The Tenant of Wildfell Hall - Anne Brontë (best e reader for manga txt) 📗

somewhat shy; and when he was ushered into the darkened room where the sick man lay, so altered from his former self, with fiercely flushed face and wildly-gleaming eyes⁠—he instinctively clung to me, and stood looking on his father with a countenance expressive of far more awe than pleasure.

“Come here, Arthur,” said the latter, extending his hand towards him. The child went, and timidly touched that burning hand, but almost started in 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 had 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 that 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 own I have 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 a pillow in a paroxysm of impatience.

“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 bedclothes.” 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