Delphi Complete Works of the Brontes Charlotte, Emily, Anne Brontë (Illustrated) (460 page)

About this time she forgot to return a work-bag she had borrowed, by a messenger, and in repairing her error she says: — “These aberrations of memory warn me pretty intelligibly that I am getting past my prime.”  AEtat 21!  And the same tone of despondency runs through the following letter: —

“I wish exceedingly that I could come to you before Christmas, but it is impossible; another three weeks must elapse before I shall again have my comforter beside me, under the roof of my own dear quiet home.  If I could always live with you, and daily read the Bible with you — if your lips and mine could at the same time drink the same draught, from the same pure fountain of mercy — I hope, I trust, I might one day become better, far better than my evil, wandering thoughts, my corrupt heart, cold to the spirit and warm to the flesh, will now permit me to be.  I often plan the pleasant life which we might lead together, strengthening each other in that power of self-denial, that hallowed and glowing devotion, which the first saints of God often attained to.  My eyes fill with tears when I contrast the bliss of such a state, brightened by hopes of the future, with the melancholy state I now live in, uncertain that I ever felt true contrition, wandering in thought and deed, longing for holiness, which I shall
never
,
never
obtain, smitten at times to the heart with the conviction that ghastly Calvinistic doctrines are true — darkened, in short, by the very shadows of spiritual death.  If Christian perfection be necessary to salvation, I shall never be saved; my heart is a very hotbed for sinful thoughts, and when I decide on an action I scarcely remember to look to my Redeemer for direction.  I know not how to pray; I cannot bend my life to the grand end of doing good; I go on constantly seeking my own pleasure, pursuing the gratification of my own desires.  I forget God, and will not God forget me?  And, meantime, I know the greatness of Jehovah; I acknowledge the perfection of His word; I adore the purity of the Christian faith; my theory is right, my practice horribly wrong.”

The Christmas holidays came, and she and Anne returned to the parsonage, and to that happy home circle in which alone their natures expanded; amongst all other people they shrivelled up more or less.  Indeed, there were only one or two strangers who could be admitted among the sisters without producing the same result.  Emily and Anne were bound up in their lives and interests like twins.  The former from reserve, the latter from timidity, avoided all friendships and intimacies beyond their family.  Emily was impervious to influence; she never came in contact with public opinion, and her own decision of what was right and fitting was a law for her conduct and appearance, with which she allowed no one to interfere.  Her love was poured out on Anne, as Charlotte’s was on her.  But the affection among all the three was stronger than either death or life.

“E.” was eagerly welcomed by Charlotte, freely admitted by Emily, and kindly received by Anne, whenever she could visit them; and this Christmas she had promised to do so, but her coming had to be delayed on account of a little domestic accident detailed in the following letter: —

“Dec. 29, 1837.

“I am sure you will have thought me very remiss in not sending my promised letter long before now; but I have a sufficient and very melancholy excuse in an accident that befell our old faithful Tabby, a few days after my return home.  She was gone out into the village on some errand, when, as she was descending the steep street, her foot slipped on the ice, and she fell; it was dark, and no one saw her mischance, till after a time her groans attracted the attention of a passer-by.  She was lifted up and carried into the druggist’s near; and, after the examination, it was discovered that she had completely shattered and dislocated one leg.  Unfortunately, the fracture could not be set till six o’clock the next morning, as no surgeon was to be had before that time, and she now lies at our house in a very doubtful and dangerous state.  Of course we are all exceedingly distressed at the circumstance, for she was like one of our own family.  Since the event we have been almost without assistance — a person has dropped in now and then to do the drudgery, but we have as yet been able to procure no regular servant; and consequently, the whole work of the house, as well as the additional duty of nursing Tabby, falls on ourselves.  Under these circumstances I dare not press your visit here, at least until she is pronounced out of danger; it would be too selfish of me.  Aunt wished me to give you this information before, but papa and all the rest were anxious I should delay until we saw whether matters took a more settled aspect, and I myself kept putting it off from day to day, most bitterly reluctant to give up all the pleasure I had anticipated so long.  However, remembering what you told me, namely, that you had commended the matter to a higher decision than ours, and that you were resolved to submit with resignation to that decision, whatever it might be, I hold it my duty to yield also, and to be silent; it may be all for the best.  I fear, if you had been here during this severe weather, your visit would have been of no advantage to you, for the moors are blockaded with snow, and you would never have been able to get out.  After this disappointment, I never dare reckon with certainty on the enjoyment of a pleasure again; it seems as if some fatality stood between you and me.  I am not good enough for you, and you must be kept from the contamination of too intimate society.  I would urge your visit yet — I would entreat and press it — but the thought comes across me, should Tabby die while you are in the house, I should never forgive myself.  No! it must not be, and in a thousand ways the consciousness of that mortifies and disappoints me most keenly, and I am not the only one who is disappointed.  All in the house were looking to your visit with eagerness.  Papa says he highly approves of my friendship with you, and he wishes me to continue it through life.”

A good neighbour of the Brontës — a clever, intelligent Yorkshire woman, who keeps a druggist’s shop in Haworth, and from her occupation, her experience, and excellent sense, holds the position of village doctress and nurse, and, as such, has been a friend, in many a time of trial, and sickness, and death, in the households round — told me a characteristic little incident connected with Tabby’s fractured leg.  Mr. Brontë is truly generous and regardful of all deserving claims.  Tabby had lived with them for ten or twelve years, and was, as Charlotte expressed it, “one of the family.”  But on the other hand, she was past the age for any very active service, being nearer seventy than sixty at the time of the accident; she had a sister living in the village; and the savings she had accumulated, during many years’ service, formed a competency for one in her rank of life.  Or if, in this time of sickness, she fell short of any comforts which her state rendered necessary, the parsonage could supply them.  So reasoned Miss Branwell, the prudent, not to say anxious aunt; looking to the limited contents of Mr. Brontë’s purse, and the unprovided-for-future of her nieces; who were, moreover, losing the relaxation of the holidays, in close attendance upon Tabby.

Miss Branwell urged her views upon Mr. Brontë as soon as the immediate danger to the old servant’s life was over.  He refused at first to listen to the careful advice; it was repugnant to his liberal nature.  But Miss Branwell persevered; urged economical motives; pressed on his love for his daughters.  He gave way.  Tabby was to be removed to her sister’s, and there nursed and cared for, Mr. Brontë coming in with his aid when her own resources fell short.  This decision was communicated to the girls.  There were symptoms of a quiet, but sturdy rebellion, that winter afternoon, in the small precincts of Haworth parsonage.  They made one unanimous and stiff remonstrance.  Tabby had tended them in their childhood; they, and none other, should tend her in her infirmity and age.  At tea-time, they were sad and silent, and the meal went away untouched by any of the three.  So it was at breakfast; they did not waste many words on the subject, but each word they did utter was weighty.  They “struck” eating till the resolution was rescinded, and Tabby was allowed to remain a helpless invalid entirely dependent upon them.  Herein was the strong feeling of Duty being paramount to pleasure, which lay at the foundation of Charlotte’s character, made most apparent; for we have seen how she yearned for her friend’s company; but it was to be obtained only by shrinking from what she esteemed right, and that she never did, whatever might be the sacrifice.

She had another weight on her mind this Christmas.  I have said that the air of Dewsbury Moor did not agree with her, though she herself was hardly aware how much her life there was affecting her health.  But Anne had begun to suffer just before the holidays, and Charlotte watched over her younger sisters with the jealous vigilance of some wild creature, that changes her very nature if danger threatens her young.  Anne had a slight cough, a pain at her side, a difficulty of breathing.  Miss W — - considered it as little more than a common cold; but Charlotte felt every indication of incipient consumption as a stab at her heart, remembering Maria and Elizabeth, whose places once knew them, and should know them no more.

Stung by anxiety for this little sister, she upbraided Miss W — - for her fancied indifference to Anne’s state of health.  Miss W — - felt these reproaches keenly, and wrote to Mr. Brontë about them.  He immediately replied most kindly, expressing his fear that Charlotte’s apprehensions and anxieties respecting her sister had led her to give utterance to over-excited expressions of alarm.  Through Miss W — -’s kind consideration, Anne was a year longer at school than her friends intended.  At the close of the half-year Miss W — - sought for the opportunity of an explanation of each other’s words, and the issue proved that “the falling out of faithful friends, renewing is of love.”  And so ended the first, last, and only difference Charlotte ever had with good, kind Miss W — -.

Still her heart had received a shock in the perception of Anne’s delicacy; and all these holidays she watched over her with the longing, fond anxiety, which is so full of sudden pangs of fear.

Emily had given up her situation in the Halifax school, at the expiration of six months of arduous trial, on account of her health, which could only be re-established by the bracing moorland air and free life of home.  Tabby’s illness had preyed on the family resources.  I doubt whether Branwell was maintaining himself at this time.  For some unexplained reason, he had given up the idea of becoming a student of painting at the Royal Academy, and his prospects in life were uncertain, and had yet to be settled.  So Charlotte had quietly to take up her burden of teaching again, and return to her previous monotonous life.

Brave heart, ready to die in harness!  She went back to her work, and made no complaint, hoping to subdue the weakness that was gaining ground upon her.  About this time, she would turn sick and trembling at any sudden noise, and could hardly repress her screams when startled.  This showed a fearful degree of physical weakness in one who was generally so self-controlled; and the medical man, whom at length, through Miss W — -’s entreaty, she was led to consult, insisted on her return to the parsonage.  She had led too sedentary a life, he said; and the soft summer air, blowing round her home, the sweet company of those she loved, the release, the freedom of life in her own family, were needed, to save either reason or life.  So, as One higher than she had over-ruled that for a time she might relax her strain, she returned to Haworth; and after a season of utter quiet, her father sought for her the enlivening society of her two friends, Mary and Martha T.  At the conclusion of the following letter, written to the then absent E., there is, I think, as pretty a glimpse of a merry group of young people as need be; and like all descriptions of doing, as distinct from thinking or feeling, in letters, it saddens one in proportion to the vivacity of the picture of what was once, and is now utterly swept away.

“Haworth, June 9, 1838.

“I received your packet of despatches on Wednesday; it was brought me by Mary and Martha, who have been staying at Haworth for a few days; they leave us to-day.  You will be surprised at the date of this letter.  I ought to be at Dewsbury Moor, you know; but I stayed as long as I was able, and at length I neither could nor dared stay any longer.  My health and spirits had utterly failed me, and the medical man whom I consulted enjoined me, as I valued my life, to go home.  So home I went, and the change has at once roused and soothed me; and I am now, I trust, fairly in the way to be myself again.

“A calm and even mind like yours cannot conceive the feelings of the shattered wretch who is now writing to you, when, after weeks of mental and bodily anguish not to be described, something like peace began to dawn again.  Mary is far from well.  She breathes short, has a pain in her chest, and frequent flushings of fever.  I cannot tell you what agony these symptoms give me; they remind me too strongly of my two sisters, whom no power of medicine could save.  Martha is now very well; she has kept in a continual flow of good humour during her stay here, and has consequently been very fascinating . . . ”

“They are making such a noise about me I cannot write any more.  Mary is playing on the piano; Martha is chattering as fast as her little tongue can run; and Branwell is standing before her, laughing at her vivacity.”

Charlotte grew much stronger in this quiet, happy period at home.  She paid occasional visits to her two great friends, and they in return came to Haworth.  At one of their houses, I suspect, she met with the person to whom the following letter refers — some one having a slight resemblance to the character of “St. John,” in the last volume of “Jane Eyre,” and, like him, in holy orders.