by Brontë, Anne
But what was to be done now? Could it be possible that she had left me for that man? I could not believe it. Me she might forsake, but not to give herself to him! Well, I would know the truth – to no concerns of daily life could I attend, while this tempest of doubt and dread, of jealousy and rage distracted me. I would take the morning coach from L— (the evening one would be already gone), and fly to Grassdale, I must be there before the marriage. And why? Because a thought struck me, that perhaps I might prevent it – that if I did not, she and I might both lament it to the latest moment of our lives. It struck me that someone might have belied me to hen: perhaps her brother – yes, no doubt her brother had persuaded her that I was false and faithless, and taking advantage of her natural indignation, and perhaps her desponding carelessness about her future life, had urged her, artfully, cruelly on, to this other marriage in order to secure her from me. If this was the case, and if she should only discover her mistake when too late to repair it – to what a life of misery and vain regret might she be doomed as well as me! and what remorse for me, to think my foolish scruples had induced it all! Oh, I must see her – she must know my truth, even if I told it at the church door! I might pass for a madman or an impertinent fool – even she might be offended at such an interruption, or at least might tell me it was now too late – but if I could save her! if she might be mine – it was too rapturous a thought!
Winged by this hope, and goaded by these fears, I hurried homewards to prepare for my departure on the morrow. I told my mother that urgent business which admitted no delay, but which I could not then explain, called me away to — (the last large town through which I had to pass). My deep anxiety and serious preoccupation, could not be concealed from her maternal eyes; and I had much ado to calm her apprehensions of some disastrous mystery.
That night there came a heavy fall of snow, which so retarded the progress of the coaches on the following day, that I was almost driven to distraction. I travelled all night of course, for this was Wednesday: tomorrow morning, doubtless, the marriage would take place. But the night was long and dark; the snow heavily clogged the wheels and balled the horses’ feet;3 the animals were consumedly lazy, the coachmen most execrably cautious, the passengers confoundedly apathetic in their supine indifference to the rate of our progression. Instead of assisting me to bully the several coachmen and urge them forward, they merely stared and grinned at my impatience: one fellow even ventured to rally me upon it – but I silenced him with a look that quelled him for the rest of the journey; – and when, at the last stage, I would have taken the reins into my own hand, they all with one accord opposed it.
It was broad daylight when we entered M— and drew up at the Rose and Crown. I alighted and called aloud for a post-chaise4 to Grassdale. There was none to be had: the only one in the town was under repair. ‘A gig then – a fly – car5 – anything – only be quick!’ There was a gig but not a horse to spare. I sent into the town to seek one; but they were such an intolerable time about it that I could wait no longer I thought my own feet could carry me sooner, and bidding them send the confounded conveyance after me, if it were ready within an hour, I set off as fast as I could walk. The distance was little more than six miles, but the road was strange, and I had to keep stopping to enquire my way – hallooing to carters and clodhoppers,6 and frequently invading the cottages, for there were few abroad that winter’s morning, – sometimes knocking up the lazy people from their beds, for where so little work was to be done – perhaps so little food and fire to be had, they cared not to curtail their slumbers. I had no time to think of them, however: aching with weariness and desperation, I hurried on. The gig did not overtake me: it was well I had not waited for it – vexatious, rather, that I had been fool enough to wait so long.
At length however, I entered the neighbourhood of Grassdale. I approached the little rural church – but lo! there stood a train of carriages before it – it needed not the white favours bedecking the servants and horses, nor the merry voices of the village idlers assembled to witness the show, to apprise me that there was a wedding within. I ran in among them, demanding, with breathless eagerness, had the ceremony long commenced? They only gaped and stared. In my desperation I pushed past them, and was about to enter the churchyard gate, when a group of ragged urchins, that had been hanging like bees to the windows, suddenly dropped off and made a rush for the porch, vociferating in the uncouth dialect of their country, something which signified, ‘It’s over – they’re coming out!’
If Eliza Millward had seen me then, she might indeed have been delighted. I grasped the gate-post for support, and stood intently gazing towards the door to take my last look on my soul’s delight, my first on that detested mortal who had torn her from my heart, and doomed her, I was certain, to a life of misery and hollow, vain repining – for what happiness could she enjoy with him? I did not wish to shock her with my presence now, but I had not power to move away. Forth came the bride and bridegroom. Him I saw not; I had eyes for none but her. A long veil shrouded half her graceful form, but did not hide it; I could see that while she carried her head erect, her eyes were bent upon the ground, and her face and neck were suffused with a crimson blush; but every feature was radiant with smiles, and, gleaming through the misty whiteness of her veil, were clusters of golden ringlets! O Heavens! it was not my Helen! The first glimpse made me start – but my eyes were darkened with exhaustion and despair – dare I trust them? Yes – it is not she! It was a younger, slighter, rosier beauty – lovely, indeed, but with far less dignity and depth of soul – without that indefinable grace, that keenly spirituel yet gentle charm, that ineffable power to attract and subjugate the heart – my heart at least. I looked at the bridegroom – it was Frederick Lawrence! I wiped away the cold drops that were trickling down my forehead, and stepped back as he approached; but his eye fell upon me, and he knew me, altered as my appearance must have been.
‘Is that you Markham?’ said he, startled and confounded at the apparition – perhaps, too, at the wildness of my looks.
‘Yes, Lawrence – is that you?’ I mustered the presence of mind to reply.
He smiled and coloured, as if half-proud and half-ashamed of his identity; and if he had reason to be proud of the sweet lady on his arm, he had no less cause to be ashamed of having concealed his good fortune so long.
‘Allow me to introduce you to my bride,’ said he, endeavouring to hide his embarrassment by an assumption of careless gaiety. ‘Esther, this is Mr Markham, my friend Markham, Mrs Lawrence, late Miss Hargrave.’
I bowed to the bride, and vehemently wrung the bridegroom’s hand.
‘Why did you not tell me of this?’ I said reproachfully, pretending a resentment I did not feel (for in truth I was almost wild with joy to find myself so happily mistaken, and overflowing with affection to him for this and for the base injustice I felt that I had done him in my mind – he might have wronged me, but not to that extent; and as I had hated him like a demon for the last forty hours, the reaction from such a feeling was so great that I could pardon all offences for the moment – and love him in spite of them too).
‘I did tell you,’ said he, with an air of guilty confusion, ‘you received my letter?’
‘What letter?’
‘The one announcing my intended marriage.’
‘I never received the most distant hint of such an intention.’
‘It must have crossed you on your way then – it should have reached you yesterday morning – it was rather late, I acknowledge. But what brought you here then, if you received no information?’
It was now my turn to be confounded; but the young lady, who had been busily patting the snow with her foot during our short, sotto voce7 colloquy, very opportunely came to my assistance by pinching her companion’s arm and whispering a suggestion that his friend should be invited to step into the carriage and go with them; it being scarcely agreeable to stand there among so many gazers, and keeping their friends waiting, into the bargain.
‘And so cold as it is too!’ said he, glancing with dismay at her slight drapery, and immediately handing her into the carriage. ‘Markham, will you come? We are going to Paris, but we can drop you anywhere between this and Dover.’
‘No thank you. Goodbye – I needn’t wish you a pleasant journey; but I shall expect a very handsome apology, sometime, mind, and scores of letters, before we meet again.’
He shook my hand and hastened to take his place beside his lady. This was no time or place for explanation or discourse: we had already stood long enough to excite the wonder of the village sightseers, and perhaps the wrath of the attendant bridal party; though, of course, all this passed in a much shorter time than I have taken to relate or even than you will take to read it. I stood beside the carriage, and, the window being down, I saw my happy friend fondly encircle his companion’s waist with his arm, while she rested her glowing cheek on his shoulder, looking the very impersonation of loving, trusting bliss. In the interval between the footman’s closing the door and taking his place behind, she raised her smiling brown eyes to his face, observing playfully –
‘I fear you must think me very insensible, Frederick: I know it is the custom for ladies to cry on these occasions, but I couldn’t squeeze a tear for my life.’
He only answered with a kiss, and pressed her still closer to his bosom.
‘But what is this?’ he murmured. ‘Why, Esther, you’re crying now!’
‘Oh, it’s nothing – it’s only too much happiness – and the wish,’ sobbed she, ‘that our dear Helen were as happy as ourselves.’
‘Bless you for that wish!’ I inwardly responded as the carriage rolled away – ‘and Heaven grant it be not wholly vain!’
I thought a cloud had suddenly darkened her husband’s face as she spoke. What did he think? Could he grudge such happiness to his dear sister and his friend as he now felt himself? At such a moment it was impossible. The contrast between her fate and his must darken his bliss for a time. Perhaps too he thought of me: perhaps he regretted the part he had had in preventing our union, by omitting to help us, if not by actually plotting against us – I exonerated him from that charge, now, and deeply lamented my former ungenerous suspicions; but he had wronged us, still – I hoped, I trusted that he had. He had not attempted to check the course of our love by actually damming up the streams in their passage, but he had passively watched the two currents wandering through life’s arid wilderness, declining to clear away the obstructions that divided them, and secretly hoping that both would lose themselves in the sand before they could be joined in one. And meantime, he had been quietly proceeding with his own affairs: perhaps his heart and head had been so full of his fair lady that he had had but little thought to spare for others. Doubtless he had made his first acquaintance with her – his first intimate acquaintance at least – during his three months’ sojourn at F—, for I now recollected that he had once casually let fall an intimation that his aunt and sister had a young friend staying with them at the time, and this accounted for at least one half his silence about all transactions there. Now too I saw a reason for many little things that had slightly puzzled me before; among the rest, for sundry departures from Woodford, and absences more or less prolonged, for which he never satisfactorily accounted, and concerning which he hated to be questioned on his return. Well might the servant say his master was ‘very close.’ But why this strange reserve to me? Partly, from that remarkable idiosyncrasy to which I have before alluded; partly, perhaps, from tenderness to my feelings, or fear to disturb my philosophy by touching upon the infectious theme of love.
CHAPTER 52
FLUCTUATIONS
The tardy gig had overtaken me at last. I entered it, and bade the man who brought it drive to Grassdale Manor – I was too busy with my own thoughts to care to drive it myself. I would see Mrs Huntingdon – there could be no impropriety in that now that her husband had been dead above a year – and by her indifference or her joy at my unexpected arrival, I could soon tell whether her heart was truly mine. But my companion, a loquacious, forward fellow, was not disposed to leave me to the indulgence of my private cogitations.
‘There they go!’ said he as the carriages filed away before us. ‘There’ll be brave doings on yonder today, as what come tomorra. – Know anything of that family, sir? or you’re a stranger in these parts?’
‘I know them by report.’
‘Humph! – There’s the best of ‘em gone anyhow. And I suppose the old misses is agoing to leave after this stir’s gotten overed, and take herself off, somewhere, to live on her bit of a jointure; and the young ‘un – at least the new ‘un (she’s none so very young) is coming down to live at the Grove.’
‘Is Mr Hargrave married, then?’
‘Aye sir, a few months since. He should a been wed afore, to a widow lady, but they couldn’t agree over the money: she’d a rare long purse, and Mr Hargrave wanted it all to his-self; but she wouldn’t let it go, and so then they fell out. This one isn’t quite as rich – nor as handsome either, but she hasn’t been married before. She’s very plain they say, and getting on to forty or past, and so, you know, if she didn’t jump at this hopportunity, she thought she’d never get a better. I guess she thought such a handsome young husband was worth all ‘at ever she had, and he might take it and welcome; but I lay she’ll rue her bargain ‘afore long. They say she begins already to see ‘at he isn’t not altogether that nice, generous, perlite, delightful gentleman ‘at she thought him afore marriage – he begins a being careless, and masterful already. Aye, and she’ll find him harder and carelesser nor she thinks on.’
‘You seem to be well acquainted with him,’ I observed.
‘I am, sir; I’ve known him since he was quite a young gentleman; and a proud ‘un he was, and a wilful. I was servant yonder for several years; but I couldn’t stand their niggardly ways – she got ever longer and worse did Missis, with her nipping and screwing, and watching and grudging; so I thought I’d find another place as what came.’
And then he discoursed upon his present position as ostler at the Rose and Crown, and how greatly superior it was to his former one, in comfort and freedom, though inferior in outward respectability; and entered into various details respecting the domestic economy at the Grove, and the characters of Mrs Hargrave and her son, – to which I gave no heed, being too much occupied with my own anxious, fluttering anticipations and with the character of the country through which we passed, that, in spite of the leafless trees and snowy ground, had for some time begun to manifest unequivocal signs of the approach to a gentleman’s country seat.
‘Are we not near the house?’ said I, interrupting him in the middle of his discourse.
‘Yes, sir, yond’s the park.’
My heart sank within me to behold that stately mansion in the midst of its expansive grounds – the park as beautiful now, in its wintry garb, as it could be in its summer glory; the majestic sweep, the undulating swell and fall, displayed to full advantage in that robe of dazzling purity, stainless and printless – save one long, winding track left by the trooping deer – the stately timber-trees with their heavy laden branches gleaming white against the dull, grey sky; the deep, encircling woods; the broad expanse of water sleeping in frozen quiet; and the weeping ash and willow drooping their snowclad boughs above it – all presented a picture, striking, indeed, and pleasing to an unencumbered mind, but by no means encouraging to me. There was one comfort however, – all this was entailed upon little Arthur, and could not under any circumstances, strictly speaking, be his mother’s. But how was she situated? Overcoming with a sudden effort my repugnance to mention her name to my garrulous companion, I asked him if he knew whether her late husband had left a will, and how the property had been disposed of. Oh, yes, he knew all about it; and I was quickly informed that to her had been left the full control and management of the estate during her son’s minority, besides the absolute, unconditional possession of her own fortune (but I knew he
r father had not given her much), and the small additional sum that had been settled upon her before marriage.
Before the close of the explanation, we drew up at the park gates. Now for the trial – if I should find her within – but alas! she might be still at Staningley: her brother had given me no intimation to the contrary. I enquired at the porter’s lodge if Mrs Huntingdon were at home. No, she was with her aunt in —shire, but was expected to return before Christmas. She usually spent most of her time at Staningley, only coming to Grassdale occasionally, when the management of affairs, or the interest of her tenants and dependants required her presence.
‘Near what town is Staningley situated?’ I asked. The requisite information was soon obtained. ‘Now then, my man, give me the reins, and we’ll return to M—. I must have some breakfast at the Rose and Crown, and then away to Staningley by the first coach for —’
‘You’ll not get there today, sir.’
‘No matter, I don’t want to get there today; I want to get there tomorrow, and pass the night on the road.’
‘At an inn, sir? You’d better by half stay at our house; and then start fresh tomorrow, and have the whole day for your journey.’
‘What, and lose twelve hours? not I.’
‘Perhaps, sir, you’re related to Mrs Huntingdon?’ said he, seeking to indulge his curiosity since his cupidity was not to be gratified.
‘I have not that honour.’
‘Ah! well,’ returned he with a dubious, sidelong glance at my splashed, grey trousers and rough pea-jacket.1 ‘But,’ he added, encouragingly, ‘there’s many a fine lady like that ‘at has kinsfolks poorer nor what you are, sir, I should think.’
‘No doubt, – and there’s many a fine gentleman could esteem himself vastly honoured to be able to claim kindred with the lady you mention.’
He now cunningly glanced at my face. ‘Perhaps, sir, you mean to –’
