Delphi Complete Works of the Brontes Charlotte, Emily, Anne Brontë (Illustrated) (371 page)

‘According to your own account,’ said I, ‘my evil counsel has had but little effect upon her.  And as to abuse and aspersions, we are both of us far too deeply ashamed of the errors and vices of our other halves, to make them the common subject of our correspondence.  Friends as we are, we would willingly keep your failings to ourselves — even from ourselves if we could, unless by knowing them we could deliver you from them.’

‘Well, well! don’t worry me about them: you’ll never effect any good by that.  Have patience with me, and bear with my languor and crossness a little while, till I get this cursed low fever out of my veins, and then you’ll find me cheerful and kind as ever.  Why can’t you be gentle and good, as you were last time? — I’m sure I was very grateful for it.’

‘And what good did your gratitude do?  I deluded myself with the idea that you were ashamed of your transgressions, and hoped you would never repeat them again; but now you have left me nothing to hope!’

‘My case is quite desperate, is it?  A very blessed consideration, if it will only secure me from the pain and worry of my dear anxious wife’s efforts to convert me, and her from the toil and trouble of such exertions, and her sweet face and silver accents from the ruinous effects of the same.  A burst of passion is a fine rousing thing upon occasion, Helen, and a flood of tears is marvellously affecting, but, when indulged too often, they are both deuced plaguy things for spoiling one’s beauty and tiring out one’s friends.’

Thenceforth I restrained my tears and passions as much as I could.  I spared him my exhortations and fruitless efforts at conversion too, for I saw it was all in vain: God might awaken that heart, supine and stupefied with self-indulgence, and remove the film of sensual darkness from his eyes, but I could not.  His injustice and ill-humour towards his inferiors, who could not defend themselves, I still resented and withstood; but when I alone was their object, as was frequently the case, I endured it with calm forbearance, except at times, when my temper, worn out by repeated annoyances, or stung to distraction by some new instance of irrationality, gave way in spite of myself, and exposed me to the imputations of fierceness, cruelty, and impatience.  I attended carefully to his wants and amusements, but not, I own, with the same devoted fondness as before, because I could not feel it; besides, I had now another claimant on my time and care — my ailing infant, for whose sake I frequently braved and suffered the reproaches and complaints of his unreasonably exacting father.

But Arthur is not naturally a peevish or irritable man; so far from it, that there was something almost ludicrous in the incongruity of this adventitious fretfulness and nervous irritability, rather calculated to excite laughter than anger, if it were not for the intensely painful considerations attendant upon those symptoms of a disordered frame, and his temper gradually improved as his bodily health was restored, which was much sooner than would have been the case but for my strenuous exertions; for there was still one thing about him that I did not give up in despair, and one effort for his preservation that I would not remit.  His appetite for the stimulus of wine had increased upon him, as I had too well foreseen.  It was now something more to him than an accessory to social enjoyment: it was an important source of enjoyment in itself.  In this time of weakness and depression he would have made it his medicine and support, his comforter, his recreation, and his friend, and thereby sunk deeper and deeper, and bound himself down for ever in the bathos whereinto he had fallen.  But I determined this should never be, as long as I had any influence left; and though I could not prevent him from taking more than was good for him, still, by incessant perseverance, by kindness, and firmness, and vigilance, by coaxing, and daring, and determination, I succeeded in preserving him from absolute bondage to that detestable propensity, so insidious in its advances, so inexorable in its tyranny, so disastrous in its effects.

And here I must not forget that I am not a little indebted to his friend Mr. Hargrave.  About that time he frequently called at Grassdale, and often dined with us, on which occasions I fear Arthur would willingly have cast prudence and decorum to the winds, and made ‘a night of it,’ as often as his friend would have consented to join him in that exalted pastime; and if the latter had chosen to comply, he might, in a night or two, have ruined the labour of weeks, and overthrown with a touch the frail bulwark it had cost me such trouble and toil to construct.  I was so fearful of this at first, that I humbled myself to intimate to him, in private, my apprehensions of Arthur’s proneness to these excesses, and to express a hope that he would not encourage it.  He was pleased with this mark of confidence, and certainly did not betray it.  On that and every subsequent occasion his presence served rather as a check upon his host, than an incitement to further acts of intemperance; and he always succeeded in bringing him from the dining-room in good time, and in tolerably good condition; for if Arthur disregarded such intimations as ‘Well, I must not detain you from your lady,’ or ‘We must not forget that Mrs. Huntingdon is alone,’ he would insist upon leaving the table himself, to join me, and his host, however unwillingly, was obliged to follow.

Hence I learned to welcome Mr. Hargrave as a real friend to the family, a harmless companion for Arthur, to cheer his spirits and preserve him from the tedium of absolute idleness and a total isolation from all society but mine, and a useful ally to me.  I could not but feel grateful to him under such circumstances; and I did not scruple to acknowledge my obligation on the first convenient opportunity; yet, as I did so, my heart whispered all was not right, and brought a glow to my face, which he heightened by his steady, serious gaze, while, by his manner of receiving those acknowledgments, he more than doubled my misgivings.  His high delight at being able to serve me was chastened by sympathy for me and commiseration for himself — about, I know not what, for I would not stay to inquire, or suffer him to unburden his sorrows to me.  His sighs and intimations of suppressed affliction seemed to come from a full heart; but either he must contrive to retain them within it, or breathe them forth in other ears than mine: there was enough of confidence between us already.  It seemed wrong that there should exist a secret understanding between my husband’s friend and me, unknown to him, of which he was the object.  But my after-thought was, ‘If it is wrong, surely Arthur’s is the fault, not mine.’

And indeed I know not whether, at the time, it was not for him rather than myself that I blushed; for, since he and I are one, I so identify myself with him, that I feel his degradation, his failings, and transgressions as my own: I blush for him, I fear for him; I repent for him, weep, pray, and feel for him as for myself; but I cannot act for him; and hence I must be, and I am, debased, contaminated by the union, both in my own eyes and in the actual truth.  I am so determined to love him, so intensely anxious to excuse his errors, that I am continually dwelling upon them, and labouring to extenuate the loosest of his principles and the worst of his practices, till I am familiarised with vice, and almost a partaker in his sins.  Things that formerly shocked and disgusted me, now seem only natural.  I know them to be wrong, because reason and God’s word declare them to be so; but I am gradually losing that instinctive horror and repulsion which were given me by nature, or instilled into me by the precepts and example of my aunt.  Perhaps then I was too severe in my judgments, for I abhorred the sinner as well as the sin; now I flatter myself I am more charitable and considerate; but am I not becoming more indifferent and insensate too?  Fool that I was, to dream that I had strength and purity enough to save myself and him!  Such vain presumption would be rightly served, if I should perish with him in the gulf from which I sought to save him!  Yet, God preserve me from it, and him too!  Yes, poor Arthur, I will still hope and pray for you; and though I write as if you were some abandoned wretch, past hope and past reprieve, it is only my anxious fears, my strong desires that make me do so; one who loved you less would be less bitter, less dissatisfied.

His conduct has, of late, been what the world calls irreproachable; but then I know his heart is still unchanged; and I know that spring is approaching, and deeply dread the consequences.

As he began to recover the tone and vigour of his exhausted frame, and with it something of his former impatience of retirement and repose, I suggested a short residence by the sea-side, for his recreation and further restoration, and for the benefit of our little one as well.  But no: watering-places were so intolerably dull; besides, he had been invited by one of his friends to spend a month or two in Scotland for the better recreation of grouse-shooting and deer-stalking, and had promise to go.

‘Then you will leave me again, Arthur?’ said I.

‘Yes, dearest, but only to love you the better when I come back, and make up for all past offences and short-comings; and you needn’t fear me this time: there are no temptations on the mountains.  And during my absence you may pay a visit to Staningley, if you like: your uncle and aunt have long been wanting us to go there, you know; but somehow there’s such a repulsion between the good lady and me, that I never could bring myself up to the scratch.’

About the third week in August, Arthur set out for Scotland, and Mr. Hargrave accompanied him thither, to my private satisfaction.  Shortly after, I, with little Arthur and Rachel, went to Staningley, my dear old home, which, as well as my dear old friends its inhabitants, I saw again with mingled feelings of pleasure and pain so intimately blended that I could scarcely distinguish the one from the other, or tell to which to attribute the various tears, and smiles, and sighs awakened by those old familiar scenes, and tones, and faces.

Arthur did not come home till several weeks after my return to Grassdale; but I did not feel so anxious about him now; to think of him engaged in active sports among the wild hills of Scotland, was very different from knowing him to be immersed amid the corruptions and temptations of London.  His letters now; though neither long nor loverlike, were more regular than ever they had been before; and when he did return, to my great joy, instead of being worse than when he went, he was more cheerful and vigorous, and better in every respect.  Since that time I have had little cause to complain.  He still has an unfortunate predilection for the pleasures of the table, against which I have to struggle and watch; but he has begun to notice his boy, and that is an increasing source of amusement to him within-doors, while his fox-hunting and coursing are a sufficient occupation for him without, when the ground is not hardened by frost; so that he is not wholly dependent on me for entertainment.  But it is now January; spring is approaching; and, I repeat, I dread the consequences of its arrival.  That sweet season, I once so joyously welcomed as the time of hope and gladness, awakens now far other anticipations by its return.

CHAPTER XXXI

March 20th, 1824.  The dreaded time is come, and Arthur is gone, as I expected.  This time he announced it his intention to make but a short stay in London, and pass over to the Continent, where he should probably stay a few weeks; but I shall not expect him till after the lapse of many weeks: I now know that, with him, days signify weeks, and weeks months.

July 30th. — He returned about three weeks ago, rather better in health, certainly, than before, but still worse in temper.  And yet, perhaps, I am wrong: it is I that am less patient and forbearing.  I am tired out with his injustice, his selfishness and hopeless depravity.  I wish a milder word would do; I am no angel, and my corruption rises against it.  My poor father died last week: Arthur was vexed to hear of it, because he saw that I was shocked and grieved, and he feared the circumstance would mar his comfort.  When I spoke of ordering my mourning, he exclaimed, — ‘Oh, I hate black!  But, however, I suppose you must wear it awhile, for form’s sake; but I hope, Helen, you won’t think it your bounden duty to compose your face and manners into conformity with your funereal garb.  Why should you sigh and groan, and I be made uncomfortable, because an old gentleman in — shire, a perfect stranger to us both, has thought proper to drink himself to death?  There, now, I declare you’re crying!  Well, it must be affectation.’

He would not hear of my attending the funeral, or going for a day or two, to cheer poor Frederick’s solitude.  It was quite unnecessary, he said, and I was unreasonable to wish it.  What was my father to me?  I had never seen him but once since I was a baby, and I well knew he had never cared a stiver about me; and my brother, too, was little better than a stranger.  ‘Besides, dear Helen,’ said he, embracing me with flattering fondness, ‘I cannot spare you for a single day.’

‘Then how have you managed without me these many days?’ said I.

‘Ah! then I was knocking about the world, now I am at home, and home without you, my household deity, would be intolerable.’

‘Yes, as long as I am necessary to your comfort; but you did not say so before, when you urged me to leave you, in order that you might get away from your home without me,’ retorted I; but before the words were well out of my mouth, I regretted having uttered them.  It seemed so heavy a charge: if false, too gross an insult; if true, too humiliating a fact to be thus openly cast in his teeth.  But I might have spared myself that momentary pang of self-reproach.  The accusation awoke neither shame nor indignation in him: he attempted neither denial nor excuse, but only answered with a long, low, chuckling laugh, as if he viewed the whole transaction as a clever, merry jest from beginning to end.  Surely that man will make me dislike him at last!

Sine as ye brew, my maiden fair,
Keep mind that ye maun drink the yill.

Yes; and I will drink it to the very dregs: and none but myself shall know how bitter I find it!

August 20th. — We are shaken down again to about our usual position.  Arthur has returned to nearly his former condition and habits; and I have found it my wisest plan to shut my eyes against the past and future, as far as he, at least, is concerned, and live only for the present: to love him when I can; to smile (if possible) when he smiles, be cheerful when he is cheerful, and pleased when he is agreeable; and when he is not, to try to make him so; and if that won’t answer, to bear with him, to excuse him, and forgive him as well as I can, and restrain my own evil passions from aggravating his; and yet, while I thus yield and minister to his more harmless propensities to self-indulgence, to do all in my power to save him from the worse.

But we shall not be long alone together.  I shall shortly be called upon to entertain the same select body of friends as we had the autumn before last, with the addition of Mr. Hattersley and, at my special request, his wife and child.  I long to see Milicent, and her little girl too.  The latter is now above a year old; she will be a charming playmate for my little Arthur.

September 30th. — Our guests have been here a week or two; but I have had no leisure to pass any comments upon them till now.  I cannot get over my dislike to Lady Lowborough.  It is not founded on mere personal pique; it is the woman herself that I dislike, because I so thoroughly disapprove of her.  I always avoid her company as much as I can without violating the laws of hospitality; but when we do speak or converse together, it is with the utmost civility, even apparent cordiality on her part; but preserve me from such cordiality!  It is like handling brier-roses and may-blossoms, bright enough to the eye, and outwardly soft to the touch, but you know there are thorns beneath, and every now and then you feel them too; and perhaps resent the injury by crushing them in till you have destroyed their power, though somewhat to the detriment of your own fingers.

Of late, however, I have seen nothing in her conduct towards Arthur to anger or alarm me.  During the first few days I thought she seemed very solicitous to win his admiration.  Her efforts were not unnoticed by him: I frequently saw him smiling to himself at her artful manoeuvres: but, to his praise be it spoken, her shafts fell powerless by his side.  Her most bewitching smiles, her haughtiest frowns were ever received with the same immutable, careless good-humour; till, finding he was indeed impenetrable, she suddenly remitted her efforts, and became, to all appearance, as perfectly indifferent as himself.  Nor have I since witnessed any symptom of pique on his part, or renewed attempts at conquest upon hers.

This is as it should be; but Arthur never will let me be satisfied with him.  I have never, for a single hour since I married him, known what it is to realise that sweet idea, ‘In quietness and confidence shall be your rest.’  Those two detestable men, Grimsby and Hattersley, have destroyed all my labour against his love of wine.  They encourage him daily to overstep the bounds of moderation, and not unfrequently to disgrace himself by positive excess.  I shall not soon forget the second night after their arrival.  Just as I had retired from the dining-room with the ladies, before the door was closed upon us, Arthur exclaimed, — ‘Now then, my lads, what say you to a regular jollification?’

Milicent glanced at me with a half-reproachful look, as if I could hinder it; but her countenance changed when she heard Hattersley’s voice, shouting through door and wall, — ‘I’m your man!  Send for more wine: here isn’t half enough!’

We had scarcely entered the drawing-room before we were joined by Lord Lowborough.

‘What can induce you to come so soon?’ exclaimed his lady, with a most ungracious air of dissatisfaction.

‘You know I never drink, Annabella,’ replied he seriously.

‘Well, but you might stay with them a little: it looks so silly to be always dangling after the women; I wonder you can!’

He reproached her with a look of mingled bitterness and surprise, and, sinking into a chair, suppressed a heavy sigh, bit his pale lips, and fixed his eyes upon the floor.

‘You did right to leave them, Lord Lowborough,’ said I.  ‘I trust you will always continue to honour us so early with your company.  And if Annabella knew the value of true wisdom, and the misery of folly and — and intemperance, she would not talk such nonsense — even in jest.’

He raised his eyes while I spoke, and gravely turned them upon me, with a half-surprised, half-abstracted look, and then bent them on his wife.

‘At least,’ said she, ‘I know the value of a warm heart and a bold, manly spirit.’

‘Well, Annabella,’ said he, in a deep and hollow tone, ‘since my presence is disagreeable to you, I will relieve you of it.’

‘Are you going back to them, then?’ said she, carelessly.

‘No,’ exclaimed he, with harsh and startling emphasis.  ‘I will not go back to them!  And I will never stay with them one moment longer than I think right, for you or any other tempter!  But you needn’t mind that; I shall never trouble you again by intruding my company upon you so unseasonably.’

He left the room: I heard the hall-door open and shut, and immediately after, on putting aside the curtain, I saw him pacing down the park, in the comfortless gloom of the damp, cloudy twilight.

‘It would serve you right, Annabella,’ said I, at length, ‘if Lord Lowborough were to return to his old habits, which had so nearly effected his ruin, and which it cost him such an effort to break: you would then see cause to repent such conduct as this.’

‘Not at all, my dear!  I should not mind if his lordship were to see fit to intoxicate himself every day: I should only the sooner be rid of him.’

‘Oh, Annabella!’ cried Milicent.  ‘How can you say such wicked things!  It would, indeed, be a just punishment, as far as you are concerned, if Providence should take you at your word, and make you feel what others feel, that — ‘  She paused as a sudden burst of loud talking and laughter reached us from the dining-room, in which the voice of Hattersley was pre-eminently conspicuous, even to my unpractised ear.

‘What you feel at this moment, I suppose?’ said Lady Lowborough, with a malicious smile, fixing her eyes upon her cousin’s distressed countenance.

The latter offered no reply, but averted her face and brushed away a tear.  At that moment the door opened and admitted Mr. Hargrave, just a little flushed, his dark eyes sparkling with unwonted vivacity.

‘Oh, I’m so glad you’re come, Walter?’ cried his sister.  ‘But I wish you could have got Ralph to come too.’

‘Utterly impossible, dear Milicent,’ replied he, gaily.  ‘I had much ado to get away myself.  Ralph attempted to keep me by violence; Huntingdon threatened me with the eternal loss of his friendship; and Grimsby, worse than all, endeavoured to make me ashamed of my virtue, by such galling sarcasms and innuendoes as he knew would wound me the most.  So you see, ladies, you ought to make me welcome when I have braved and suffered so much for the favour of your sweet society.’  He smilingly turned to me and bowed as he finished the sentence.

‘Isn’t he handsome now, Helen!’ whispered Milicent, her sisterly pride overcoming, for the moment, all other considerations.

‘He would be,’ I returned, ‘if that brilliance of eye, and lip, and cheek were natural to him; but look again, a few hours hence.’

Here the gentleman took a seat near me at the table, and petitioned for a cup of coffee.

‘I consider this an apt illustration of heaven taken by storm,’ said he, as I handed one to him.  ‘I am in paradise, now; but I have fought my way through flood and fire to win it.  Ralph Hattersley’s last resource was to set his back against the door, and swear I should find no passage but through his body (a pretty substantial one too).  Happily, however, that was not the only door, and I effected my escape by the side entrance through the butler’s pantry, to the infinite amazement of Benson, who was cleaning the plate.’

Mr. Hargrave laughed, and so did his cousin; but his sister and I remained silent and grave.

‘Pardon my levity, Mrs. Huntingdon,’ murmured he, more seriously, as he raised his eyes to my face.  ‘You are not used to these things: you suffer them to affect your delicate mind too sensibly.  But I thought of you in the midst of those lawless roysterers; and I endeavoured to persuade Mr. Huntingdon to think of you too; but to no purpose: I fear he is fully determined to enjoy himself this night; and it will be no use keeping the coffee waiting for him or his companions; it will be much if they join us at tea.  Meantime, I earnestly wish I could banish the thoughts of them from your mind — and my own too, for I hate to think of them — yes — even of my dear friend Huntingdon, when I consider the power he possesses over the happiness of one so immeasurably superior to himself, and the use he makes of it — I positively detest the man!’

‘You had better not say so to me, then,’ said I; ‘for, bad as he is, he is part of myself, and you cannot abuse him without offending me.’

‘Pardon me, then, for I would sooner die than offend you.  But let us say no more of him for the present, if you please.’

At last they came; but not till after ten, when tea, which had been delayed for more than half an hour, was nearly over.  Much as I had longed for their coming, my heart failed me at the riotous uproar of their approach; and Milicent turned pale, and almost started from her seat, as Mr. Hattersley burst into the room with a clamorous volley of oaths in his mouth, which Hargrave endeavoured to check by entreating him to remember the ladies.

‘Ah! you do well to remind me of the ladies, you dastardly deserter,’ cried he, shaking his formidable fist at his brother-in-law.  ‘If it were not for them, you well know, I’d demolish you in the twinkling of an eye, and give your body to the fowls of heaven and the lilies of the fields!’  Then, planting a chair by Lady Lowborough’s side, he stationed himself in it, and began to talk to her with a mixture of absurdity and impudence that seemed rather to amuse than to offend her; though she affected to resent his insolence, and to keep him at bay with sallies of smart and spirited repartee.