Delphi Complete Works of the Brontes Charlotte, Emily, Anne Brontë (Illustrated) (386 page)

‘And how came you to know that I was her brother?’ asked he, in some anxiety.

‘She told me herself.  She told me all.  She knew I might be trusted.  But you needn’t disturb yourself about that, Mr. Lawrence, for I’ve seen the last of her!’

‘The last!  Is she gone, then?’

‘No; but she has bid adieu to me, and I have promised never to go near that house again while she inhabits it.’  I could have groaned aloud at the bitter thoughts awakened by this turn in the discourse.  But I only clenched my hands and stamped my foot upon the rug.  My companion, however, was evidently relieved.

‘You have done right,’ he said, in a tone of unqualified approbation, while his face brightened into almost a sunny expression.  ‘And as for the mistake, I am sorry for both our sakes that it should have occurred.  Perhaps you can forgive my want of candour, and remember, as some partial mitigation of the offence, how little encouragement to friendly confidence you have given me of late.’

‘Yes, yes — I remember it all: nobody can blame me more than I blame myself in my own heart; at any rate, nobody can regret more sincerely than I do the result of my brutality, as you rightly term it.’

‘Never mind that,’ said he, faintly smiling; ‘let us forget all unpleasant words on both sides, as well as deeds, and consign to oblivion everything that we have cause to regret.  Have you any objection to take my hand, or you’d rather not?’  It trembled through weakness as he held it out, and dropped before I had time to catch it and give it a hearty squeeze, which he had not the strength to return.

‘How dry and burning your hand is, Lawrence,’ said I.  ‘You are really ill, and I have made you worse by all this talk.’

‘Oh, it is nothing; only a cold got by the rain.’

‘My doing, too.’

‘Never mind that.  But tell me, did you mention this affair to my sister?’

‘To confess the truth, I had not the courage to do so; but when you tell her, will you just say that I deeply regret it, and — ?’

‘Oh, never fear!  I shall say nothing against you, as long as you keep your good resolution of remaining aloof from her.  She has not heard of my illness, then, that you are aware of?’

‘I think not.’

‘I’m glad of that, for I have been all this time tormenting myself with the fear that somebody would tell her I was dying, or desperately ill, and she would be either distressing herself on account of her inability to hear from me or do me any good, or perhaps committing the madness of coming to see me.  I must contrive to let her know something about it, if I can,’ continued he, reflectively, ‘or she will be hearing some such story.  Many would be glad to tell her such news, just to see how she would take it; and then she might expose herself to fresh scandal.’

‘I wish I had told her,’ said I.  ‘If it were not for my promise, I would tell her now.’

‘By no means!  I am not dreaming of that; — but if I were to write a short note, now, not mentioning you, Markham, but just giving a slight account of my illness, by way of excuse for my not coming to see her, and to put her on her guard against any exaggerated reports she may hear, — and address it in a disguised hand — would you do me the favour to slip it into the post-office as you pass? for I dare not trust any of the servants in such a case.’

Most willingly I consented, and immediately brought him his desk.  There was little need to disguise his hand, for the poor fellow seemed to have considerable difficulty in writing at all, so as to be legible.  When the note was done, I thought it time to retire, and took leave, after asking if there was anything in the world I could do for him, little or great, in the way of alleviating his sufferings, and repairing the injury I had done.

‘No,’ said he; ‘you have already done much towards it; you have done more for me than the most skilful physician could do: for you have relieved my mind of two great burdens — anxiety on my sister’s account, and deep regret upon your own: for I do believe these two sources of torment have had more effect in working me up into a fever than anything else; and I am persuaded I shall soon recover now.  There is one more thing you can do for me, and that is, come and see me now and then — for you see I am very lonely here, and I promise your entrance shall not be disputed again.’

I engaged to do so, and departed with a cordial pressure of the hand.  I posted the letter on my way home, most manfully resisting the temptation of dropping in a word from myself at the same time.

CHAPTER XLVI

I felt strongly tempted, at times, to enlighten my mother and sister on the real character and circumstances of the persecuted tenant of Wildfell Hall, and at first I greatly regretted having omitted to ask that lady’s permission to do so; but, on due reflection, I considered that if it were known to them, it could not long remain a secret to the Millwards and Wilsons, and such was my present appreciation of Eliza Millward’s disposition, that, if once she got a clue to the story, I should fear she would soon find means to enlighten Mr. Huntingdon upon the place of his wife’s retreat.  I would therefore wait patiently till these weary six months were over, and then, when the fugitive had found another home, and I was permitted to write to her, I would beg to be allowed to clear her name from these vile calumnies: at present I must content myself with simply asserting that I knew them to be false, and would prove it some day, to the shame of those who slandered her.  I don’t think anybody believed me, but everybody soon learned to avoid insinuating a word against her, or even mentioning her name in my presence.  They thought I was so madly infatuated by the seductions of that unhappy lady that I was determined to support her in the very face of reason; and meantime I grow insupportably morose and misanthropical from the idea that every one I met was harbouring unworthy thoughts of the supposed Mrs. Graham, and would express them if he dared.  My poor mother was quite distressed about me; but I couldn’t help it — at least I thought I could not, though sometimes I felt a pang of remorse for my undutiful conduct to her, and made an effort to amend, attended with some partial success; and indeed I was generally more humanised in my demeanour to her than to any one else, Mr. Lawrence excepted.  Rose and Fergus usually shunned my presence; and it was well they did, for I was not fit company for them, nor they for me, under the present circumstances.

Mrs. Huntingdon did not leave Wildfell Hall till above two months after our farewell interview.  During that time she never appeared at church, and I never went near the house: I only knew she was still there by her brother’s brief answers to my many and varied inquiries respecting her.  I was a very constant and attentive visitor to him throughout the whole period of his illness and convalescence; not only from the interest I took in his recovery, and my desire to cheer him up and make the utmost possible amends for my former ‘brutality,’ but from my growing attachment to himself, and the increasing pleasure I found in his society — partly from his increased cordiality to me, but chiefly on account of his close connection, both in blood and in affection, with my adored Helen.  I loved him for it better than I liked to express: and I took a secret delight in pressing those slender white fingers, so marvellously like her own, considering he was not a woman, and in watching the passing changes in his fair, pale features, and observing the intonations of his voice, detecting resemblances which I wondered had never struck me before.  He provoked me at times, indeed, by his evident reluctance to talk to me about his sister, though I did not question the friendliness of his motives in wishing to discourage my remembrance of her.

His recovery was not quite so rapid as he had expected it to be; he was not able to mount his pony till a fortnight after the date of our reconciliation; and the first use he made of his returning strength was to ride over by night to Wildfell Hall, to see his sister.  It was a hazardous enterprise both for him and for her, but he thought it necessary to consult with her on the subject of her projected departure, if not to calm her apprehensions respecting his health, and the worst result was a slight relapse of his illness, for no one knew of the visit but the inmates of the old Hall, except myself; and I believe it had not been his intention to mention it to me, for when I came to see him the next day, and observed he was not so well as he ought to have been, he merely said he had caught cold by being out too late in the evening.

‘You’ll never be able to see your sister, if you don’t take care of yourself,’ said I, a little provoked at the circumstance on her account, instead of commiserating him.

‘I’ve seen her already,’ said he, quietly.

‘You’ve seen her!’ cried I, in astonishment.

‘Yes.’  And then he told me what considerations had impelled him to make the venture, and with what precautions he had made it.

‘And how was she?’ I eagerly asked.

‘As usual,’ was the brief though sad reply.

‘As usual — that is, far from happy and far from strong.’

‘She is not positively ill,’ returned he; ‘and she will recover her spirits in a while, I have no doubt — but so many trials have been almost too much for her.  How threatening those clouds look,’ continued he, turning towards the window.  ‘We shall have thunder-showers before night, I imagine, and they are just in the midst of stacking my corn.  Have you got yours all in yet?’

‘No.  And, Lawrence, did she — did your sister mention me?’

‘She asked if I had seen you lately.’

‘And what else did she say?’

‘I cannot tell you all she said,’ replied he, with a slight smile; ‘for we talked a good deal, though my stay was but short; but our conversation was chiefly on the subject of her intended departure, which I begged her to delay till I was better able to assist her in her search after another home.’

‘But did she say no more about me?’

‘She did not say much about you, Markham.  I should not have encouraged her to do so, had she been inclined; but happily she was not: she only asked a few questions concerning you, and seemed satisfied with my brief answers, wherein she showed herself wiser than her friend; and I may tell you, too, that she seemed to be far more anxious lest you should think too much of her, than lest you should forget her.’

‘She was right.’

‘But I fear your anxiety is quite the other way respecting her.’

‘No, it is not: I wish her to be happy; but I don’t wish her to forget me altogether.  She knows it is impossible that I should forget her; and she is right to wish me not to remember her too well.  I should not desire her to regret me too deeply; but I can scarcely imagine she will make herself very unhappy about me, because I know I am not worthy of it, except in my appreciation of her.’

‘You are neither of you worthy of a broken heart, — nor of all the sighs, and tears, and sorrowful thoughts that have been, and I fear will be, wasted upon you both; but, at present, each has a more exalted opinion of the other than, I fear, he or she deserves; and my sister’s feelings are naturally full as keen as yours, and I believe more constant; but she has the good sense and fortitude to strive against them in this particular; and I trust she will not rest till she has entirely weaned her thoughts — ‘ he hesitated.

‘From me,’ said I.

‘And I wish you would make the like exertions,’ continued he.

‘Did she tell you that that was her intention?’

‘No; the question was not broached between us: there was no necessity for it, for I had no doubt that such was her determination.’

‘To forget me?’

‘Yes, Markham!  Why not?’

‘Oh, well!’ was my only audible reply; but I internally answered, — ‘No, Lawrence, you’re wrong there: she is not determined to forget me.  It would be wrong to forget one so deeply and fondly devoted to her, who can so thoroughly appreciate her excellencies, and sympathise with all her thoughts, as I can do, and it would be wrong in me to forget so excellent and divine a piece of God’s creation as she, when I have once so truly loved and known her.’ But I said no more to him on that subject.  I instantly started a new topic of conversation, and soon took leave of my companion, with a feeling of less cordiality towards him than usual.  Perhaps I had no right to be annoyed at him, but I was so nevertheless.

In little more than a week after this I met him returning from a visit to the Wilsons’; and I now resolved to do him a good turn, though at the expense of his feelings, and perhaps at the risk of incurring that displeasure which is so commonly the reward of those who give disagreeable information, or tender their advice unasked.  In this, believe me, I was actuated by no motives of revenge for the occasional annoyances I had lately sustained from him, — nor yet by any feeling of malevolent enmity towards Miss Wilson, but purely by the fact that I could not endure that such a woman should be Mrs. Huntingdon’s sister, and that, as well for his own sake as for hers, I could not bear to think of his being deceived into a union with one so unworthy of him, and so utterly unfitted to be the partner of his quiet home, and the companion of his life.  He had had uncomfortable suspicions on that head himself, I imagined; but such was his inexperience, and such were the lady’s powers of attraction, and her skill in bringing them to bear upon his young imagination, that they had not disturbed him long; and I believe the only effectual causes of the vacillating indecision that had preserved him hitherto from making an actual declaration of love, was the consideration of her connections, and especially of her mother, whom he could not abide.  Had they lived at a distance, he might have surmounted the objection, but within two or three miles of Woodford it was really no light matter.

‘You’ve been to call on the Wilsons, Lawrence,’ said I, as I walked beside his pony.

‘Yes,’ replied he, slightly averting his face: ‘I thought it but civil to take the first opportunity of returning their kind attentions, since they have been so very particular and constant in their inquiries throughout the whole course of my illness.’

‘It’s all Miss Wilson’s doing.’

‘And if it is,’ returned he, with a very perceptible blush, ‘is that any reason why I should not make a suitable acknowledgment?’

‘It is a reason why you should not make the acknowledgment she looks for.’

‘Let us drop that subject if you please,’ said he, in evident displeasure.

‘No, Lawrence, with your leave we’ll continue it a while longer; and I’ll tell you something, now we’re about it, which you may believe or not as you choose — only please to remember that it is not my custom to speak falsely, and that in this case I can have no motive for misrepresenting the truth — ’

‘Well, Markham, what now?’

‘Miss Wilson hates your sister.  It may be natural enough that, in her ignorance of the relationship, she should feel some degree of enmity against her, but no good or amiable woman would be capable of evincing that bitter, cold-blooded, designing malice towards a fancied rival that I have observed in her.’

‘Markham!’

‘Yes — and it is my belief that Eliza Millward and she, if not the very originators of the slanderous reports that have been propagated, were designedly the encouragers and chief disseminators of them.  She was not desirous to mix up your name in the matter, of course, but her delight was, and still is, to blacken your sister’s character to the utmost of her power, without risking too greatly the exposure of her own malevolence!’

‘I cannot believe it,’ interrupted my companion, his face burning with indignation.

‘Well, as I cannot prove it, I must content myself with asserting that it is so to the best of my belief; but as you would not willingly marry Miss Wilson if it were so, you will do well to be cautious, till you have proved it to be otherwise.’

‘I never told you, Markham, that I intended to marry Miss Wilson,’ said he, proudly.

‘No, but whether you do or not, she intends to marry you.’

‘Did she tell you so?’

‘No, but — ’

‘Then you have no right to make such an assertion respecting her.’ He slightly quickened his pony’s pace, but I laid my hand on its mane, determined he should not leave me yet.

‘Wait a moment, Lawrence, and let me explain myself; and don’t be so very — I don’t know what to call it — inaccessible as you are. — I know what you think of Jane Wilson; and I believe I know how far you are mistaken in your opinion: you think she is singularly charming, elegant, sensible, and refined: you are not aware that she is selfish, cold-hearted, ambitious, artful, shallow-minded — ’

‘Enough, Markham — enough!’

‘No; let me finish: — you don’t know that, if you married her, your home would be rayless and comfortless; and it would break your heart at last to find yourself united to one so wholly incapable of sharing your tastes, feelings, and ideas — so utterly destitute of sensibility, good feeling, and true nobility of soul.’