The World Within

by Jane Eagland

  “Please.” He takes a step toward her and she moves back out of his reach. “Please don’t think badly of me. It won’t happen again, I promise.”

  She manages to find her voice. “You can be sure of that, because I’ll never come near you again.” Unceremoniously, she dumps the puppy into his arms and retreats to the door.

  Her hand is on the latch when he cries out, “Oh, don’t say that. Don’t let one moment of rash impulse affect your feelings for me.”

  Emily turns back. “My feelings? But I don’t have any feelings for you.”

  Robert’s face falls and he looks confused. “But Branwell said —”

  “Branwell!”

  Suddenly she sees it all.

  Branwell and his friend have devised this ridiculous charade in order to amuse themselves at her expense. She can just imagine how heartily they’ll laugh when Robert gives his account of the scene.

  Lifting her chin, she says as coldly as she can, “I won’t endure another moment of your mockery. And I wouldn’t take one of your pups if you paid me to. Good day!”

  She turns on her heels and makes her exit. She hears him bleating after her down the lane, but she splashes on without looking back or slowing her pace.

  When she gets home, she marches straight into Branwell’s studio, where he’s dabbing at a canvas on his easel.

  He looks up, surprised. “You’re back early.” Then he turns his attention back to the painting, saying casually, “Did you choose a puppy?”

  Emily glares at him. “How could you!”

  “How could I what?” His look is wide-eyed.

  “Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. How could you trick me like that? Sending me up to Stanbury to choose a puppy, when all the time you were plotting with Robert Taylor to make a fool of me.”

  “But I —”

  “Oh, stop acting. It’s not convincing, you know. Your friend did a better job of it, though he overdid the spooniness. Ugh!” Emily shudders at the memory of that kiss. “The pair of you should be thoroughly ashamed of yourselves.”

  He goes to speak, but she cuts him off. “And I don’t understand how you could have done that, Branwell … playing on my feelings about Grasper. It’s … it’s despicable.”

  At least he has the grace to look shamefaced. Putting down his brush and palette, he wipes his hands on a rag and tries to take her hands in his, but she pulls away.

  “Listen, Em, we weren’t trying to make a fool of you. And Robert wasn’t acting.”

  Emily darts a withering look at him. “Oh, come on, you don’t expect me to believe that.”

  “No, honestly. He wasn’t. I told you before. He’s really smitten with you, you know. Truly.”

  He looks so earnest that she’s taken aback. Remembering Robert’s manner, it seems there might be some truth in what Branwell’s saying.

  Falteringly, she mutters, “But he doesn’t know me.”

  “What’s that got to do with it?”

  “Everything.”

  Branwell sighs and scratches his head.

  She can tell he hasn’t got a clue what she’s talking about. But there’s no point in trying to explain — she’s not even sure she can explain it to herself.

  Branwell says, “Look. All I know is that Robert believes he’s in love with you.”

  She stares at him and the truth dawns on her. In a quiet but deadly voice, she says, “So you sent me up there to oblige your friend?”

  “What?” He opens his eyes wide in amazement. Or a good pretense of it. “No, Em, you’ve got it all wrong.” He takes a deep breath. “The puppy business was genuine. I was really sorry about what happened to Grasper and Robert was too. I mean, his father felt bad about it, but it was Robert’s idea to offer you a puppy. He wanted to make it up to you.”

  “I see.” She narrows her eyes. “So why couldn’t I have just gone and looked at the puppies by myself? Why did he have to be there?”

  There’s a silence in which Branwell shifts from foot to foot. Finally he admits, “That was my idea.”

  Emily draws her breath in with a hiss.

  “No, listen.” Branwell puts on a beseeching look. “I thought that if you had a chance to talk to him properly, you’d realize what a decent fellow he is. I think you’d like him, you know, if you let yourself.”

  She feels completely bewildered. What on earth is he playing at? “Why do you want me to like him? He’s nothing to me.” And then she remembers what Robert said and her anger surges back again. “You told him that I returned his feelings, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, but —”

  “In heaven’s name, why did you do that? What were you thinking of?”

  “I thought he could do with some encouragement.” He grins. “You can be pretty scary sometimes, you know.”

  Speechless, Emily clenches her fists. She’d like to smack that stupid smile from his stupid face. “Do you know what, Branwell? I could hate you for this. It’s the worst thing you’ve ever done to me.”

  His face reddens and then goes pale again. “But you don’t understand. I didn’t do it for Robert’s sake, I did it for yours,” he says in aggrieved tones.

  “Mine? How could it possibly benefit me?”

  “Because … I thought … I thought that if you grew close to him, it would make you happy.”

  Emily blinks. What’s he talking about? “But how could Robert Taylor possibly make me happy? It was bad enough before, but Grasper dying …” She stops, unable to go on.

  “That’s my point.” Branwell’s agitated now. “I don’t think you know what’s best for you. I mean, a dog’s all very well, Em, but it’s not a person, is it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know, pouring all that emotion out … after all, it’s just an animal.”

  She can’t believe he just said that. Swallowing down all the bitter things she could retort, she says quietly, “Dogs are better than people. At least they don’t betray you.”

  “I didn’t betray you!” he shouts. “I was trying to help you. Hang it all, if you go on like this, you’re going to end up an old maid! Is that what you want?”

  She is utterly confounded. She stares at him and can’t speak — there’s something rising in her chest that threatens to choke her. She turns and scrabbles blindly for the door handle and at last she’s out of there.

  In two paces she’s across the landing and in her room with the door firmly shut. She leans against it, heaving deep breaths as though she’s been running and swallowing the sobs thickening in her throat.

  Why does she want to cry? She should be angry with him — a fierce burst of fury that would make her feel better — not this feeble weakness.

  But somehow Branwell, clumsy stupid Branwell, has blundered his way in, past her defenses, and pierced her.

  She doesn’t understand it, not really. It’s partly to do with what he said about Grasper, his words striking her with the same force as if he’d attacked her beloved companion with physical cruelty. But it’s more to do with her self, her inner self — she feels a sense of violation, as if Branwell has burst in where he has no right to be.

  She presses her hand on her eyes in an attempt to blot out what’s just happened and in an instant the scene of her humiliation at the Manor House rises up.

  She cringes at the memory.

  She knows that people experience feelings for others based on the most superficial things … for heaven’s sake, look at the way Mary was attracted to Branwell …

  But she doesn’t want to be the object of such an infatuation. It’s all so silly, and nothing to do with love. That’s what she was trying to tell Branwell.

  Love is two people being as close as she was with Elizabeth, as she has been at times with Charlotte and then Anne when they shared the same vision of Gondal; it is knowing each other utterly, seeing each other’s souls and knowing that they are indissolubly linked.

  Whatever that foolish young man thinks h
e feels for her, it isn’t love.

  She sighs. She must try not to think of him. Though he offended her, he did it unwittingly, whereas Branwell …

  How could he fail so badly to understand her? And just when they were getting on so well and becoming so close? When she thought that once again she’d found a soul mate to share her writing?

  She can’t think about what he’s done, what he’s said, without feeling raw.

  Emily stays in her room for the rest of the afternoon, and by teatime she has decided on her course of action. She doesn’t join Branwell at the kitchen table — she doesn’t want to eat anything and she can’t yet trust herself to be with him in Tabby’s presence. Later, when he’s alone in the parlor, she goes in and takes up a position just inside the door.

  When Branwell looks up, she says, “There’s something I want you to know. What I feel and who I choose to care for are nothing to do with you. So there’s no need to busy yourself with plans for me or my future. Whatever happens, it will be me who decides. Do you understand?”

  Branwell looks at her mutinously, as if there’s a lot he’d like to say, but after a moment he nods.

  “Good.”

  She spins on her heel and goes out, shutting the door quietly behind her.

  The next day, when she comes in from her walk, Emily retreats to her bedroom. She doesn’t want to have to see Branwell, but she’s too restless to read.

  After pacing about and staring out of the window, she’s suddenly moved to sit down with her writing desk and write a story, her first new story for ages, which turns out to be about Angelica, who, having been wronged, doesn’t rest until she has gained revenge. Emily pours her heart into describing Angelica’s feelings and takes a savage satisfaction in the bloody outcome. She’s never written anything so fast — it’s as if it’s been ripped out of her whole, leaving her shaken.

  Afterward, she feels drained, but more at peace. She’s still wary of Branwell, though. For days she’ll only speak to him when she has to and even then she keeps to practical everyday matters. Luckily, Branwell seems to want to avoid her too.

  Tabby notices, of course, and one day when they’re clearing the table, she says to Emily, “Hast tha had a falling out with Maister Branwell?”

  Emily ducks her head, half-acknowledging that this is the case.

  Tabby sighs. “Well, tha knows our lad — if tha’s looking for him to change, tha’s in for a long wait.” She pats Emily’s hand. “If tha’ll take my advice, even if it’s thee who’s been wronged, don’t bear a grudge, lass. Tha’ll only regret it in the long run.”

  Afterward, Emily thinks about what Tabby said.

  She hasn’t been waiting for Branwell to change — she hasn’t actually been looking for anything from him. She’s just been going on and struggling to cope with the sense of being injured.

  But perhaps Branwell wasn’t being malicious — perhaps he did think he was helping her. And maybe she was expecting too much from him, wanting him to understand her inner, hidden self. Her brother is probably the last person to look to for profound insight — it’s like trying to swim in a shallow brook when really what you need is a deep pool.

  The prospect of their being estranged forever seems utterly dismal.

  That evening she joins him in the parlor, where he’s sitting at the table with a book. He barely acknowledges her, but after a few minutes, determined to put an end to this, she asks, “What are you reading?”

  Branwell looks up, surprised. “Oh, this article in Blackwood’s about the National Gallery and how it could be improved. Quite interesting, actually.”

  “Would you read it to me?”

  He raises his eyebrows. “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  He looks at her for a moment and then nods, as if accepting that this is a truce.

  The next evening, he asks rather tentatively if he might read to her from his latest writing; Emily agrees and even has some comments to make about his work.

  But when he says, “Do you want to read something?” she shakes her head. They might be talking to each other again, but this is as far as she wants it to go.

  She never wants to share her inner world with him again.

  Gradually, Emily picks up some of her usual pursuits, because after all, what else is there to do? She walks as often as she can; she practices the piano and goes to Ponden Hall to borrow some new books. But when she takes out an old story, intending to revise it, she soon gives up — the savor has gone from that activity. And since the Angelica story she’s lost the desire to attempt anything new.

  She feels hollowed out, hopeless, and quite alone.

  Even the weather seems to be mocking her. Rather than being dull and grey, which would suit her mood, it brightens up: Sunshine succeeds all those days of rain and it becomes unseasonably warm.

  Late one sultry afternoon, she’s setting out on her walk when a sudden impulse takes her into the church.

  It’s cool inside and quiet. Emily drifts down the aisle, trailing her fingers along the rough wood of the pew doors.

  She’s not sure what’s she’s doing here.

  Is she expecting some kind of message, from God, perhaps? Or, if He’s too busy to come Himself, from an angelic messenger bringing comfort?

  She smiles wryly.

  By now she has reached the front of the church and the familiar plaque. Emily traces the lettering: Here lie the remains … Then she rests her forehead on the cold stone.

  “Elizabeth.”

  She calls the name silently. Just for a moment she wants to be small again, snuggling up to her big sister; she wants to be cuddled.

  Isn’t there an ancient ballad about a dead mother roused from her sleep by her children’s weeping, who rises from her grave to comfort them?

  But no answering call comes, no warm arms embrace her.

  The church remains still and empty.

  Emily gives herself a shake. Stupid! What did she expect?

  She turns and marches swiftly to the door, her footsteps echoing on the stone flags.

  She takes her usual path, ascending the moor at a steady pace. It’s muggy and close, not a breath of air stirring, and before long she’s perspiring and wishing she’d left her shawl at home. But she still keeps on — it helps, this regular beat of her feet on the stony path, it helps to assuage the ache in her heart.

  By the time she reaches Ponden Beck the light has changed — the sky has turned an ominous yellow and, above the horizon, a black band is growing broader by the minute. On the other side of the stream she comes across Martha Brown, the sexton’s daughter, picking whinberries with her little sister.

  “Look,” says Martha, showing Emily their pail. “We’ve got some right beauties.” Both children’s mouths are stained purple with juice.

  “You’ve done well. But see,” Emily indicates the dark curtain sweeping toward them, “there’s a storm brewing. Isn’t it time you were setting off home?” As she speaks, a white flash streaks across the sky.

  A stubborn look comes over Martha’s face. “We’ll go in a minute. Ma won’t be pleased unless we take a full pail home. And I’m not scared of a drop of rain, are you, Alice?”

  “No,” says the little one stoutly.

  Emily is amused. “Well, you mind yourselves.” And she continues on her way.

  There’s a deep rumble of thunder, overhead now. She quickens her pace, hoping she’s got time to reach the shelter of the Grey Stones before the storm breaks.

  The next moment a wind springs up from nowhere, whipping her hair against her face and threatening to whirl her shawl away, and fat drops of rain begin to splash down onto her.

  Clutching her shawl, she makes for the rocks, where she huddles under the great slab, the rocking stone, balanced on two boulders. Within minutes the gale is driving the rain into her refuge, soaking her. Praying that the rocking stone won’t come crashing down on her, she peers out over the wide sweep of the moors.

  By now the sto
rm is directly overhead, the dark clouds swirling and seething, thunder following lightning in quick succession and, as she watches the play of electricity flickering wildly across the sky, Emily feels an answering blaze flare up inside her. On an impulse she dashes out from her hiding place, and, holding out her arms and lifting her face to the heavens, she exposes herself to the full impact of the storm.

  The rain beats down on her, the thunder deafens her, and the lightning dazzles her eyes. Buffeted by the wind, she feels delirious, giddy, and all the small meanness of her self and her unhappiness vanish as she’s absorbed into this fierce and powerful force.

  At the height of her exaltation, there’s a loud explosion.

  The ground shakes and across the moor, on Crow Hill, the ground erupts in a fountain of stones and peat from which a long black serpent uncurls and begins to slither down the slope.

  Emily stares. She can’t understand what she’s looking at. And then she suddenly realizes that the serpent is the bog itself. It’s come alive and is advancing down the hill, intent on smothering the valley below.

  Suddenly she remembers with a stab of horror — the little girls! If they’re still where she left them, they’re right in the path of the landslide.

  She hesitates. It’s too dangerous.

  But then the horror of what might happen to them seizes her and with a wild cry she sets off down the hillside at full tilt, leaping from tussock to tussock. At one point she stumbles and falls to her knees, but she rights herself and carries on. Her heart is hammering, she’s struggling for breath, but as the black snake picks up speed, she pushes herself on.

  Will she be in time?

  She reaches Ponden Crag, perched on the lip of the valley, and there below are the Brown girls. Oblivious of the danger they’re in, they’re trying to shelter from the rain in the lee of a boulder. If they can get up here, to Ponden Crag, they might be safe. Emily waves her arms and shrieks, but the wind carries her voice away and they don’t look up.

  She’ll have to go down to them.

  She skids and slides down the steep incline, calling as she goes, and at last Martha turns round and sees her.