Delphi Complete Works of the Brontes Charlotte, Emily, Anne Brontë (Illustrated) (385 page)

‘I will go — in a minute, if that can relieve you — and never return!’ said I, with bitter emphasis.  ‘But, if we may never meet, and never hope to meet again, is it a crime to exchange our thoughts by letter?  May not kindred spirits meet, and mingle in communion, whatever be the fate and circumstances of their earthly tenements?’

‘They may, they may!’ cried she, with a momentary burst of glad enthusiasm.  ‘I thought of that too, Gilbert, but I feared to mention it, because I feared you would not understand my views upon the subject.  I fear it even now — I fear any kind friend would tell us we are both deluding ourselves with the idea of keeping up a spiritual intercourse without hope or prospect of anything further — without fostering vain regrets and hurtful aspirations, and feeding thoughts that should be sternly and pitilessly left to perish of inanition.’

‘Never mind our kind friends: if they can part our bodies, it is enough; in God’s name, let them not sunder our souls!’ cried I, in terror lest she should deem it her duty to deny us this last remaining consolation.

‘But no letters can pass between us here,’ said she, ‘without giving fresh food for scandal; and when I departed, I had intended that my new abode should be unknown to you as to the rest of the world; not that I should doubt your word if you promised not to visit me, but I thought you would be more tranquil in your own mind if you knew you could not do it, and likely to find less difficulty in abstracting yourself from me if you could not picture my situation to your mind.  But listen,’ said she, smilingly putting up her finger to check my impatient reply: ‘in six months you shall hear from Frederick precisely where I am; and if you still retain your wish to write to me, and think you can maintain a correspondence all thought, all spirit — such as disembodied souls or unimpassioned friends, at least, might hold, — write, and I will answer you.’

‘Six months!’

‘Yes, to give your present ardour time to cool, and try the truth and constancy of your soul’s love for mine.  And now, enough has been said between us.  Why can’t we part at once?’ exclaimed she, almost wildly, after a moment’s pause, as she suddenly rose from her chair, with her hands resolutely clasped together.  I thought it was my duty to go without delay; and I approached and half extended my hand as if to take leave — she grasped it in silence.  But this thought of final separation was too intolerable: it seemed to squeeze the blood out of my heart; and my feet were glued to the floor.

‘And must we never meet again?’ I murmured, in the anguish of my soul.

‘We shall meet in heaven.  Let us think of that,’ said she in a tone of desperate calmness; but her eyes glittered wildly, and her face was deadly pale.

‘But not as we are now,’ I could not help replying.  ‘It gives me little consolation to think I shall next behold you as a disembodied spirit, or an altered being, with a frame perfect and glorious, but not like this! — and a heart, perhaps, entirely estranged from me.’

‘No, Gilbert, there is perfect love in heaven!’

‘So perfect, I suppose, that it soars above distinctions, and you will have no closer sympathy with me than with any one of the ten thousand thousand angels and the innumerable multitude of happy spirits round us.’

‘Whatever I am, you will be the same, and, therefore, cannot possibly regret it; and whatever that change may be we know it must be for the better.’

‘But if I am to be so changed that I shall cease to adore you with my whole heart and soul, and love you beyond every other creature, I shall not be myself; and though, if ever I win heaven at all, I must, I know, be infinitely better and happier than I am now, my earthly nature cannot rejoice in the anticipation of such beatitude, from which itself and its chief joy must be excluded.’

‘Is your love all earthly, then?’

‘No, but I am supposing we shall have no more intimate communion with each other than with the rest.’

‘If so, it will be because we love them more, and not each other less.  Increase of love brings increase of happiness, when it is mutual, and pure as that will be.’

‘But can you, Helen, contemplate with delight this prospect of losing me in a sea of glory?’

‘I own I cannot; but we know not that it will be so; — and I do know that to regret the exchange of earthly pleasures for the joys of heaven, is as if the grovelling caterpillar should lament that it must one day quit the nibbled leaf to soar aloft and flutter through the air, roving at will from flower to flower, sipping sweet honey from their cups, or basking in their sunny petals.  If these little creatures knew how great a change awaited them, no doubt they would regret it; but would not all such sorrow be misplaced?  And if that illustration will not move you, here is another: — We are children now; we feel as children, and we understand as children; and when we are told that men and women do not play with toys, and that our companions will one day weary of the trivial sports and occupations that interest them and us so deeply now, we cannot help being saddened at the thoughts of such an alteration, because we cannot conceive that as we grow up our own minds will become so enlarged and elevated that we ourselves shall then regard as trifling those objects and pursuits we now so fondly cherish, and that, though our companions will no longer join us in those childish pastimes, they will drink with us at other fountains of delight, and mingle their souls with ours in higher aims and nobler occupations beyond our present comprehension, but not less deeply relished or less truly good for that, while yet both we and they remain essentially the same individuals as before.  But, Gilbert, can you really derive no consolation from the thought that we may meet together where there is no more pain and sorrow, no more striving against sin, and struggling of the spirit against the flesh; where both will behold the same glorious truths, and drink exalted and supreme felicity from the same fountain of light and goodness — that Being whom both will worship with the same intensity of holy ardour — and where pure and happy creatures both will love with the same divine affection?  If you cannot, never write to me!’

‘Helen, I can! if faith would never fail.’

‘Now, then,’ exclaimed she, ‘while this hope is strong within us — ’

‘We will part,’ I cried.  ‘You shall not have the pain of another effort to dismiss me.  I will go at once; but — ’

I did not put my request in words: she understood it instinctively, and this time she yielded too — or rather, there was nothing so deliberate as requesting or yielding in the matter: there was a sudden impulse that neither could resist.  One moment I stood and looked into her face, the next I held her to my heart, and we seemed to grow together in a close embrace from which no physical or mental force could rend us.  A whispered ‘God bless you!’ and ‘Go — go!’ was all she said; but while she spoke she held me so fast that, without violence, I could not have obeyed her.  At length, however, by some heroic effort, we tore ourselves apart, and I rushed from the house.

I have a confused remembrance of seeing little Arthur running up the garden-walk to meet me, and of bolting over the wall to avoid him — and subsequently running down the steep fields, clearing the stone fences and hedges as they came in my way, till I got completely out of sight of the old hall and down to the bottom of the hill; and then of long hours spent in bitter tears and lamentations, and melancholy musings in the lonely valley, with the eternal music in my ears, of the west wind rushing through the overshadowing trees, and the brook babbling and gurgling along its stony bed; my eyes, for the most part, vacantly fixed on the deep, chequered shades restlessly playing over the bright sunny grass at my feet, where now and then a withered leaf or two would come dancing to share the revelry; but my heart was away up the hill in that dark room where she was weeping desolate and alone — she whom I was not to comfort, not to see again, till years or suffering had overcome us both, and torn our spirits from their perishing abodes of clay.

There was little business done that day, you may be sure.  The farm was abandoned to the labourers, and the labourers were left to their own devices.  But one duty must be attended to; I had not forgotten my assault upon Frederick Lawrence; and I must see him to apologise for the unhappy deed.  I would fain have put it off till the morrow; but what if he should denounce me to his sister in the meantime?  No, no!  I must ask his pardon to-day, and entreat him to be lenient in his accusation, if the revelation must be made.  I deferred it, however, till the evening, when my spirits were more composed, and when — oh, wonderful perversity of human nature! — some faint germs of indefinite hopes were beginning to rise in my mind; not that I intended to cherish them, after all that had been said on the subject, but there they must lie for a while, uncrushed though not encouraged, till I had learnt to live without them.

Arrived at Woodford, the young squire’s abode, I found no little difficulty in obtaining admission to his presence.  The servant that opened the door told me his master was very ill, and seemed to think it doubtful whether he would be able to see me.  I was not going to be baulked, however.  I waited calmly in the hall to be announced, but inwardly determined to take no denial.  The message was such as I expected — a polite intimation that Mr. Lawrence could see no one; he was feverish, and must not be disturbed.

‘I shall not disturb him long,’ said I; ‘but I must see him for a moment: it is on business of importance that I wish to speak to him.’

‘I’ll tell him, sir,’ said the man.  And I advanced further into the hall and followed him nearly to the door of the apartment where his master was — for it seemed he was not in bed.  The answer returned was that Mr. Lawrence hoped I would be so good as to leave a message or a note with the servant, as he could attend to no business at present.

‘He may as well see me as you,’ said I; and, stepping past the astonished footman, I boldly rapped at the door, entered, and closed it behind me.  The room was spacious and handsomely furnished — very comfortably, too, for a bachelor.  A clear, red fire was burning in the polished grate: a superannuated greyhound, given up to idleness and good living, lay basking before it on the thick, soft rug, on one corner of which, beside the sofa, sat a smart young springer, looking wistfully up in its master’s face — perhaps asking permission to share his couch, or, it might be, only soliciting a caress from his hand or a kind word from his lips.  The invalid himself looked very interesting as he lay reclining there, in his elegant dressing-gown, with a silk handkerchief bound across his temples.  His usually pale face was flushed and feverish; his eyes were half closed, until he became sensible of my presence — and then he opened them wide enough: one hand was thrown listlessly over the back of the sofa, and held a small volume, with which, apparently, he had been vainly attempting to beguile the weary hours.  He dropped it, however, in his start of indignant surprise as I advanced into the room and stood before him on the rug.  He raised himself on his pillows, and gazed upon me with equal degrees of nervous horror, anger, and amazement depicted on his countenance.

‘Mr. Markham, I scarcely expected this!’ he said; and the blood left his cheek as he spoke.

‘I know you didn’t,’ answered I; ‘but be quiet a minute, and I’ll tell you what I came for.’  Unthinkingly, I advanced a step or two nearer.  He winced at my approach, with an expression of aversion and instinctive physical fear anything but conciliatory to my feelings.  I stepped back, however.

‘Make your story a short one,’ said he, putting his hand on the small silver bell that stood on the table beside him, ‘or I shall be obliged to call for assistance.  I am in no state to bear your brutalities now, or your presence either.’  And in truth the moisture started from his pores and stood on his pale forehead like dew.

Such a reception was hardly calculated to diminish the difficulties of my unenviable task.  It must be performed however, in some fashion; and so I plunged into it at once, and floundered through it as I could.

‘The truth is, Lawrence,’ said I, ‘I have not acted quite correctly towards you of late — especially on this last occasion; and I’m come to — in short, to express my regret for what has been done, and to beg your pardon.  If you don’t choose to grant it,’ I added hastily, not liking the aspect of his face, ‘it’s no matter; only I’ve done my duty — that’s all.’

‘It’s easily done,’ replied he, with a faint smile bordering on a sneer: ‘to abuse your friend and knock him on the head without any assignable cause, and then tell him the deed was not quite correct, but it’s no matter whether he pardons it or not.’

‘I forgot to tell you that it was in consequence of a mistake,’ — muttered I.  ‘I should have made a very handsome apology, but you provoked me so confoundedly with your — .  Well, I suppose it’s my fault.  The fact is, I didn’t know that you were Mrs. Graham’s brother, and I saw and heard some things respecting your conduct towards her which were calculated to awaken unpleasant suspicions, that, allow me to say, a little candour and confidence on your part might have removed; and, at last, I chanced to overhear a part of a conversation between you and her that made me think I had a right to hate you.’