The Complete Novels of Charlotte Brontë

by Charlotte Bronte

  He scarce their wanderings blam’d;

  If I but falter’d in the way,

  His anger fiercely flam’d.

  Something stirred in an adjoining chamber; it would not do to be surprised eavesdropping; I tapped hastily, And as hastily entered. Frances was just before me; she had been walking slowly in her room, and her step was checked by my advent: Twilight only was with her, and tranquil, ruddy Firelight; to these sisters, the Bright and the Dark, she had been speaking, ere I entered, in poetry. Sir Walter Scott’s voice, to her a foreign, far-off sound, a mountain echo, had uttered itself in the first stanzas; the second, I thought, from the style and the substance, was the language of her own heart. Her face was grave, its expression concentrated; she bent on me an unsmiling eye — an eye just returning from abstraction, just awaking from dreams: well-arranged was her simple attire, smooth her dark hair, orderly her tranquil room; but what — with her thoughtful look, her serious self-reliance, her bent to meditation and haply inspiration — what had she to do with love? “Nothing,” was the answer of her own sad, though gentle countenance; it seemed to say, “I must cultivate fortitude and cling to poetry; one is to be my support and the other my solace through life. Human affections do not bloom, nor do human passions glow for me.” Other women have such thoughts. Frances, had she been as desolate as she deemed, would not have been worse off than thousands of her sex. Look at the rigid and formal race of old maids — the race whom all despise; they have fed themselves, from youth upwards, on maxims of resignation and endurance. Many of them get ossified with the dry diet; self-control is so continually their thought, so perpetually their object, that at last it absorbs the softer and more agreeable qualities of their nature; and they die mere models of austerity, fashioned out of a little parchment and much bone. Anatomists will tell you that there is a heart in the withered old maid’s carcase — the same as in that of any cherished wife or proud mother in the land. Can this be so? I really don’t know; but feel inclined to doubt it.

  I came forward, bade Frances “good evening,” and took my seat. The chair I had chosen was one she had probably just left; it stood by a little table where were her open desk and papers. I know not whether she had fully recognized me at first, but she did so now; and in a voice, soft but quiet, she returned my greeting. I had shown no eagerness; she took her cue from me, and evinced no surprise. We met as me had always met, as master and pupil — nothing more. I proceeded to handle the papers; Frances, observant and serviceable, stepped into an inner room, brought a candle, lit it, placed it by me; then drew the curtain over the lattice, and having added a little fresh fuel to the already bright fire, she drew a second chair to the table and sat down at my right hand, a little removed. The paper on the top was a translation of some grave French author into English, but underneath lay a sheet with stanzas; on this I laid hands. Frances half rose, made a movement to recover the captured spoil, saying, that was nothing — a mere copy of verses. I put by resistance with the decision I knew she never long opposed; but on this occasion her fingers had fastened on the paper. I had quietly to unloose them; their hold dissolved to my touch; her hand shrunk away; my own would fain have followed it, but for the present I forbade such impulse. The first page of the sheet was occupied with the lines I had overheard; the sequel was not exactly the writer’s own experience, but a composition by portions of that experience suggested. Thus while egotism was avoided, the fancy was exercised, and the heart satisfied. I translate as before, and my translation is nearly literal; it continued thus: —

  When sickness stay’d awhile my course,

  He seem’d impatient still,

  Because his pupil’s flagging force

  Could not obey his will.

  One day when summoned to the bed

  Where pain and I did strive,

  I heard him, as he bent his head,

  Say, “God, she must revive!”

  I felt his hand, with gentle stress,

  A moment laid on mine,

  And wished to mark my consciousness

  By some responsive sign.

  But pow’rless then to speak or move,

  I only felt, within,

  The sense of Hope, the strength of Love,

  Their healing work begin.

  And as he from the room withdrew,

  My heart his steps pursued;

  I long’d to prove, by efforts new;

  My speechless gratitude.

  When once again I took my place,

  Long vacant, in the class,

  Th’ unfrequent smile across his face

  Did for one moment pass.

  The lessons done; the signal made

  Of glad release and play,

  He, as he passed, an instant stay’d,

  One kindly word to say.

  “Jane, till tomorrow you are free

  From tedious task and rule;

  This afternoon I must not see

  That yet pale face in school.

  “Seek in the garden-shades a seat,

  Far from the playground din;

  The sun is warm, the air is sweet:

  Stay till I call you in.”

  A long and pleasant afternoon

  I passed in those green bowers;

  All silent, tranquil, and alone

  With birds, and bees, and flowers.

  Yet, when my master’s voice I heard

  Call, from the window, “Jane!”

  I entered, joyful, at the word,

  The busy house again.

  He, in the hall, paced up and down;

  He paused as I passed by;

  His forehead stern relaxed its frown:

  He raised his deep-set eye.

  “Not quite so pale,” he murmured low.

  “Now Jane, go rest awhile.”

  And as I smiled, his smoothened brow

  Returned as glad a smile.

  My perfect health restored, he took

  His mien austere again;

  And, as before, he would not brook

  The slightest fault from Jane.

  The longest task, the hardest theme

  Fell to my share as erst,

  And still I toiled to place my name

  In every study first.

  He yet begrudged and stinted praise,

  But I had learnt to read

  The secret meaning of his face,

  And that was my best meed.

  Even when his hasty temper spoke

  In tones that sorrow stirred,

  My grief was lulled as soon as woke

  By some relenting word.

  And when he lent some precious book,

  Or gave some fragrant flower,

  I did not quail to Envy’s look,

  Upheld by Pleasure’s power.

  At last our school ranks took their ground,

  The hard-fought field I won;

  The prize, a laurel-wreath, was bound

  My throbbing forehead on.

  Low at my master’s knee I bent,

  The offered crown to meet;

  Its green leaves through my temples sent

  A thrill as wild as sweet.

  The strong pulse of Ambition struck

  In every vein I owned;

  At the same instant, bleeding broke

  A secret, inward wound.

  The hour of triumph was to me

  The hour of sorrow sore;

  A day hence I must cross the sea,

  Ne’er to recross it more.

  An hour hence, in my master’s room

  I with him sat alone,

  And told him what a dreary gloom

  O’er joy had parting thrown.

  He little said; the time was brief,

  The ship was soon to sail,

  And while I sobbed in bitter grief,

  My master but looked pale.

  They called in haste; he bade me go,

  Then snatched me back again;

  He held me fast and murmured low,
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  “Why will they part us, Jane?”

  “Were you not happy in my care?

  Did I not faithful prove?

  Will others to my darling bear

  As true, as deep a love?

  “O God, watch o’er my foster child!

  O guard her gentle head!

  When minds are high and tempests wild

  Protection round her spread!

  “They call again; leave then my breast;

  Quit thy true shelter, Jane;

  But when deceived, repulsed, opprest,

  Come home to me again!”

  I read — then dreamily made marks on the margin with my pencil; thinking all the while of other things; thinking that “Jane” was now at my side; no child, but a girl of nineteen; and she might be mine, so my heart affirmed; Poverty’s curse was taken off me; Envy and Jealousy were far away, and unapprized of this our quiet meeting; the frost of the Master’s manner might melt; I felt the thaw coming fast, whether I would or not; no further need for the eye to practise a hard look, for the brow to compress its expense into a stern fold: it was now permitted to suffer the outward revelation of the inward glow — to seek, demand, elicit an answering ardour. While musing thus, I thought that the grass on Hermon never drank the fresh dews of sunset more gratefully than my feelings drank the bliss of this hour.

  Frances rose, as if restless; she passed before me to stir the fire, which did not want stirring; she lifted and put down the little ornaments on the mantelpiece; her dress waved within a yard of me; slight, straight, and elegant, she stood erect on the hearth.

  There are impulses we can control; but there are others which control us, because they attain us with a tiger-leap, and are our masters ere we have seen them. Perhaps, though, such impulses are seldom altogether bad; perhaps Reason, by a process as brief as quiet, a process that is finished ere felt, has ascertained the sanity of the deed Instinct meditates, and feels justified in remaining passive while it is performed. I know I did not reason, I did not plan or intend, yet, whereas one moment I was sitting solus on the chair near the table, the next, I held Frances on my knee, placed there with sharpness and decision, and retained with exceeding tenacity.

  “Monsieur!” cried Frances, and was still: not another word escaped her lips; sorely confounded she seemed during the lapse of the first few moments; but the amazement soon subsided; terror did not succeed, nor fury: after all, she was only a little nearer than she had ever been before, to one she habitually respected and trusted; embarrassment might have impelled her to contend, but self-respect checked resistance where resistance was useless.

  “Frances, how much regard have you for me?” was my demand. No answer; the situation was yet too new and surprising to permit speech. On this consideration, I compelled myself for some seconds to tolerate her silence, though impatient of it: presently, I repeated the same question — probably, not in the calmest of tones; she looked at me; my face, doubtless, was no model of composure, my eyes no still wells of tranquillity.

  “Do speak,” I urged; and a very low, hurried, yet still arch voice said —

  “Monsieur, vous me faites mal; de grace lachez un peu ma main droite.”

  In truth I became aware that I was holding the said “main droite” in a somewhat ruthless grasp: I did as desired; and, for the third time, asked more gently —

  “Frances, how much regard have you for me?”

  “Mon maitre, j’en ai beaucoup,” was the truthful rejoinder.

  “Frances, have you enough to give yourself to me as my wife? — to accept me as your husband?”

  I felt the agitation of the heart, I saw “the purple light of love” cast its glowing reflection on cheeks, temples, neck; I desired to consult the eye, but sheltering lash and lid forbade.

  “Monsieur,” said the soft voice at last, — “Monsieur desire savoir si je consens — si — enfin, si je veux me marier avec lui?”

  “Justement.”

  “Monsieur sera-t-il aussi bon mari qu’il a ete bon maitre?”

  “I will try, Frances.”

  A pause; then with a new, yet still subdued inflexion of the voice — an inflexion which provoked while it pleased me — accompanied, too, by a “sourire a la fois fin et timide” in perfect harmony with the tone: —

  “C’est a dire, monsieur sera toujours un peu entete exigeant, volontaire — ?”

  “Have I been so, Frances?”

  “Mais oui; vous le savez bien.”

  “Have I been nothing else?”

  “Mais oui; vons avez ete mon meilleur ami.”

  “And what, Frances, are you to me?”

  “Votre devouee eleve, qui vous aime de tout son coeur.”

  “Will my pupil consent to pass her life with me? Speak English now, Frances.”

  Some moments were taken for reflection; the answer, pronounced slowly, ran thus: —

  “You have always made me happy; I like to hear you speak; I like to see you; I like to be near you; I believe you are very good, and very superior; I know you are stern to those who are careless and idle, but you are kind, very kind to the attentive and industrious, even if they are not clever. Master, I should be GLAD to live with you always;” and she made a sort of movement, as if she would have clung to me, but restraining herself she only added with earnest emphasis — “Master, I consent to pass my life with you.”

  “Very well, Frances.”

  I drew her a little nearer to my heart; I took a first kiss from her lips, thereby sealing the compact, now framed between us; afterwards she and I were silent, nor was our silence brief. Frances’ thoughts, during this interval, I know not, nor did I attempt to guess them; I was not occupied in searching her countenance, nor in otherwise troubling her composure. The peace I felt, I wished her to feel; my arm, it is true, still detained her; but with a restraint that was gentle enough, so long as no opposition tightened it. My gaze was on the red fire; my heart was measuring its own content; it sounded and sounded, and found the depth fathomless.

  “Monsieur,” at last said my quiet companion, as stirless in her happiness as a mouse in its terror. Even now in speaking she scarcely lifted her head.

  “Well, Frances?” I like unexaggerated intercourse; it is not my way to overpower with amorous epithets, any more than to worry with selfishly importunate caresses.

  “Monsieur est raisonnable, n’eut-ce pas?”

  “Yes; especially when I am requested to be so in English: but why do you ask me? You see nothing vehement or obtrusive in my manner; am I not tranquil enough?”

  “Ce n’est pas cela — “ began Frances.

  “English!” I reminded her.

  “Well, monsieur, I wished merely to say, that I should like, of course, to retain my employment of teaching. You will teach still, I suppose, monsieur?”

  “Oh, yes! It is all I have to depend on.”

  “Bon! — I mean good. Thus we shall have both the same profession. I like that; and my efforts to get on will be as unrestrained as yours — will they not, monsieur?”

  “You are laying plans to be independent of me,” said I.

  “Yes, monsieur; I must be no incumbrance to you — no burden in any way.”

  “But, Frances, I have not yet told you what my prospects are. I have left M. Pelet’s; and after nearly a month’s seeking, I have got another place, with a salary of three thousand francs a year, which I can easily double by a little additional exertion. Thus you see it would be useless for you to fag yourself by going out to give lessons; on six thousand francs you and I can live, and live well.”

  Frances seemed to consider. There is something flattering to man’s strength, something consonant to his honourable pride, in the idea of becoming the providence of what he loves — feeding and clothing it, as God does the lilies of the field. So, to decide her resolution, I went on: —