and the famous bridge; or splendid Richmond Castle on its height above
the Swale; or the exhilarating North Road; or charming Ripon; or even
the exquisite, almost heart-breaking beauty of ruined Fountains Abbey,
by the little river that sings its dirge in music sweeter than harp or
violin. No, he couldn't have put his soul into his eyes for them, and I
didn't. I was almost sorry that we were to go on and see Harrogate and
the Strid and Bolton Abbey, because in my restlessness I didn't feel
intelligent enough to appreciate anything. I could only be dully
thankful that the sword hadn't pierced me yet; but I wanted to be alone,
and shut my eyes, and not have to talk, especially to Mrs. Norton.
[Illustration: "_The exquisite beauty of ruined Fountains Abbey_"]
Dimly I realized that Harrogate seemed a very pretty place, where it
might be amusing to stay, and take baths and nice walks, and listen to
music; and my bodily eyes saw well enough how lovely was the way through
Niddersdale and Ilkley to Pately Bridge, where we had to get out and
walk through enchanted woods to the foaming cauldron of the Strid. The
water, swollen by rain, raced over its rocks below the crags of the
tragic jump, like a white horse running away, mad with unreasoning
terror. Nevertheless, my bodily eyes were only glass windows which my
spirit had deserted. It left them blank still, at Bolton Abbey, which is
poetically beautiful (though not as lovable as Fountains), on, up the
great brown hill of Barden Moor, through Skipton, where, in the castle,
legend says Fair Rosamond lived; until--Haworth. There--before we came
to the steep, straight hill leading up to the bleak and huddled townlet
bitten out of the moor, my spirit rushed to the windows. The voices of
Charlotte Brontë and her sister Emily called it back, and it obeyed at a
word, though all the beauty of wooded hills and fleeting streams had
vanished, as if frightened by the cold, relentless winds of the high
moorland.
Rain had begun to fall. The sky was leaden, the sharp hill muddy;
everything seemed to combine in giving an effect of grimness, as the car
forged steadily up, up toward the poor home the Brontës loved.
Isn't it a beautiful miracle, the banishing of black darkness by the
clear light of genius? It was that light which had lured us away from
all the charms of nature to a region of ugliness, even of squalor. The
Brontës had lived there. They had pined for Haworth when away. Emily had
written about the "spot 'mid barren hills, where winter howls, and
driving rain." They had thought there, worked there, the wondrous
sisters; they had illuminated the mean place, and made it a lodestar for
the world.
When we reached the top of the hill (which was almost like reaching a
ceiling after climbing the side of a hideous brown-painted wall), I
forgot my own troubles in thinking of the Brontës' tragedy of poverty,
disappointment, and death.
We were in a poor street of a peculiarly depressing village, and could
not even see the moor that had given the Brontë girls inspiration,
though we knew it must stretch beyond. Even in bright sunshine there
could be no beauty in Haworth; but under that leaden sky, in the thick
mist of rain, the poor stone houses lining the way, the sordid,
unattractive shops were positively repellent. All that was not so dark a
gray as to look black was dull brown; and not a single window-pane had a
gleam of intelligence for the unwelcome strangers. I could imagine no
merriment in Haworth, nor any sound of laughter; yet the Brontës were
happy when they were children--at least, they thought they were; but it
would be too tragic if children didn't _think_ themselves happy.
There was the Black Bull Inn, where wretched Bramwell Brontë used to
carouse. Poor, weak vain-glorious fellow! I never pitied him till I saw
that gloomy stone box which meant "seeing life" to him. There was the
museum where the Brontë relics are kept--but we delayed going in that we
might see the old parsonage first, the shrine where the preserved relics
had once made "home." Oh, mother, the sadness of it, tucked away among
the crowding tombstones, all gray-brown together, among weeds and early
falling leaves! Here already it was autumn; and though I could fancy a
pale, frosty spring, and a white, ice-bound winter, my imagination could
conjure up no richness of summer.
[Illustration: "_The foaming cauldron of the Strid_"]
The gravestones crowding the gray old house in the churchyard, pushing
it back toward the moor, were thick as an army on parade--a sad, starved
army, where dying soldiers lean on each other for support; and the
parsonage, shadowed by dripping trees, was plain and uncompromising as a
sermon that warns you not to love the world or you will spend eternity
in hell. But behind--just beyond the wall--billowed the moor, monotonous
yet majestic, the scene that called to Emily and Charlotte Brontë's
hearts, always, when they were far away.
My heart contracted as I thought of them there; and when we'd walked
back to the village street, and been admitted to the museum, I was on
the point of crying--not for myself, but with the choked grief one might
have on opening a box of old letters from a loved, dead friend. It is
the most intimate, touching little jumble of pathetic souvenirs you ever
saw in a museum; more like treasures guarded by near relations than a
collection for public eyes to see; but that makes the poignant charm of
it. I could have sobbed on a pink print frock with a cape, such as Jane
Eyre might have worn at Thornfield, and on bits of unfinished
needlework, simple lace collars, and water-colour sketches with which
Charlotte tried to brighten the walls of her austere home. There was the
poor dear's wedding shawl, and a little checked silk dress of which I'm
sure she was innocently proud; a few fantastic drawings of Bramwell's; a
letter or two from the sisters; and a picture of the Reverend Carus
Wilson, who was supposed to be Mr. Brocklehurst; just the rather
handsome, well-fed, self-satisfied man you would expect him to be.
I think, dear, that Haworth has done me good, and helped me to be brave.
Again and again I turned, when we'd left, to look back at the church
tower, and try to gather some of the Brontë courage before we slipped
away down many a dark hill toward Bradford, as night gathered us in.
I may need all the courage that I have borrowed and cashed in advance,
because suspense is worse than the pain of any blow.
We leave here early to-morrow morning for Graylees Castle in
Warwickshire--and the tour is at an end.
Your Audrie, who loves and longs for you.
XL
AUDRIE BRENDON TO HER MOTHER
_Graylees Castle_,
_Night of September 12th_
Dearest and Wisest: I remember the first letter I wrote you (on
July Fourth) about the Ellaline business began with expressions
something like this: "Fireworks! Roman Candles!! Rockets!!!"
Well, my last letter about the Ellaline business begins with explosions,
too. A whole gunpowder plot has exploded: Dick's plot.
We got here in the afternoon; an uneventful run, for Sir Lionel was
always the same; cool but kind. I couldn't believe Dick had told him
anything.
Graylees is a place to be proud of, and you would never know there had
been a fire in the castle--but no injury was done to the oldest part.
Mrs. Norton says Graylees is called the "miniature Warwick," but it
doesn't look a miniature anything: it seems enormous. There's a great
hall, with suits of armour scattered about, and weapons of all periods
arranged in intricate patterns on the stone wall; and a minstrels'
gallery, and quantities of grand old Tudor and Stuart furniture; there's
a haunted picture-gallery where a murdered bride walks each Christmas
Eve, beautifully dressed; there's a suite of rooms in which kings and
queens have occasionally slept since the time when Henry Seventh
reigned; there's a priest's "hidie hole," and secret dungeons under the
big dining-hall where people used to revel while their prisoners
writhed; and--but I haven't seen nearly all yet.
The room allotted to me looks down from its high tower on to a mossy
moat choked with pink and white water lilies; on a stone terrace this
side of a sunken garden, a peacock plays sentinel, with his tail spread
like a jewelled shield; and against the sky dark, horizontal branches of
Lebanon cedars stretch, like arms of black-clad priests pronouncing a
blessing. May the blessing rest upon this house forever!
I hardly saw the country through which we came, though it was George
Eliot's country; and I half expected something to happen as soon as we
arrived; Sir Lionel perhaps turning on me at last, and saying icily: "I
know everything, but don't want a scandal. Go quietly, at once."
Nothing of the sort came to pass, however. We had tea in the great hall,
brought by an old butler who had known Sir Lionel when he visited the
uncle who left Graylees to him. Afterward, Mrs. Norton showed me "my
room," where already a maid engaged for "Miss Lethbridge" had unpacked
most of my things, the big luggage having arrived before us. My heart
gave a jump when I saw the drawers, and big cedar-lined wardrobes full
of finery; but settled down again when I remembered that almost
everything belonged to Ellaline, and that my legitimate possessions
could be packed again in about five minutes.
Before the change of friendship's weather at Chester, I think Sir Lionel
would have wanted to take me round his domain, indoors and out, but no
such suggestion was made. I was in my room, and there I stayed; but I
felt too restless to settle down and write to you. I kept waiting for
something, as you do for a clock to strike, when you know it is bound to
strike soon.
By and by it was time to dress for dinner. I couldn't bear to wear one
of the grand Ellaline dresses, so I put on the old black. I did look a
frump in it, in such a place as Graylees Castle, where everything ought
to be beautiful and rich, but I did my hair as nicely as I could, and
from the top of my head to my shoulders I wasn't so bad.
I went downstairs at eight o'clock, and Mrs. Senter was already in the
great hall, standing in front of the splendid stone fireplace, watching
her rings sparkle in the light of the wood fire, and resting one pretty
foot on a paw of the left-hand carved stone wolf that supports a ledge
of the mantelpiece--just as if it belonged to her and she had tamed it.
She glanced up when I appeared, and smiled vaguely, but didn't speak.
She seemed thoughtful.
After awhile, Emily came, swishing silkily. Mrs. Senter began to talk to
her, praising the place; and then, just before the quarter
past--dinner-time--Sir Lionel joined us, looking nice, but tired. Mrs.
Senter gave him a sweet smile, and he smiled back, absent-mindedly. He
gave her his arm in to dinner, and she did clever things with her
eyelashes, which made her seem to blush. She wore a white dress I'd not
seen yet, a simple string of pearls round her neck, and quite a maidenly
or bridal look. I couldn't wonder at Sir Lionel if he admired her! At
the dinner-table (which was beautiful with flowers, lots of silver, and
old crystal--a picture against the dark oak panelling) Mrs. Senter was
on his right hand, I on his left, his sister playing hostess. This was
as usual; but as it was the first time in his own house, somehow it made
Mrs. Senter seem of more importance. He and she talked together a good
deal, and she said some witty things, but spent herself mostly in
drawing him out. He didn't speak to me, except to deign a question about
my room, or ask whether I would have a certain thing to eat. I felt a
dreadful lump, and worth about "thirty cents," as Dad used to say.
After dinner, when Emily took us to a charming drawing-room, all white,
with an old spinet in one corner, Sir Lionel stopped away for a few
minutes; but when he came Mrs. Senter grabbed him immediately. She
wouldn't let him hear, when Emily inquired if I could sing, accompanying
myself on the spinet, but began asking him eagerly about the library,
which it seems is rather famous.
"You shall see it to-morrow, if you like," said he.
"Oh, mayn't I have a peep to-night?" she begged, prettily. "Do take me.
Just one peep."
So he took her, of course, and the peep prolonged itself indefinitely. I
had a sinking presentiment that my dreadful flare-up with Dick had been
in vain, and that after all she would inveigle him into proposing to her
this very night. Since I refused to tell him that her damask cheek was
being preyed upon by love of him, she would probably intimate as much
herself, and bury her head between her hands, looking incredibly sad and
lovable. Sir Lionel wouldn't be the man to fight such tactics as those!
I knew he didn't, wouldn't, and couldn't love her one little bit, but he
would be sorry for her, and sacrifice himself rather than she should
suffer for his sake, when he might make her happy.
Emily chatted to me pleasantly about the church, and the vicar at
Graylees, and family tombs, and such cheerful things, to which I said
"Yes" and "No" whenever she stopped; but a cold perspiration was coming
out on my forehead. I was just as sure as that I was alive, that Mrs.
Senter didn't mean to leave the library until Sir Lionel had made her a
present of himself, his books, and his castle. Probably my sub-conscious
self or astral body was there, hearing every word they said. Anyhow, I
_knew_. And I could do nothing. A thumb-screw or a rack would have been
a pleasant relief.
Suddenly we heard the sound of a carriage driving quickly up to the
house.
"Who can that be?" wondered Mrs. Norton. "It's after half-past nine."
"Very likely it's Mr. Burden," said I; the first moderately intelligent
remark I'd made since we were left together.
She agreed with me that this was probable; but when fifteen, twenty,
forty minutes passed by the clock, and Dick did not appear, she changed
her mind. It must have been someone to see Sir Lionel, she thought, on
business that wouldn't wait. I was not convinced of this, and longed for
her to ring and ask a footman who had come; but I couldn't very well
suggest it.
The house did sound so silent, that my ears rang, as they do when one
listens to a shell!
Ten; ten-fifteen; ten-thirty; a Louis Quatorze clock chimed. Hardly had
it got the last two strokes out of its mouth, when Sir Lionel opened the
door. He was pale, in that frightening way that tanned skins do turn
pale, and he didn't seem to see his sister. He looked straight past her
at me, and his eyes shone.
"I want very much to speak to you," he said. His voice shook ever so
slightly, as if he were going into a battle where he knew he would be
killed, and felt solemn about it, but otherwise was rather pleased than
not.
Then I knew my time had come. I almost looked for the steps of the
guillotine, but I was suddenly too blind to see them if they had been
under my nose.
"Very well," I said, and got up from my chair.
"Oh," exclaimed Emily, "don't go. If you have anything to say to
Ellaline, which you'd like to say to her alone, let me go. I am getting
sleepy, and was just thinking about bed. Perhaps I might say good-night
to you both?"
"Good-night, dear," answered Sir Lionel. I had never heard him call her
that before.
"Say good-night to Mrs. Senter for me," went on Emily to us both.
"Yes," said Sir Lionel. But I don't think he had heard.
Mrs. Norton swished silkily out. The door shut. I braced myself, and
looked up at him. His eyes were on my face, and they were full of light.
I supposed it must be righteous anger; but it was a beautiful look--too
good to waste on such a passion, even a righteous form of it.
"You poor child," he said in a low voice, standing quite near me. "You
have gone through a great deal."
I started as if he had shot me--that way of beginning was so different
from anything I had expected.
"Wh-what do you mean?" I stammered.
"That I always knew you were brave, but that you're a hundred times
braver than I thought you. Dick has come back. He has brought with him
a girl and a man from Scotland--bride and groom."
All the strength went out of me. I felt as if my body had turned to
liquid and left only my brain burning, and my heart throbbing. But I
didn't fall. I fancy I caught the back of a tall chair, and held on for
dear life.
"Ellaline," I murmured.
"Yes, Ellaline," he said. "Thank God, you are not Ellaline."
"Thank God?" I echoed in weak wonder.
"I thank God, yes, because it was killing me to believe that you were
Ellaline--to believe you false, and frivolous, and a flirt, just because
of the blood I thought you had in your veins. And I exaggerated
everything you did, till I made a mountain out of each fancied fault.
That fellow Burden brought Ellaline here--just married to her Frenchman
to-day--because he wanted to ruin you. He told me with pride how he'd
ferretted out the whole secret--traced you to your address in
Versailles, learned your real name--told everything, in fact, except
that he'd been blackmailing you, forcing you for your friend's sake to
actions you hated. He didn't tell me that part, naturally, but there was
no need, because I guessed----"
"What--what have you done to him?" The words came limping, because of
the look in his eyes, which shot forth a sword.
"Oh, unluckily it's under my own roof, so I could do no more than bid
him clear out if he didn't want to be kicked out!"
"Gone!" I whispered.
"Yes, gone. And as Mrs. Senter's very loyal to her nephew, she prefers
to leave with him, though she has had nothing to do with his
plottings--didn't even know, and I asked her to stay. She insists on
going to-night when he does. I'm sorry. But it can't be helped. I cannot
think of her now."
"Ellaline----" I began faintly; but he cut me short, with a kind of
generous impatience. "Yes, yes, you shall see her. She wants to see you,
now that she understands, but----"
"Understands?"
"Why, you see, that little beast, Dick Burden--whose mother's staying
near where Ellaline was in Scotland--went there straight from
Bamborough, and put the girl up to believe you'd been playing her
false--prejudicing me against her interests, trying to keep for yourself
things that ought to be hers; so apparently she worked herself into a
hysterical state--must have, or she wouldn't have believed him against
you; and the instant she was married to her Frenchman, who'd come to
claim her, all three dashed off here to 'confront' you, as that cad
Burden explained to me. I couldn't understand what they were all driving
at just at first, but I saw that the girl was the living image of her
mother, consequently the thing didn't need as much explaining in any way
as it might otherwise."
"She was horribly afraid you wouldn't let her marry him," I broke in,
getting breath and voice back at last.
"So she said. Oh, when she knew Burden had lied to her about you, she
repented her disloyalty, and told me how you hated the whole thing. I
don't wonder she thought me a brute, never writing, never seeming to
care whether she was alive or dead; I see now I was a brute; but it's
you who've shown me that, not she. However, she will reap the benefit. I
daresay three months ago I should have growled over such a marriage,
felt inclined to wash my hands of the girl, perhaps, but now--now I'm
delighted to have her married and--_off_ my hands. That sounds callous,
but I can't help it. It's true. The Frenchman seems a gentleman, and
fond of her--trust Ellaline de Nesville's daughter to make men fall in
love!--and I wish them both joy."
"But--but if he's poor?" I dared to question.
"Oh, that'll be all right. I'm so thankful for the way everything has
turned out, I'd give her half my fortune. That would be asinine, of
course; but I shall settle a thousand a year on her for life, and give
her a wedding present of a cheque for twenty thousand, I think. Should
you say that would be enough to satisfy them?"
"They ought to be distracted with joy," I said (though deep in my heart
I knew that Ellaline is never likely to be satisfied with anything done
for her. She always feels it might have been a little more). "But," I
went on, "maybe it's selfish to think of myself now--but I can't help it
for a moment. I have been so ashamed--so humiliated, I could hardly
bear--and yet I know you won't, you can't, see that there's any
excuse----"
"Didn't I tell you that I thought you very brave?" he asked, looking at
me more kindly than I deserved.
"Yes. And I was brave." I took credit to myself. "But brave people can
be wicked. I have hated myself, knowing how you'd hate me when----"
"I don't hate you," he said. "The question is--do you hate me?"
I gasped--because I was so far from hating him; and suddenly I was
afraid he might suspect exactly _how_ far. "No," said I. "But then, that
is different. I never had any reason to hate you."
"Didn't Ellaline warn you I was a regular dragon?"
I couldn't help laughing, because that had been our very name for him.
"Oh, well, she----" I began to apologize.
"You needn't be afraid to confess," said he. "In the exuberance of her
relief at finding all well, and not only being forgiven, but petted, she
told me what a different man I was from the murderous image in her mind;
and that she saw now you were right about me. Is it possible you
defended me to her?"
"But of course," I said.
"In spite of all the injustice I did you--and showed that I did you?"
"I always felt myself to blame, and yet--yet it hurt me when I saw you
disapproved of me. Since Chester----"
"It was that ring stuck in my throat," said he.
"You knew?" I stammered, turning red.
"Saw it in a shop window. And now I know why you did it--why you did
everything, I think. Heavens, what good it would have done me to kick
that little beast Burden all around the park!"
"There wouldn't have been anything left of him, if you had," I giggled,
beginning to feel hysterical. "Oh, I am glad he's gone, though. I shall
be going myself to-morrow, of course, but----"
"No," he said. "No, that must not be. I--Ellaline wants you."
"Hadn't I better see her now?" I asked meekly.
"Not yet. Tell me--did that cad try you too far at Bamborough, and did
you defy him?"
I nodded Yes.
"What did he do?"
"He didn't do anything. He wanted me to promise something."
"To marry him at once?" Sir Lionel was looking dangerous.
"No-o. It wasn't anything about me. I can't tell you, because it
concerns someone else. Please don't ask me."
"I won't. If it concerns someone else, not yourself, I don't care. Yes,
I do, though. Did it concern me? Can you answer me that?"
"I can answer so far, if you don't press me further. It did concern you.
I would not sacrifice you to--but I don't want to go on, please!"
"You shan't. That's enough. You sacrificed yourself rather than
sacrifice me. You----"
"I'd sinned enough against you."
"You gave me back my youth."
"I?"
"Don't you know I love you--worship you--adore you?"
Yes, _he said that_, mother. His lips said it, and his dear, dear eyes.
I looked up to them, and mine overflowed, and he needed no other answer,
for he took me in his arms. I didn't know people could be so happy. I
could have died in that moment, only I would much, much rather live.
In a few minutes we told each other heaps of things about the way we
felt, and the way we _had_ felt, and compared notes; and it was
heavenly. He'd bought back the darling ring in Chester, and now he put
it on my finger again; and I'm sure, dearest, that you won't mind our
being engaged?
He says he has adored me ever since the first day, and will to the last,
then on into the next world, because there can't be a next world that
won't be full of his love for me. And I adore him, ah, _how_ I adore
him--and you will come here to live with us in this beautiful old
castle, where, like the Prince and Princess of the fairy stories, we
will be happy ever after.
I have seen Ellaline, and she is well and hugged me a great deal. Her
Honoré is really very handsome; but I can't write about them now, though
they have been so important in my life; and without them there would
have been no life worth speaking of.
Emily and Lionel (I am to call him that now) will take me to you, and
everything shall be arranged as you wish.
Dear little, wise mother, I wonder if you ever thought it might end like
this? I didn't. But he is the most glorious man who ever happened. Only,
he didn't happen. All the rest of the world--not counting you--happened.
He just had to be.
Your loving, perfectly happy
Audrie.