal history and circumstance, just so far as is necessary to makethe neighbourhood sensible of the shameful injustice they have doneher? I want no tender messages, but just ask her that, and tellher 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 hermyself, but I am so virtuous as to refrain.'

'Well, I'll do this for you, Markham.'

'And as soon as you receive an answer, you'll let me know?'

'If all be well, I'll come myself and tell you immediately.'