Villette

by Charlotte Bronte

  CHAPTER IV.

  MISS MARCHMONT.

  On quitting Bretton, which I did a few weeks after Paulina'sdeparture--little thinking then I was never again to visit it; nevermore to tread its calm old streets--I betook myself home, having beenabsent six months. It will be conjectured that I was of course glad toreturn to the bosom of my kindred. Well! the amiable conjecture does noharm, and may therefore be safely left uncontradicted. Far from sayingnay, indeed, I will permit the reader to picture me, for the next eightyears, as a bark slumbering through halcyon weather, in a harbour stillas glass--the steersman stretched on the little deck, his face up toheaven, his eyes closed: buried, if you will, in a long prayer. A greatmany women and girls are supposed to pass their lives something in thatfashion; why not I with the rest?

  Picture me then idle, basking, plump, and happy, stretched on acushioned deck, warmed with constant sunshine, rocked by breezesindolently soft. However, it cannot be concealed that, in that case, Imust somehow have fallen overboard, or that there must have been wreckat last. I too well remember a time--a long time--of cold, of danger,of contention. To this hour, when I have the nightmare, it repeats therush and saltness of briny waves in my throat, and their icy pressureon my lungs. I even know there was a storm, and that not of one hournor one day. For many days and nights neither sun nor stars appeared;we cast with our own hands the tackling out of the ship; a heavytempest lay on us; all hope that we should be saved was taken away. Infine, the ship was lost, the crew perished.

  As far as I recollect, I complained to no one about these troubles.Indeed, to whom could I complain? Of Mrs. Bretton I had long lostsight. Impediments, raised by others, had, years ago, come in the wayof our intercourse, and cut it off. Besides, time had brought changesfor her, too: the handsome property of which she was left guardian forher son, and which had been chiefly invested in some joint-stockundertaking, had melted, it was said, to a fraction of its originalamount. Graham, I learned from incidental rumours, had adopted aprofession; both he and his mother were gone from Bretton, and wereunderstood to be now in London. Thus, there remained no possibility ofdependence on others; to myself alone could I look. I know not that Iwas of a self-reliant or active nature; but self-reliance and exertionwere forced upon me by circumstances, as they are upon thousandsbesides; and when Miss Marchmont, a maiden lady of our neighbourhood,sent for me, I obeyed her behest, in the hope that she might assign mesome task I could undertake.

  Miss Marchmont was a woman of fortune, and lived in a handsomeresidence; but she was a rheumatic cripple, impotent, foot and hand,and had been so for twenty years. She always sat upstairs: herdrawing-room adjoined her bed-room. I had often heard of MissMarchmont, and of her peculiarities (she had the character of beingvery eccentric), but till now had never seen her. I found her afurrowed, grey-haired woman, grave with solitude, stern with longaffliction, irritable also, and perhaps exacting. It seemed that amaid, or rather companion, who had waited on her for some years, wasabout to be married; and she, hearing of my bereaved lot, had sent forme, with the idea that I might supply this person's place. She made theproposal to me after tea, as she and I sat alone by her fireside.

  "It will not be an easy life;" said she candidly, "for I require a gooddeal of attention, and you will be much confined; yet, perhaps,contrasted with the existence you have lately led, it may appeartolerable."

  I reflected. Of course it ought to appear tolerable, I argued inwardly;but somehow, by some strange fatality, it would not. To live here, inthis close room, the watcher of suffering--sometimes, perhaps, the buttof temper--through all that was to come of my youth; while all that wasgone had passed, to say the least, not blissfully! My heart sunk onemoment, then it revived; for though I forced myself to _realise_ evils,I think I was too prosaic to _idealise_, and consequently to exaggeratethem.

  "My doubt is whether I should have strength for the undertaking," Iobserved.

  "That is my own scruple," said she; "for you look a worn-out creature."

  So I did. I saw myself in the glass, in my mourning-dress, a faded,hollow-eyed vision. Yet I thought little of the wan spectacle. Theblight, I believed, was chiefly external: I still felt life at life'ssources.

  "What else have you in view--anything?"

  "Nothing clear as yet: but I may find something."

  "So you imagine: perhaps you are right. Try your own method, then; andif it does not succeed, test mine. The chance I have offered shall beleft open to you for three months."

  This was kind. I told her so, and expressed my gratitude. While I wasspeaking, a paroxysm of pain came on. I ministered to her; made thenecessary applications, according to her directions, and, by the timeshe was relieved, a sort of intimacy was already formed between us. I,for my part, had learned from the manner in which she bore this attack,that she was a firm, patient woman (patient under physical pain, thoughsometimes perhaps excitable under long mental canker); and she, fromthe good-will with which I succoured her, discovered that she couldinfluence my sympathies (such as they were). She sent for me the nextday; for five or six successive days she claimed my company. Closeracquaintance, while it developed both faults and eccentricities,opened, at the same time, a view of a character I could respect. Sternand even morose as she sometimes was, I could wait on her and sitbeside her with that calm which always blesses us when we are sensiblethat our manners, presence, contact, please and soothe the persons weserve. Even when she scolded me--which she did, now and then, verytartly--it was in such a way as did not humiliate, and left no sting;it was rather like an irascible mother rating her daughter, than aharsh mistress lecturing a dependant: lecture, indeed, she could not,though she could occasionally storm. Moreover, a vein of reason everran through her passion: she was logical even when fierce. Ere long agrowing sense of attachment began to present the thought of stayingwith her as companion in quite a new light; in another week I hadagreed to remain.

  Two hot, close rooms thus became my world; and a crippled old woman, mymistress, my friend, my all. Her service was my duty--her pain, mysuffering--her relief, my hope--her anger, my punishment--her regard,my reward. I forgot that there were fields, woods, rivers, seas, anever-changing sky outside the steam-dimmed lattice of this sickchamber; I was almost content to forget it. All within me becamenarrowed to my lot. Tame and still by habit, disciplined by destiny, Idemanded no walks in the fresh air; my appetite needed no more than thetiny messes served for the invalid. In addition, she gave me theoriginality of her character to study: the steadiness of her virtues, Iwill add, the power of her passions, to admire; the truth of herfeelings to trust. All these things she had, and for these things Iclung to her.

  For these things I would have crawled on with her for twenty years, iffor twenty years longer her life of endurance had been protracted. Butanother decree was written. It seemed I must be stimulated into action.I must be goaded, driven, stung, forced to energy. My little morsel ofhuman affection, which I prized as if it were a solid pearl, must meltin my fingers and slip thence like a dissolving hailstone. My smalladopted duty must be snatched from my easily contented conscience. Ihad wanted to compromise with Fate: to escape occasional great agoniesby submitting to a whole life of privation and small pains. Fate wouldnot so be pacified; nor would Providence sanction this shrinking slothand cowardly indolence.

  One February night--I remember it well--there came a voice near MissMarchmont's house, heard by every inmate, but translated, perhaps, onlyby one. After a calm winter, storms were ushering in the spring. I hadput Miss Marchmont to bed; I sat at the fireside sewing. The wind waswailing at the windows; it had wailed all day; but, as night deepened,it took a new tone--an accent keen, piercing, almost articulate to theear; a plaint, piteous and disconsolate to the nerves, trilled in everygust.

  "Oh, hush! hush!" I said in my disturbed mind, dropping my work, andmaking a vain effort to stop my ears against that subtle, searchingcry. I had heard that very voice ere this, and compulsory observationhad forced on me a theory as to what i
t boded. Three times in thecourse of my life, events had taught me that these strange accents inthe storm--this restless, hopeless cry--denote a coming state of theatmosphere unpropitious to life. Epidemic diseases, I believed, wereoften heralded by a gasping, sobbing, tormented, long-lamenting eastwind. Hence, I inferred, arose the legend of the Banshee. I fancied,too, I had noticed--but was not philosopher enough to know whetherthere was any connection between the circumstances--that we often atthe same time hear of disturbed volcanic action in distant parts of theworld; of rivers suddenly rushing above their banks; and of strangehigh tides flowing furiously in on low sea-coasts. "Our globe," I hadsaid to myself, "seems at such periods torn and disordered; the feebleamongst us wither in her distempered breath, rushing hot from steamingvolcanoes."

  I listened and trembled; Miss Marchmont slept.

  About midnight, the storm in one half-hour fell to a dead calm. Thefire, which had been burning dead, glowed up vividly. I felt the airchange, and become keen. Raising blind and curtain, I looked out, andsaw in the stars the keen sparkle of a sharp frost.

  Turning away, the object that met my eyes was Miss Marchmont awake,lifting her head from the pillow, and regarding me with unusualearnestness.

  "Is it a fine night?" she asked.

  I replied in the affirmative.

  "I thought so," she said; "for I feel so strong, so well. Raise me. Ifeel young to-night," she continued: "young, light-hearted, and happy.What if my complaint be about to take a turn, and I am yet destined toenjoy health? It would be a miracle!"

  "And these are not the days of miracles," I thought to myself, andwondered to hear her talk so. She went on directing her conversation tothe past, and seeming to recall its incidents, scenes, and personages,with singular vividness.

  "I love Memory to-night," she said: "I prize her as my best friend. Sheis just now giving me a deep delight: she is bringing back to my heart,in warm and beautiful life, realities--not mere empty ideas, but whatwere once realities, and that I long have thought decayed, dissolved,mixed in with grave-mould. I possess just now the hours, the thoughts,the hopes of my youth. I renew the love of my life--its onlylove--almost its only affection; for I am not a particularly goodwoman: I am not amiable. Yet I have had my feelings, strong andconcentrated; and these feelings had their object; which, in its singleself, was dear to me, as to the majority of men and women, are all theunnumbered points on which they dissipate their regard. While I loved,and while I was loved, what an existence I enjoyed! What a gloriousyear I can recall--how bright it comes back to me! What a livingspring--what a warm, glad summer--what soft moonlight, silvering theautumn evenings--what strength of hope under the ice-bound waters andfrost-hoar fields of that year's winter! Through that year my heartlived with Frank's heart. O my noble Frank--my faithful Frank--my_good_ Frank! so much better than myself--his standard in all things somuch higher! This I can now see and say: if few women have suffered asI did in his loss, few have enjoyed what I did in his love. It was afar better kind of love than common; I had no doubts about it or him:it was such a love as honoured, protected, and elevated, no less thanit gladdened her to whom it was given. Let me now ask, just at thismoment, when my mind is so strangely clear,--let me reflect why it wastaken from me? For what crime was I condemned, after twelve months ofbliss, to undergo thirty years of sorrow?

  "I do not know," she continued after a pause: "I cannot--_cannot_ seethe reason; yet at this hour I can say with sincerity, what I nevertried to say before, Inscrutable God, Thy will be done! And at thismoment I can believe that death will restore me to Frank. I neverbelieved it till now."

  "He is dead, then?" I inquired in a low voice.

  "My dear girl," she said, "one happy Christmas Eve I dressed anddecorated myself, expecting my lover, very soon to be my husband, wouldcome that night to visit me. I sat down to wait. Once more I see thatmoment--I see the snow twilight stealing through the window over whichthe curtain was not dropped, for I designed to watch him ride up thewhite walk; I see and feel the soft firelight warming me, playing on mysilk dress, and fitfully showing me my own young figure in a glass. Isee the moon of a calm winter night, float full, clear, and cold, overthe inky mass of shrubbery, and the silvered turf of my grounds. Iwait, with some impatience in my pulse, but no doubt in my breast. Theflames had died in the fire, but it was a bright mass yet; the moon wasmounting high, but she was still visible from the lattice; the clockneared ten; he rarely tarried later than this, but once or twice he hadbeen delayed so long.

  "Would he for once fail me? No--not even for once; and now he wascoming--and coming fast--to atone for lost time. 'Frank! you furiousrider,' I said inwardly, listening gladly, yet anxiously, to hisapproaching gallop, 'you shall be rebuked for this: I will tell you itis _my_ neck you are putting in peril; for whatever is yours is, in adearer and tenderer sense, mine.' There he was: I saw him; but I thinktears were in my eyes, my sight was so confused. I saw the horse; Iheard it stamp--I saw at least a mass; I heard a clamour. _Was_ it ahorse? or what heavy, dragging thing was it, crossing, strangely dark,the lawn. How could I name that thing in the moonlight before me? orhow could I utter the feeling which rose in my soul?

  "I could only run out. A great animal--truly, Frank's blackhorse--stood trembling, panting, snorting before the door; a man heldit, Frank, as I thought.

  "'What is the matter?' I demanded. Thomas, my own servant, answered bysaying sharply, 'Go into the house, madam.' And then calling to anotherservant, who came hurrying from the kitchen as if summoned by someinstinct, 'Ruth, take missis into the house directly.' But I waskneeling down in the snow, beside something that lay there--somethingthat I had seen dragged along the ground--something that sighed, thatgroaned on my breast, as I lifted and drew it to me. He was not dead;he was not quite unconscious. I had him carried in; I refused to beordered about and thrust from him. I was quite collected enough, notonly to be my own mistress but the mistress of others. They had begunby trying to treat me like a child, as they always do with peoplestruck by God's hand; but I gave place to none except the surgeon; andwhen he had done what he could, I took my dying Frank to myself. He hadstrength to fold me in his arms; he had power to speak my name; heheard me as I prayed over him very softly; he felt me as I tenderly andfondly comforted him.

  "'Maria,' he said, 'I am dying in Paradise.' He spent his last breathin faithful words for me. When the dawn of Christmas morning broke, myFrank was with God.

  "And that," she went on, "happened thirty years ago. I have sufferedsince. I doubt if I have made the best use of all my calamities. Soft,amiable natures they would have refined to saintliness; of strong, evilspirits they would have made demons; as for me, I have only been awoe-struck and selfish woman."

  "You have done much good," I said; for she was noted for her liberalalmsgiving.

  "I have not withheld money, you mean, where it could assuageaffliction. What of that? It cost me no effort or pang to give. But Ithink from this day I am about to enter a better frame of mind, toprepare myself for reunion with Frank. You see I still think of Frankmore than of God; and unless it be counted that in thus loving thecreature so much, so long, and so exclusively, I have not at leastblasphemed the Creator, small is my chance of salvation. What do youthink, Lucy, of these things? Be my chaplain, and tell me."

  This question I could not answer: I had no words. It seemed as if shethought I _had_ answered it.

  "Very right, my child. We should acknowledge God merciful, but notalways for us comprehensible. We should accept our own lot, whatever itbe, and try to render happy that of others. Should we not? Well,to-morrow I will begin by trying to make you happy. I will endeavour todo something for you, Lucy: something that will benefit you when I amdead. My head aches now with talking too much; still I am happy. Go tobed. The clock strikes two. How late you sit up; or rather how late I,in my selfishness, keep you up. But go now; have no more anxiety forme; I feel I shall rest well."

  She composed herself as if to slumber. I, too, retired to my crib in ac
loset within her room. The night passed in quietness; quietly her doommust at last have come: peacefully and painlessly: in the morning shewas found without life, nearly cold, but all calm and undisturbed. Herprevious excitement of spirits and change of mood had been the preludeof a fit; one stroke sufficed to sever the thread of an existence solong fretted by affliction.