Delphi Complete Works of the Brontes Charlotte, Emily, Anne Brontë (Illustrated) (337 page)

‘Come along — I shall leave it in the first house we come to.  I don’t want to take it home, for fear papa should scold me for letting the dog kill it.’

Mr. Weston was now gone, and we too went on our way; but as we returned, after having deposited the hare in a farm-house, and demolished some spice-cake and currant-wine in exchange, we met him returning also from the execution of his mission, whatever it might be.  He carried in his hand a cluster of beautiful bluebells, which he offered to me; observing, with a smile, that though he had seen so little of me for the last two months, he had not forgotten that bluebells were numbered among my favourite flowers.  It was done as a simple act of goodwill, without compliment or remarkable courtesy, or any look that could be construed into ‘reverential, tender adoration’ (
vide
Rosalie Murray); but still, it was something to find my unimportant saying so well remembered: it was something that he had noticed so accurately the time I had ceased to be visible.

‘I was told,’ said he, ‘that you were a perfect bookworm, Miss Grey: so completely absorbed in your studies that you were lost to every other pleasure.’

‘Yes, and it’s quite true!’ cried Matilda.

‘No, Mr. Weston: don’t believe it: it’s a scandalous libel.  These young ladies are too fond of making random assertions at the expense of their friends; and you ought to be careful how you listen to them.’

‘I hope
this
assertion is groundless, at any rate.’

‘Why?  Do you particularly object to ladies studying?’

‘No; but I object to anyone so devoting himself or herself to study, as to lose sight of everything else.  Except under peculiar circumstances, I consider very close and constant study as a waste of time, and an injury to the mind as well as the body.’

‘Well, I have neither the time nor the inclination for such transgressions.’

We parted again.

Well! what is there remarkable in all this?  Why have I recorded it?  Because, reader, it was important enough to give me a cheerful evening, a night of pleasing dreams, and a morning of felicitous hopes.  Shallow-brained cheerfulness, foolish dreams, unfounded hopes, you would say; and I will not venture to deny it: suspicions to that effect arose too frequently in my own mind.  But our wishes are like tinder: the flint and steel of circumstances are continually striking out sparks, which vanish immediately, unless they chance to fall upon the tinder of our wishes; then, they instantly ignite, and the flame of hope is kindled in a moment.

But alas! that very morning, my flickering flame of hope was dismally quenched by a letter from my mother, which spoke so seriously of my father’s increasing illness, that I feared there was little or no chance of his recovery; and, close at hand as the holidays were, I almost trembled lest they should come too late for me to meet him in this world.  Two days after, a letter from Mary told me his life was despaired of, and his end seemed fast approaching.  Then, immediately, I sought permission to anticipate the vacation, and go without delay.  Mrs. Murray stared, and wondered at the unwonted energy and boldness with which I urged the request, and thought there was no occasion to hurry; but finally gave me leave: stating, however, that there was ‘no need to be in such agitation about the matter — it might prove a false alarm after all; and if not — why, it was only in the common course of nature: we must all die some time; and I was not to suppose myself the only afflicted person in the world;’ and concluding with saying I might have the phaeton to take me to O — -.  ‘And instead of
repining
, Miss Grey, be thankful for the
privileges
you enjoy.  There’s many a poor clergyman whose family would be plunged into ruin by the event of his death; but you, you see, have influential friends ready to continue their patronage, and to show you every consideration.’

I thanked her for her ‘consideration,’ and flew to my room to make some hurried preparations for my departure.  My bonnet and shawl being on, and a few things hastily crammed into my largest trunk, I descended.  But I might have done the work more leisurely, for no one else was in a hurry; and I had still a considerable time to wait for the phaeton.  At length it came to the door, and I was off: but, oh, what a dreary journey was that! how utterly different from my former passages homewards!  Being too late for the last coach to — -, I had to hire a cab for ten miles, and then a car to take me over the rugged hills.

It was half-past ten before I reached home.  They were not in bed.

My mother and sister both met me in the passage — sad — silent — pale!  I was so much shocked and terror-stricken that I could not speak, to ask the information I so much longed yet dreaded to obtain.

‘Agnes!’ said my mother, struggling to repress some strong emotion.

‘Oh, Agnes!’ cried Mary, and burst into tears.

‘How is he?’ I asked, gasping for the answer.

‘Dead!’

It was the reply I had anticipated: but the shock seemed none the less tremendous.

CHAPTER XIX — THE LETTER

My father’s mortal remains had been consigned to the tomb; and we, with sad faces and sombre garments, sat lingering over the frugal breakfast-table, revolving plans for our future life.  My mother’s strong mind had not given way beneath even this affliction: her spirit, though crushed, was not broken.  Mary’s wish was that I should go back to Horton Lodge, and that our mother should come and live with her and Mr. Richardson at the vicarage: she affirmed that he wished it no less than herself, and that such an arrangement could not fail to benefit all parties; for my mother’s society and experience would be of inestimable value to them, and they would do all they could to make her happy.  But no arguments or entreaties could prevail: my mother was determined not to go.  Not that she questioned, for a moment, the kind wishes and intentions of her daughter; but she affirmed that so long as God spared her health and strength, she would make use of them to earn her own livelihood, and be chargeable to no one; whether her dependence would be felt as a burden or not.  If she could afford to reside as a lodger in — vicarage, she would choose that house before all others as the place of her abode; but not being so circumstanced, she would never come under its roof, except as an occasional visitor: unless sickness or calamity should render her assistance really needful, or until age or infirmity made her incapable of maintaining herself.

‘No, Mary,’ said she, ‘if Richardson and you have anything to spare, you must lay it aside for your family; and Agnes and I must gather honey for ourselves.  Thanks to my having had daughters to educate, I have not forgotten my accomplishments.  God willing, I will check this vain repining,’ she said, while the tears coursed one another down her cheeks in spite of her efforts; but she wiped them away, and resolutely shaking back her head, continued, ‘I will exert myself, and look out for a small house, commodiously situated in some populous but healthy district, where we will take a few young ladies to board and educate — if we can get them — and as many day pupils as will come, or as we can manage to instruct.  Your father’s relations and old friends will be able to send us some pupils, or to assist us with their recommendations, no doubt: I shall not apply to my own.  What say you to it, Agnes? will you be willing to leave your present situation and try?’

‘Quite willing, mamma; and the money I have saved will do to furnish the house.  It shall be taken from the bank directly.’

‘When it is wanted: we must get the house, and settle on preliminaries first.’

Mary offered to lend the little she possessed; but my mother declined it, saying that we must begin on an economical plan; and she hoped that the whole or part of mine, added to what we could get by the sale of the furniture, and what little our dear papa had contrived to lay aside for her since the debts were paid, would be sufficient to last us till Christmas; when, it was hoped, something would accrue from our united labours.  It was finally settled that this should be our plan; and that inquiries and preparations should immediately be set on foot; and while my mother busied herself with these, I should return to Horton Lodge at the close of my four weeks’ vacation, and give notice for my final departure when things were in train for the speedy commencement of our school.

We were discussing these affairs on the morning I have mentioned, about a fortnight after my father’s death, when a letter was brought in for my mother, on beholding which the colour mounted to her face — lately pale enough with anxious watchings and excessive sorrow.  ‘From my father!’ murmured she, as she hastily tore off the cover.  It was many years since she had heard from any of her own relations before.  Naturally wondering what the letter might contain, I watched her countenance while she read it, and was somewhat surprised to see her bite her lip and knit her brows as if in anger.  When she had done, she somewhat irreverently cast it on the table, saying with a scornful smile, — ‘Your grandpapa has been so kind as to write to me.  He says he has no doubt I have long repented of my “unfortunate marriage,” and if I will only acknowledge this, and confess I was wrong in neglecting his advice, and that I have justly suffered for it, he will make a lady of me once again — if that be possible after my long degradation — and remember my girls in his will.  Get my desk, Agnes, and send these things away: I will answer the letter directly.  But first, as I may be depriving you both of a legacy, it is just that I should tell you what I mean to say.  I shall say that he is mistaken in supposing that I can regret the birth of my daughters (who have been the pride of my life, and are likely to be the comfort of my old age), or the thirty years I have passed in the company of my best and dearest friend; — that, had our misfortunes been three times as great as they were (unless they had been of my bringing on), I should still the more rejoice to have shared them with your father, and administered what consolation I was able; and, had his sufferings in illness been ten times what they wore, I could not regret having watched over and laboured to relieve them; — that, if he had married a richer wife, misfortunes and trials would no doubt have come upon him still; while I am egotist enough to imagine that no other woman could have cheered him through them so well: not that I am superior to the rest, but I was made for him, and he for me; and I can no more repent the hours, days, years of happiness we have spent together, and which neither could have had without the other, than I can the privilege of having been his nurse in sickness, and his comfort in affliction.

‘Will this do, children? — or shall I say we are all very sorry for what has happened during the last thirty years, and my daughters wish they had never been born; but since they have had that misfortune, they will be thankful for any trifle their grandpapa will be kind enough to bestow?’

Of course, we both applauded our mother’s resolution; Mary cleared away the breakfast things; I brought the desk; the letter was quickly written and despatched; and, from that day, we heard no more of our grandfather, till we saw his death announced in the newspaper a considerable time after — all his worldly possessions, of course, being left to our wealthy unknown cousins.

CHAPTER XX — THE FAREWELL

A house in A — -, the fashionable watering-place, was hired for our seminary; and a promise of two or three pupils was obtained to commence with.  I returned to Horton Lodge about the middle of July, leaving my mother to conclude the bargain for the house, to obtain more pupils, to sell off the furniture of our old abode, and to fit out the new one.

We often pity the poor, because they have no leisure to mourn their departed relatives, and necessity obliges them to labour through their severest afflictions: but is not active employment the best remedy for overwhelming sorrow — the surest antidote for despair?  It may be a rough comforter: it may seem hard to be harassed with the cares of life when we have no relish for its enjoyments; to be goaded to labour when the heart is ready to break, and the vexed spirit implores for rest only to weep in silence: but is not labour better than the rest we covet? and are not those petty, tormenting cares less hurtful than a continual brooding over the great affliction that oppresses us?  Besides, we cannot have cares, and anxieties, and toil, without hope — if it be but the hope of fulfilling our joyless task, accomplishing some needful project, or escaping some further annoyance.  At any rate, I was glad my mother had so much employment for every faculty of her action-loving frame.  Our kind neighbours lamented that she, once so exalted in wealth and station, should be reduced to such extremity in her time of sorrow; but I am persuaded that she would have suffered thrice as much had she been left in affluence, with liberty to remain in that house, the scene of her early happiness and late affliction, and no stern necessity to prevent her from incessantly brooding over and lamenting her bereavement.

I will not dilate upon the feelings with which I left the old house, the well-known garden, the little village church — then doubly dear to me, because my father, who, for thirty years, had taught and prayed within its walls, lay slumbering now beneath its flags — and the old bare hills, delightful in their very desolation, with the narrow vales between, smiling in green wood and sparkling water — the house where I was born, the scene of all my early associations, the place where throughout life my earthly affections had been centred; — and left them to return no more!  True, I was going back to Horton Lodge, where, amid many evils, one source of pleasure yet remained: but it was pleasure mingled with excessive pain; and my stay, alas! was limited to six weeks.  And even of that precious time, day after day slipped by and I did not see him: except at church, I never saw him for a fortnight after my return.  It seemed a long time to me: and, as I was often out with my rambling pupil, of course hopes would keep rising, and disappointments would ensue; and then, I would say to my own heart, ‘Here is a convincing proof — if you would but have the sense to see it, or the candour to acknowledge it — that he does not care for you.  If he only thought
half
as much about you as you do about him, he would have contrived to meet you many times ere this: you must know that, by consulting your own feelings.  Therefore, have done with this nonsense: you have no ground for hope: dismiss, at once, these hurtful thoughts and foolish wishes from your mind, and turn to your own duty, and the dull blank life that lies before you.  You might have known such happiness was not for you.’

But I saw him at last.  He came suddenly upon me as I was crossing a field in returning from a visit to Nancy Brown, which I had taken the opportunity of paying while Matilda Murray was riding her matchless mare.  He must have heard of the heavy loss I had sustained: he expressed no sympathy, offered no condolence: but almost the first words he uttered were, — ‘How is your mother?’  And this was no matter-of-course question, for I never told him that I had a mother: he must have learned the fact from others, if he knew it at all; and, besides, there was sincere goodwill, and even deep, touching, unobtrusive sympathy in the tone and manner of the inquiry.  I thanked him with due civility, and told him she was as well as could be expected.  ‘What will she do?’ was the next question.  Many would have deemed it an impertinent one, and given an evasive reply; but such an idea never entered my head, and I gave a brief but plain statement of my mother’s plans and prospects.

‘Then you will leave this place shortly?’ said he.

‘Yes, in a month.’

He paused a minute, as if in thought.  When he spoke again, I hoped it would be to express his concern at my departure; but it was only to say, — ‘I should think you will be willing enough to go?’

‘Yes — for some things,’ I replied.

‘For
some
things only — I wonder what should make you regret it?’

I was annoyed at this in some degree; because it embarrassed me: I had only one reason for regretting it; and that was a profound secret, which he had no business to trouble me about.

‘Why,’ said I — ‘why should you suppose that I dislike the place?’

‘You told me so yourself,’ was the decisive reply.  ‘You said, at least, that you could not live contentedly, without a friend; and that you had no friend here, and no possibility of making one — and, besides, I know you
must
dislike it.’

‘But if you remember rightly, I said, or meant to say, I could not live contentedly without a friend in the world: I was not so unreasonable as to require one always near me.  I think I could be happy in a house full of enemies, if — ’ but no; that sentence must not be continued — I paused, and hastily added, — ‘And, besides, we cannot well leave a place where we have lived for two or three years, without some feeling of regret.’

‘Will you regret to part with Miss Murray, your sole remaining pupil and companion?’

‘I dare say I shall in some degree: it was not without sorrow I parted with her sister.’

‘I can imagine that.’

‘Well, Miss Matilda is quite as good — better in one respect.’

‘What is that?’

‘She’s honest.’

‘And the other is not?’

‘I should not call her
dis
honest; but it must be confessed she’s a little artful.’

‘
Artful
is she? — I saw she was giddy and vain — and now,’ he added, after a pause, ‘I can well believe she was artful too; but so excessively so as to assume an aspect of extreme simplicity and unguarded openness.  Yes,’ continued he, musingly, ‘that accounts for some little things that puzzled me a trifle before.’

After that, he turned the conversation to more general subjects.  He did not leave me till we had nearly reached the park-gates: he had certainly stepped a little out of his way to accompany me so far, for he now went back and disappeared down Moss Lane, the entrance of which we had passed some time before.  Assuredly I did not regret this circumstance: if sorrow had any place in my heart, it was that he was gone at last — that he was no longer walking by my side, and that that short interval of delightful intercourse was at an end.  He had not breathed a word of love, or dropped one hint of tenderness or affection, and yet I had been supremely happy.  To be near him, to hear him talk as he did talk, and to feel that he thought me worthy to be so spoken to — capable of understanding and duly appreciating such discourse — was enough.

‘Yes, Edward Weston, I could indeed be happy in a house full of enemies, if I had but one friend, who truly, deeply, and faithfully loved me; and if that friend were you — though we might be far apart — seldom to hear from each other, still more seldom to meet — though toil, and trouble, and vexation might surround me, still — it would be too much happiness for me to dream of!  Yet who can tell,’ said I within myself, as I proceeded up the park, — ‘who can tell what this one month may bring forth?  I have lived nearly three-and-twenty years, and I have suffered much, and tasted little pleasure yet; is it likely my life all through will be so clouded?  Is it not possible that God may hear my prayers, disperse these gloomy shadows, and grant me some beams of heaven’s sunshine yet?  Will He entirely deny to me those blessings which are so freely given to others, who neither ask them nor acknowledge them when received?  May I not still hope and trust?  I did hope and trust for a while: but, alas, alas! the time ebbed away: one week followed another, and, excepting one distant glimpse and two transient meetings — during which scarcely anything was said — while I was walking with Miss Matilda, I saw nothing of him: except, of course, at church.

And now, the last Sunday was come, and the last service.  I was often on the point of melting into tears during the sermon — the last I was to hear from him: the best I should hear from anyone, I was well assured.  It was over — the congregation were departing; and I must follow.  I had then seen him, and heard his voice, too, probably for the last time.  In the churchyard, Matilda was pounced upon by the two Misses Green.  They had many inquiries to make about her sister, and I know not what besides.  I only wished they would have done, that we might hasten back to Horton Lodge: I longed to seek the retirement of my own room, or some sequestered nook in the grounds, that I might deliver myself up to my feelings — to weep my last farewell, and lament my false hopes and vain delusions.  Only this once, and then adieu to fruitless dreaming — thenceforth, only sober, solid, sad reality should occupy my mind.  But while I thus resolved, a low voice close beside me said — ‘I suppose you are going this week, Miss Grey?’  ‘Yes,’ I replied.  I was very much startled; and had I been at all hysterically inclined, I certainly should have committed myself in some way then.  Thank God, I was not.

‘Well,’ said Mr. Weston, ‘I want to bid you good-bye — it is not likely I shall see you again before you go.’

‘Good-bye, Mr. Weston,’ I said.  Oh, how I struggled to say it calmly!  I gave him my hand.  He retained it a few seconds in his.

‘It is possible we may meet again,’ said he; ‘will it be of any consequence to you whether we do or not?’

‘Yes, I should be very glad to see you again.’

I
could
say no less.  He kindly pressed my hand, and went.  Now, I was happy again — though more inclined to burst into tears than ever.  If I had been forced to speak at that moment, a succession of sobs would have inevitably ensued; and as it was, I could not keep the water out of my eyes.  I walked along with Miss Murray, turning aside my face, and neglecting to notice several successive remarks, till she bawled out that I was either deaf or stupid; and then (having recovered my self-possession), as one awakened from a fit of abstraction, I suddenly looked up and asked what she had been saying.