Delphi Complete Works of the Brontes Charlotte, Emily, Anne Brontë (Illustrated) (392 page)

Lawrence seemed to expect me to take advantage of this circumstance to entrust him with some sort of a message to his sister; and I believe he would have undertaken to deliver it without any material objections, if I had had the sense to ask him, though of course he would not offer to do so, if I was content to let it alone.  But I could not bring myself to make the request, and it was not till after he was gone, that I saw how fair an opportunity I had lost; and then, indeed, I deeply regretted my stupidity and my foolish pride, but it was now too late to remedy the evil.

He did not return till towards the latter end of August.  He wrote to me twice or thrice from F — , but his letters were most provokingly unsatisfactory, dealing in generalities or in trifles that I cared nothing about, or replete with fancies and reflections equally unwelcome to me at the time, saying next to nothing about his sister, and little more about himself.  I would wait, however, till he came back; perhaps I could get something more out of him then.  At all events, I would not write to her now, while she was with him and her aunt, who doubtless would be still more hostile to my presumptuous aspirations than himself.  When she was returned to the silence and solitude of her own home, it would be my fittest opportunity.

When Lawrence came, however, he was as reserved as ever on the subject of my keen anxiety.  He told me that his sister had derived considerable benefit from her stay at F — that her son was quite well, and — alas! that both of them were gone, with Mrs. Maxwell, back to Staningley, and there they stayed at least three months.  But instead of boring you with my chagrin, my expectations and disappointments, my fluctuations of dull despondency and flickering hope, my varying resolutions, now to drop it, and now to persevere — now to make a bold push, and now to let things pass and patiently abide my time, — I will employ myself in settling the business of one or two of the characters introduced in the course of this narrative, whom I may not have occasion to mention again.

Some time before Mr. Huntingdon’s death Lady Lowborough eloped with another gallant to the Continent, where, having lived a while in reckless gaiety and dissipation, they quarrelled and parted.  She went dashing on for a season, but years came and money went: she sunk, at length, in difficulty and debt, disgrace and misery; and died at last, as I have heard, in penury, neglect, and utter wretchedness.  But this might be only a report: she may be living yet for anything I or any of her relatives or former acquaintances can tell; for they have all lost sight of her long years ago, and would as thoroughly forget her if they could.  Her husband, however, upon this second misdemeanour, immediately sought and obtained a divorce, and, not long after, married again.  It was well he did, for Lord Lowborough, morose and moody as he seemed, was not the man for a bachelor’s life.  No public interests, no ambitious projects, or active pursuits, — or ties of friendship even (if he had had any friends), could compensate to him for the absence of domestic comforts and endearments.  He had a son and a nominal daughter, it is true, but they too painfully reminded him of their mother, and the unfortunate little Annabella was a source of perpetual bitterness to his soul.  He had obliged himself to treat her with paternal kindness: he had forced himself not to hate her, and even, perhaps, to feel some degree of kindly regard for her, at last, in return for her artless and unsuspecting attachment to himself; but the bitterness of his self-condemnation for his inward feelings towards that innocent being, his constant struggles to subdue the evil promptings of his nature (for it was not a generous one), though partly guessed at by those who knew him, could be known to God and his own heart alone; — so also was the hardness of his conflicts with the temptation to return to the vice of his youth, and seek oblivion for past calamities, and deadness to the present misery of a blighted heart a joyless, friendless life, and a morbidly disconsolate mind, by yielding again to that insidious foe to health, and sense, and virtue, which had so deplorably enslaved and degraded him before.

The second object of his choice was widely different from the first.  Some wondered at his taste; some even ridiculed it — but in this their folly was more apparent than his.  The lady was about his own age —
i.e.
, between thirty and forty — remarkable neither for beauty, nor wealth, nor brilliant accomplishments; nor any other thing that I ever heard of, except genuine good sense, unswerving integrity, active piety, warm-hearted benevolence, and a fund of cheerful spirits.  These qualities, however, as you way readily imagine, combined to render her an excellent mother to the children, and an invaluable wife to his lordship.  He, with his usual self-depreciation, thought her a world too good for him, and while he wondered at the kindness of Providence in conferring such a gift upon him, and even at her taste in preferring him to other men, he did his best to reciprocate the good she did him, and so far succeeded that she was, and I believe still is, one of the happiest and fondest wives in England; and all who question the good taste of either partner may be thankful if their respective selections afford them half the genuine satisfaction in the end, or repay their preference with affection half as lasting and sincere.

If you are at all interested in the fate of that low scoundrel, Grimsby, I can only tell you that he went from bad to worse, sinking from bathos to bathos of vice and villainy, consorting only with the worst members of his club and the lowest dregs of society — happily for the rest of the world — and at last met his end in a drunken brawl, from the hands, it is said, of some brother scoundrel he had cheated at play.

As for Mr. Hattersley, he had never wholly forgotten his resolution to ‘come out from among them,’ and behave like a man and a Christian, and the last illness and death of his once jolly friend Huntingdon so deeply and seriously impressed him with the evil of their former practices, that he never needed another lesson of the kind.  Avoiding the temptations of the town, he continued to pass his life in the country, immersed in the usual pursuits of a hearty, active, country gentleman; his occupations being those of farming, and breeding horses and cattle, diversified with a little hunting and shooting, and enlivened by the occasional companionship of his friends (better friends than those of his youth), and the society of his happy little wife (now cheerful and confiding as heart could wish), and his fine family of stalwart sons and blooming daughters.  His father, the banker, having died some years ago and left him all his riches, he has now full scope for the exercise of his prevailing tastes, and I need not tell you that Ralph Hattersley, Esq., is celebrated throughout the country for his noble breed of horses.

CHAPTER LI

We will now turn to a certain still, cold, cloudy afternoon about the commencement of December, when the first fall of snow lay thinly scattered over the blighted fields and frozen roads, or stored more thickly in the hollows of the deep cart-ruts and footsteps of men and horses impressed in the now petrified mire of last month’s drenching rains.  I remember it well, for I was walking home from the vicarage with no less remarkable a personage than Miss Eliza Millward by my side.  I had been to call upon her father, — a sacrifice to civility undertaken entirely to please my mother, not myself, for I hated to go near the house; not merely on account of my antipathy to the once so bewitching Eliza, but because I had not half forgiven the old gentleman himself for his ill opinion of Mrs. Huntingdon; for though now constrained to acknowledge himself mistaken in his former judgment, he still maintained that she had done wrong to leave her husband; it was a violation of her sacred duties as a wife, and a tempting of Providence by laying herself open to temptation; and nothing short of bodily ill-usage (and that of no trifling nature) could excuse such a step — nor even that, for in such a case she ought to appeal to the laws for protection.  But it was not of him I intended to speak; it was of his daughter Eliza.  Just as I was taking leave of the vicar, she entered the room, ready equipped for a walk.

‘I was just coming to see, your sister, Mr. Markham,’ said she; ‘and so, if you have no objection, I’ll accompany you home.  I like company when I’m walking out — don’t you?’

‘Yes, when it’s agreeable.’

‘That of course,’ rejoined the young lady, smiling archly.

So we proceeded together.

‘Shall I find Rose at home, do you think?’ said she, as we closed the garden gate, and set our faces towards Linden-Car.

‘I believe so.’

‘I trust I shall, for I’ve a little bit of news for her — if you haven’t forestalled me.’

‘I?’

‘Yes: do you know what Mr. Lawrence is gone for?’  She looked up anxiously for my reply.

‘Is he gone?’ said I; and her face brightened.

‘Ah! then he hasn’t told you about his sister?’

‘What of her?’ I demanded in terror, lest some evil should have befallen her.

‘Oh, Mr. Markham, how you blush!’ cried she, with a tormenting laugh.  ‘Ha, ha, you have not forgotten her yet.  But you had better be quick about it, I can tell you, for — alas, alas! — she’s going to be married next Thursday!’

‘No, Miss Eliza, that’s false.’

‘Do you charge me with a falsehood, sir?’

‘You are misinformed.’

‘Am I?  Do you know better, then?’

‘I think I do.’

‘What makes you look so pale then?’ said she, smiling with delight at my emotion.  ‘Is it anger at poor me for telling such a fib?  Well, I only “tell the tale as ’twas told to me:” I don’t vouch for the truth of it; but at the same time, I don’t see what reason Sarah should have for deceiving me, or her informant for deceiving her; and that was what she told me the footman told her: — that Mrs. Huntingdon was going to be married on Thursday, and Mr. Lawrence was gone to the wedding.  She did tell me the name of the gentleman, but I’ve forgotten that.  Perhaps you can assist me to remember it.  Is there not some one that lives near — or frequently visits the neighbourhood, that has long been attached to her? — a Mr. — oh, dear! Mr. — ’

‘Hargrave?’ suggested I, with a bitter smile.

‘You’re right,’ cried she; ‘that was the very name.’

‘Impossible, Miss Eliza!’ I exclaimed, in a tone that made her start.

‘Well, you know, that’s what they told me,’ said she, composedly staring me in the face.  And then she broke out into a long shrill laugh that put me to my wit’s end with fury.

‘Really you must excuse me,’ cried she.  ‘I know it’s very rude, but ha, ha, ha! — did you think to marry her yourself?  Dear, dear, what a pity! — ha, ha, ha!  Gracious, Mr. Markham, are you going to faint?  Oh, mercy! shall I call this man?  Here, Jacob — ‘  But checking the word on her lips, I seized her arm and gave it, I think, a pretty severe squeeze, for she shrank into herself with a faint cry of pain or terror; but the spirit within her was not subdued: instantly rallying, she continued, with well-feigned concern, ‘What can I do for you?  Will you have some water — some brandy?  I daresay they have some in the public-house down there, if you’ll let me run.’

‘Have done with this nonsense!’ cried I, sternly.  She looked confounded — almost frightened again, for a moment.  ‘You know I hate such jests,’ I continued.

‘Jests indeed!  I wasn’t jesting!’

‘You were laughing, at all events; and I don’t like to be laughed at,’ returned I, making violent efforts to speak with proper dignity and composure, and to say nothing but what was coherent and sensible.  ‘And since you are in such a merry mood, Miss Eliza, you must be good enough company for yourself; and therefore I shall leave you to finish your walk alone — for, now I think of it, I have business elsewhere; so good-evening.’

With that I left her (smothering her malicious laughter) and turned aside into the fields, springing up the bank, and pushing through the nearest gap in the hedge.  Determined at once to prove the truth — or rather the falsehood — of her story, I hastened to Woodford as fast as my legs could carry me; first veering round by a circuitous course, but the moment I was out of sight of my fair tormentor cutting away across the country, just as a bird might fly, over pasture-land, and fallow, and stubble, and lane, clearing hedges and ditches and hurdles, till I came to the young squire’s gates.  Never till now had I known the full fervour of my love — the full strength of my hopes, not wholly crushed even in my hours of deepest despondency, always tenaciously clinging to the thought that one day she might be mine, or, if not that, at least that something of my memory, some slight remembrance of our friendship and our love, would be for ever cherished in her heart.  I marched up to the door, determined, if I saw the master, to question him boldly concerning his sister, to wait and hesitate no longer, but cast false delicacy and stupid pride behind my back, and know my fate at once.

‘Is Mr. Lawrence at home?’ I eagerly asked of the servant that opened the door.

‘No, sir, master went yesterday,’ replied he, looking very alert.

‘Went where?’

‘To Grassdale, sir — wasn’t you aware, sir?  He’s very close, is master,’ said the fellow, with a foolish, simpering grin.  ‘I suppose, sir — ’

But I turned and left him, without waiting to hear what he supposed.  I was not going to stand there to expose my tortured feelings to the insolent laughter and impertinent curiosity of a fellow like that.

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 her: 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.

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: to-morrow 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; the animals were consumedly lazy; the coachman 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-chaise to Grassdale.  There was none to be had: the only one in the town was under repair.  ‘A gig, then — a fly — car — 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 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 inquire my way; hallooing to carters and clodhoppers, 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: and 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 window, 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!  Oh, 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 spiritual 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 eyes fell upon me, and he knew me, altered as my appearance must have been.