Delphi Complete Works of the Brontes Charlotte, Emily, Anne Brontë (Illustrated) (351 page)

CHAPTER XI

You must suppose about three weeks passed over.  Mrs. Graham and I were now established friends — or brother and sister, as we rather chose to consider ourselves.  She called me Gilbert, by my express desire, and I called her Helen, for I had seen that name written in her books.  I seldom attempted to see her above twice a week; and still I made our meetings appear the result of accident as often as I could — for I found it necessary to be extremely careful — and, altogether, I behaved with such exceeding propriety that she never had occasion to reprove me once.  Yet I could not but perceive that she was at times unhappy and dissatisfied with herself or her position, and truly I myself was not quite contented with the latter: this assumption of brotherly nonchalance was very hard to sustain, and I often felt myself a most confounded hypocrite with it all; I saw too, or rather I felt, that, in spite of herself, ‘I was not indifferent to her,’ as the novel heroes modestly express it, and while I thankfully enjoyed my present good fortune, I could not fail to wish and hope for something better in future; but, of course, I kept such dreams entirely to myself.

‘Where are you going, Gilbert?’ said Rose, one evening, shortly after tea, when I had been busy with the farm all day.

‘To take a walk,’ was the reply.

‘Do you always brush your hat so carefully, and do your hair so nicely, and put on such smart new gloves when you take a walk?’

‘Not always.’

‘You’re going to Wildfell Hall, aren’t you?’

‘What makes you think so?’

‘Because you look as if you were — but I wish you wouldn’t go so often.’

‘Nonsense, child!  I don’t go once in six weeks — what do you mean?’

‘Well, but if I were you, I wouldn’t have so much to do with Mrs. Graham.’

‘Why, Rose, are you, too, giving in to the prevailing opinion?’

‘No,’ returned she, hesitatingly — ‘but I’ve heard so much about her lately, both at the Wilsons’ and the vicarage; — and besides, mamma says, if she were a proper person she would not be living there by herself — and don’t you remember last winter, Gilbert, all that about the false name to the picture; and how she explained it — saying she had friends or acquaintances from whom she wished her present residence to be concealed, and that she was afraid of their tracing her out; — and then, how suddenly she started up and left the room when that person came — whom she took good care not to let us catch a glimpse of, and who Arthur, with such an air of mystery, told us was his mamma’s friend?’

‘Yes, Rose, I remember it all; and I can forgive your uncharitable conclusions; for, perhaps, if I did not know her myself, I should put all these things together, and believe the same as you do; but thank God, I do know her; and I should be unworthy the name of a man, if I could believe anything that was said against her, unless I heard it from her own lips. — I should as soon believe such things of you, Rose.’

‘Oh, Gilbert!’

‘Well, do you think I could believe anything of the kind, — whatever the Wilsons and Millwards dared to whisper?’

‘I should hope not indeed!’

‘And why not? — Because I know you — Well, and I know her just as well.’

‘Oh, no! you know nothing of her former life; and last year, at this time, you did not know that such a person existed.’

‘No matter.  There is such a thing as looking through a person’s eyes into the heart, and learning more of the height, and breadth, and depth of another’s soul in one hour than it might take you a lifetime to discover, if he or she were not disposed to reveal it, or if you had not the sense to understand it.’

‘Then you are going to see her this evening?’

‘To be sure I am!’

‘But what would mamma say, Gilbert!’

‘Mamma needn’t know.’

‘But she must know some time, if you go on.’

‘Go on! — there’s no going on in the matter.  Mrs. Graham and I are two friends — and will be; and no man breathing shall hinder it, — or has a right to interfere between us.’

‘But if you knew how they talk you would be more careful, for her sake as well as for your own.  Jane Wilson thinks your visits to the old hall but another proof of her depravity — ’

‘Confound Jane Wilson!’

‘And Eliza Millward is quite grieved about you.’

‘I hope she is.’

‘But I wouldn’t, if I were you.’

‘Wouldn’t what? — How do they know that I go there?’

‘There’s nothing hid from them: they spy out everything.’

‘Oh, I never thought of this! — And so they dare to turn my friendship into food for further scandal against her! — That proves the falsehood of their other lies, at all events, if any proof were wanting. — Mind you contradict them, Rose, whenever you can.’

‘But they don’t speak openly to me about such things: it is only by hints and innuendoes, and by what I hear others say, that I knew what they think.’

‘Well, then, I won’t go to-day, as it’s getting latish.  But oh, deuce take their cursed, envenomed tongues!’ I muttered, in the bitterness of my soul.

And just at that moment the vicar entered the room: we had been too much absorbed in our conversation to observe his knock.  After his customary cheerful and fatherly greeting of Rose, who was rather a favourite with the old gentleman, he turned somewhat sternly to me: —

‘Well, sir!’ said he, ‘you’re quite a stranger.  It is — let — me — see,’ he continued, slowly, as he deposited his ponderous bulk in the arm-chair that Rose officiously brought towards him; ‘it is just — six-weeks — by my reckoning, since you darkened — my — door!’  He spoke it with emphasis, and struck his stick on the floor.

‘Is it, sir?’ said I.

‘Ay!  It is so!’  He added an affirmatory nod, and continued to gaze upon me with a kind of irate solemnity, holding his substantial stick between his knees, with his hands clasped upon its head.

‘I have been busy,’ I said, for an apology was evidently demanded.

‘Busy!’ repeated he, derisively.

‘Yes, you know I’ve been getting in my hay; and now the harvest is beginning.’

‘Humph!’

Just then my mother came in, and created a diversion in my favour by her loquacious and animated welcome of the reverend guest.  She regretted deeply that he had not come a little earlier, in time for tea, but offered to have some immediately prepared, if he would do her the favour to partake of it.

‘Not any for me, I thank you,’ replied he; ‘I shall be at home in a few minutes.’

‘Oh, but do stay and take a little! it will be ready in five minutes.’

But he rejected the offer with a majestic wave of the hand.

‘I’ll tell you what I’ll take, Mrs. Markham,’ said he: ‘I’ll take a glass of your excellent ale.’

‘With pleasure!’ cried my mother, proceeding with alacrity to pull the bell and order the favoured beverage.

‘I thought,’ continued he, ‘I’d just look in upon you as I passed, and taste your home-brewed ale.  I’ve been to call on Mrs. Graham.’

‘Have you, indeed?’

He nodded gravely, and added with awful emphasis — ‘I thought it incumbent upon me to do so.’

‘Really!’ ejaculated my mother.

‘Why so, Mr. Millward?’ asked I.

He looked at me with some severity, and turning again to my mother, repeated, — ‘I thought it incumbent upon me!’ and struck his stick on the floor again.  My mother sat opposite, an awe-struck but admiring auditor.

‘“Mrs. Graham,” said I,’ he continued, shaking his head as he spoke, ‘“these are terrible reports!”  “What, sir?” says she, affecting to be ignorant of my meaning.  “It is my — duty — as — your pastor,” said I, “to tell you both everything that I myself see reprehensible in your conduct, and all I have reason to suspect, and what others tell me concerning you.” — So I told her!’

‘You did, sir?’ cried I, starting from my seat and striking my fist on the table.  He merely glanced towards me, and continued — addressing his hostess: —

‘It was a painful duty, Mrs. Markham — but I told her!’

‘And how did she take it?’ asked my mother.

‘Hardened, I fear — hardened!’ he replied, with a despondent shake of the head; ‘and, at the same time, there was a strong display of unchastened, misdirected passions.  She turned white in the face, and drew her breath through her teeth in a savage sort of way; — but she offered no extenuation or defence; and with a kind of shameless calmness — shocking indeed to witness in one so young — as good as told me that my remonstrance was unavailing, and my pastoral advice quite thrown away upon her — nay, that my very presence was displeasing while I spoke such things.  And I withdrew at length, too plainly seeing that nothing could be done — and sadly grieved to find her case so hopeless.  But I am fully determined, Mrs. Markham, that my daughters — shall — not — consort with her.  Do you adopt the same resolution with regard to yours! — As for your sons — as for you, young man,’ he continued, sternly turning to me —

‘As for me, sir,’ I began, but checked by some impediment in my utterance, and finding that my whole frame trembled with fury, I said no more, but took the wiser part of snatching up my hat and bolting from the room, slamming the door behind me, with a bang that shook the house to its foundations, and made my mother scream, and gave a momentary relief to my excited feelings.

The next minute saw me hurrying with rapid strides in the direction of Wildfell Hall — to what intent or purpose I could scarcely tell, but I must be moving somewhere, and no other goal would do — I must see her too, and speak to her — that was certain; but what to say, or how to act, I had no definite idea.  Such stormy thoughts — so many different resolutions crowded in upon me, that my mind was little better than a chaos of conflicting passions.

CHAPTER XII

In little more than twenty minutes the journey was accomplished.  I paused at the gate to wipe my streaming forehead, and recover my breath and some degree of composure.  Already the rapid walking had somewhat mitigated my excitement; and with a firm and steady tread I paced the garden-walk.  In passing the inhabited wing of the building, I caught a sight of Mrs. Graham, through the open window, slowly pacing up and down her lonely room.

She seemed agitated and even dismayed at my arrival, as if she thought I too was coming to accuse her.  I had entered her presence intending to condole with her upon the wickedness of the world, and help her to abuse the vicar and his vile informants, but now I felt positively ashamed to mention the subject, and determined not to refer to it, unless she led the way.

‘I am come at an unseasonable hour,’ said I, assuming a cheerfulness I did not feel, in order to reassure her; ‘but I won’t stay many minutes.’

She smiled upon me, faintly it is true, but most kindly — I had almost said thankfully, as her apprehensions were removed.

‘How dismal you are, Helen!  Why have you no fire?’ I said, looking round on the gloomy apartment.

‘It is summer yet,’ she replied.

‘But we always have a fire in the evenings, if we can bear it; and you especially require one in this cold house and dreary room.’

‘You should have come a little sooner, and I would have had one lighted for you: but it is not worth while now — you won’t stay many minutes, you say, and Arthur is gone to bed.’

‘But I have a fancy for a fire, nevertheless.  Will you order one, if I ring?’

‘Why, Gilbert, you don’t look cold!’ said she, smilingly regarding my face, which no doubt seemed warm enough.

‘No,’ replied I, ‘but I want to see you comfortable before I go.’

‘Me comfortable!’ repeated she, with a bitter laugh, as if there were something amusingly absurd in the idea.  ‘It suits me better as it is,’ she added, in a tone of mournful resignation.

But determined to have my own way, I pulled the bell.

‘There now, Helen!’ I said, as the approaching steps of Rachel were heard in answer to the summons.  There was nothing for it but to turn round and desire the maid to light the fire.

I owe Rachel a grudge to this day for the look she cast upon me ere she departed on her mission, the sour, suspicious, inquisitorial look that plainly demanded, ‘What are you here for, I wonder?’  Her mistress did not fail to notice it, and a shade of uneasiness darkened her brow.

‘You must not stay long, Gilbert,’ said she, when the door was closed upon us.

‘I’m not going to,’ said I, somewhat testily, though without a grain of anger in my heart against any one but the meddling old woman.  ‘But, Helen, I’ve something to say to you before I go.’

‘What is it?’

‘No, not now — I don’t know yet precisely what it is, or how to say it,’ replied I, with more truth than wisdom; and then, fearing lest she should turn me out of the house, I began talking about indifferent matters in order to gain time.  Meanwhile Rachel came in to kindle the fire, which was soon effected by thrusting a red-hot poker between the bars of the grate, where the fuel was already disposed for ignition.  She honoured me with another of her hard, inhospitable looks in departing, but, little moved thereby, I went on talking; and setting a chair for Mrs. Graham on one side of the hearth, and one for myself on the other, I ventured to sit down, though half suspecting she would rather see me go.

In a little while we both relapsed into silence, and continued for several minutes gazing abstractedly into the fire — she intent upon her own sad thoughts, and I reflecting how delightful it would be to be seated thus beside her with no other presence to restrain our intercourse — not even that of Arthur, our mutual friend, without whom we had never met before — if only I could venture to speak my mind, and disburden my full heart of the feelings that had so long oppressed it, and which it now struggled to retain, with an effort that it seemed impossible to continue much longer, — and revolving the pros and cons for opening my heart to her there and then, and imploring a return of affection, the permission to regard her thenceforth as my own, and the right and the power to defend her from the calumnies of malicious tongues.  On the one hand, I felt a new-born confidence in my powers of persuasion — a strong conviction that my own fervour of spirit would grant me eloquence — that my very determination — the absolute necessity for succeeding, that I felt must win me what I sought; while, on the other, I feared to lose the ground I had already gained with so much toil and skill, and destroy all future hope by one rash effort, when time and patience might have won success.  It was like setting my life upon the cast of a die; and yet I was ready to resolve upon the attempt.  At any rate, I would entreat the explanation she had half promised to give me before; I would demand the reason of this hateful barrier, this mysterious impediment to my happiness, and, as I trusted, to her own.

But while I considered in what manner I could best frame my request, my companion, wakened from her reverie with a scarcely audible sigh, and looking towards the window, where the blood-red harvest moon, just rising over one of the grim, fantastic evergreens, was shining in upon us, said, — ‘Gilbert, it is getting late.’

‘I see,’ said I.  ‘You want me to go, I suppose?’

‘I think you ought.  If my kind neighbours get to know of this visit — as no doubt they will — they will not turn it much to my advantage.’  It was with what the vicar would doubtless have called a savage sort of smile that she said this.

‘Let them turn it as they will,’ said I.  ‘What are their thoughts to you or me, so long as we are satisfied with ourselves — and each other.  Let them go to the deuce with their vile constructions and their lying inventions!’

This outburst brought a flush of colour to her face.

‘You have heard, then, what they say of me?’

‘I heard some detestable falsehoods; but none but fools would credit them for a moment, Helen, so don’t let them trouble you.’

‘I did not think Mr. Millward a fool, and he believes it all; but however little you may value the opinions of those about you — however little you may esteem them as individuals, it is not pleasant to be looked upon as a liar and a hypocrite, to be thought to practise what you abhor, and to encourage the vices you would discountenance, to find your good intentions frustrated, and your hands crippled by your supposed unworthiness, and to bring disgrace on the principles you profess.’

‘True; and if I, by my thoughtlessness and selfish disregard to appearances, have at all assisted to expose you to these evils, let me entreat you not only to pardon me, but to enable me to make reparation; authorise me to clear your name from every imputation: give me the right to identify your honour with my own, and to defend your reputation as more precious than my life!’

‘Are you hero enough to unite yourself to one whom you know to be suspected and despised by all around you, and identify your interests and your honour with hers?  Think! it is a serious thing.’

‘I should be proud to do it, Helen! — most happy — delighted beyond expression! — and if that be all the obstacle to our union, it is demolished, and you must — you shall be mine!’

And starting from my seat in a frenzy of ardour, I seized her hand and would have pressed it to my lips, but she as suddenly caught it away, exclaiming in the bitterness of intense affliction, — ‘No, no, it is not all!’

‘What is it, then?  You promised I should know some time, and — ’

‘You shall know some time — but not now — my head aches terribly,’ she said, pressing her hand to her forehead, ‘and I must have some repose — and surely I have had misery enough to-day!’ she added, almost wildly.

‘But it could not harm you to tell it,’ I persisted: ‘it would ease your mind; and I should then know how to comfort you.’

She shook her head despondingly.  ‘If you knew all, you, too, would blame me — perhaps even more than I deserve — though I have cruelly wronged you,’ she added in a low murmur, as if she mused aloud.

‘You, Helen?  Impossible?’

‘Yes, not willingly; for I did not know the strength and depth of your attachment.  I thought — at least I endeavoured to think your regard for me was as cold and fraternal as you professed it to be.’

‘Or as yours?’

‘Or as mine — ought to have been — of such a light and selfish, superficial nature, that — ’

‘There, indeed, you wronged me.’

‘I know I did; and, sometimes, I suspected it then; but I thought, upon the whole, there could be no great harm in leaving your fancies and your hopes to dream themselves to nothing — or flutter away to some more fitting object, while your friendly sympathies remained with me; but if I had known the depth of your regard, the generous, disinterested affection you seem to feel — ’

‘Seem, Helen?’

‘That you do feel, then, I would have acted differently.’

‘How?  You could not have given me less encouragement, or treated me with greater severity than you did!  And if you think you have wronged me by giving me your friendship, and occasionally admitting me to the enjoyment of your company and conversation, when all hopes of closer intimacy were vain — as indeed you always gave me to understand — if you think you have wronged me by this, you are mistaken; for such favours, in themselves alone, are not only delightful to my heart, but purifying, exalting, ennobling to my soul; and I would rather have your friendship than the love of any other woman in the world!’

Little comforted by this, she clasped her hands upon her knee, and glancing upward, seemed, in silent anguish, to implore divine assistance; then, turning to me, she calmly said, — ‘To-morrow, if you meet me on the moor about mid-day, I will tell you all you seek to know; and perhaps you will then see the necessity of discontinuing our intimacy — if, indeed, you do not willingly resign me as one no longer worthy of regard.’

‘I can safely answer no to that: you cannot have such grave confessions to make — you must be trying my faith, Helen.’

‘No, no, no,’ she earnestly repeated — ‘I wish it were so!  Thank heaven!’ she added, ‘I have no great crime to confess; but I have more than you will like to hear, or, perhaps, can readily excuse, — and more than I can tell you now; so let me entreat you to leave me!’

‘I will; but answer me this one question first; — do you love me?’

‘I will not answer it!’

‘Then I will conclude you do; and so good-night.’

She turned from me to hide the emotion she could not quite control; but I took her hand and fervently kissed it.

‘Gilbert, do leave me!’ she cried, in a tone of such thrilling anguish that I felt it would be cruel to disobey.

But I gave one look back before I closed the door, and saw her leaning forward on the table, with her hands pressed against her eyes, sobbing convulsively; yet I withdrew in silence.  I felt that to obtrude my consolations on her then would only serve to aggravate her sufferings.

To tell you all the questionings and conjectures — the fears, and hopes, and wild emotions that jostled and chased each other through my mind as I descended the hill, would almost fill a volume in itself.  But before I was half-way down, a sentiment of strong sympathy for her I had left behind me had displaced all other feelings, and seemed imperatively to draw me back: I began to think, ‘Why am I hurrying so fast in this direction?  Can I find comfort or consolation — peace, certainty, contentment, all — or anything that I want at home? and can I leave all perturbation, sorrow, and anxiety behind me there?’