by Brontë, Anne
‘You’ve been to call on the Wilsons, Lawrence,’ said I as I walked beside his pony.
‘Yes,’ replied he, slightly averting his face: ‘I thought it but civil to take the first opportunity of returning their kind attentions, since they have been so very particular and constant in their enquiries, throughout the whole course of my illness.’
‘It’s all Miss Wilson’s doing.’
‘And if it is,’ returned he, with a very perceptible blush, ‘is that any reason why I should not make a suitable acknowledgment?’
‘It is a reason why you should not make the acknowledgment she looks for.’
‘Let us drop that subject if you please,’ said he in evident displeasure.
‘No, Lawrence, with your leave we’ll continue it a while longer; and I’ll tell you something, now we’re about it, which you may believe or not as you choose – only please to remember that it is not my custom to speak falsely, and that in this case, I can have no motive for misrepresenting the truth –’
‘Well, Markham! what now?’
‘Miss Wilson bates your sister. It may be natural enough that, in her ignorance of the relationship, she should feel some degree of enmity against her, but no good or amiable woman would be capable of evincing that bitter, cold-blooded, designing malice towards a fancied rival that I have observed in her.’
‘Markham!!’
‘Yes – and it is my belief that Eliza Millward and she, if not the very originators of the slanderous reports that have been propagated, were designedly the encouragers and chief disseminators of them. She was not desirous to mix up your name in the matter, of course, but her delight was, and still is, to blacken your sister’s character to the utmost of her power without risking too greatly the exposure of her own malevolence!’
‘I cannot believe it,’ interrupted my companion, his face burning with indignation.
‘Well, as I cannot prove it, I must content myself with asserting that it is so to the best of my belief, but as you would not willingly marry Miss Wilson if it were so, you will do well to be cautious, till you have proved it to be otherwise.’
‘I never told you, Markham, that I intended to marry Miss Wilson,’ said he proudly.
‘No, but whether you do or not, she intends to marry you.’
‘Did she tell you so?’
‘No, but–’
‘Then you have no right to make such an assertion respecting her.’ He slightly quickened his pony’s pace, but I laid my hand on its mane, determined he should not leave me yet
‘Wait a moment, Lawrence, and let me explain myself; and don’t be so very – I don’t know what to call it – inaccessible as you are. – I know what you think of Jane Wilson; and I believe I know how far you are mistaken in your opinion: you think she is singularly charming, elegant, sensible, and refined: you are not aware that she is selfish, cold-hearted, ambitious, artful, shallow-minded –’
‘Enough, Markham, enough.’
‘No; let me finish. – You don’t know that, if you married her, your home would be rayless and comfortless; and it would break your heart at last to find yourself united to one so wholly incapable of sharing your tastes, feelings, and ideas – so utterly destitute of sensibility, good feeling, and true nobility of soul.’
‘Have you done?’ asked my companion quietly.
‘Yes; – I know you hate me for my impertinence, but I don’t care if it only conduces to preserve you from that fatal mistake.’
‘Well!’ returned he, with a rather wintry smile – ‘I’m glad you have overcome, or forgotten, your own afflictions so far as to be able to study so deeply the affairs of others, and trouble your head, so unnecessarily, about the fancied or possible calamities of their future life.’
We parted – somewhat coldly again; but still we’ did not cease to be friends; and my well-meant warning, though it might have been more judiciously delivered, as well as more thankfully received, was not wholly unproductive of the desired effect: his visit to the Wilsons was not repeated, and though, in our subsequent interviews, he never mentioned her name to me, nor I to him, – I have reason to believe he pondered my words in his mind, eagerly though covertly sought information respecting the fair lady from other quarters, secretly compared my character of her with what he had himself observed and what he heard from others, and finally came to the conclusion that, all things considered, she had much better remain Miss Wilson of Ryecote Farm, than be transmuted into Mrs Lawrence of Woodford Hall. I believe, too, that he soon learned to contemplate with secret amazement his former predilection, and to congratulate himself on the lucky escape he had made; but he never confessed it to me, or hinted one word of acknowledgement for the part I had had in his deliverance – but this was not surprising to anyone that knew him as I did.
As for Jane Wilson, she, of course, was disappointed and embittered by the sudden cold neglect, and ultimate desertion of her former admirer. Had I done wrong to blight her cherished hopes? I think not; and certainly my conscience has never accused me, from that day to this, of any evil design in the matter.
CHAPTER 47
STARTLING INTELLIGENCE
One morning, about the beginning of November, while I was inditing some business letters, shortly after breakfast, Eliza Millward came to call upon my sister. Rose had neither the discrimination nor the virulence to regard the little demon as I did, and they still preserved their former intimacy. At the moment of her arrival, however, there was no one in the room but Fergus and myself, my mother and sister being both of them absent, ‘on household cares intent;’1 but I was not going to lay myself out for her amusement, whoever else might so incline: I merely honoured her with a careless salutation and a few words of course,2 and then went on with my writing, leaving my brother to be more polite if he chose. But she wanted to tease me.
‘What a pleasure it is to find you at home, Mr Markham!’ said she, with a disingenuously malicious smile. ‘I so seldom see you now, for you never come to the vicarage. Papa is quite offended I can tell you,’ she added playfully, looking into my face with an impertinent laugh, as she seated herself, half beside and half before my desk, off the corner of the table.
‘I have had a good deal to do of late,’ said I, without looking up from my letter.
‘Have you indeed! Somebody said you had been strangely neglecting your business these last few months.’
‘Somebody said wrong, for, these last two months especially, I have been particularly plodding and diligent’
‘Ah! Well, there’s nothing like active employment, I suppose, to console the afflicted; – and, excuse me, Mr Markham, but you look so very far from well, and have been, by all accounts, so moody and thoughtful of late, – I could almost think you have some secret care preying on your spirits. Formerly,’ said she timidly, ‘I could have ventured to ask you what it was, and what I could do to comfort you: I dare not do it now.’
‘You’re very kind, Miss Eliza. When I think you can do anything to comfort me, I’ll make bold to tell you.’
‘Pray do! – I suppose I mayn’t guess what it is that troubles you?’
‘There’s no necessity, for I’ll tell you plainly. The thing that troubles me the most at present, is a young lady sitting at my elbow and preventing me from finishing my letter, and thereafter, repairing to my daily business.’
Before she could reply to this ungallant speech, Rose entered the room; and Miss Eliza rising to greet her, they both seated themselves near the fire, where that idle lad, Fergus, was standing, leaning his shoulder against the corner of the chimney-piece, with his legs crossed and his hands in his breeches pockets.
‘Now, Rose, I’ll tell you a piece of news – I hope you’ve not heard it before, for good, bad or indifferent, one always likes to be the first to tell – It’s about that sad Mrs Graham –’
‘Hush-sh-sh!’ whispered Fergus, in a tone of solemn import. ‘“We never mention her; her name is never heard.”’3 And glancing up, I caught him w
ith his eye askance on me, and his finger pointed to his forehead; then, winking at the young lady with a doleful shake of the head, he whispered – ‘a monomania – but don’t mention it – all right but that.’
‘I should be sorry to injure anyone’s feelings,’ returned she, speaking below her breath, ‘another time, perhaps.’
‘Speak out, Miss Eliza!’ said I, not deigning to notice the other’s buffooneries, ‘you needn’t fear to say anything in my presence – that is true.’
‘Well,’ answered she, ‘perhaps you know already that Mrs Graham’s husband is not really dead, and that she had run away from him?’ I started, and felt my face glow; but I bent it over my letter, and went on folding it up as she proceeded; ‘but perhaps you did not know that she is now gone back to him again, and that a perfect reconciliation has taken place between them? Only think,’ she continued, turning to the confounded Rose, ‘what a fool the man must be!’
‘And who gave you this piece of intelligence, Miss Eliza?’ said I, interrupting my sister’s exclamations.
‘I had it from a very authentic source, sir.’
‘From whom, may I ask?’
‘From one of the servants at Woodford.’
‘Oh! I was not aware that you were on such intimate terms with Mr Lawrence’s household.’
‘It was not from the man himself, that I heard it; but he told it in confidence to our maid Sarah, and Sarah told it to me.’
‘In confidence, I suppose; and you tell it in confidence to us; but I can tell you that it is but a lame story after all, and scarcely one half of it true.’
While I spoke, I completed the sealing and direction of my letters, with a somewhat unsteady hand, in spite of all my efforts to retain composure, and in spite of my firm conviction that the story was a lame one – that the supposed Mrs Graham, most certainly, had not voluntarily gone back to her husband, or dreamt of a reconciliation. Most likely, she was gone away, and the tale-bearing servant, not knowing what was become of her, had conjectured that such was the case, and our fair visitor had detailed it as a certainty, delighted with such an opportunity of tormenting me. But it was possible – barely possible, that someone might have betrayed her, and she had been taken away by force. Determined to know the worst, I hastily pocketed my two letters, and muttering something about being too late for the post, left the room, rushed into the yard and vociferously called for my horse. No one being there, I dragged him out of the stable myself, strapped the saddle on to his back and the bridle on to his head, mounted, and speedily galloped away to Woodford. I found its owner pensively strolling in the grounds.
‘Is your sister gone?’ were my first words as I grasped his hand, instead of the usual enquiry after his health.
‘Yes; she’s gone,’ was his answer, so calmly spoken, that my terror was at once removed.
‘I suppose I mayn’t know where she is?’ said I, as I dismounted and relinquished my horse to the gardener, who, being the only servant within call, had been summoned by his master, from his employment of raking up the dead leaves on the lawn, to take him to the stables.
My companion gravely took my arm, and leading me away to the garden, thus answered my question: –
‘She is at Grassdale Manor, in —shire.’
‘Where?’ cried I, with a convulsive start.
‘At Grassdale Manor.’
‘How was it?’ I gasped. ‘Who betrayed her?’
‘She went of her own accord.’
‘Impossible, Lawrence!! She could not be so frantic!’ exclaimed I, vehemently grasping his arm, as if to force him to unsay those hateful words.
‘She did,’ persisted he in the same grave, collected manner as before – ‘and not without reason,’ he continued, gently disengaging himself from my grasp: ‘Mr Huntingdon is ill.’
‘And so she went to nurse him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Fool!’ I could not help exclaiming – and Lawrence looked up with a rather reproachful glance. ‘Is he dying then?’
‘I think not, Markham.’
‘And how many more nurses has he? – how many ladies are there besides, to take care of him?’
‘None: he was alone, or she would not have gone.’
‘Oh, confound it! this is intolerable!’
‘What is? that he should be alone?’
I attempted no reply, for I was not sure that this circumstance did not partly conduce to my distraction. I therefore continued to pace the walk in silent anguish, with my hand pressed to my forehead; then suddenly pausing and turning to my companion, I impatiently exclaimed,
‘Why did she take this infatuated step? What fiend persuaded her to it?’
‘Nothing persuaded her but her own sense of duty.’
‘Humbug!’
‘I was half inclined to say so myself, Markham, at first. I assure you it was not by my advice that she went, for I detest that man as fervently as you can do – except, indeed that his reformation would give me much greater pleasure than his death: – but all I did was to inform her of the circumstance of his illness (the consequence of a fall from his horse in hunting), and to tell her that that unhappy person, Miss Myers, had left him some time ago.’
‘It was ill done! Now, when he finds the convenience of her presence, he will make all manner of lying speeches and false, fair promises for the future, and she will believe him, and then her condition will be ten times worse and ten times more irremediable than before.’
‘There does not appear to be much ground for such apprehensions at present,’ said he, producing a letter from his pocket: ‘from the account I received this morning, I should say –’
It was her writing! By an irresistible impulse, I held out my hand, and the words – ‘Let me see it,’ involuntarily passed my lips. He was evidently reluctant to grant the request, but while he hesitated, I snatched it from his hand. Recollecting myself, however, the minute after, I offered to restore it.
‘Here, take it,’ said I, ‘if you don’t want me to read it.’
‘No,’ replied he, ‘you may read it if you like.’
I read it and so may you.
GRASSDALE, NOV. 4th.
Dear Frederick,
I know you will be anxious to hear from me: and I will tell you all I can. Mr Huntingdon is very ill, but not dying, or in any immediate danger; and he is rather better at present than he was when I came. I found the house in sad confusion: Mrs Greaves, Benson, every decent servant had left, – and those that were come to supply their places were a negligent, disorderly set, to say no worse – I must change them again if I stay. A professional nurse, a grim, hard old woman, had been hired to attend the wretched invalid. He suffers much, and has no fortitude to bear him through. The immediate injuries he sustained from the accident, however, were not very severe, and would, as the doctor says, have been but trifling to a man of temperate
habits; but with him it is very different. On the night of my arrival, when I first entered his room, he was lying in a kind of half delirium. He did not notice me till I spoke; and then, he mistook me for another.
‘Is it you, Alice, come again?’ he murmured. ‘What did you leave me for?’
‘It is I, Arthur – it is Helen, your wife,’ I replied.
‘My wife!’ said he, with a start – ‘For Heaven’s sake, don’t mention her! – I have none. – Devil take her,’ he cried, a moment after, – ‘and you too! What did you do it for?’
I said no more; but observing that he kept gazing towards the foot of the bed, I went and sat there, placing the light so as to shine full upon me; for I thought he might be dying, and I wanted him to know me. For a long time, he lay silently looking upon me, first with a vacant stare, then with a fixed gaze of strange, growing intensity. At last he startled me by suddenly raising himself on his elbow and demanding in a horrified whisper, with his eyes still fixed upon me, – ‘Who is it?’
‘It is Helen Huntingdon,’ said I, quietly, rising at the same time, and removin
g to a less conspicuous position.
‘I must be going mad,’ cried he – ‘or something – delirious perhaps – but leave me, whoever you are – I can’t bear that white face, and those eyes – for God’s sake go, and send me somebody else, that doesn’t look like that!’
I went, at once, and sent the hired nurse. But next morning, I ventured to enter his chamber again; and, taking the nurse’s place by his bedside, I watched him and waited on him for several hours, showing myself as little as possible, and only speaking when necessary, and then not above my breath. At first he addressed me as the nurse, but, on my crossing the room to draw up the window-blinds, in obedience to his directions, he said –
‘No, it isn’t nurse; it’s Alice. Stay with me do! that old hag will be the death of me.’
‘I mean to stay with you,’ said I. And after that, he would call me Alice – or some other name almost equally repugnant to my feelings. I forced myself to endure it for a while, fearing a contradiction might disturb him too much: but when, having asked for a glass of water, while I held it to his lips, he murmured ‘Thanks, dearest!’ – I could not help distinctly observing –’You would not say so if you knew me,’ intending to follow that up with another declaration of my identity, but he merely muttered an incoherent reply, so I dropped it again, till some time after, when, as I was bathing his forehead and temples with vinegar and water to relieve the heat and pain in his head, he observed, after looking earnestly upon me for some minutes –
‘I have such strange fancies – I can’t get rid of them, and they won’t let me rest; and the most singular and pertinacious of them all is your face and voice; they seem just like hers. I could swear at this moment, that she was by my side.’
