Delphi Complete Works of the Brontes Charlotte, Emily, Anne Brontë (Illustrated) (381 page)

I am fully alive to the evils that may and must result upon the step I am about to take; but I never waver in my resolution, because I never forget my son.  It was only this morning, while I pursued my usual employment, he was sitting at my feet, quietly playing with the shreds of canvas I had thrown upon the carpet; but his mind was otherwise occupied, for, in a while, he looked up wistfully in my face, and gravely asked, — ‘Mamma, why are you wicked?’

‘Who told you I was wicked, love?’

‘Rachel.’

‘No, Arthur, Rachel never said so, I am certain.’

‘Well, then, it was papa,’ replied he, thoughtfully.  Then, after a reflective pause, he added, ‘At least, I’ll tell you how it was I got to know: when I’m with papa, if I say mamma wants me, or mamma says I’m not to do something that he tells me to do, he always says, “Mamma be damned,” and Rachel says it’s only wicked people that are damned.  So, mamma, that’s why I think you must be wicked: and I wish you wouldn’t.’

‘My dear child, I am not.  Those are bad words, and wicked people often say them of others better than themselves.  Those words cannot make people be damned, nor show that they deserve it.  God will judge us by our own thoughts and deeds, not by what others say about us.  And when you hear such words spoken, Arthur, remember never to repeat them: it is wicked to say such things of others, not to have them said against you.’

‘Then it’s papa that’s wicked,’ said he, ruefully.

‘Papa is wrong to say such things, and you will be very wrong to imitate him now that you know better.’

‘What is imitate?’

‘To do as he does.’

‘Does he know better?’

‘Perhaps he does; but that is nothing to you.’

‘If he doesn’t, you ought to tell him, mamma.’

‘I have told him.’

The little moralist paused and pondered.  I tried in vain to divert his mind from the subject.

‘I’m sorry papa’s wicked,’ said he mournfully, at length, ‘for I don’t want him to go to hell.’  And so saying he burst into tears.

I consoled him with the hope that perhaps his papa would alter and become good before he died — ; but is it not time to deliver him from such a parent?

CHAPTER XL

January 10th, 1827. — While writing the above, yesterday evening, I sat in the drawing-room.  Mr. Huntingdon was present, but, as I thought, asleep on the sofa behind me.  He had risen, however, unknown to me, and, actuated by some base spirit of curiosity, been looking over my shoulder for I know not how long; for when I had laid aside my pen, and was about to close the book, he suddenly placed his hand upon it, and saying, — ‘With your leave, my dear, I’ll have a look at this,’ forcibly wrested it from me, and, drawing a chair to the table, composedly sat down to examine it: turning back leaf after leaf to find an explanation of what he had read.  Unluckily for me, he was more sober that night than he usually is at such an hour.

Of course I did not leave him to pursue this occupation in quiet: I made several attempts to snatch the book from his hands, but he held it too firmly for that; I upbraided him in bitterness and scorn for his mean and dishonourable conduct, but that had no effect upon him; and, finally, I extinguished both the candles, but he only wheeled round to the fire, and raising a blaze sufficient for his purposes, calmly continued the investigation.  I had serious thoughts of getting a pitcher of water and extinguishing that light too; but it was evident his curiosity was too keenly excited to be quenched by that, and the more I manifested my anxiety to baffle his scrutiny, the greater would be his determination to persist in it besides it was too late.

‘It seems very interesting, love,’ said he, lifting his head and turning to where I stood, wringing my hands in silent rage and anguish; ‘but it’s rather long; I’ll look at it some other time; and meanwhile I’ll trouble you for your keys, my dear.’

‘What keys?’

‘The keys of your cabinet, desk, drawers, and whatever else you possess,’ said he, rising and holding out his hand.

‘I’ve not got them,’ I replied.  The key of my desk, in fact, was at that moment in the lock, and the others were attached to it.

‘Then you must send for them,’ said he; ‘and if that old devil, Rachel, doesn’t immediately deliver them up, she tramps bag and baggage tomorrow.’

‘She doesn’t know where they are,’ I answered, quietly placing my hand upon them, and taking them from the desk, as I thought, unobserved.  ‘I know, but I shall not give them up without a reason.’

‘And I know, too,’ said he, suddenly seizing my closed hand and rudely abstracting them from it.  He then took up one of the candles and relighted it by thrusting it into the fire.

‘Now, then,’ sneered he, ‘we must have a confiscation of property.  But, first, let us take a peep into the studio.’

And putting the keys into his pocket, he walked into the library.  I followed, whether with the dim idea of preventing mischief, or only to know the worst, I can hardly tell.  My painting materials were laid together on the corner table, ready for to-morrow’s use, and only covered with a cloth.  He soon spied them out, and putting down the candle, deliberately proceeded to cast them into the fire: palette, paints, bladders, pencils, brushes, varnish: I saw them all consumed: the palette-knives snapped in two, the oil and turpentine sent hissing and roaring up the chimney.  He then rang the bell.

‘Benson, take those things away,’ said he, pointing to the easel, canvas, and stretcher; ‘and tell the housemaid she may kindle the fire with them: your mistress won’t want them any more.’

Benson paused aghast and looked at me.

‘Take them away, Benson,’ said I; and his master muttered an oath.

‘And this and all, sir?’ said the astonished servant, referring to the half-finished picture.

‘That and all,’ replied the master; and the things were cleared away.

Mr. Huntingdon then went up-stairs.  I did not attempt to follow him, but remained seated in the arm-chair, speechless, tearless, and almost motionless, till he returned about half-an-hour after, and walking up to me, held the candle in my face and peered into my eyes with looks and laughter too insulting to be borne.  With a sudden stroke of my hand I dashed the candle to the floor.

‘Hal-lo!’ muttered he, starting back; ‘she’s the very devil for spite.  Did ever any mortal see such eyes? — they shine in the dark like a cat’s.  Oh, you’re a sweet one!’  So saying, he gathered up the candle and the candlestick.  The former being broken as well as extinguished, he rang for another.

‘Benson, your mistress has broken the candle; bring another.’

‘You expose yourself finely,’ observed I, as the man departed.

‘I didn’t say I’d broken it, did I?’ returned he.  He then threw my keys into my lap, saying, — ‘There! you’ll find nothing gone but your money, and the jewels, and a few little trifles I thought it advisable to take into my own possession, lest your mercantile spirit should be tempted to turn them into gold.  I’ve left you a few sovereigns in your purse, which I expect to last you through the month; at all events, when you want more you will be so good as to give me an account of how that’s spent.  I shall put you upon a small monthly allowance, in future, for your own private expenses; and you needn’t trouble yourself any more about my concerns; I shall look out for a steward, my dear — I won’t expose you to the temptation.  And as for the household matters, Mrs. Greaves must be very particular in keeping her accounts; we must go upon an entirely new plan — ’

‘What great discovery have you made now, Mr. Huntingdon?  Have I attempted to defraud you?’

‘Not in money matters, exactly, it seems; but it’s best to keep out of the way of temptation.’

Here Benson entered with the candles, and there followed a brief interval of silence; I sitting still in my chair, and he standing with his back to the fire, silently triumphing in my despair.

‘And so,’ said he at length, ‘you thought to disgrace me, did you, by running away and turning artist, and supporting yourself by the labour of your hands, forsooth?  And you thought to rob me of my son, too, and bring him up to be a dirty Yankee tradesman, or a low, beggarly painter?’

‘Yes, to obviate his becoming such a gentleman as his father.’

‘It’s well you couldn’t keep your own secret — ha, ha!  It’s well these women must be blabbing.  If they haven’t a friend to talk to, they must whisper their secrets to the fishes, or write them on the sand, or something; and it’s well, too, I wasn’t over full to-night, now I think of it, or I might have snoozed away and never dreamt of looking what my sweet lady was about; or I might have lacked the sense or the power to carry my point like a man, as I have done.’

Leaving him to his self-congratulations, I rose to secure my manuscript, for I now remembered it had been left upon the drawing-room table, and I determined, if possible, to save myself the humiliation of seeing it in his hands again.  I could not bear the idea of his amusing himself over my secret thoughts and recollections; though, to be sure, he would find little good of himself therein indited, except in the former part; and oh, I would sooner burn it all than he should read what I had written when I was such a fool as to love him!

‘And by-the-by,’ cried he, as I was leaving the room, ‘you’d better tell that d — d old sneak of a nurse to keep out of my way for a day or two; I’d pay her her wages and send her packing to-morrow, but I know she’d do more mischief out of the house than in it.’

And as I departed, he went on cursing and abusing my faithful friend and servant with epithets I will not defile this paper with repeating.  I went to her as soon as I had put away my book, and told her how our project was defeated.  She was as much distressed and horrified as I was — and more so than I was that night, for I was partly stunned by the blow, and partly excited and supported against it by the bitterness of my wrath.  But in the morning, when I woke without that cheering hope that had been my secret comfort and support so long, and all this day, when I have wandered about restless and objectless, shunning my husband, shrinking even from my child, knowing that I am unfit to be his teacher or companion, hoping nothing for his future life, and fervently wishing he had never been born, — I felt the full extent of my calamity, and I feel it now.  I know that day after day such feelings will return upon me.  I am a slave — a prisoner — but that is nothing; if it were myself alone I would not complain, but I am forbidden to rescue my son from ruin, and what was once my only consolation is become the crowning source of my despair.

Have I no faith in God?  I try to look to Him and raise my heart to heaven, but it will cleave to the dust.  I can only say, ‘He hath hedged me about, that I cannot get out: He hath made my chain heavy.  He hath filled me with bitterness — He hath made me drunken with wormwood.’  I forget to add, ‘But though He cause grief, yet will He have compassion according to the multitude of His mercies.  For He doth not afflict willingly nor grieve the children of men.’ I ought to think of this; and if there be nothing but sorrow for me in this world, what is the longest life of misery to a whole eternity of peace?  And for my little Arthur — has he no friend but me?  Who was it said, ‘It is not the will of your Father which is in heaven that one of these little ones should perish?’

CHAPTER XLI

March 20th. — Having now got rid of Mr. Huntingdon for a season, my spirits begin to revive.  He left me early in February; and the moment he was gone, I breathed again, and felt my vital energy return; not with the hope of escape — he has taken care to leave me no visible chance of that — but with a determination to make the best of existing circumstances.  Here was Arthur left to me at last; and rousing from my despondent apathy, I exerted all my powers to eradicate the weeds that had been fostered in his infant mind, and sow again the good seed they had rendered unproductive.  Thank heaven, it is not a barren or a stony soil; if weeds spring fast there, so do better plants.  His apprehensions are more quick, his heart more overflowing with affection than ever his father’s could have been, and it is no hopeless task to bend him to obedience and win him to love and know his own true friend, as long as there is no one to counteract my efforts.

I had much trouble at first in breaking him of those evil habits his father had taught him to acquire, but already that difficulty is nearly vanquished now: bad language seldom defiles his mouth, and I have succeeded in giving him an absolute disgust for all intoxicating liquors, which I hope not even his father or his father’s friends will be able to overcome.  He was inordinately fond of them for so young a creature, and, remembering my unfortunate father as well as his, I dreaded the consequences of such a taste.  But if I had stinted him, in his usual quantity of wine, or forbidden him to taste it altogether, that would only have increased his partiality for it, and made him regard it as a greater treat than ever.  I therefore gave him quite as much as his father was accustomed to allow him; as much, indeed, as he desired to have — but into every glass I surreptitiously introduced a small quantity of tartar-emetic, just enough to produce inevitable nausea and depression without positive sickness.  Finding such disagreeable consequences invariably to result from this indulgence, he soon grew weary of it, but the more he shrank from the daily treat the more I pressed it upon him, till his reluctance was strengthened to perfect abhorrence.  When he was thoroughly disgusted with every kind of wine, I allowed him, at his own request, to try brandy-and-water, and then gin-and-water, for the little toper was familiar with them all, and I was determined that all should be equally hateful to him.  This I have now effected; and since he declares that the taste, the smell, the sight of any one of them is sufficient to make him sick, I have given up teasing him about them, except now and then as objects of terror in cases of misbehaviour.  ‘Arthur, if you’re not a good boy I shall give you a glass of wine,’ or ‘Now, Arthur, if you say that again you shall have some brandy-and-water,’ is as good as any other threat; and once or twice, when he was sick, I have obliged the poor child to swallow a little wine-and-water without the tartar-emetic, by way of medicine; and this practice I intend to continue for some time to come; not that I think it of any real service in a physical sense, but because I am determined to enlist all the powers of association in my service; I wish this aversion to be so deeply grounded in his nature that nothing in after-life may be able to overcome it.

Thus, I flatter myself, I shall secure him from this one vice; and for the rest, if on his father’s return I find reason to apprehend that my good lessons will be all destroyed — if Mr. Huntingdon commence again the game of teaching the child to hate and despise his mother, and emulate his father’s wickedness — I will yet deliver my son from his hands.  I have devised another scheme that might be resorted to in such a case; and if I could but obtain my brother’s consent and assistance, I should not doubt of its success.  The old hall where he and I were born, and where our mother died, is not now inhabited, nor yet quite sunk into decay, as I believe.  Now, if I could persuade him to have one or two rooms made habitable, and to let them to me as a stranger, I might live there, with my child, under an assumed name, and still support myself by my favourite art.  He should lend me the money to begin with, and I would pay him back, and live in lowly independence and strict seclusion, for the house stands in a lonely place, and the neighbourhood is thinly inhabited, and he himself should negotiate the sale of my pictures for me.  I have arranged the whole plan in my head: and all I want is to persuade Frederick to be of the same mind as myself.  He is coming to see me soon, and then I will make the proposal to him, having first enlightened him upon my circumstances sufficiently to excuse the project.

Already, I believe, he knows much more of my situation than I have told him.  I can tell this by the air of tender sadness pervading his letters; and by the fact of his so seldom mentioning my husband, and generally evincing a kind of covert bitterness when he does refer to him; as well as by the circumstance of his never coming to see me when Mr. Huntingdon is at home.  But he has never openly expressed any disapprobation of him or sympathy for me; he has never asked any questions, or said anything to invite my confidence.  Had he done so, I should probably have had but few concealments from him.  Perhaps he feels hurt at my reserve.  He is a strange being; I wish we knew each other better.  He used to spend a month at Staningley every year, before I was married; but, since our father’s death, I have only seen him once, when he came for a few days while Mr. Huntingdon was away.  He shall stay many days this time, and there shall be more candour and cordiality between us than ever there was before, since our early childhood.  My heart clings to him more than ever; and my soul is sick of solitude.

April 16th. — He is come and gone.  He would not stay above a fortnight.  The time passed quickly, but very, very happily, and it has done me good.  I must have a bad disposition, for my misfortunes have soured and embittered me exceedingly: I was beginning insensibly to cherish very unamiable feelings against my fellow-mortals, the male part of them especially; but it is a comfort to see there is at least one among them worthy to be trusted and esteemed; and doubtless there are more, though I have never known them, unless I except poor Lord Lowborough, and he was bad enough in his day.  But what would Frederick have been, if he had lived in the world, and mingled from his childhood with such men as these of my acquaintance? and what will Arthur be, with all his natural sweetness of disposition, if I do not save him from that world and those companions?  I mentioned my fears to Frederick, and introduced the subject of my plan of rescue on the evening after his arrival, when I presented my little son to his uncle.

‘He is like you, Frederick,’ said I, ‘in some of his moods: I sometimes think he resembles you more than his father; and I am glad of it.’

‘You flatter me, Helen,’ replied he, stroking the child’s soft, wavy locks.

‘No, you will think it no compliment when I tell you I would rather have him to resemble Benson than his father.’  He slightly elevated his eyebrows, but said nothing.

‘Do you know what sort of man Mr. Huntingdon is?’ said I.

‘I think I have an idea.’

‘Have you so clear an idea that you can hear, without surprise or disapproval, that I meditate escaping with that child to some secret asylum, where we can live in peace, and never see him again?’

‘Is it really so?’

‘If you have not,’ continued I, ‘I’ll tell you something more about him’; and I gave a sketch of his general conduct, and a more particular account of his behaviour with regard to his child, and explained my apprehensions on the latter’s account, and my determination to deliver him from his father’s influence.

Frederick was exceedingly indignant against Mr. Huntingdon, and very much grieved for me; but still he looked upon my project as wild and impracticable.  He deemed my fears for Arthur disproportioned to the circumstances, and opposed so many objections to my plan, and devised so many milder methods for ameliorating my condition, that I was obliged to enter into further details to convince him that my husband was utterly incorrigible, and that nothing could persuade him to give up his son, whatever became of me, he being as fully determined the child should not leave him, as I was not to leave the child; and that, in fact, nothing would answer but this, unless I fled the country, as I had intended before.  To obviate that, he at length consented to have one wing of the old hall put into a habitable condition, as a place of refuge against a time of need; but hoped I would not take advantage of it unless circumstances should render it really necessary, which I was ready enough to promise: for though, for my own sake, such a hermitage appears like paradise itself, compared with my present situation, yet for my friends’ sakes, for Milicent and Esther, my sisters in heart and affection, for the poor tenants of Grassdale, and, above all, for my aunt, I will stay if I possibly can.

July 29th. — Mrs. Hargrave and her daughter are come back from London.  Esther is full of her first season in town; but she is still heart-whole and unengaged.  Her mother sought out an excellent match for her, and even brought the gentleman to lay his heart and fortune at her feet; but Esther had the audacity to refuse the noble gifts.  He was a man of good family and large possessions, but the naughty girl maintained he was old as Adam, ugly as sin, and hateful as — one who shall be nameless.

‘But, indeed, I had a hard time of it,’ said she: ‘mamma was very greatly disappointed at the failure of her darling project, and very, very angry at my obstinate resistance to her will, and is so still; but I can’t help it.  And Walter, too, is so seriously displeased at my perversity and absurd caprice, as he calls it, that I fear he will never forgive me — I did not think he could be so unkind as he has lately shown himself.  But Milicent begged me not to yield, and I’m sure, Mrs. Huntingdon, if you had seen the man they wanted to palm upon me, you would have advised me not to take him too.’

‘I should have done so whether I had seen him or not,’ said I; ‘it is enough that you dislike him.’

‘I knew you would say so; though mamma affirmed you would be quite shocked at my undutiful conduct.  You can’t imagine how she lectures me: I am disobedient and ungrateful; I am thwarting her wishes, wronging my brother, and making myself a burden on her hands.  I sometimes fear she’ll overcome me after all.  I have a strong will, but so has she, and when she says such bitter things, it provokes me to such a pass that I feel inclined to do as she bids me, and then break my heart and say, “There, mamma, it’s all your fault!”’

‘Pray don’t!’ said I.  ‘Obedience from such a motive would be positive wickedness, and certain to bring the punishment it deserves.  Stand firm, and your mamma will soon relinquish her persecution; and the gentleman himself will cease to pester you with his addresses if he finds them steadily rejected.’

‘Oh, no! mamma will weary all about her before she tires herself with her exertions; and as for Mr. Oldfield, she has given him to understand that I have refused his offer, not from any dislike of his person, but merely because I am giddy and young, and cannot at present reconcile myself to the thoughts of marriage under any circumstances: but by next season, she has no doubt, I shall have more sense, and hopes my girlish fancies will be worn away.  So she has brought me home, to school me into a proper sense of my duty, against the time comes round again.  Indeed, I believe she will not put herself to the expense of taking me up to London again, unless I surrender: she cannot afford to take me to town for pleasure and nonsense, she says, and it is not every rich gentleman that will consent to take me without a fortune, whatever exalted ideas I may have of my own attractions.’

‘Well, Esther, I pity you; but still, I repeat, stand firm.  You might as well sell yourself to slavery at once, as marry a man you dislike.  If your mother and brother are unkind to you, you may leave them, but remember you are bound to your husband for life.’

‘But I cannot leave them unless I get married, and I cannot get married if nobody sees me.  I saw one or two gentlemen in London that I might have liked, but they were younger sons, and mamma would not let me get to know them — one especially, who I believe rather liked me — but she threw every possible obstacle in the way of our better acquaintance.  Wasn’t it provoking?’

‘I have no doubt you would feel it so, but it is possible that if you married him, you might have more reason to regret it hereafter than if you married Mr. Oldfield.  When I tell you not to marry without love, I do not advise you to marry for love alone: there are many, many other things to be considered.  Keep both heart and hand in your own possession, till you see good reason to part with them; and if such an occasion should never present itself, comfort your mind with this reflection, that though in single life your joys may not be very many, your sorrows, at least, will not be more than you can bear.  Marriage may change your circumstances for the better, but, in my private opinion, it is far more likely to produce a contrary result.’

‘So thinks Milicent; but allow me to say I think otherwise.  If I thought myself doomed to old-maidenhood, I should cease to value my life.  The thoughts of living on, year after year, at the Grove — a hanger-on upon mamma and Walter, a mere cumberer of the ground (now that I know in what light they would regard it), is perfectly intolerable; I would rather run away with the butler.’