Though Mr. Lawrence's health was now quite re-established, myvisits to Woodford were as unremitting as ever; though often lessprotracted than before. We seldom talked about Mrs. Huntingdon;but yet we never met without mentioning her, for I never sought hiscompany but with the hope of hearing something about her, and henever sought mine at all, because he saw me often enough without.But I always began to talk of other things, and waited first to seeif he would introduce the subject. If he did not, I would casuallyask, 'Have you heard from your sister lately?' If he said 'No,'the matter was dropped: if he said 'Yes,' I would venture toinquire, 'How is she?' but never 'How is her husband?' though Imight be burning to know; because I had not the hypocrisy toprofess any anxiety for his recovery, and I had not the face toexpress 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, atleast, wherewith I sought to pacify my own accusing conscience.

In the first place, you see, his life did harm to others, andevidently 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 asingle effort of the will would be enough, - unless, indeed, I hadthe power to exchange him for some other victim of the grave, whoselife might be of service to his race, and whose death would belamented by his friends. But was there any harm in wishing that,among the many thousands whose souls would certainly be required ofthem before the year was over, this wretched mortal might be one?I thought not; and therefore I wished with all my heart that itmight please heaven to remove him to a better world, or if thatmight not be, still to take him out of this; for if he were unfitto answer the summons now, after a warning sickness, and with suchan angel by his side, it seemed but too certain that he never wouldbe - that, on the contrary, returning health would bring returninglust and villainy, and as he grew more certain of recovery, moreaccustomed to her generous goodness, his feelings would become morecallous, his heart more flinty and impervious to her persuasivearguments - but God knew best. Meantime, however, I could not butbe anxious for the result of His decrees; knowing, as I did, that(leaving myself entirely out of the question), however Helen mightfeel interested in her husband's welfare, however she might deplorehis fate, still while he lived she must be miserable.

A fortnight passed away, and my inquiries were always answered inthe negative. At length a welcome 'yes' drew from me the secondquestion. Lawrence divined my anxious thoughts, and appreciated myreserve. I feared, at first, he was going to torture me byunsatisfactory replies, and either leave me quite in the darkconcerning what I wanted to know, or force me to drag theinformation out of him, morsel by morsel, by direct inquiries.'And serve you right,' you will say; but he was more merciful; andin a little while he put his sister's letter into my hand. Isilently read it, and restored it to him without comment or remark.This mode of procedure suited him so well, that thereafter healways pursued the plan of showing me her letters at once, when'inquired' after her, if there were any to show - it was so muchless trouble than to tell me their contents; and I received suchconfidences so quietly and discreetly that he was never induced todiscontinue them.

But I devoured those precious letters with my eyes, and never letthem go till their contents were stamped upon my mind; and when Igot home, the most important passages were entered in my diaryamong the remarkable events of the day.

The first of these communications brought intelligence of a seriousrelapse in Mr. Huntingdon's illness, entirely the result of his owninfatuation in persisting in the indulgence of his appetite forstimulating drink. In vain had she remonstrated, in vain she hadmingled his wine with water: her arguments and entreaties were anuisance, her interference was an insult so intolerable that, atlength, on finding she had covertly diluted the pale port that wasbrought him, he threw the bottle out of window, swearing he wouldnot be cheated like a baby, ordered the butler, on pain of instantdismissal, to bring a bottle of the strongest wine in the cellar,and affirming that he should have been well long ago if he had beenlet to have his own way, but she wanted to keep him weak in orderthat 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 thebottle 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 thandiminished since; and this was the cause of her delay in writing toher brother. Every former feature of his malady had returned withaugmented virulence: the slight external wound, half healed, hadbroken out afresh; internal inflammation had taken place, whichmight terminate fatally if not soon removed. Of course, thewretched sufferer's temper was not improved by this calamity - infact, I suspect it was well nigh insupportable, though his kindnurse did not complain; but she said she had been obliged at lastto give her son in charge to Esther Hargrave, as her presence wasso constantly required in the sick-room that she could not possiblyattend to him herself; and though the child had begged to beallowed to continue with her there, and to help her to nurse hispapa, and though she had no doubt he would have been very good andquiet, she could not think of subjecting his young and tenderfeelings to the sight of so much suffering, or of allowing him towitness his father's impatience, or hear the dreadful language hewas wont to use in his paroxysms of pain or irritation.

The latter (continued she) most deeply regrets the step that hasoccasioned his relapse; but, as usual, he throws the blame upon me.If I had reasoned with him like a rational creature, he says, itnever would have happened; but to be treated like a baby or a foolwas enough to put any man past his patience, and drive him toassert 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 himto behold it in the proper light. The other night, while I waswaiting on him, and just as I had brought him a draught to assuagehis burning thirst, he observed, with a return of his formersarcastic bitterness, 'Yes, you're mighty attentive now! I supposethere's nothing you wouldn't do for me now?'

'You know,' said I, a little surprised at his manner, 'that I amwilling to do anything I can to relieve you.'

'Yes, now, my immaculate angel; but when once you have secured yourreward, and find yourself safe in heaven, and me howling in hell-fire, catch you lifting a finger to serve me then! No, you'll lookcomplacently on, and not so much as dip the tip of your finger inwater to cool my tongue!'

'If so, it will be because of the great gulf over which I cannotpass; and if I could look complacently on in such a case, it wouldbe only from the assurance that you were being purified from yoursins, and fitted to enjoy the happiness I felt. - But are youdetermined, 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 yourtastes and feelings must be widely altered before you can have anyenjoyment 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 isany doubt, and if you should find yourself mistaken after all, whenit is too late to turn - '

'It would be rather awkward, to be sure,' said he; 'but don'tbother me now - I'm not going to die yet. I can't and won't,' headded vehemently, as if suddenly struck with the appalling aspectof that terrible event. 'Helen, you must save me!' And heearnestly seized my hand, and looked into my face with suchimploring eagerness that my heart bled for him, and I could notspeak for tears.

* * * * *

The next letter brought intelligence that the malady was fastincreasing; and the poor sufferer's horror of death was still moredistressing than his impatience of bodily pain. All his friendshad not forsaken him; for Mr. Hattersley, hearing of his danger,had come to see him from his distant home in the north. His wifehad accompanied him, as much for the pleasure of seeing her dearfriend, from whom she had been parted so long, as to visit hermother 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 theGrove, continued the letter, but she often calls to see me. Mr.Hattersley spends much of his time at Arthur's bed-side. With moregood feeling than I gave him credit for, he evinces considerablesympathy for his unhappy friend, and is far more willing than ableto comfort him. Sometimes he tries to joke and laugh with him, butthat will not do; sometimes he endeavours to cheer him with talkabout old times, and this at one time may serve to divert thesufferer from his own sad thoughts; at another, it will only plungehim into deeper melancholy than before; and then Hattersley isconfounded, and knows not what to say, unless it be a timidsuggestion that the clergyman might be sent for. But Arthur willnever consent to that: he knows he has rejected the clergyman'swell-meant admonitions with scoffing levity at other times, andcannot dream of turning to him for consolation now.

Mr. Hattersley sometimes offers his services instead of mine, butArthur will not let me go: that strange whim still increases, ashis strength declines - the fancy to have me always by his side. Ihardly ever leave him, except to go into the next room, where Isometimes snatch an hour or so of sleep when he is quiet; but eventhen 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 annoyshim; 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, thisfine frosty morning, with Milicent and Esther and little Arthur,whom he had driven over to see me. Our poor invalid evidently feltit a heartless proposition, and would have felt it still moreheartless in me to accede to it. I therefore said I would only goand speak to them a minute, and then come back. I did but exchangea few words with them, just outside the portico, inhaling thefresh, bracing air as I stood, and then, resisting the earnest andeloquent entreaties of all three to stay a little longer, and jointhem in a walk round the garden, I tore myself away and returned tomy patient. I had not been absent five minutes, but he reproachedme bitterly for my levity and neglect. His friend espoused mycause.

'Nay, nay, Huntingdon,' said he, 'you're too hard upon her; shemust 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 toa shadow already.'

'What are her sufferings to mine?' said the poor invalid. 'Youdon't grudge me these attentions, do you, Helen?'

'No, Arthur, if I could really serve you by them. I would give mylife 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 gloomyreflections; but while I pondered for something to say that mightbenefit without alarming him, Hattersley, whose mind had beenpursuing almost the same course, broke silence with, 'I say,Huntingdon, I would send for a parson of some sort: if you didn'tlike the vicar, you know, you could have his curate, or somebodyelse.'

'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 wouldhave been!'

'Hear me now, then, Arthur,' said I, gently pressing his hand.

'It's too late now,' said he despondingly. And after that anotherparoxysm of pain came on; and then his mind began to wander, and wefeared 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 quietersince; and now Hattersley has left him, expressing a hope that heshall find him better when he calls to-morrow.

'Perhaps I may recover,' he replied; 'who knows? This may havebeen the crisis. What do you think, Helen?' Unwilling to depresshim, I gave the most cheering answer I could, but still recommendedhim to prepare for the possibility of what I inly feared was buttoo certain. But he was determined to hope. Shortly after herelapsed into a kind of doze, but now he groans again.

There is a change. Suddenly he called me to his side, with such astrange, excited manner, that I feared he was delirious, but he wasnot. 'That was the crisis, Helen!' said he, delightedly. 'I hadan infernal pain here - it is quite gone now. I never was so easysince the fall - quite gone, by heaven!' and he clasped and kissedmy hand in the very fulness of his heart; but finding I did notparticipate his joy, he quickly flung it from him, and bitterlycursed my coldness and insensibility. How could I reply? Kneelingbeside him, I took his hand and fondly pressed it to my lips - forthe first time since our separation - and told him, as well astears 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 sofavourable a symptom as he supposed. I immediately sent for thedoctor: we are now anxiously awaiting him. I will tell you whathe says. There is still the same freedom from pain, the samedeadness to all sensation where the suffering was most acute.

My worst fears are realised: mortification has commenced. Thedoctor has told him there is no hope. No words can describe hisanguish. 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 tothe verge of that awful chasm he trembled to contemplate, fromwhich no agony of prayers or tears could save him. Nothing couldcomfort him now; Hattersley's rough attempts at consolation wereutterly in vain. The world was nothing to him: life and all itsinterests, its petty cares and transient pleasures, were a cruelmockery. 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 besilent was to leave him a prey to his own regrets andapprehensions. Often he dwelt with shuddering minuteness on thefate of his perishing clay - the slow, piecemeal dissolutionalready 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 thesethings - to raise his thoughts to higher themes, it is no better:-"Worse and worse!" he groans. "If there be really life beyond thetomb, and judgment after death, how can I face it?" - I cannot dohim any good; he will neither be enlightened, nor roused, norcomforted by anything I say; and yet he clings to me withunrelenting pertinacity - with a kind of childish desperation, asif I could save him from the fate he dreads. He keeps me night andday beside him. He is holding my left hand now, while I write; hehas held it thus for hours: sometimes quietly, with his pale faceupturned to mine: sometimes clutching my arm with violence - thebig drops starting from his forehead at the thoughts of what hesees, or thinks he sees, before him. If I withdraw my hand for amoment it distresses him.

'"Stay with me, Helen," he says; "let me hold you so: it seems asif harm could not reach me while you are here. But death will come- it is coming now - fast, fast! - and - oh, if I could believethere was nothing after!"

'"Don't try to believe it, Arthur; there is joy and glory after, ifyou will but try to reach it!"

'"What, for me?" he said, with something like a laugh. "Are we notto be judged according to the deeds done in the body? Where's theuse of a probationary existence, if a man may spend it as hepleases, just contrary to God's decrees, and then go to heaven withthe best - if the vilest sinner may win the reward of the holiestsaint, 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 tohave offended Him."

'"What is God? - I cannot see Him or hear Him. - God is only anidea."

'"God is Infinite Wisdom, and Power, and Goodness - and LOVE; butif this idea is too vast for your human faculties - if your mindloses itself in its overwhelming infinitude, fix it on Him whocondescended to take our nature upon Him, who was raised to heaveneven in His glorified human body, in whom the fulness of theGodhead shines."

'But he only shook his head and sighed. Then, in another paroxysmof 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 Icannot help him. I did my best to soothe and comfort him.

'"Death is so terrible," he cried, "I cannot bear it! You don'tknow, Helen - you can't imagine what it is, because you haven't itbefore you! and when I'm buried, you'll return to your old ways andbe as happy as ever, and all the world will go on just as busy andmerry as if I had never been; while I - " He burst into tears.

'"You needn't let that distress you," I said; "we shall all followyou soon enough."

'"I wish to God I could take you with me now!" he exclaimed: "youshould plead for me."

'"No man can deliver his brother, nor make agreement unto God forhim," I replied: "it cost more to redeem their souls - it cost theblood of an incarnate God, perfect and sinless in Himself, toredeem us from the bondage of the evil one:- let Him plead foryou."

'But I seem to speak in vain. He does not now, as formerly, laughthese blessed truths to scorn: but still he cannot trust, or willnot comprehend them. He cannot linger long. He suffersdreadfully, and so do those that wait upon him. But I will notharass you with further details: I have said enough, I think, toconvince you that I did well to go to him.'

* * * * *

Poor, poor Helen! dreadful indeed her trials must have been! And Icould do nothing to lessen them - nay, it almost seemed as if I hadbrought them upon her myself by my own secret desires; and whetherI looked at her husband's sufferings or her own, it seemed almostlike a judgment upon myself for having cherished such a wish.

The next day but one there came another letter. That too was putinto 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 fastlooked in his, watching the changes of his features and listeningto his failing breath. He had been silent a long time, and Ithought he would never speak again, when he murmured, faintly butdistinctly, - 'Pray for me, Helen!'

'I do pray for you, every hour and every minute, Arthur; but youmust pray for yourself.'

His lips moved, but emitted no sound; - then his looks becameunsettled; and, from the incoherent, half-uttered words thatescaped him from time to time, supposing him to be now unconscious,I gently disengaged my hand from his, intending to steal away for abreath of air, for I was almost ready to faint; but a convulsivemovement of the fingers, and a faintly whispered 'Don't leave me!'immediately recalled me: I took his hand again, and held it tillhe was no more - and then I fainted. It was not grief; it wasexhaustion, that, till then, I had been enabled successfully tocombat. Oh, Frederick! none can imagine the miseries, bodily andmental, of that death-bed! How could I endure to think that thatpoor trembling soul was hurried away to everlasting torment? itwould drive me mad. But, thank God, I have hope - not only from avague dependence on the possibility that penitence and pardon mighthave reached him at the last, but from the blessed confidence that,through whatever purging fires the erring spirit may be doomed topass - whatever fate awaits it - still it is not lost, and God, whohateth nothing that He hath made, will bless it in the end!

His body will be consigned on Thursday to that dark grave he somuch 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.