Delphi Complete Works of the Brontes Charlotte, Emily, Anne Brontë (Illustrated) (358 page)

‘That sounds presumptuous, Helen.  Do you think you have enough for both; and do you imagine your merry, thoughtless profligate would allow himself to be guided by a young girl like you?’

‘No; I should not wish to guide him; but I think I might have influence sufficient to save him from some errors, and I should think my life well spent in the effort to preserve so noble a nature from destruction.  He always listens attentively now when I speak seriously to him (and I often venture to reprove his random way of talking), and sometimes he says that if he had me always by his side he should never do or say a wicked thing, and that a little daily talk with me would make him quite a saint.  It may he partly jest and partly flattery, but still — ’

‘But still you think it may be truth?’

‘If I do think there is any mixture of truth in it, it is not from confidence in my own powers, but in his natural goodness.  And you have no right to call him a profligate, aunt; he is nothing of the kind.’

‘Who told you so, my dear?  What was that story about his intrigue with a married lady — Lady who was it? — Miss Wilmot herself was telling you the other day?’

‘It was false — false!’ I cried.  ‘I don’t believe a word of it.’

‘You think, then, that he is a virtuous, well-conducted young man?’

‘I know nothing positive respecting his character.  I only know that I have heard nothing definite against it — nothing that could be proved, at least; and till people can prove their slanderous accusations, I will not believe them.  And I know this, that if he has committed errors, they are only such as are common to youth, and such as nobody thinks anything about; for I see that everybody likes him, and all the mammas smile upon him, and their daughters — and Miss Wilmot herself — are only too glad to attract his attention.’

‘Helen, the world may look upon such offences as venial; a few unprincipled mothers may be anxious to catch a young man of fortune without reference to his character; and thoughtless girls may be glad to win the smiles of so handsome a gentleman, without seeking to penetrate beyond the surface; but you, I trusted, were better informed than to see with their eyes, and judge with their perverted judgment.  I did not think you would call these venial errors!’

‘Nor do I, aunt; but if I hate the sins, I love the sinner, and would do much for his salvation, even supposing your suspicions to be mainly true, which I do not and will not believe.’

‘Well, my dear, ask your uncle what sort of company he keeps, and if he is not banded with a set of loose, profligate young men, whom he calls his friends, his jolly companions, and whose chief delight is to wallow in vice, and vie with each other who can run fastest and furthest down the headlong road to the place prepared for the devil and his angels.’

‘Then I will save him from them.’

‘Oh, Helen, Helen! you little know the misery of uniting your fortunes to such a man!’

‘I have such confidence in him, aunt, notwithstanding all you say, that I would willingly risk my happiness for the chance of securing his.  I will leave better men to those who only consider their own advantage.  If he has done amiss, I shall consider my life well spent in saving him from the consequences of his early errors, and striving to recall him to the path of virtue.  God grant me success!’

Here the conversation ended, for at this juncture my uncle’s voice was heard from his chamber, loudly calling upon my aunt to come to bed.  He was in a bad humour that night; for his gout was worse.  It had been gradually increasing upon him ever since we came to town; and my aunt took advantage of the circumstance next morning to persuade him to return to the country immediately, without waiting for the close of the season.  His physician supported and enforced her arguments; and contrary to her usual habits, she so hurried the preparations for removal (as much for my sake as my uncle’s, I think), that in a very few days we departed; and I saw no more of Mr. Huntingdon.  My aunt flatters herself I shall soon forget him — perhaps she thinks I have forgotten him already, for I never mention his name; and she may continue to think so, till we meet again — if ever that should be.  I wonder if it will?

CHAPTER XVIII

August 25th. — I am now quite settled down to my usual routine of steady occupations and quiet amusements — tolerably contented and cheerful, but still looking forward to spring with the hope of returning to town, not for its gaieties and dissipations, but for the chance of meeting Mr. Huntingdon once again; for still he is always in my thoughts and in my dreams.  In all my employments, whatever I do, or see, or hear, has an ultimate reference to him; whatever skill or knowledge I acquire is some day to be turned to his advantage or amusement; whatever new beauties in nature or art I discover are to be depicted to meet his eye, or stored in my memory to be told him at some future period.  This, at least, is the hope that I cherish, the fancy that lights me on my lonely way.  It may be only an ignis fatuus, after all, but it can do no harm to follow it with my eyes and rejoice in its lustre, as long as it does not lure me from the path I ought to keep; and I think it will not, for I have thought deeply on my aunt’s advice, and I see clearly, now, the folly of throwing myself away on one that is unworthy of all the love I have to give, and incapable of responding to the best and deepest feelings of my inmost heart — so clearly, that even if I should see him again, and if he should remember me and love me still (which, alas! is too little probable, considering how he is situated, and by whom surrounded), and if he should ask me to marry him — I am determined not to consent until I know for certain whether my aunt’s opinion of him or mine is nearest the truth; for if mine is altogether wrong, it is not he that I love; it is a creature of my own imagination.  But I think it is not wrong — no, no — there is a secret something — an inward instinct that assures me I am right.  There is essential goodness in him; — and what delight to unfold it!  If he has wandered, what bliss to recall him!  If he is now exposed to the baneful influence of corrupting and wicked companions, what glory to deliver him from them!  Oh! if I could but believe that Heaven has designed me for this!

* * * * *

To-day is the first of September; but my uncle has ordered the gamekeeper to spare the partridges till the gentlemen come.  ‘What gentlemen?’ I asked when I heard it.  A small party he had invited to shoot.  His friend Mr. Wilmot was one, and my aunt’s friend, Mr. Boarham, another.  This struck me as terrible news at the moment; but all regret and apprehension vanished like a dream when I heard that Mr. Huntingdon was actually to be a third!  My aunt is greatly against his coming, of course: she earnestly endeavoured to dissuade my uncle from asking him; but he, laughing at her objections, told her it was no use talking, for the mischief was already done: he had invited Huntingdon and his friend Lord Lowborough before we left London, and nothing now remained but to fix the day for their coming.  So he is safe, and I am sure of seeing him.  I cannot express my joy.  I find it very difficult to conceal it from my aunt; but I don’t wish to trouble her with my feelings till I know whether I ought to indulge them or not.  If I find it my absolute duty to suppress them, they shall trouble no one but myself; and if I can really feel myself justified in indulging this attachment, I can dare anything, even the anger and grief of my best friend, for its object — surely, I shall soon know.  But they are not coming till about the middle of the month.

We are to have two lady visitors also: Mr. Wilmot is to bring his niece and her cousin Milicent.  I suppose my aunt thinks the latter will benefit me by her society, and the salutary example of her gentle deportment and lowly and tractable spirit; and the former I suspect she intends as a species of counter-attraction to win Mr. Huntingdon’s attention from me.  I don’t thank her for this; but I shall be glad of Milicent’s company: she is a sweet, good girl, and I wish I were like her — more like her, at least, than I am.

* * * * *

19th. — They are come.  They came the day before yesterday.  The gentlemen are all gone out to shoot, and the ladies are with my aunt, at work in the drawing-room.  I have retired to the library, for I am very unhappy, and I want to be alone.  Books cannot divert me; so having opened my desk, I will try what may be done by detailing the cause of my uneasiness.  This paper will serve instead of a confidential friend into whose ear I might pour forth the overflowings of my heart.  It will not sympathise with my distresses, but then it will not laugh at them, and, if I keep it close, it cannot tell again; so it is, perhaps, the best friend I could have for the purpose.

First, let me speak of his arrival — how I sat at my window, and watched for nearly two hours, before his carriage entered the park-gates — for they all came before him, — and how deeply I was disappointed at every arrival, because it was not his.  First came Mr. Wilmot and the ladies.  When Milicent had got into her room, I quitted my post a few minutes to look in upon her and have a little private conversation, for she was now my intimate friend, several long epistles having passed between us since our parting.  On returning to my window, I beheld another carriage at the door.  Was it his?  No; it was Mr. Boarham’s plain dark chariot; and there stood he upon the steps, carefully superintending the dislodging of his various boxes and packages.  What a collection!  One would have thought he projected a visit of six months at least.  A considerable time after, came Lord Lowborough in his barouche.  Is he one of the profligate friends, I wonder?  I should think not; for no one could call him a jolly companion, I’m sure, — and, besides, he appears too sober and gentlemanly in his demeanour to merit such suspicions.  He is a tall, thin, gloomy-looking man, apparently between thirty and forty, and of a somewhat sickly, careworn aspect.

At last, Mr. Huntingdon’s light phaeton came bowling merrily up the lawn.  I had but a transient glimpse of him: for the moment it stopped, he sprang out over the side on to the portico steps, and disappeared into the house.

I now submitted to be dressed for dinner — a duty which Rachel had been urging upon me for the last twenty minutes; and when that important business was completed, I repaired to the drawing-room, where I found Mr. and Miss Wilmot and Milicent Hargrave already assembled.  Shortly after, Lord Lowborough entered, and then Mr. Boarham, who seemed quite willing to forget and forgive my former conduct, and to hope that a little conciliation and steady perseverance on his part might yet succeed in bringing me to reason.  While I stood at the window, conversing with Milicent, he came up to me, and was beginning to talk in nearly his usual strain, when Mr. Huntingdon entered the room.

‘How will he greet me, I wonder?’ said my bounding heart; and, instead of advancing to meet him, I turned to the window to hide or subdue my emotion.  But having saluted his host and hostess, and the rest of the company, he came to me, ardently squeezed my hand, and murmured he was glad to see me once again.  At that moment dinner was announced: my aunt desired him to take Miss Hargrave into the dining-room, and odious Mr. Wilmot, with unspeakable grimaces, offered his arm to me; and I was condemned to sit between himself and Mr. Boarham.  But afterwards, when we were all again assembled in the drawing-room, I was indemnified for so much suffering by a few delightful minutes of conversation with Mr. Huntingdon.

In the course of the evening, Miss Wilmot was called upon to sing and play for the amusement of the company, and I to exhibit my drawings, and, though he likes music, and she is an accomplished musician, I think I am right in affirming, that he paid more attention to my drawings than to her music.

So far so good; — but hearing him pronounce, sotto voce, but with peculiar emphasis, concerning one of the pieces, ‘This is better than all!’ — I looked up, curious to see which it was, and, to my horror, beheld him complacently gazing at the back of the picture: — it was his own face that I had sketched there and forgotten to rub out!  To make matters worse, in the agony of the moment, I attempted to snatch it from his hand; but he prevented me, and exclaiming, ‘No — by George, I’ll keep it!’ placed it against his waistcoat and buttoned his coat upon it with a delighted chuckle.

Then, drawing a candle close to his elbow, he gathered all the drawings to himself, as well what he had seen as the others, and muttering, ‘I must look at both sides now,’ he eagerly commenced an examination, which I watched, at first, with tolerable composure, in the confidence that his vanity would not be gratified by any further discoveries; for, though I must plead guilty to having disfigured the backs of several with abortive attempts to delineate that too fascinating physiognomy, I was sure that, with that one unfortunate exception, I had carefully obliterated all such witnesses of my infatuation.  But the pencil frequently leaves an impression upon cardboard that no amount of rubbing can efface.  Such, it seems, was the case with most of these; and, I confess, I trembled when I saw him holding them so close to the candle, and poring so intently over the seeming blanks; but still, I trusted, he would not be able to make out these dim traces to his own satisfaction.  I was mistaken, however.  Having ended his scrutiny, he quietly remarked, — ‘I perceive the backs of young ladies’ drawings, like the postscripts of their letters, are the most important and interesting part of the concern.’

Then, leaning back in his chair, he reflected a few minutes in silence, complacently smiling to himself, and while I was concocting some cutting speech wherewith to check his gratification, he rose, and passing over to where Annabella Wilmot sat vehemently coquetting with Lord Lowborough, seated himself on the sofa beside her, and attached himself to her for the rest of the evening.

‘So then,’ thought I, ‘he despises me, because he knows I love him.’

And the reflection made me so miserable I knew not what to do.  Milicent came and began to admire my drawings, and make remarks upon them; but I could not talk to her — I could talk to no one, and, upon the introduction of tea, I took advantage of the open door and the slight diversion caused by its entrance to slip out — for I was sure I could not take any — and take refuge in the library.  My aunt sent Thomas in quest of me, to ask if I were not coming to tea; but I bade him say I should not take any to-night, and, happily, she was too much occupied with her guests to make any further inquiries at the time.

As most of the company had travelled far that day, they retired early to rest; and having heard them all, as I thought, go up-stairs, I ventured out, to get my candlestick from the drawing-room sideboard.  But Mr. Huntingdon had lingered behind the rest.  He was just at the foot of the stairs when I opened the door, and hearing my step in the hall — though I could hardly hear it myself — he instantly turned back.

‘Helen, is that you?’ said he.  ‘Why did you run away from us?’

‘Good-night, Mr. Huntingdon,’ said I, coldly, not choosing to answer the question.  And I turned away to enter the drawing-room.

‘But you’ll shake hands, won’t you?’ said he, placing himself in the doorway before me.  And he seized my hand and held it, much against my will.

‘Let me go, Mr. Huntingdon,’ said I.  ‘I want to get a candle.’

‘The candle will keep,’ returned he.

I made a desperate effort to free my hand from his grasp.

‘Why are you in such a hurry to leave me, Helen?’ he said, with a smile of the most provoking self-sufficiency.  ‘You don’t hate me, you know.’

‘Yes, I do — at this moment.’

‘Not you.  It is Annabella Wilmot you hate, not me.’

‘I have nothing to do with Annabella Wilmot,’ said I, burning with indignation.

‘But I have, you know,’ returned he, with peculiar emphasis.

‘That is nothing to me, sir,’ I retorted.

‘Is it nothing to you, Helen?  Will you swear it?  Will you?’

‘No I won’t, Mr. Huntingdon! and I will go,’ cried I, not knowing whether to laugh, or to cry, or to break out into a tempest of fury.

‘Go, then, you vixen!’ he said; but the instant he released my hand he had the audacity to put his arm round my neck, and kiss me.

Trembling with anger and agitation, and I don’t know what besides, I broke away, and got my candle, and rushed up-stairs to my room.  He would not have done so but for that hateful picture.  And there he had it still in his possession, an eternal monument to his pride and my humiliation.

It was but little sleep I got that night, and in the morning I rose perplexed and troubled with the thoughts of meeting him at breakfast.  I knew not how it was to be done.  An assumption of dignified, cold indifference would hardly do, after what he knew of my devotion — to his face, at least.  Yet something must be done to check his presumption — I would not submit to be tyrannised over by those bright, laughing eyes.  And, accordingly, I received his cheerful morning salutation as calmly and coldly as my aunt could have wished, and defeated with brief answers his one or two attempts to draw me into conversation, while I comported myself with unusual cheerfulness and complaisance towards every other member of the party, especially Annabella Wilmot, and even her uncle and Mr. Boarham were treated with an extra amount of civility on the occasion, not from any motives of coquetry, but just to show him that my particular coolness and reserve arose from no general ill-humour or depression of spirits.