by Brontë, Anne
But still, I was curious to know what sort of an explanation she would have given me, – or would give now, if I pressed her for it – how much she would confess, and how she would endeavour to excuse herself. I longed to know what to despise, and what to admire in her, how much to pity, and how much to hate; – and, what was more, I would know. I would see her once more, and fairly satisfy myself in what light to regard her, before we parted. Lost to me she was, for ever, of course; but still, I could not bear to think that we had parted, for the last time, with so much unkindness and misery on both sides. That last look of hers had sunk into my heart-, I could not forget it – But what a fool I was! – Had she not deceived me, injured me – blighted my happiness for life? ‘Well I’ll see her, however,’ was my concluding resolve, – ‘but not today: today and tonight, she may think upon her sins, and be as miserable as she will: tomorrow, I will see her once again, and know something more about her. The interview may be serviceable to her, or it may not. – At any rate, it will give a breath of excitement to the life she has doomed to stagnation, and may calm with certainty some agitating thoughts.’
I did go on the morrow; but not till towards evening, after the business of the day was concluded, that is between six and seven; and the westering sun was gleaming redly on the old hall, and flaming in the latticed windows, as I reached it, imparting to the place a cheerfulness not its own. I need not dilate upon the feelings with which I approached the shrine of my former divinity – that spot teeming with a thousand delightful recollections and glorious dreams – all darkened now, by one disastrous truth.
Rachel admitted me into the parlour, and went to call her mistress, for she was not there; but there was her desk left open on the little round table beside the high-backed chair, with a book laid upon it. Her limited but choice collection of books was almost as familiar to me as my own; but this volume I had not seen before. I took it up. It was Sir Humphrey Davy’s ‘Last days of a Philosopher,’3 and on the first leaf was written, – ‘Frederick Lawrence.’ I closed the book, but kept it in my hand, and stood facing the door, with my back to the fireplace, calmly waiting her arrival; for I did not doubt she would come. And soon I heard her step in the hall. My heart was beginning to throb, but I checked it with an internal rebuke, and maintained my composure – outwardly, at least She entered, calm, pale, collected.
‘To what am I indebted for this favour, Mr Markham?’ said she, with such severe but quiet dignity as almost disconcerted me; but I answered with a smile, and impudently enough: –
‘Well, I am come to hear your explanation.’
‘I told you I would not give it,’ said she. ‘I said you were unworthy of my confidence.’
‘Oh, very well,’ replied I, moving to the door.
‘Stay a moment,’ said she. ‘This is the last time I shall see you: don’t go just yet’
I remained, awaiting her further commands.
‘Tell me,’ resumed she, ‘on what grounds you believe these things against me; who told you; and what did they say?’
I paused a moment. She met my eye as unflinchingly as if her bosom had been steeled with conscious innocence. She was resolved to know the worst, and determined to dare it too.
‘I can crush that bold spirit,’ thought I. But while I secretly exulted in my power, I felt disposed to dally with my victim like a cat Showing her the book that I still held in my hand, and pointing to the name on the fly leaf, but fixing my eye upon her face, I asked, –
‘Do you know that gentleman?’
‘Of course I do,’ replied she; and a sudden flush suffused her features – whether of shame or anger I could not tell: it rather resembled the latter. ‘What next sir?’
‘How long is it since you saw him?’
‘Who gave you the right to catechise me, on this or any other subject?’
‘Oh, no one! – it’s quite at your option whether to answer or not. – And now, let me ask – have you heard what has lately befallen this friend of yours? – because, if you have not –’
‘I will not be insulted Mr Markham!’ cried she almost infuriated at my manner – ‘So you had better leave the house at once, if you came only for that’
‘I did not come to insult you: I came to hear your explanation.’
‘And I tell you I won’t give it!’ retorted she, pacing the room in a state of strong excitement, with her hands clasped tightly together, breathing short, and flashing fires of indignation from her eyes. ‘I will not condescend to explain myself to one that can make a jest of such horrible suspicions, and be so easily led to entertain them.’
‘I do not make a jest of them, Mrs Graham,’ returned I, dropping at once my tone of taunting sarcasm. ‘I heartily wish I could find them a jesting matter! And as to being easily led to suspect, God only knows what a blind, incredulous fool I have hitherto been, perseveringly shutting my eyes and stopping my ears against everything that threatened to shake my confidence in you, till proof itself confounded my infatuation!’
‘What proof, sir?’
‘Well, I’ll tell you. You remember that evening when I was here last?’
‘I do.’
‘Even then, you dropped some hints that might have opened the eyes of a wiser man; but they had no such effect upon me: I went on trusting and believing, hoping against hope, and adoring where I could not comprehend – It so happened, however, that after I had left you, I turned back – drawn by pure depth of sympathy, and ardour of affection – not daring to intrude my presence openly upon you, but unable to resist the temptation of catching one glimpse through the window, just to see how you were; for I had left you apparently in great affliction, and I partly blamed my own want of forbearance and discretion as the cause of it. If I did wrong, love alone was my incentive, and the punishment was severe enough; for it was just as I had reached that tree, that you came out into the garden with your friend. Not choosing to show myself, under the circumstances, I stood still, in the shadow, till you had both passed by.’
‘And how much of our conversation did you hear?’
‘I heard quite enough, Helen. And it was well for me that I did hear it; for nothing less could have cured my infatuation. I always said and thought, that I would never believe a word against you, unless I heard it from your own lips. All the hints and affirmations of others I treated as malignant, baseless slanders; your own self-accusations I believed to be over-strained; and all that seemed unaccountable in your position, I trusted that you could account for if you chose.’
Mrs Graham had discontinued her walk. She leant against one end of the chimney-piece, opposite that near which I was standing, with her chin resting on her closed hand, her eyes – no longer burning with anger, but gleaming with restless excitement – sometimes glancing at me while I spoke, then coursing the opposite wall, or fixed upon the carpet.
‘You should have come to me, after all,’ said she, ‘and heard what I had to say in my own justification. It was ungenerous and wrong to withdraw yourself so secretly and suddenly, immediately after such ardent protestations of attachment, without ever assigning a reason for the change. You should have told me all – no matter bow bitterly – It would have been better than this silence.’
‘To what end should I have done so? – You could not have enlightened me farther, on the subject which alone concerned me; nor could you have made me discredit the evidence of my senses. I desired our intimacy to be discontinued at once, as you yourself had acknowledged would probably be the case if I knew all; but I did not wish to upbraid you, – though (as you also acknowledged) you had deeply wronged me – Yes; you have done me an injury you can never repair – or any other either – you have blighted the freshness and promise of youth, and made my life a wilderness! I might live a hundred years, but I could never recover from the effects of this withering blow – and never forget it! Hereafter – You smile Mrs Graham,’ said I, suddenly stopping short, checked in my passionate declamation by unutterable feelings to behold her a
ctually smiling at the picture of the ruin she had wrought.
‘Did I?’ replied she, looking seriously up, ‘I was not aware of it. If I did, it was not for pleasure at the thought of the harm I had done you. – Heaven knows I have had torment enough at the bare possibility of that! – it was for joy to find that you had some depth of soul and feeling after all, and to hope that I had not been utterly mistaken in your worth. But smiles and tears are so alike with me; they are neither of them confined to any particular feelings: I often cry when I am happy, and smile when I am sad.’
She looked at me again, and seemed to expect a reply; but I continued silent
‘Would you be very glad,’ resumed she, ‘to find that you were mistaken in your conclusions?’
‘How can you ask it, Helen?’
‘I don’t say I can clear myself altogether,’ said she, speaking low and fast, while her heart beat visibly and her bosom heaved with excitement, – ‘but would you be glad to discover I was better than you think me?’
‘Anything, that could, in the least degree, tend to restore my former opinion of you, to excuse the regard I still feel for you, and alleviate the pangs of unutterable regret that accompany it, would be only too gladly – too eagerly received!’
Her cheeks burned and her whole frame trembled, now, with excess of agitation. She did not speak, but flew to her desk, and, snatching thence what seemed a thick album or manuscript volume, hastily tore away a few leaves from the end,4 and thrust the rest into my hand, saying, ‘You needn’t read it all; but take it home with you,’ – and hurried from the room. But when I had left the house, and was proceeding down the walk, she opened the window and called me back. It was only to say, –
‘Bring it back when you have read it; and don’t breathe a word of what it tells you to any living being – I trust to your honour.’
Before I could answer, she had closed the casement and turned away. I saw her cast herself back in the old oak chair, and cover her face with her hands. Her feelings had been wrought to a pitch that rendered it necessary to seek relief in tears.
Panting with eagerness, and struggling to suppress my hopes, I hurried home, and rushed upstairs to my room, – having first provided myself with a candle, though it was scarcely twilight yet, – then, shut and bolted the door, determined to tolerate no interruption, and sitting down before the table, opened out my prize and delivered myself up to its perusal – first, hastily turning over the leaves and snatching a sentence here and there, and then, setting myself steadily to read it through.
I have it now before me; and though you could not, of course, peruse it with half the interest that I did, I know you would not be satisfied with an abbreviation of its contents and you shall have the whole, save, perhaps, a few passages here and there of merely temporal interest to the writer, or such as would serve to encumber the story rather than elucidate it. It begins somewhat abruptly, thus – but we will reserve its commencement for another chapter, and call it, –
CHAPTER 16
THE WARNINGS OF EXPERIENCE
June 1st, 18211 – We have just returned to Staningley – that is, we returned some days ago, and I am not yet settled, and feel as if I never should be. We left town sooner than was intended, in consequence of my uncle’s indisposition – I wonder what would have been the result if we had stayed the full time. I am quite ashamed of my new-sprung distaste for country life. All my former occupations seem so tedious and dull, my former amusements so insipid and unprofitable. I cannot enjoy my music, because there is no one to hear it. I cannot enjoy my walks, because there is no one to meet. I cannot enjoy my books, because they have not power to arrest my attention: my head is so haunted with the recollections of the last few weeks that I cannot attend to them. My drawing suits me best, for I can draw and think at the same time; and if my productions cannot now be seen by anyone but myself and those who do not care about them, they, possibly, may be, hereafter. But then, there is one face I am always trying to paint or to sketch, and always without success; and that vexes me. As for the owner of that face, I cannot get him out of my mind – and, indeed, I never try. I wonder whether he ever thinks of me; and I wonder whether I shall ever see him again. And then might follow a train of other wonderments – questions for time and fate to answer, concluding with: – supposing all the rest be answered in the affirmative, I wonder whether I shall ever repent it – as my aunt would tell me I should, if she knew what I was thinking about. How distinctly I remember our conversation that evening before our departure for town, when we were sitting together over the fire, my uncle having gone to bed with a slight attack of the gout.
‘Helen’, said she, after a thoughtful silence, ‘do you ever think about marriage?’
‘Yes aunt, often.’
‘And do you ever contemplate the possibility of being married yourself, or engaged, before the season is over?’
‘Sometimes; but I don’t think it at all likely that I ever shall.’
‘Why so?’
‘Because I imagine there must be only a very, very few men in the world, that I should like to marry; and of those few, it is ten to one I may never be acquainted with one; or if I should, it is twenty to one, he may not happen to be single, or to take a fancy to me.’
‘That is no argument at all. It may be very true – and I hope is true, that there are very few men whom you could choose to marry, of yourself – It is not, indeed, to be supposed that you would wish to marry any one, till you were asked:2 a girl’s affections should never be won unsought. But when they are sought – when the citadel of the heart is fairly besieged, it is apt to surrender sooner than the owner is aware of, and often against her better judgment, and in opposition to all her preconceived ideas of what she could have loved, unless she be extremely careful and discreet. Now I want to warn you, Helen, of these things, and to exhort you to be watchful and circumspect from the very commencement of your career, and not to suffer your heart to be stolen from you by the first foolish or unprincipled person that covets the possession of it. – You know, my dear, you are only just eighteen; there is plenty of time before you, and neither your uncle nor I are in any hurry to get you off our hands; and, I may venture to say, there will be no lack of suitors; for you can boast a good family, a pretty considerable fortune and expectations, and, I may as well tell you likewise – for if I don’t others will – that you have a fair share of beauty, besides – and I hope you may never have cause to regret it! –’
‘I hope not, aunt; but why should you fear it?’
‘Because, my dear, beauty is that quality which, next to money, is generally the most attractive to the worst kinds of men; and, therefore, it is likely to entail a great deal of trouble on the possessor.’
‘Have you been troubled in that way, aunt?’
‘No, Helen,’ said she, with reproachful gravity, ‘but I know many that have; and some, through carelessness, have been the wretched victims of deceit; and some, through weakness, have fallen into snares and temptations terrible to relate.’
‘Well, I shall be neither careless nor weak.’
‘Remember Peter, Helen! Don’t boast, but watch?3 Keep a guard over your eyes and ears as the inlets of your heart, and over your lips as the outlet, lest they betray you in a moment of unwariness. Receive, coldly and dispassionately, every attention, till you have ascertained and duly considered the worth of the aspirant; and let your affections be consequent upon approbation alone. First study; then approve; then love. Let your eyes be blind to all external attractions, your ears deaf to all the fascinations of flattery and light discourse. – These are nothing – and worse than nothing – snares and wiles of the tempter, to lure the thoughtless to their own destruction. Principle is the first thing, after all; and next to that, good sense, respectability, and moderate wealth. If you should marry the handsomest, and most accomplished and superficially agreeable man in the world, you little know the misery that would overwhelm you, if, after all, you should find him to be
a worthless reprobate,4 or even an impracticable fool.’
‘But what are all the poor fools and reprobates to do, aunt? If everybody followed your advice the world would soon come to an end.’
‘Never fear, my dear! the male fools and reprobates will never want for partners while there are so many of the other sex to match them; but do you follow my advice. And this is no subject for jesting, Helen, I am sorry to see you treat the matter in that light way. Believe me, matrimony is a serious thing’ And she spoke it so seriously that one might have fancied she had known it to her cost; but I asked no more impertinent questions, and merely answered, –
‘I know it is; and I know there is truth and sense in what you say; but you need not fear me, for I not only should think it wrong to marry a man that was deficient in sense or in principle, but I should never be tempted to do it; for I could not like him, if he were ever so handsome and ever so charming in other respects; I should hate him – despise him – pity him – anything but love him. My affections not only ought to be founded on approbation, but they will and must be so: for without approving I cannot love. It is needless to say I ought to be able to respect and honour the man I marry as well as love him, for I cannot love him without. So set your mind at rest.’
‘I hope it may be so,’ answered she.
‘I know it is so,’ persisted I.
‘You have not been tried yet, Helen: we can but hope,’ said she, in her cold, cautious way.
I was vexed at her incredulity; but I am not sure her doubts were entirely without sagacity; I fear I have found it much easier to remember her advice than to profit by it – Indeed, I have sometimes been led to question the soundness of her doctrines on those subjects. Her counsels may be good, as far as they go – in the main points, at least; – but there are some things she has overlooked in her calculations. I wonder if she was ever in love.
I commenced my career – or my first campaign, as my uncle calls it – kindling with bright hopes and fancies – chiefly raised by this conversation – and full of confidence in my own discretion. At first, I was delighted with the novelty and excitement of our London life; but, soon, I began to weary of its mingled turbulence and constraint, and sigh for the freshness and freedom of home. My new acquaintances, both male and female, disappointed my expectations, and vexed and depressed me by turns; for I soon grew tired of studying their peculiarities, and laughing at their foibles – particularly as I was obliged to keep my criticisms to myself, for my aunt would not hear them – and they – the ladies especially – appeared so provokingly mindless, and heartless, and artificial. The gentlemen seemed better, but perhaps it was because I knew them less, perhaps, because they flattered me; but I did not fall in love with any of them, and if their attentions pleased me one moment, they provoked me the next, because they put me out of humour with myself, by revealing my vanity and making me fear I was becoming like some of the ladies I so heartily despised.