by Brontë, Anne
What should I do then? Apply to my brother, and explain my circumstances and my resolves to him? No, no; even if I told him all my grievances, which I should be very reluctant to do, he would be certain to disapprove of the step: it would seem like madness to him, as it would to my uncle and aunt, or to Milicent No; I must have patience and gather a hoard of my own. Rachel should be my only confidant – I thought I could persuade her into the scheme; and she should help me, first to find out a picture-dealer in some distant town; then, through her means, I would privately sell what pictures I had on hand that would do for such a purpose, and some of those I should thereafter paint. Besides this, I would contrive to dispose of my jewels – not the family jewels, but the few I brought with me from home, and those my uncle gave me on my marriage. A few months’ arduous toil might well be borne by me, with such an end in view; and in the interim, my son could not be much more injured than he was already.
Having formed this resolution, I immediately set to work to accomplish it. I might possibly have been induced to wax cool upon it afterwards, or perhaps, to keep weighing the pros and cons in my mind till the latter overbalanced the former, and I was driven to relinquish the project altogether, or delay the execution of it to an indefinite period, – had not something occurred to confirm me in that determination to which I still adhere, which I still think I did well to form, and shall do better to execute.
Since Lord Lowborough’s departure, I had regarded the library as entirely my own, a secure retreat at all hours of the day. None of our gentlemen had the smallest pretensions to a literary taste, except Mr Hargrave; and he, at present, was quite contented with the newspapers and periodicals of the day. And if, by any chance, he should look in here, I felt assured he would soon depart on seeing me, for, instead of becoming less cool and distant towards me, he had become decidedly more so since the departure of his mother and sisters, which was just what I wished. Here, then, I set up my easel, and here I worked at my canvas from daylight till dusk, with very little intermission saving when pure necessity, or my duties to little Arthur called me away – for I still thought proper to devote some portion of every day exclusively to his instruction and amusement. But contrary to my expectation, on the third morning, while I was thus employed, Mr Hargrave did look in, and did not immediately withdraw on seeing me. He apologized for his intrusion, and said he was only come for a book; but when he had got it, he condescended to cast a glance over my picture. Being a man of taste, he had something to say on this subject as well as another, and having modestly commented on it, without much encouragement from me, he proceeded to expatiate on the art in general. Receiving no encouragement in that either, he dropped it, but did not depart.
‘You don’t give us much of your company, Mrs Huntingdon,’ observed he, after a brief pause, during which I went on coolly mixing and tempering my colours; ‘and I cannot wonder at it, for you must be heartily sick of us all. I myself am so thoroughly ashamed of my companions, and so weary of their irrational conversation and pursuits – now that there is no one to humanize them and keep them in check, since you have justly abandoned us to our own devices – that I think I shall presently withdraw from amongst them – probably within this week – and I cannot suppose you will regret my departure.’
He paused. I did not answer.
‘Probably,’ he added, with a smile, ‘your only regret on the subject will be, that I do not take all my companions along with me. I flatter myself, at times, that though among them, I am not of them; but it is natural that you should be glad to get rid of me. I may regret this, but I cannot blame you for it.’
‘I shall not rejoice at your departure, for you can conduct yourself like a gentleman,’ said I, thinking it but right to make some acknowledgment for his good behaviour, ‘but I must confess I shall rejoice to bid adieu to the rest, inhospitable as it may appear.’
‘No one can blame you for such an avowal,’ replied he gravely; ‘not even the gentlemen themselves, I imagine. I’ll just tell you,’ he continued, as if actuated by a sudden resolution, ‘what was said last night in the dining-room, after you left us – perhaps you will not mind it as you’re so very philosophical on certain points,’ he added with a slight sneer. ‘They were talking about Lord Lowborough and his delectable lady, the cause of whose sudden departure is no secret amongst them; and her character is so well known to them all, that, nearly related to me as she is, I could not attempt to defend it. – God curse me,’ he muttered, par parenthèse,6’if I don’t have vengeance for this! If the villain must disgrace the family, must he blazon it abroad to every lowbred knave of his acquaintance? – I beg your pardon, Mrs Huntingdon. Well, they were talking of these things, and some of them remarked that, as she was separated from her husband, he might see her again when he pleased.’
‘“Thank you,” said he; “I’ve had enough of her for the present: I’ll not trouble to see her, unless she comes to me.”
‘“Then what do you mean to do, Huntingdon, when we’re gone?” said Ralph Hattersley. “Do you mean to turn from the error of your ways, and be a good husband, a good father, and so forth – as I do, when I get shut of you and all these rollicking devils you call your friends? I think it’s time; and your wife is fifty times too good for you, you know–”
‘And he added some praise of you, which you would not thank me for repeating – nor him for uttering; proclaiming it aloud, as he did, without delicacy or discrimination, in an audience where it seemed profanation to utter your name – himself utterly incapable of understanding or appreciating your real excellencies. Huntingdon meanwhile, sat quietly drinking his wine, or looking smilingly into his glass and offering no interruption or reply, till Hattersley shouted out, –
‘“Do you hear me, man?”
‘“Yes, go on,” said he.
‘“Nay, I’ve done,” replied the other: “I only want to know if you intend to take my advice.”
‘“What advice?”
‘“To turn over a new leaf, you double-dyed scoundrel,” shouted Ralph, “and beg your wife’s pardon, and be a good boy for the future.”
‘“My wife! what wife? I have no wife,” replied Huntingdon, looking innocently up from his glass – “or if I have, look you gentlemen, I value her so highly that any one among you, that can fancy her, may have her and welcome – you may, by Jove and my blessing into the bargain!”
‘I – hem – someone asked if he really meant what he said, upon which, he solemnly swore he did, and no mistake. – What do you think of that, Mrs Huntingdon?’ asked Mr Hargrave, after a short pause, during which I had felt he was keenly examining my half-averted face.
‘I say,’ replied I, calmly, ‘that what he prizes so lightly, will not be long in his possession.’
‘You cannot mean that you will break your heart and die for the detestable conduct of an infamous villain like that!’
‘By no means: my heart is too thoroughly dried to be broken in a hurry, and I mean to live as long as I can.’
‘Will you leave him then!’
‘Yes.’
‘When – and how?’ asked he, eagerly.
‘When I am ready, and how I can manage it most effectually.’
‘But your child?’
‘My child goes with me.’
‘He will not allow it.’
‘I shall not ask him.’
‘Ah, then, it is a secret flight you meditate! – but with whom, Mrs Huntingdon?’
‘With my son – and, possibly, his nurse.’
‘Alone – and unprotected! But where can you go? what can you do? He will follow you and bring you back.’
‘I have laid my plans too well for that. Let me once get clear of Grassdale, and I shall consider myself safe.’
Mr Hargrave advanced one step towards me, looked me in the face, and drew in his breath to speak; but that look, that heightened colour, that sudden sparkle of the eye made my blood rise in wrath: I abruptly turned away, and, snatching up my brush, began
to dash away at my canvas with rather too much energy for the good of the picture.
‘Mrs Huntingdon,’ said he with bitter solemnity, ‘you are cruel – cruel to me – cruel to yourself.’
‘Mr Hargrave, remember your promise.’
‘I must speak – my heart will burst if I don’t! I have been silent long enough – and you must hear me!’ cried he boldly intercepting my retreat to the door. ‘You tell me you owe no allegiance to your husband; he openly declares himself weary of you, and calmly gives you up to anybody that will take you; you are about to leave him; no one will believe that you go alone – all the world will say, “She has left him at last, and who can wonder at it? Few can blame her, fewer still can pity him; but who is the companion of her flight?” Thus you will have no credit for your virtue (if you call it such): even your best friends will not believe in it; because it is monstrous, and not to be credited – but by those who suffer from the effects of it, such cruel torments that they know it to be indeed reality – But what can you do in the cold, rough world alone? you, a young and inexperienced woman, delicately nurtured, and utterly –’
‘In a word, you would advise me to stay where I am,’ interrupted I.’Well, I’ll see about it.’
‘By all means, leave him!’ cried he earnestly, ‘but NOT alone! Helen! let me protect you!’
‘Never! – while heaven spares my reason,’ replied I, snatching away the hand he had presumed to seize and press between his own. But he was in for it now; he had fairly broken the barrier: he was completely roused, and determined to hazard all for victory.
‘I must not be denied!’ exclaimed he vehemently; and seizing both my hands, he held them very tight, but dropped upon his knee, and looked up in my face with a half-imploring, half-imperious gaze. ‘You have no reason now: you are flying in the face of heaven’s decrees. God has designed me to be your comfort and protector – I feel it – I know it as certainly as if a voice from heaven declared “Ye twain shall be one flesh”7 – and you spurn me from you –’
‘Let me go, Mr Hargrave!’ said I sternly. But he only tightened his grasp.
‘Let me go!’ I repeated, quivering with indignation.
His face was almost opposite the window as he knelt. With a slight start, I saw him glance towards it; and then a gleam of malicious triumph lit up his countenance. Looking over my shoulder, I beheld a shadow just retiring round the corner.
‘That is Grimsby,’ said he deliberately. ‘He will report what he has seen to Huntingdon and all the rest, with such embellishments as he thinks proper. He has no love for you, Mrs Huntingdon – no reverence for your sex – no belief in virtue – no admiration for its image. He will give such a version of this story as will leave no doubt at all, about your character, in the minds of those who hear it. Your fair fame is gone; and nothing that I or you can say can ever retrieve it But give me the power to protect you, and show me the villain that dares to insult!’
‘No one has ever dared to insult me as you are doing now!’ said I, at length releasing my hands, and recoiling from him.
‘I do not insult you,’ cried he: ‘I worship you. You are my angel – my divinity! I lay my powers at your feet – and you must and shall accept them!’ he exclaimed impetuously, starting to his feet – ‘I will be your consoler and defender! and if your conscience upbraid you for it, say I overcame you and you could not choose but yield!’8
I never saw a man so terribly excited. He precipitated himself towards me. I snatched up my palette-knife and held it against him. This startled him: he stood and gazed at me in astonishment; I dare say I looked as fierce and resolute as he. I moved to the bell and put my hand upon the cord. This tamed him still more. With a half-authoritative, half-deprecating wave of the hand, he sought to deter me from ringing.
‘Stand off, then!’ said I. He stepped back – ‘And listen to me. – I don’t like you,’ I continued, as deliberately and emphatically as I could, to give the greater efficacy to my words; ‘and if I were divorced from my husband – or if he were dead, I would not marry you. There now! I hope you’re satisfied.’
His face grew blanched with anger.
‘I am satisfied,’ he replied with bitter emphasis, ‘that you are the most cold-hearted, unnatural, ungrateful woman I ever yet beheld!’
‘Ungrateful sir?’
‘Ungrateful.’
‘No, Mr Hargrave; I am not. For all the good you ever did me, or ever wished to do, I most sincerely thank you: for all the evil you have done me, and all you would have done, I pray God to pardon you, and make you of a better mind.’
Here the door was thrown open, and Messrs Huntingdon and Hattersley appeared without. The latter remained in the hall, busy with his ramrod and his gun;9 the former walked in, and stood with his back to the fire, surveying Mr Hargrave and me, particularly the former, with a smile of insupportable meaning, accompanied as it was, by the impudence of his brazen brow and the sly, malicious twinkle of his eye.
‘Well, sir?’ said Hargrave interrogatively, and with the air of one prepared to stand on the defensive.
‘Well, sir,’ returned his host.
‘We want to know if you’re at liberty to join us in a go at the pheasants, Walter,’ interposed Hattersley from without. ‘Come! there shall be nothing shot besides, except a puss or two;10 I’II vouch for that.’
Walter did not answer, but walked to the window to collect his faculties. Arthur uttered a low whistle, and followed him with his eyes. A slight flush of anger rose to Hargrave’s cheek; but in a moment, he turned calmly round, and said carelessly –
‘I came here to bid farewell to Mrs Huntingdon, and tell her I must go tomorrow.’
‘Humph! You’re mighty sudden in your resolution. What takes you off so soon, may I ask?’
‘Business,’ returned he, repelling the other’s incredulous sneer with a glance of scornful defiance.
‘Very good,’ was the reply; and Hargrave walked away. Thereupon, Mr Huntingdon, gathering his coat laps under his arms, and setting his shoulder against the mantelpiece, turned to me, and, addressing me in a low voice, scarcely above his breath, poured forth a volley of the vilest and grossest abuse it was possible for the imagination to conceive or the tongue to utter. I did not attempt to interrupt him; but my spirit kindled within me, and when he had done, I replied –
‘If your accusation were true, Mr Huntingdon, how dare you blame me?’
‘She’s hit it, by Jove!’ cried Hattersley, rearing his gun against the wall; and, stepping into the room, he took his precious friend by the arm, and attempted to drag him away. ‘Come, my lad,’ he muttered; ‘true or false, you’ve no right to blame her, you know– nor him either; after what you said last night. So come along.’
There was something implied here that I could not endure.
‘Dare you suspect me, Mr Hattersley?’ said I, almost beside myself with fury.
‘Nay, nay, I suspect nobody. It’s all right – it’s all right. So come along Huntingdon, you blackguard.’
‘She can’t deny it!’ cried the gentleman thus addressed, grinning in mingled rage and triumph. ‘She can’t deny it if her life depended on it!’ and muttering some more abusive language, he walked into the hall, and took up his hat and gun from the table.
‘I scorn to justify myself to you!’ said I. ‘But you,’ turning to Hattersley, ‘if you presume to have any doubts on the subject, ask Mr Hargrave.’
At this, they simultaneously burst into a rude laugh that made my whole frame tingle to the finger’s ends.
‘Where is he? I’ll ask him myself!’ said I, advancing towards them.
Suppressing a new burst of merriment, Hattersley pointed to the outer door. It was half open. His brother-in-law was standing on the front without.
‘Mr Hargrave, will you please to step this way?’ said I.
He turned and looked at me in grave surprise.
‘Step this way, if you please!’ I repeated, in so determined a manner that he
could not, or did not choose to resist its authority. Somewhat reluctantly he ascended the steps and advanced a pace or two into the hall.
‘And tell those gentlemen,’ I continued – ‘these men whether or not I yielded to your solicitations.’
‘I don’t understand you, Mrs Huntingdon.’
‘You do understand me, sir; and I charge you upon your honour as a gentleman (if you have any), to answer truly. Did I, or did I not?’
‘No,’ muttered he turning away.
‘Speak up sir; they can’t hear you. Did I grant your request?’
‘You did not.’
‘No, I’ll be sworn she didn’t,’ said Hattersley, ‘or he’d never look so black.’
‘I’m willing to grant you the satisfaction of a gentleman,11 Huntingdon,’ said Mr Hargrave, calmly addressing his host, but with a bitter sneer upon his countenance.
‘Go to the deuce!’ replied the latter, with an impatient jerk of the head. Hargrave withdrew with a look of cold disdain, saying, –
‘You know where to find me, should you feel disposed to send a friend.’
Muttered oaths and curses were all the answer this intimation obtained.
‘Now Huntingdon, you see!’ said Hattersley, ‘clear as the day.’
