47 Further Cont. Tenant Of Wildfell Hall - Stephanie Poppins

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Welcome to Sleep Stories with Steph,

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Relaxing sleep.

Come with me as we travel back to a time long ago where Helen Huntingdon is sacrificing everything she knows in order to protect her son.

But before we begin let us take a moment to focus on where we are now.

Take a deep breath in through your nose then let it out on a long sigh.

It is time to relax and really let go.

Feel your shoulders melt away from your ears as you sink into the support beneath you.

Feel the pressure seep away from your cheeks as your breath drops into a natural rhythm.

There is nothing you need to be doing right now and nowhere you need to go.

We are together and it is time for sleep.

The Tenant of Wildfelm Hall by Red and Abridged by Stephanie Poppins Chapter 48 Come here Arthur,

Said Mr Huntingdon,

Extending his hand towards him.

And the child went,

Timidly touching that burned hand,

But almost started an alarm when his father suddenly clutched his arm and drew him nearer to his side.

Do you know me?

Asked Mr Huntingdon,

Intently perusing his features.

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'd made the child hate him and abused and cursed me bitterly.

The instant he began,

I sent our son out of the room and when he paused to breathe,

I calmly assured him he was entirely mistaken.

I had never once attempted to prejudice his child against him.

I did indeed desire him to forget you,

I said,

And especially to forget the lessons you taught him,

And for that cause,

And to lessen the danger of discovery,

I only generally discouraged his inclination to talk about you,

But no one can blame me for that,

I think.

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

I am in hell already,

Cried he.

This curse of thirst is burning my heart to ashes.

Will nobody.

.

.

But before he could finish the sentence,

I poured out a glass of some cooling drink that was on the table and I 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.

Yes,

I'll give you an opportunity of showing your Christian magnanimity,

Sneered he.

Set my pillows straight,

And these confounded bled clothes.

Now get me another glass of that slop,

I complied.

This is delightful,

Isn't it,

Said he with a malicious grin.

You never hope 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?

Yes,

You're wondrous gentle and obliging,

Said he,

But you've driven me mad with it all.

I'll leave you then,

Said I,

And I withdrew,

And did not trouble him with my presence again that day.

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.

But the day after,

He recovered from this state of exhaustion and stupefaction,

And his ill nature appeared to revive.

This is sweet revenge,

Cried he.

You can enjoy it with such a quiet conscience too,

Because it's all in the way of duty.

It is well for me 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 as 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,

Arthur,

I have sacrificed my own feelings for you.

And all the little earthly comfort that was left me to no purpose.

Everything I do for you is ascribed to self-righteous malice and refined revenge.

That is all very fine,

I dare say,

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 really do find pleasure in it,

For you perceive I'm almost as miserable just now as you need wish to see me.

Since you came,

I confess,

I've had better attendance than before.

Those 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 is always a chance of death,

I said,

And it is always well to live with such a chance in view.

Yes,

But do you think there's any likelihood this illness will have a fatal termination?

I cannot tell.

But supposing it should,

How were you prepared to meet the event?

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's difficult to know to what extent.

There now,

You don't 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 reflection,

Whether you do eventually recover or not.

Does the idea of death appal you very much?

It's the only thing I can't bear to think of.

But it must come sometime,

And if it be years hence,

It will be certainly overtaking you as if it came today.

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.

I dare not leave Arthur for a moment with any of the other servants,

Or worse.

I shall ask Esker Hargrave to take care of him for a time,

Until I have reorganized 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 endeavors to promote the recovery and reformation of my husband,

But 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.

Goodbye,

Dear Frederick.

Signed,

Helen Huntingdon.

"'What do you think of it?

' said Lawrence,

As I silently refolded the letter.

"'It seems to me,

' returned I,

"'she's casting her pulse 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 she was actuated by the best and noblest motives.

"'May I keep this letter,

Lawrence?

"'She's never once mentioned me throughout or made the most distant allusion to me,

"'therefore there can be no impropriety or harm in it.

"'And why should you wish to keep it?

"'Were not those characters written by her hand,

"'and were not these words conceived in her mind and spoken by her lips?

' "'Well,

' said he.

"'And so I kept it.

"'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 it's necessary to make the neighbourhood sensible "'of the shameful injustice they've done her?

"'I want no tender messages,

But just ask Helen that,

"'and tell her it's 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'm so virtuous as to refrain.

' "'Well,

I'll do this for you,

Markham,

' said Lawrence.

"'And as soon as you receive an answer,

"'you'll let me know,

' I replied.

"'If all be well,

I'll come myself,

' said he,

"'and I will tell you immediately.

'"