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?'
And I turned round to look at the old Hall. There was little
besides the chimneys visible above my contracted horizon. I walked
back to get a better view of it. When it rose in sight, I stood
still a moment to look, and then continued moving towards the
gloomy object of attraction. Something called me nearer - nearer
still - and why not, pray? Might I not find more benefit in the
contemplation of that venerable pile with the full moon in the
cloudless heaven shining so calmly above it - with that warm yellow
lustre peculiar to an August night - and the mistress of my soul
within, than in returning to my home, where all comparatively was
light, and life, and cheerfulness, and therefore inimical to me in
my present frame of mind, - and the more so that its inmates all
were more or less imbued with that detestable belief, the very
thought of which made my blood boil in my veins - and how could I
endure to hear it openly declared, or cautiously insinuated - which
was worse? - I had had trouble enough already, with some babbling
fiend that would keep whispering in my ear, 'It may be true,' till
I had shouted aloud, 'It is false! I defy you to make me suppose
it!'
I could see the red firelight dimly gleaming from her parlour
window. I went up to the garden wall, and stood leaning over it,
with my eyes fixed upon the lattice, wondering what she was doing,
thinking, or suffering now, and wishing I could speak to her but
one word, or even catch one glimpse of her, before I went.
I had not thus looked, and wished, and wondered long, before I
vaulted over the barrier, unable to resist the temptation of taking
one glance through the window, just to if she were more composed
than when we parted; - and if I found her still in deep distress,
perhaps I might venture attempt a word of comfort - to utter one of
the many things I should have said before, instead of aggravating
her sufferings by my stupid impetuosity. I looked. Her chair was
vacant: so was the room. But at that moment some one opened the
outer door, and a voice - her voice - said, - 'Come out - I want to
see the moon, and breathe the evening air: they will do me good -
if anything will.'
Here, then, were she and Rachel coming to take a walk in the
garden. I wished myself safe back over the wall. I stood,
however, in the shadow of the tall holly-bush, which, standing
between the window and the porch, at present screened me from
observation, but did not prevent me from seeing two figures come
forth into the moonlight: Mrs. Graham followed by another - not
Rachel, but a young man, slender and rather tall. O heavens, how
my temples throbbed! Intense anxiety darkened my sight; but I
thought - yes, and the voice confirmed it - it was Mr. Lawrence!
'You should not let it worry you so much, Helen,' said he; 'I will
be more cautious in future; and in time - '
I did not hear the rest of the sentence; for he walked close beside
her and spoke so gently that I could not catch the words. My heart
was splitting with hatred; but I listened intently for her reply.
I heard it plainly enough.
'But I must leave this place, Frederick,' she said - 'I never can
be happy here, - nor anywhere else, indeed,' she added, with a
mirthless laugh, - 'but I cannot rest here.'
'But where could you find a better place?' replied he, 'so secluded
- so near me, if you think anything of that.'
'Yes,' interrupted she, 'it is all I could wish, if they could only
have left me alone.'
'But wherever you go, Helen, there will be the same sources of
annoyance. I cannot consent to lose you: I must go with you, or
come to you; and there are meddling fools elsewhere, as well as
here.'
While thus conversing they had sauntered slowly past me, down the
walk, and I heard no more of their discourse; but I saw him put his
arm round her waist, while she lovingly rested her hand on his
shoulder; - and then, a tremulous darkness obscured my sight, my
heart sickened and my head burned like fire: I half rushed, half
staggered from the spot, where horror had kept me rooted, and
leaped or tumbled over the wall - I hardly know which - but I know
that, afterwards, like a passionate child, I dashed myself on the
ground and lay there in a paroxysm of anger and despair - how long,
I cannot undertake to say; but it must have been a considerable
time; for when, having partially relieved myself by a torment of
tears, and looked up at the moon, shining so calmly and carelessly
on, as little influenced by my misery as I was by its peaceful
radiance, and earnestly prayed for death or forgetfulness, I had
risen and journeyed homewards - little regarding the way, but
carried instinctively by my feet to the door, I found it bolted
against me, and every one in bed except my mother, who hastened to
answer my impatient knocking, and received me with a shower of
questions and rebukes.
'Oh, Gilbert! how could you do so? Where have you been? Do come
in and take your supper. I've got it all ready, though you don't
deserve it, for keeping me in such a fright, after the strange
manner you left the house this evening. Mr. Millward was quite -
Bless the boy! how ill he looks. Oh, gracious! what is the
matter?'
'Nothing, nothing - give me a candle.'
'But won't you take some supper?'
'No; I want to go to bed,' said I, taking a candle and lighting it
at the one she held in her hand.
'Oh, Gilbert, how you tremble!' exclaimed my anxious parent. 'How
white you look! Do tell me what it is? Has anything happened?'
'It's nothing,' cried I, ready to stamp with vexation because the
candle would not light. Then, suppressing my irritation, I added,
'I've been walking too fast, that's all. Good-night,' and marched
off to bed, regardless of the 'Walking too fast! where have you
been?' that was called after me from below.
My mother followed me to the very door of my room with her
questionings and advice concerning my health and my conduct; but I
implored her to let me alone till morning; and she withdrew, and at
length I had the satisfaction to hear her close her own door.
There was no sleep for me, however, that night as I thought; and
instead of attempting to solicit it, I employed myself in rapidly
pacing the chamber, having first removed my boots, lest my mother
should hear me. But the boards creaked, and she was watchful. I
had not walked above a quarter of an hour before she was at the
door again.
'Gilbert, why are you not in bed - you said you wanted to go?'
'Confound it! I'm going,' said I.
'But why are you so long about it? You must have something on your
mind - '
'For heaven's sake, let me alone, and get to bed yourself.'
'Can it be that Mrs. Graham that distresses you so?'
'No, no, I tell you - it's nothing.'
'I wish to goodness it mayn't,' murmured she, with a sigh, as she
returned to her own apartment, while I threw myself on the bed,
feeling most undutifully disaffected towards her for having
deprived me of what seemed the only shadow of a consolation that
remained, and chained me to that wretched couch of thorns.
Never did I endure so long, so miserable a night as that. And yet
it was not wholly sleepless. Towards morning my distracting
thoughts began to lose all pretensions to coherency, and shape
themselves into confused and feverish dreams, and, at length, there
followed an interval of unconscious slumber. But then the dawn of
bitter recollection that succeeded - the waking to find life a
blank, and worse than a blank, teeming with torment and misery -
not a mere barren wilderness, but full of thorns and briers - to
find myself deceived, duped, hopeless, my affections trampled upon,
my angel not an angel, and my friend a fiend incarnate - it was
worse than if I had not slept at all.
It was a dull, gloomy morning; the weather had changed like my
prospects, and the rain was pattering against the window. I rose,
nevertheless, and went out; not to look after the farm, though that
would serve as my excuse, but to cool my brain, and regain, if
possible, a sufficient degree of composure to meet the family at
the morning meal without exciting inconvenient remarks. If I got a
wetting, that, in conjunction with a pretended over-exertion before
breakfast, might excuse my sudden loss of appetite; and if a cold
ensued, the severer the better - it would help to account for the
sullen moods and moping melancholy likely to cloud my brow for long
enough.
