Delphi Complete Works of the Brontes Charlotte, Emily, Anne Brontë (Illustrated) (391 page)

There is a change.  Suddenly he called me to his side, with such a strange, excited manner, that I feared he was delirious, but he was not.  ‘That was the crisis, Helen!’ said he, delightedly.  ‘I had an infernal pain here — it is quite gone now.  I never was so easy since the fall — quite gone, by heaven!’ and he clasped and kissed my hand in the very fulness of his heart; but finding I did not participate in his joy, he quickly flung it from him, and bitterly cursed my coldness and insensibility.  How could I reply?  Kneeling beside him, I took his hand and fondly pressed it to my lips — for the first time since our separation — and told him, as well as tears would let me speak, that it was not that that kept me silent: it was the fear that this sudden cessation of pain was not so favourable a symptom as he supposed.  I immediately sent for the doctor: we are now anxiously awaiting him.  I will tell you what he says.  There is still the same freedom from pain, the same deadness to all sensation where the suffering was most acute.

My worst fears are realised: mortification has commenced.  The doctor has told him there is no hope.  No words can describe his anguish.  I can write no more.

* * * * *

The next was still more distressing in the tenor of its contents.  The sufferer was fast approaching dissolution — dragged almost to the verge of that awful chasm he trembled to contemplate, from which no agony of prayers or tears could save him.  Nothing could comfort him now; Hattersley’s rough attempts at consolation were utterly in vain.  The world was nothing to him: life and all its interests, its petty cares and transient pleasures, were a cruel mockery.  To talk of the past was to torture him with vain remorse; to refer to the future was to increase his anguish; and yet to be silent was to leave him a prey to his own regrets and apprehensions.  Often he dwelt with shuddering minuteness on the fate of his perishing clay — the slow, piecemeal dissolution already invading his frame: the shroud, the coffin, the dark, lonely grave, and all the horrors of corruption.

‘If I try,’ said his afflicted wife, ‘to divert him from these things — to raise his thoughts to higher themes, it is no better: — “Worse and worse!” he groans.  “If there be really life beyond the tomb, and judgment after death, how can I face it?” — I cannot do him any good; he will neither be enlightened, nor roused, nor comforted by anything I say; and yet he clings to me with unrelenting pertinacity — with a kind of childish desperation, as if I could save him from the fate he dreads.  He keeps me night and day beside him.  He is holding my left hand now, while I write; he has held it thus for hours: sometimes quietly, with his pale face upturned to mine: sometimes clutching my arm with violence — the big drops starting from his forehead at the thoughts of what he sees, or thinks he sees, before him.  If I withdraw my hand for a moment it distresses him.

‘“Stay with me, Helen,” he says; “let me hold you so: it seems as if harm could not reach me while you are here.  But death will come — it is coming now — fast, fast! — and — oh, if I could believe there was nothing after!”

‘“Don’t try to believe it, Arthur; there is joy and glory after, if you will but try to reach it!”

‘“What, for me?” he said, with something like a laugh.  “Are we not to be judged according to the deeds done in the body?  Where’s the use of a probationary existence, if a man may spend it as he pleases, just contrary to God’s decrees, and then go to heaven with the best — if the vilest sinner may win the reward of the holiest saint, by merely saying, “I repent!””’

‘“But if you sincerely repent — ”

‘“I can’t repent; I only fear.”

‘“You only regret the past for its consequences to yourself?”

‘“Just so — except that I’m sorry to have wronged you, Nell, because you’re so good to me.”

‘“Think of the goodness of God, and you cannot but be grieved to have offended Him.”

‘“What is God? — I cannot see Him or hear Him. — God is only an idea.”

‘“God is Infinite Wisdom, and Power, and Goodness — and Love; but if this idea is too vast for your human faculties — if your mind loses itself in its overwhelming infinitude, fix it on Him who condescended to take our nature upon Him, who was raised to heaven even in His glorified human body, in whom the fulness of the Godhead shines.”

‘But he only shook his head and sighed.  Then, in another paroxysm of shuddering horror, he tightened his grasp on my hand and arm, and, groaning and lamenting, still clung to me with that wild, desperate earnestness so harrowing to my soul, because I know I cannot help him.  I did my best to soothe and comfort him.

‘“Death is so terrible,” he cried, “I cannot bear it!  You don’t know, Helen — you can’t imagine what it is, because you haven’t it before you! and when I’m buried, you’ll return to your old ways and be as happy as ever, and all the world will go on just as busy and merry as if I had never been; while I — ”  He burst into tears.

‘“You needn’t let that distress you,” I said; “we shall all follow you soon enough.”

‘“I wish to God I could take you with me now!” he exclaimed: “you should plead for me.”

‘“No man can deliver his brother, nor make agreement unto God for him,” I replied: “it cost more to redeem their souls — it cost the blood of an incarnate God, perfect and sinless in Himself, to redeem us from the bondage of the evil one: — let Him plead for you.”

‘But I seem to speak in vain.  He does not now, as formerly, laugh these blessed truths to scorn: but still he cannot trust, or will not comprehend them.  He cannot linger long.  He suffers dreadfully, and so do those that wait upon him.  But I will not harass you with further details: I have said enough, I think, to convince you that I did well to go to him.’

* * * * *

Poor, poor Helen! dreadful indeed her trials must have been!  And I could do nothing to lessen them — nay, it almost seemed as if I had brought them upon her myself by my own secret desires; and whether I looked at her husband’s sufferings or her own, it seemed almost like a judgment upon myself for having cherished such a wish.

The next day but one there came another letter.  That too was put into my hands without a remark, and these are its contents: —

Dec. 5th.

He is gone at last.  I sat beside him all night, with my hand fast looked in his, watching the changes of his features and listening to his failing breath.  He had been silent a long time, and I thought he would never speak again, when he murmured, faintly but distinctly, — ‘Pray for me, Helen!’

‘I do pray for you, every hour and every minute, Arthur; but you must pray for yourself.’

His lips moved, but emitted no sound; — then his looks became unsettled; and, from the incoherent, half-uttered words that escaped him from time to time, supposing him to be now unconscious, I gently disengaged my hand from his, intending to steal away for a breath of air, for I was almost ready to faint; but a convulsive movement of the fingers, and a faintly whispered ‘Don’t leave me!’ immediately recalled me: I took his hand again, and held it till he was no more — and then I fainted.  It was not grief; it was exhaustion, that, till then, I had been enabled successfully to combat.  Oh, Frederick! none can imagine the miseries, bodily and mental, of that death-bed!  How could I endure to think that that poor trembling soul was hurried away to everlasting torment? it would drive me mad.  But, thank God, I have hope — not only from a vague dependence on the possibility that penitence and pardon might have reached him at the last, but from the blessed confidence that, through whatever purging fires the erring spirit may be doomed to pass — whatever fate awaits it — still it is not lost, and God, who hateth nothing that He hath made, will bless it in the end!

His body will be consigned on Thursday to that dark grave he so much dreaded; but the coffin must be closed as soon as possible.  If you will attend the funeral, come quickly, for I need help.

Helen Huntingdon.

CHAPTER L

On reading this I had no reason to disguise my joy and hope from Frederick Lawrence, for I had none to be ashamed of.  I felt no joy but that his sister was at length released from her afflictive, overwhelming toil — no hope but that she would in time recover from the effects of it, and be suffered to rest in peace and quietness, at least, for the remainder of her life.  I experienced a painful commiseration for her unhappy husband (though fully aware that he had brought every particle of his sufferings upon himself, and but too well deserved them all), and a profound sympathy for her own afflictions, and deep anxiety for the consequences of those harassing cares, those dreadful vigils, that incessant and deleterious confinement beside a living corpse — for I was persuaded she had not hinted half the sufferings she had had to endure.

‘You will go to her, Lawrence?’ said I, as I put the letter into his hand.

‘Yes, immediately.’

‘That’s right!  I’ll leave you, then, to prepare for your departure.’

‘I’ve done that already, while you were reading the letter, and before you came; and the carriage is now coming round to the door.’

Inly approving his promptitude, I bade him good-morning, and withdrew.  He gave me a searching glance as we pressed each other’s hands at parting; but whatever he sought in my countenance, he saw there nothing but the most becoming gravity — it might be mingled with a little sternness in momentary resentment at what I suspected to be passing in his mind.

Had I forgotten my own prospects, my ardent love, my pertinacious hopes?  It seemed like sacrilege to revert to them now, but I had not forgotten them.  It was, however, with a gloomy sense of the darkness of those prospects, the fallacy of those hopes, and the vanity of that affection, that I reflected on those things as I remounted my horse and slowly journeyed homewards.  Mrs. Huntingdon was free now; it was no longer a crime to think of her — but did she ever think of me?  Not now — of course it was not to be expected — but would she when this shock was over?  In all the course of her correspondence with her brother (our mutual friend, as she herself had called him) she had never mentioned me but once — and that was from necessity.  This alone afforded strong presumption that I was already forgotten; yet this was not the worst: it might have been her sense of duty that had kept her silent: she might be only trying to forget; but in addition to this, I had a gloomy conviction that the awful realities she had seen and felt, her reconciliation with the man she had once loved, his dreadful sufferings and death, must eventually efface from her mind all traces of her passing love for me.  She might recover from these horrors so far as to be restored to her former health, her tranquillity, her cheerfulness even — but never to those feelings which would appear to her, henceforth, as a fleeting fancy, a vain, illusive dream; especially as there was no one to remind her of my existence — no means of assuring her of my fervent constancy, now that we were so far apart, and delicacy forbade me to see her or to write to her, for months to come at least.  And how could I engage her brother in my behalf? how could I break that icy crust of shy reserve?  Perhaps he would disapprove of my attachment now as highly as before; perhaps he would think me too poor — too lowly born, to match with his sister.  Yes, there was another barrier: doubtless there was a wide distinction between the rank and circumstances of Mrs. Huntingdon, the lady of Grassdale Manor, and those of Mrs. Graham, the artist, the tenant of Wildfell Hall.  And it might be deemed presumption in me to offer my hand to the former, by the world, by her friends, if not by herself; a penalty I might brave, if I were certain she loved me; but otherwise, how could I?  And, finally, her deceased husband, with his usual selfishness, might have so constructed his will as to place restrictions upon her marrying again.  So that you see I had reasons enough for despair if I chose to indulge it.

Nevertheless, it was with no small degree of impatience that I looked forward to Mr. Lawrence’s return from Grassdale: impatience that increased in proportion as his absence was prolonged.  He stayed away some ten or twelve days.  All very right that he should remain to comfort and help his sister, but he might have written to tell me how she was, or at least to tell me when to expect his return; for he might have known I was suffering tortures of anxiety for her, and uncertainty for my own future prospects.  And when he did return, all he told me about her was, that she had been greatly exhausted and worn by her unremitting exertions in behalf of that man who had been the scourge of her life, and had dragged her with him nearly to the portals of the grave, and was still much shaken and depressed by his melancholy end and the circumstances attendant upon it; but no word in reference to me; no intimation that my name had ever passed her lips, or even been spoken in her presence.  To be sure, I asked no questions on the subject; I could not bring my mind to do so, believing, as I did, that Lawrence was indeed averse to the idea of my union with his sister.

I saw that he expected to be further questioned concerning his visit, and I saw too, with the keen perception of awakened jealousy, or alarmed self-esteem, or by whatever name I ought to call it, that he rather shrank from that impending scrutiny, and was no less pleased than surprised to find it did not come.  Of course, I was burning with anger, but pride obliged me to suppress my feelings, and preserve a smooth face, or at least a stoic calmness, throughout the interview.  It was well it did, for, reviewing the matter in my sober judgment, I must say it would have been highly absurd and improper to have quarrelled with him on such an occasion.  I must confess, too, that I wronged him in my heart: the truth was, he liked me very well, but he was fully aware that a union between Mrs. Huntingdon and me would be what the world calls a mesalliance; and it was not in his nature to set the world at defiance; especially in such a case as this, for its dread laugh, or ill opinion, would be far more terrible to him directed against his sister than himself.  Had he believed that a union was necessary to the happiness of both, or of either, or had he known how fervently I loved her, he would have acted differently; but seeing me so calm and cool, he would not for the world disturb my philosophy; and though refraining entirely from any active opposition to the match, he would yet do nothing to bring it about, and would much rather take the part of prudence, in aiding us to overcome our mutual predilections, than that of feeling, to encourage them.  ‘And he was in the right of it,’ you will say.  Perhaps he was; at any rate, I had no business to feel so bitterly against him as I did; but I could not then regard the matter in such a moderate light; and, after a brief conversation upon indifferent topics, I went away, suffering all the pangs of wounded pride and injured friendship, in addition to those resulting from the fear that I was indeed forgotten, and the knowledge that she I loved was alone and afflicted, suffering from injured health and dejected spirits, and I was forbidden to console or assist her: forbidden even to assure her of my sympathy, for the transmission of any such message through Mr. Lawrence was now completely out of the question.

But what should I do?  I would wait, and see if she would notice me, which of course she would not, unless by some kind message intrusted to her brother, that, in all probability, he would not deliver, and then, dreadful thought! she would think me cooled and changed for not returning it, or, perhaps, he had already given her to understand that I had ceased to think of her.  I would wait, however, till the six months after our parting were fairly passed (which would be about the close of February), and then I would send her a letter, modestly reminding her of her former permission to write to her at the close of that period, and hoping I might avail myself of it — at least to express my heartfelt sorrow for her late afflictions, my just appreciation of her generous conduct, and my hope that her health was now completely re-established, and that she would, some time, be permitted to enjoy those blessings of a peaceful, happy life, which had been denied her so long, but which none could more truly be said to merit than herself — adding a few words of kind remembrance to my little friend Arthur, with a hope that he had not forgotten me, and perhaps a few more in reference to bygone times, to the delightful hours I had passed in her society, and my unfading recollection of them, which was the salt and solace of my life, and a hope that her recent troubles had not entirely banished me from her mind.  If she did not answer this, of course I should write no more: if she did (as surely she would, in some fashion), my future proceedings should be regulated by her reply.

Ten weeks was long to wait in such a miserable state of uncertainty; but courage! it must be endured! and meantime I would continue to see Lawrence now and then, though not so often as before, and I would still pursue my habitual inquiries after his sister, if he had lately heard from her, and how she was, but nothing more.

I did so, and the answers I received were always provokingly limited to the letter of the inquiry: she was much as usual: she made no complaints, but the tone of her last letter evinced great depression of mind: she said she was better: and, finally, she said she was well, and very busy with her son’s education, and with the management of her late husband’s property, and the regulation of his affairs.  The rascal had never told me how that property was disposed, or whether Mr. Huntingdon had died intestate or not; and I would sooner die than ask him, lest he should misconstrue into covetousness my desire to know.  He never offered to show me his sister’s letters now, and I never hinted a wish to see them.  February, however, was approaching; December was past; January, at length, was almost over — a few more weeks, and then, certain despair or renewal of hope would put an end to this long agony of suspense.

But alas! it was just about that time she was called to sustain another blow in the death of her uncle — a worthless old fellow enough in himself, I daresay, but he had always shown more kindness and affection to her than to any other creature, and she had always been accustomed to regard him as a parent.  She was with him when he died, and had assisted her aunt to nurse him during the last stage of his illness.  Her brother went to Staningley to attend the funeral, and told me, upon his return, that she was still there, endeavouring to cheer her aunt with her presence, and likely to remain some time.  This was bad news for me, for while she continued there I could not write to her, as I did not know the address, and would not ask it of him.  But week followed week, and every time I inquired about her she was still at Staningley.

‘Where is Staningley?’ I asked at last.

‘In — shire,’ was the brief reply; and there was something so cold and dry in the manner of it, that I was effectually deterred from requesting a more definite account.

‘When will she return to Grassdale?’ was my next question.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Confound it!’ I muttered.

‘Why, Markham?’ asked my companion, with an air of innocent surprise.  But I did not deign to answer him, save by a look of silent, sullen contempt, at which he turned away, and contemplated the carpet with a slight smile, half pensive, half amused; but quickly looking up, he began to talk of other subjects, trying to draw me into a cheerful and friendly conversation, but I was too much irritated to discourse with him, and soon took leave.

You see Lawrence and I somehow could not manage to get on very well together.  The fact is, I believe, we were both of us a little too touchy.  It is a troublesome thing, Halford, this susceptibility to affronts where none are intended.  I am no martyr to it now, as you can bear me witness: I have learned to be merry and wise, to be more easy with myself and more indulgent to my neighbours, and I can afford to laugh at both Lawrence and you.

Partly from accident, partly from wilful negligence on my part (for I was really beginning to dislike him), several weeks elapsed before I saw my friend again.  When we did meet, it was he that sought me out.  One bright morning, early in June, he came into the field, where I was just commencing my hay harvest.

‘It is long since I saw you, Markham,’ said he, after the first few words had passed between us.  ‘Do you never mean to come to Woodford again?’

‘I called once, and you were out.’

‘I was sorry, but that was long since; I hoped you would call again, and now I have called, and you were out, which you generally are, or I would do myself the pleasure of calling more frequently; but being determined to see you this time, I have left my pony in the lane, and come over hedge and ditch to join you; for I am about to leave Woodford for a while, and may not have the pleasure of seeing you again for a month or two.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘To Grassdale first,’ said he, with a half-smile he would willingly have suppressed if he could.

‘To Grassdale!  Is she there, then?’

‘Yes, but in a day or two she will leave it to accompany Mrs. Maxwell to F — for the benefit of the sea air, and I shall go with them.’  (F — was at that time a quiet but respectable watering-place: it is considerably more frequented now.)