Some agitated movement occasioned a twitch of the silken chain. The sleeper started and woke. Her thoughts were usually now somewhat scattered on waking, her look generally wandering. Half rising, as if in terror, she exclaimed, “Don’t take it from me, Robert! Don’t! It is my last comfort; let me keep it. I never tell any one whose hair it is; I never show it.”
Mrs. Pryor had already disappeared behind the curtain. Reclining far back in a deep arm-chair by the bedside, she was withdrawn from view. Caroline looked abroad into the chamber; she thought it empty. As her stray ideas returned slowly, each folding its weak wings on the mind’s sad shore, like birds exhausted, beholding void, and perceiving silence round her, she believed herself alone. Collected she was not yet; perhaps healthy self-possession and self-control were to be hers no more; perhaps that world the strong and prosperous live in had already rolled from beneath her feet for ever. So, at least, it often seemed to herself. In health she had never been accustomed to think aloud, but now words escaped her lips unawares.
“Oh, I should see him once more before all is over! Heaven might favour me thus far!” she cried. “God grant me a little comfort before I die!” was her humble petition.
“But he will not know I am ill till I am gone, and he will come when they have laid me out, and I am senseless, cold, and stiff.
“What can my departed soul feel then? Can it see or know what happens to the clay? Can spirits, through any medium, communicate with living flesh? Can the dead at all revisit those they leave? Can they come in the elements? Will wind, water, fire, lend me a path to Moore?
“Is it for nothing the wind sounds almost articulately sometimes — sings as I have lately heard it sing at night — or passes the casement sobbing, as if for sorrow to come? Does nothing, then, haunt it, nothing inspire it?
“Why, it suggested to me words one night; it poured a strain which I could have written down, only I was appalled, and dared not rise to seek pencil and paper by the dim watch-light.
“What is that electricity they speak of, whose changes make us well or ill, whose lack or excess blasts, whose even balance revives? What are all those influences that are about us in the atmosphere, that keep playing over our nerves like fingers on stringed instruments, and call forth now a sweet note, and now a wail — now an exultant swell, and anon the saddest cadence?
“Where is the other world? In what will another life consist? Why do I ask? Have I not cause to think that the hour is hasting but too fast when the veil must be rent for me? Do I not know the Grand Mystery is likely to burst prematurely on me? Great Spirit, in whose goodness I confide, whom, as my Father, I have petitioned night and morning from early infancy, help the weak creation of Thy hands! Sustain me through the ordeal I dread and must undergo! Give me strength! Give me patience! Give me — oh, give me faith!”
She fell back on her pillow. Mrs. Pryor found means to steal quietly from the room. She re-entered it soon after, apparently as composed as if she had really not overheard this strange soliloquy.
The next day several callers came. It had become known that Miss Helstone was worse. Mr. Hall and his sister Margaret arrived. Both, after they had been in the sickroom, quitted it in tears; they had found the patient more altered than they expected. Hortense Moore came. Caroline seemed stimulated by her presence. She assured her, smiling, she was not dangerously ill; she talked to her in a low voice, but cheerfully. During her stay, excitement kept up the flush of her complexion; she looked better.
“How is Mr. Robert?” asked Mrs. Pryor, as Hortense was preparing to take leave.
“He was very well when he left.”
“Left! Is he gone from home?”
It was then explained that some police intelligence about the rioters of whom he was in pursuit had, that morning, called him away to Birmingham, and probably a fortnight might elapse ere he returned.
“He is not aware that Miss Helstone is very ill?”
“Oh no! He thought, like me, that she had only a bad cold.”
After this visit, Mrs. Pryor took care not to approach Caroline’s couch for above an hour. She heard her weep, and dared not look on her tears.
As evening closed in, she brought her some tea. Caroline, opening her eyes from a moment’s slumber, viewed her nurse with an unrecognizing glance.
“I smelt the honeysuckles in the glen this summer morning,” she said, “as I stood at the counting-house window.”
Strange words like these from pallid lips pierce a loving listener’s heart more poignantly than steel. They sound romantic, perhaps, in books; in real life they are harrowing.
“My darling, do you know me?” said Mrs. Pryor.
“I went in to call Robert to breakfast. I have been with him in the garden. He asked me to go. A heavy dew has refreshed the flowers. The peaches are ripening.”
“My darling! my darling!” again and again repeated the nurse.
“I thought it was daylight — long after sunrise. It looks dark. Is the moon now set?”
That moon, lately risen, was gazing full and mild upon her. Floating in deep blue space, it watched her unclouded.
“Then it is not morning? I am not at the cottage? Who is this? I see a shape at my bedside.”
“It is myself — it is your friend — your nurse — your — — Lean your head on my shoulder. Collect yourself.” In a lower tone — “O God, take pity! Give her life, and me strength! Send me courage! Teach me words!”
Some minutes passed in silence. The patient lay mute and passive in the trembling arms, on the throbbing bosom of the nurse.
“I am better now,” whispered Caroline at last, “much better. I feel where I am. This is Mrs. Pryor near me. I was dreaming. I talk when I wake up from dreams; people often do in illness. How fast your heart beats, ma’am! Do not be afraid.”
“It is not fear, child — only a little anxiety, which will pass. I have brought you some tea, Cary. Your uncle made it himself. You know he says he can make a better cup of tea than any housewife can. Taste it. He is concerned to hear that you eat so little; he would be glad if you had a better appetite.”
“I am thirsty. Let me drink.”
She drank eagerly.
“What o’clock is it, ma’am?” she asked.
“Past nine.”
“Not later? Oh! I have yet a long night before me. But the tea has made me strong. I will sit up.”
Mrs. Pryor raised her, and arranged her pillows.
“Thank Heaven! I am not always equally miserable, and ill, and hopeless. The afternoon has been bad since Hortense went; perhaps the evening may be better. It is a fine night, I think? The moon shines clear.”
“Very fine — a perfect summer night. The old church-tower gleams white almost as silver.”
“And does the churchyard look peaceful?”
“Yes, and the garden also. Dew glistens on the foliage.”
“Can you see many long weeds and nettles amongst the graves? or do they look turfy and flowery?”
“I see closed daisy-heads gleaming like pearls on some mounds. Thomas has mown down the dock-leaves and rank grass, and cleared all away.”
“I always like that to be done; it soothes one’s mind to see the place in order. And, I dare say, within the church just now that moonlight shines as softly as in my room. It will fall through the east window full on the Helstone monument. When I close my eyes I seem to see poor papa’s epitaph in black letters on the white marble. There is plenty of room for other inscriptions underneath.”
“William Farren came to look after your flowers this morning. He was afraid, now you cannot tend them yourself, they would be neglected. He has taken two of your favourite plants home to nurse for you.”
“If I were to make a will, I would leave William all my plants; Shirley my trinkets — except one, which must not be taken off my neck; and you, ma’am, my books.” After a pause — “Mrs. Pryor, I feel a longing wish for something.”
“For what, Caroline?”
&
nbsp; “You know I always delight to hear you sing. Sing me a hymn just now. Sing that hymn which begins, —
‘Our God, our help in ages past,
Our hope for years to come,
Our shelter from the stormy blast,
Our refuge, haven, home!’”
Mrs. Pryor at once complied.
No wonder Caroline liked to hear her sing. Her voice, even in speaking, was sweet and silver clear; in song it was almost divine. Neither flute nor dulcimer has tones so pure. But the tone was secondary, compared to the expression which trembled through — a tender vibration from a feeling heart.
The servants in the kitchen, hearing the strain, stole to the stair-foot to listen. Even old Helstone, as he walked in the garden, pondering over the unaccountable and feeble nature of women, stood still amongst his borders to catch the mournful melody more distinctly. Why it reminded him of his forgotten dead wife, he could not tell; nor why it made him more concerned than he had hitherto been for Caroline’s fading girlhood. He was glad to recollect that he had promised to pay Wynne, the magistrate, a visit that evening. Low spirits and gloomy thoughts were very much his aversion. When they attacked him he usually found means to make them march in double-quick time. The hymn followed him faintly as he crossed the fields. He hastened his customary sharp pace, that he might get beyond its reach.
“Thy word commands our flesh to dust, —
‘Return, ye sons of men;’
All nations rose from earth at first,
And turn to earth again.
“A thousand ages in Thy sight
Are like an evening gone —
Short as the watch that ends the night
Before the rising sun.
“Time, like an ever-rolling stream,
Bears all its sons away;
They fly, forgotten, as a dream
Dies at the opening day.
“Like flowery fields, the nations stand,
Fresh in the morning light;
The flowers beneath the mower’s hand
Lie withering ere ‘tis night.
“Our God, our help in ages past,
Our hope for years to come,
Be Thou our guard while troubles last —
O Father, be our home!”
“Now sing a song — a Scottish song,” suggested Caroline, when the hymn was over — “‘Ye banks and braes o’ bonnie Doon.’”
Again Mrs. Pryor obeyed, or essayed to obey. At the close of the first stanza she stopped. She could get no further. Her full heart flowed over.
“You are weeping at the pathos of the air. Come here, and I will comfort you,” said Caroline, in a pitying accent. Mrs. Pryor came. She sat down on the edge of her patient’s bed, and allowed the wasted arms to encircle her.
“You often soothe me; let me soothe you,” murmured the young girl, kissing her cheek. “I hope,” she added, “it is not for me you weep?”
No answer followed.
“Do you think I shall not get better? I do not feel very ill — only weak.”
“But your mind, Caroline — your mind is crushed. Your heart is almost broken; you have been so neglected, so repulsed, left so desolate.”
“I believe grief is, and always has been, my worst ailment. I sometimes think if an abundant gush of happiness came on me I could revive yet.”
“Do you wish to live?”
“I have no object in life.”
“You love me, Caroline?”
“Very much — very truly — inexpressibly sometimes. Just now I feel as if I could almost grow to your heart.”
“I will return directly, dear,” remarked Mrs. Pryor, as she laid Caroline down.
Quitting her, she glided to the door, softly turned the key in the lock, ascertained that it was fast, and came back. She bent over her. She threw back the curtain to admit the moonlight more freely. She gazed intently on her face.
“Then, if you love me,” said she, speaking quickly, with an altered voice; “if you feel as if, to use your own words, you could ‘grow to my heart,’ it will be neither shock nor pain for you to know that that heart is the source whence yours was filled; that from my veins issued the tide which flows in yours; that you are mine — my daughter — my own child.”
“Mrs. Pryor — — “
“My own child!”
“That is — that means — you have adopted me?”
“It means that, if I have given you nothing else, I at least gave you life; that I bore you, nursed you; that I am your true mother. No other woman can claim the title; it is mine.”
“But Mrs. James Helstone — but my father’s wife, whom I do not remember ever to have seen, she is my mother?”
“She is your mother. James Helstone was my husband. I say you are mine. I have proved it. I thought perhaps you were all his, which would have been a cruel dispensation for me. I find it is not so. God permitted me to be the parent of my child’s mind. It belongs to me; it is my property — my right. These features are James’s own. He had a fine face when he was young, and not altered by error. Papa, my darling, gave you your blue eyes and soft brown hair; he gave you the oval of your face and the regularity of your lineaments — the outside he conferred; but the heart and the brain are mine. The germs are from me, and they are improved, they are developed to excellence. I esteem and approve my child as highly as I do most fondly love her.”
“Is what I hear true? Is it no dream?”
“I wish it were as true that the substance and colour of health were restored to your cheek.”
“My own mother! is she one I can be so fond of as I can of you? People generally did not like her — so I have been given to understand.”
“They told you that? Well, your mother now tells you that, not having the gift to please people generally, for their approbation she does not care. Her thoughts are centred in her child. Does that child welcome or reject her?”
“But if you are my mother, the world is all changed to me. Surely I can live. I should like to recover — — “
“You must recover. You drew life and strength from my breast when you were a tiny, fair infant, over whose blue eyes I used to weep, fearing I beheld in your very beauty the sign of qualities that had entered my heart like iron, and pierced through my soul like a sword. Daughter! we have been long parted; I return now to cherish you again.”
She held her to her bosom; she cradled her in her arms; she rocked her softly, as if lulling a young child to sleep.
“My mother — my own mother!”
The offspring nestled to the parent; that parent, feeling the endearment and hearing the appeal, gathered her closer still. She covered her with noiseless kisses; she murmured love over her, like a cushat fostering its young.
There was silence in the room for a long while.
“Does my uncle know?”
“Your uncle knows. I told him when I first came to stay with you here.”
“Did you recognize me when we first met at Fieldhead?”
“How could it be otherwise? Mr. and Miss Helstone being announced, I was prepared to see my child.”
“It was that, then, which moved you. I saw you disturbed.”
“You saw nothing, Caroline; I can cover my feelings. You can never tell what an age of strange sensation I lived, during the two minutes that elapsed between the report of your name and your entrance. You can never tell how your look, mien, carriage, shook me.”
“Why? Were you disappointed?”
“What will she be like? I had asked myself; and when I saw what you were like, I could have dropped.”
“Mamma, why?”
“I trembled in your presence. I said, I will never own her; she shall never know me.”
“But I said and did nothing remarkable. I felt a little diffident at the thought of an introduction to strangers — that was all.”
“I soon saw you were diffident. That was the first thing which reassured me. Had you been rustic, clownish, awkward, I should have been conten
t.”
“You puzzle me.”
“I had reason to dread a fair outside, to mistrust a popular bearing, to shudder before distinction, grace, and courtesy. Beauty and affability had come in my way when I was recluse, desolate, young, and ignorant — a toil-worn governess perishing of uncheered labour, breaking down before her time. These, Caroline, when they smiled on me, I mistook for angels. I followed them home; and when into their hands I had given without reserve my whole chance of future happiness, it was my lot to witness a transfiguration on the domestic hearth — to see the white mask lifted, the bright disguise put away, and opposite me sat down — — O God, I have suffered!”
She sank on the pillow.
“I have suffered! None saw — none knew. There was no sympathy, no redemption, no redress!”
“Take comfort, mother. It is over now.”
“It is over, and not fruitlessly. I tried to keep the word of His patience. He kept me in the days of my anguish. I was afraid with terror — I was troubled. Through great tribulation He brought me through to a salvation revealed in this last time. My fear had torment; He has cast it out. He has given me in its stead perfect love. But, Caroline — — “
Thus she invoked her daughter after a pause.
“Mother!”
“I charge you, when you next look on your father’s monument, to respect the name chiselled there. To you he did only good. On you he conferred his whole treasure of beauties, nor added to them one dark defect. All you derived from him is excellent. You owe him gratitude. Leave, between him and me, the settlement of our mutual account. Meddle not. God is the arbiter. This world’s laws never came near us — never! They were powerless as a rotten bulrush to protect me — impotent as idiot babblings to restrain him! As you said, it is all over now; the grave lies between us. There he sleeps, in that church. To his dust I say this night, what I have never said before, ‘James, slumber peacefully! See! your terrible debt is cancelled! Look! I wipe out the long, black account with my own hand! James, your child atones. This living likeness of you — this thing with your perfect features — this one good gift you gave me has nestled affectionately to my heart, and tenderly called me “mother.” Husband, rest forgiven!’”
Delphi Complete Works of the Brontes Page 100