Chapter VIII: Conclusion: 228 (6)

MY DEAR MISS ----,--Your last kind letter ought to have been
answered long since, and would have been, did I find it practicable
to proportion the promptitude of the response to the value I place
upon my correspondents and their communications. You will easily
understand, however, that the contrary rule often holds good, and
that the epistle which importunes often takes precedence of that
which interests. My publishers express entire satisfaction with the
reception which has been accorded to "Villette." And, indeed, the
majority of the reviews has been favourable enough. You will be
aware, however, that there is a minority, small in character, which
views the work with no favourable eye. "Currer Bell's" remarks on
Romanism have drawn down on him the condign displeasure of the High
Church party, which displeasure has been unequivocally expressed
through their principal organs, _The Guardian_, _The English
Churchman_, and _The Christian Remembrancer_. I can well
understand that some of the charges launched against me by these
publications will tell heavily to my prejudice in the minds of
most readers. But this must be borne; and for my part, I can
suffer no accusation to oppress me much which is not supported by
the inward evidence of Conscience and Reason. "Extremes meet,"
says the proverb; in proof whereof I would mention that Miss
Martineau finds with "Villette" nearly the same fault as the
Puseyites. She accuses me of attacking Popery "with virulence," of
going out of my way to assault it "passionately." In other
respects she has shown, with reference to the work, a spirit so
strangely and unexpectedly acrimonious, that I have gathered
courage to tell her that the gulf of mutual difference between her
and me is so wide and deep, the bridge of union so slight and
uncertain, I have come to the conclusion that frequent intercourse
would be most perilous and unadvisable, and have begged to adjourn
_sine die_ my long-projected visit to her. Of course she is now
very angry, but it cannot be helped. Two or three weeks since I
received a long and kind letter from Mr. ----, which I answered a
short time ago. I believe he thinks me a much better advocate for
_change_, and what is called "political progress," than I am.
However, in my reply I did not touch on these subjects. He
intimated a wish to publish some of his own MSS. I fear he would
hardly like the somewhat dissuasive tendency of my answer; but
really, in these days of headlong competition, it is a great risk
to publish.

April 18th, 1853.

If all be well, I think of going to Manchester about the close of
this week. I only intend staying a few days; but I can say nothing
about coming back by B----. Do not expect me; I would rather see
you at Haworth by-and-by. Two or three weeks since, Miss Martineau
wrote to ask why she did not hear from me, and to press me to go
to Ambleside. Explanations ensued; the notes on each side were
quite civil; but, having deliberately formed my resolution on
substantial grounds, I adhered to it. I have declined being her
visitor, and bid her good-bye. It is best so; the antagonism of
our natures and principles was too serious to be trifled with.

This difference with Miss Martineau is not a thing to dwell on now. The pity is that two women so truthful, so sincere, so bold in their utterances should ever have differed. Charlotte Brontë had known how to stand bravely by Miss Martineau when she believed that the latter was suffering because of her honestly-formed opinions; she had known how to speak on her behalf with timely generosity and force. But her sensitive nature was wounded to the quick by criticisms which she believed to be unjust; and so these two great women parted, and met again no more.

To the mental pain which she was now suffering from her father's conduct there was added keen physical torture. During this summer of 1853 many of her letters contain sentences like this: "I have been suffering most severely for ten days with continued pain in the head--on the nerves it is said to be. Blistering at last seems to have done it some good; but I am yet weak and bewildered." A visit from Mrs. Gaskell, who came to see how Haworth looked in its autumn robe of splendour, did her some good; but still more was gained by a journey to the seaside in the company of her old friend and schoolmistress, Miss Wooler, before which she had addressed to her the following letter:

Haworth, August 30th, 1853.

MY DEAR MISS W.,--I was from home when your kind letter came, and,
as it was not forwarded, I did not get it till my return. All the
summer I have felt the wish and cherished the intention to join you
for a brief period at the seaside; nor do I yet entirely relinquish
the purpose, though its fulfilment must depend on my father's
health. At present he complains so much of weakness and depressed
spirits, that no thoughts of leaving him can be entertained. Should
he improve, however, I would fain come to you before autumn is
quite gone.

My late absence was but for a week, when I accompanied Mr. and
Mrs. ---- and baby on a trip to Scotland. They went with the
intention of taking up their quarters at Kirkcudbright, or some
watering-place on the Solway Firth. We hardly reached that
locality, and had stayed but one night, when the baby (that rather
despotic member of modern households) exhibited some symptoms of
indisposition. To my unskilled perception its ailments appeared
very slight, nowise interfering with its appetite or spirits; but
parental eyes saw the matter in a different light. The air of
Scotland was pronounced unpropitious to the child, and
consequently we had to retrace our steps. I own I felt some little
reluctance to leave "bonnie Scotland" so soon and so abruptly, but
of course I could not say a word, since, however strong on my own
mind the impression that the ailment in question was very trivial
and temporary (an impression confirmed by the issue), I could not
be absolutely certain that such was the case; and had any evil
consequences followed a prolonged stay, I should never have
forgiven myself.

Ilkley was the next place thought of. We went there, but I only
remained three days, for, in the hurry of changing trains at one
of the stations, my box was lost, and without clothes I could not
stay. I have heard of it twice, but have not yet regained it. In
all probability it is now lying at Kirkcudbright, where it was
directed.

Notwithstanding some minor trials, I greatly enjoyed this little
excursion. The scenery through which we travelled from Dumfries to
Kirkcudbright (a distance of thirty miles, performed outside a
stage-coach) was beautiful, though not at all of a peculiarly
Scottish character, being richly cultivated and well wooded. I
liked Ilkley, too, exceedingly, and shall long to revisit the
place. On the whole, I thought it for the best that circumstances
obliged me to return home so soon, for I found Papa far from well.
He is something better now, yet I shall not feel it right to leave
him again till I see a more thorough re-establishment of health
and strength.

With some things to regret and smile at, I saw things to admire in
the small family party with which I travelled. Mr. ---- makes a
most devoted father and husband. I admired his great kindness to
his wife; but I rather groaned (inwardly) over the unbounded
indulgence of both parents towards their only child. The world
does not revolve round the sun; that is a mistake. Certain babies,
I plainly perceive, are the important centre of all things. The
papa and mamma could only take their meals, rest, and exercise at
such times and in such manner as the despotic infant permitted.
While Mrs. ---- eat her dinner, Mr. ---- relieved guard as nurse.
A nominal nurse, indeed, accompanied the party, but her place was
a sort of anxious waiting sinecure, as the child did not fancy her
attendance. Tenderness to offspring is a virtue, yet I think I
have seen mothers who were most tender and thoughtful, yet in very
love for their children would not permit them to become tyrants
either over themselves or others.

I shall be glad and grateful, my dear Miss W., to hear from you
again whenever you have time or inclination to write--though, as I
told you before, there is no fear of my misunderstanding silence.
Should you leave Hornsea before winter sets in, I trust you will
just come straight to Haworth, and pay your long-anticipated visit
there before you go elsewhere. Papa and the servants send their
respects. I always duly deliver your kind messages of remembrance,
because they give pleasure.

December came, and she writes to this friend expressing her wonder as to how she is spending the long winter evenings--"alone, probably, like me." It was a dreary winter for her; but the spring was at hand. Mr. Brontë, studying his daughter with keen eyes, could not hide from himself the fact that her health and spirits were drooping now as they had never drooped before. All work with the pen was laid aside; and household cares, attendance upon her father or on the old servant, who now also needed to be waited upon, occupied her time; but her heart was heavy with a burden such as she had never previously known. At last the stern nature of the man was broken down by his genuine affection for his daughter. His opposition to her marriage was suddenly laid aside; he asked her to recall Mr. Nicholls to Haworth, and with characteristic waywardness he now became as anxious that the wedding should take place as he had ever been that it should be prevented.

There was a curious misadventure regarding the letter inviting Mr. Nicholls to Haworth, which is explained in the first of the letters I now quote.

Haworth, March 28th, 1854.

The enclosure in yours of yesterday puzzled me at first, for I did
not immediately recognise my own handwriting. When I did, the
sensation was one of consternation and vexation, as the letter
ought by all means to have gone on Friday. It was intended to
relieve him from great anxiety. However, I trust he will get it
to-day; and, on the whole, when I think it over, I can only be
thankful that the mistake was no worse, and did not throw the
letter into the hands of some indifferent and unscrupulous person.
I wrote it after some days of indisposition and uneasiness, and
when I felt weak and unfit to write. While writing to _him_ I
was at the same time intending to answer _your_ note; which I
suppose accounts for the confusion of ideas shown in the mixed and
blundering address.

I wish you could come about Easter rather than at another time,
for this reason. Mr. Nicholls, if not prevented, proposes coming
over then. I suppose he will be staying at Mr. ----'s, as he has
done two or three times before; but he will be frequently coming
here, which would enliven your visits a little. Perhaps, too, he
might take a walk with us occasionally. Altogether, it would be a
little change for you, such as you know I could not always offer.
If all be well, he will come under different circumstances to any
that have attended his visits before. Were it otherwise, I should
not ask you to meet him, for when aspects are gloomy and
unpropitious, the fewer there are to suffer from the cloud, the
better. He was here in January, and was then received.... I trust
it will be a little different now. Papa has breakfasted in bed
to-day, and has not yet risen. His bronchitis is still
troublesome. I had a bad week last week, but am greatly better
now, for my mind is a little relieved, though very sedate, and
rising only to expectations the most moderate. Some time, perhaps
in May, I may be in your neighbourhood, and shall then hope to
come to B.; but, as you will understand from what I have now
stated, I could not come before. Think it over, dear E., and come
to Haworth if you can.

April 11th, 1854.

The result of Mr. Nicholls's visit is that Papa's consent is
gained and his respect won, for Mr. Nicholls has in all things
proved himself disinterested and forbearing. He has shown, too,
that, while his feelings are exquisitely keen, he can freely
forgive.... In fact, dear Ellen, I am engaged. Mr. Nicholls in the
course of a few months will return to the curacy of Haworth. I
stipulated that I would not leave Papa, and to Papa himself I
proposed a plan of residence which should maintain his seclusion
and convenience uninvaded, and in a pecuniary sense bring him gain
instead of loss. What seemed at one time impossible is now
arranged, and Papa begins really to take a pleasure in the
prospect. For myself, dear E----, while thankful to One who seems
to have guided me through much difficulty, much and deep distress
and perplexity of mind, I am still very calm.... What I taste of
happiness is of the soberest order. Providence offers me this
destiny. Doubtless, then, it is the best for me; nor do I shrink
from wishing those dear to me one not less happy. It is possible
that our marriage may take place in the course of the summer. Mr.
Nicholls wishes it to be in July. He spoke of you with great
kindness, and said he hoped you would be at our wedding. I said I
thought of having no other bridesmaid. Did I say right? I mean the
marriage to be literally _as quiet as possible_. Do not mention
these things as yet. Good-bye. There is a strange, half-sad
feeling in making these announcements. The whole thing is
something other than the imagination paints it beforehand--cares,
fears, come mixed inextricably with hopes. I trust yet to talk the
matter over with you.

So at length the day had dawned, and every letter now is filled with the hopes and cares of the expectant bride.

April 15th.

I hope to see you somewhere about the second week in May. The
Manchester visit is still hanging over my head; I have deferred it
and deferred it, but have finally promised to go about the
beginning of next month. I shall only stay about three days; then
I spend two or three days at H., then come to B. The three visits
must be compressed into the space of a fortnight, if possible. I
suppose I shall have to go to Leeds. My purchases cannot be either
expensive or extensive. You must just resolve in your head the
bonnets and dresses: something that can be turned to decent use
and worn after the wedding-day will be best, I think. I wrote
immediately to Miss W----, and received a truly kind letter from
her this morning. Papa's mind seems wholly changed about this
matter; and he has said, both to me and when I was not there, how
much happier he feels since he allowed all to be settled. It is a
wonderful relief for me to hear him treat the thing rationally,
and quietly and amicably to talk over with him themes on which
once I dared not touch. He is rather anxious that things should
get forward now, and takes quite an interest in the arrangement of
preliminaries. His health improves daily, though this east wind
still keeps up a slight irritation in the throat and chest. The
feeling which has been disappointed in Papa was _ambition_--paternal
pride--ever a restless feeling, as we all know. Now that this
unquiet spirit is exorcised, justice, which was once quite
forgotten, is once more listened to, and affection, I hope, resumes
some power. My hope is that in the end this arrangement will turn
out more truly to Papa's advantage than any other it was in my
power to achieve. Mr. N. only in his last letter refers touchingly
to his earnest desire to prove his gratitude to Papa by offering
support and consolation to his declining age. This will not be mere
_talk_ with him. He is no talker, no dealer in mere professions.

April 28th.

Papa, thank God! continues to improve much. He preached twice on
Sunday, and again on Wednesday, and was not tired. His mind and
mood are different to what they were; so much more cheerful and
quiet. I trust the illusions of ambition are quite dissipated, and
that he really sees it is better to relieve a suffering and
faithful heart, to secure in its fidelity a solid good, than
unfeelingly to abandon one who is truly attached to _his_
interests as well as mine, and pursue some vain empty shadow.

Hemsworth, May 6th.

I came here on Thursday afternoon. I shall stay over Saturday and
Sunday, and, if all be well, I hope to come to B. on Monday, after
dinner, and just in time for tea. I leave you to judge by your own
feelings whether I long to see you or not. ---- tells me you are
looking better. She tells me also that I am not--rather ugly, as
usual. But never mind that, dear Nell--as, indeed, you never did.
On the whole, I _feel_ very decently at present, and within the
last fortnight have had much respite from headache. You are kind in
being so much in earnest in wishing for Mr. N. to come to B., and I
am sorry that circumstances do not favour such a step. But, knowing
how matters stood, I did not repeat the proposal to him, for I
thought it would be like tempting him to forget duty.

In the following letters, in addition to the pleasing side-lights which they throw upon her life in its new aspect, there is another feature which deserves to be noticed--that is, the exceeding tenderness with which the writer watches over her friend. The new love entering into her heart has but made the old love stronger, and she lavishes upon the sole remaining companion of her youth the care and affection which can no longer be bestowed upon sisters of her own blood.

Haworth, May 14th.

I took the time of the Leeds, Keighley, Skipton trains from the
February time-table, and when I got to Leeds found myself all
wrong. The trains on that line were changed. One had that moment
left the station--indeed, it was just steaming away; there was not
another till a quarter after five o'clock; so I had just four
hours to sit and twirl my thumbs. I got over the time somehow, but
I was vexed to think how much more pleasantly I might have spent
it at B. It was just seven o'clock when I reached home. I found
Papa well. It seems he has been particularly well during my
absence, but to-day he is a little sickly, and only preached once.
However, he is better again this evening. I could not leave you,
dear Ellen, with a very quiet mind, or take away a satisfied
feeling about you. Not that I think that bad cough lodged in a
dangerous quarter; but it shakes your system, wears you out, and
makes you look ill. _Take care of it, do, dear Ellen. Avoid the
evening air for a time_; keep in the house when the weather is
cold. Observe these precautions till the cough is quite gone, and
you regain strength, and feel better able to bear chill and
change. Believe me, it does not suit you at present to be much
exposed to variations of temperature. I send the mantle with this,
but have made up my mind not to let you have the cushion now, lest
you should sit stitching over it too closely. It will do any time,
and whenever it comes will be your present all the same.

May 22nd.

I wonder how you are, and whether that harassing cough is better;
but I am afraid the variable weather of last week will not have
been favourable to improvement. I _will_ not and _do_ not believe
the cough lies on any vital organ. Still it is a mark of weakness,
and a warning to be scrupulously careful about undue exposure. Just
now, dear Ellen, an hour's inadvertence might derange your whole
constitution for years to come--might throw you into a state of
chronic ill-health which would waste, fade, and wither you up
prematurely. So, once and again, TAKE CARE. If you go to ----,
or any other evening party, pack yourself in blankets and a
feather-bed to come home, also fold your boa twice over your mouth,
to serve as a respirator. Since I came home I have been very busy
sketching. The little new room is got into order now, and the green
and white curtains are up. They exactly suit the papering, and look
neat and clean enough. I had a letter a day or two since,
announcing that Mr. N. comes to-morrow. I feel anxious about him,
more anxious on one point than I dare quite express to myself. It
seems he has again been suffering sharply from his rheumatic
affection. I hear this not from himself, but from another quarter.
He was ill whilst I was at Manchester and B. He uttered no
complaint to me, dropped no hint on the subject. Alas! he was
hoping he had got the better of it; and I know how this
contradiction of his hopes will sadden him. For unselfish reasons
he did so earnestly wish this complaint might not become chronic. I
fear--I fear--but, however, I mean to stand by him now, whether in
weal or woe. This liability to rheumatic pain was one of the strong
arguments used against the marriage. It did not weigh, somehow. If
he is doomed to suffer, it seems that so much the more will he need
care and help. And yet the ultimate possibilities of such a case
are appalling. Well, come what may, God help and strengthen both
him and me. I look forward to to-morrow with a mixture of
impatience and anxiety. Poor fellow! I want to see with my own eyes
how he is.

Haworth, June 7th.

I am very glad and thankful to hear that you continue better,
though I am afraid your cough will have returned a little during
the late chilly change in the weather. Are you taking proper care
of yourself, and either staying in the house or going out warmly
clad, and with a boa doing duty as a respirator? On this last
point I incline particularly to insist, for you seemed careless
about it, and unconscious how much atmospheric harm the fine thick
hairs of the fur might ward off. I was very miserable about Papa
again some days ago. While the weather was so sultry and electric,
about a week since, he was suddenly attacked with deafness, and
complained of other symptoms which showed the old tendency to the
head. His spirits, too, became excessively depressed. It was all I
could do to keep him up, and I own I was sad and depressed myself.
However he took some medicine, which did him good. The change to
cooler weather, too, has suited him. The temporary deafness has
quite disappeared for the present, and his head is again clear and
cool. I can only earnestly trust he will continue better. That
unlucky ---- continues his efforts to give what trouble he can,
and I am obliged to conceal things from Papa's knowledge as well
as I can, to spare him that anxiety which hurts him so much.... I
feel compelled to throw the burden of the contest upon Mr.
Nicholls, who is younger and can bear it better. The worst of it
is, Mr. N. has not Papa's right to speak and act, or he would do
it to purpose. I should then have to mediate, not rouse; to play
the part of

Feather-bed 'twixt castle-wall
And heavy brunt of cannon-ball.

June 16th.

MY DEAR MISS W----,--Owing to certain untoward proceedings, matters
have hitherto been kept in such a state of uncertainty that I could
not make any approach towards fixing the day; and now, if I would
avoid inconveniencing Papa, I must hurry. I believe the
commencement of July is the furthest date upon which I can
calculate; possibly I may be obliged to accept one still
nearer--the close of June. I cannot quite decide till next week.
Meantime, will you, my dear Miss W----, come as soon as you
possibly can, and let me know at your earliest convenience the
day of your arrival. I have written to Ellen, begging her to
communicate with you.... Your absence would be a real and grievous
disappointment. Papa also seems much to wish your presence. Mr.
Nicholls enters with true kindness into my wish to have all done
quietly; and he has made such arrangements as will, I trust, secure
literal privacy. Yourself, Ellen, and Mr. S. will be the only
persons present at the ceremony. Mr. and Mrs. G. are asked to the
breakfast afterwards. I know you will kindly excuse this brief
note, for I am and have been _very_ busy, and must still be busy up
to the very day. Give my sincere love to all Mr. C----'s family. I
hope Mr. C. and Mr. Nicholls may meet some day. I believe mutual
acquaintance would in time bring mutual respect; but one of them,
at least, requires _knowing_ to be _appreciated_. And I must say
that I have not yet found him to lose with closer knowledge. I make
no grand discoveries, but I occasionally come upon a quiet little
nook of character which excites esteem. He is always reliable,
truthful, faithful, affectionate; a little unbending, perhaps, but
still persuadable and open to kind influence--a man never, indeed,
to be driven, but who may be led.

The marriage took place on June 29th, 1854. A neighbouring clergyman read the service; Charlotte's "dear Nell" was the solitary bridesmaid; her old schoolmistress, whose friendship had ever been dear to her, Miss Wooler, gave her away; and visitors to Haworth who are shown the marriage register will see that these two faithful and trusted friends were the only witnesses. Immediately after the marriage the bride and bridegroom started for Ireland, to visit some of the relatives of Mr. Nicholls. "I trust I feel thankful to God for having enabled me to make a right choice; and I pray to be enabled to repay as I ought the affectionate devotion of a truthful, honourable, unboastful man," are words which appear in the first letter written from Ireland. A month later the bride writes as follows to her friend:

Dublin, July 28th, 1854.

I really cannot rest any longer without writing you a line, which
I have literally not had time to do during the last fortnight. We
have been travelling about, with only just such cessation as
enabled me to answer a few of the many notes of congratulation
forwarded, and which I dared not suffer to accumulate till my
return, when I know I shall be busy enough. We have been to
Killarney, Glen Gariffe, Tarbert, Tralee, Cork, and are now once
more in Dublin again on our way home, where we hope to arrive next
week. I shall make no effort to describe the scenery through which
we have passed. Some parts have exceeded all I ever imagined. Of
course, much pleasure has sprung from all this, and more, perhaps,
from the kind and ceaseless protection which has ever surrounded
me, and made travelling a different matter to me from what it has
heretofore been. Dear Nell, it is written that there shall be no
unmixed happiness in this world. Papa has not been well, and I
have been longing, _longing intensely_ sometimes, to be at
home. Indeed, I could enjoy and rest no more, and so home we are
going.

It was a new life to which she was returning. Wedded to one who had proved by years of faithfulness and patience how strong and real was his love for her, it seemed as though peace and sunshine, the brightness of affection and the pleasures of home, were at length about to settle upon her and around her. The bare sitting-room in the parsonage, which for six years of loneliness and anguish had been peopled only by the heart-sick woman and the memories of those who had left her, once more resounded with the voices of the living. The husband's strong and upright nature furnished something for the wife to lean against; the painful sense of isolation which had so long oppressed her vanished utterly, and in its place came that "sweet sense of depending" which is the most blessed fruit of a trustful love. A great calm seemed to be breathed over the spirit of her life after the fitful fever which had raged so long; and her friends saw new shoots of tenderness, new blossoms of gentleness and affection, peeping forth in nooks of her character which had hitherto been barren. Of her letters during these happy months of peace and expectation I cannot quote much; they are too closely intertwined with the life of those who survive to permit of this being done; but all of them breathe the same spirit. They show that the courage, the patience, the cheerfulness with which the rude buffetings of fate had been borne in that stormy middle-passage of her history, had brought their own reward; and that joy had come at last, not perhaps in the shape she had imagined in her early youth, but as a substantial reality, and no longer a mocking illusion.

August 9th, 1854.

---- will probably end by accepting ----; and judging from what you
say, it seems to me that it would be rational to do so. If, indeed,
some one else whom she preferred _wished_ to have her, and had duly
and sincerely come forward, matters would be different. But this it
appears is not the case; and to cherish any _unguarded_ and
unsustained preference is neither right nor wise. Since I came home
I have not had one unemployed moment. My life is changed indeed; to
be wanted continually, to be constantly called for and occupied,
seems so strange; yet it is a marvellously good thing. As yet I
don't quite understand how some wives grow so selfish. As far as my
experience of matrimony goes, I think it tends to draw you out and
away from yourself.... Dear Nell, during the last six weeks the
colour of my thoughts is a good deal changed. I know more of the
realities of life than I once did. I think many false ideas are
propagated, perhaps unintentionally. I think those married women
who indiscriminately urge their acquaintance to marry, much to
blame. For my part I can only say with deeper sincerity and fuller
significance, what I always said in theory: Wait God's will.
Indeed, indeed, Nell, it is a solemn and strange and perilous thing
for a woman to become a wife. Man's lot is far, far different....
Have I told you how much better Mr. Nicholls is? He looks quite
strong and hale. To see this improvement in him has been a great
source of happiness to me; and, to speak truth, a source of wonder
too.

Haworth, September 7th, 1854.

I send a French paper to-day. You would almost think I had given
them up, it is so long since one was despatched. The fact is they
had accumulated to quite a pile during my absence. I wished to
look them over before sending them off, and as yet I have scarcely
found time. That same _time_ is an article of which I once had a
large stock always on hand; where it is all gone to now it would
be difficult to say, but my moments are very fully occupied. Take
warning, Ellen. The married woman can call but a very small
portion of each day her own. Not that I complain of this sort of
monopoly as yet, and I hope I never shall incline to regard it as
a misfortune, but it certainly exists. We were both disappointed
that you could not come on the day I mentioned. I have grudged
this splendid weather very much. The moors are in their glory; I
never saw them fuller of purple bloom; I wanted you to see them at
their best. They are fast turning now, and in another week, I
fear, will be faded and sere. As soon as ever you can leave home,
be sure to write and let me know.... Papa continues greatly
better. My husband flourishes; he begins indeed to express some
slight alarm at the growing improvement in his condition. I think
I am decent--better certainly than I was two months ago; but
people don't compliment me as they do Arthur--excuse the name; it
has grown natural to use it now.

Haworth, September 16th, 1854.

MY DEAR MISS ----,--You kindly tell me not to write while Ellen is
with me; I am expecting her this week; and as I think it would be
wrong long to defer answering a letter like yours, I will reduce
to practice the maxim: "There is no time like the present," and do
it at once. It grieves me that you should have had any anxiety
about my health; the cough left me before I quitted Ireland, and
since my return home I have scarcely had an ailment, except
occasional headaches. My dear father, too, continues much better.
Dr. B---- was here on Sunday, preaching a sermon for the Jews, and
he gratified me much by saying that he thought Papa not at all
altered since he saw him last--nearly a year ago. I am afraid this
opinion is rather flattering; but still it gave me pleasure, for I
had feared that he looked undeniably thinner and older. You ask
what visitors we have had. A good many amongst the clergy, &c., in
the neighbourhood, but none of note from a distance. Haworth is,
as you say, a very quiet place; it is also difficult of access,
and unless under the stimulus of necessity, or that of strong
curiosity, or finally, that of true and tried friendship, few take
courage to penetrate to so remote a nook. Besides, now that I am
married, I do not expect to be an object of much general interest.
Ladies who have won some prominence (call it either _notoriety_ or
celebrity) in their single life, often fall quite into the
background when they change their names. But if true domestic
happiness replace fame, the change is indeed for the better. Yes,
I am thankful to say that my husband is in improved health and
spirits. It makes me content and grateful to hear him, from time
to time, avow his happiness in the brief but plain phrase of
sincerity. My own life is more occupied than it used to be; I have
not so much time for thinking: I am obliged to be more practical,
for my dear Arthur is a very practical as well as a very punctual,
methodical man. Every morning he is in the national school by nine
o'clock; he gives the children religious instruction till
half-past ten. Almost every afternoon he pays visits amongst the
poor parishioners. Of course he often finds a little work for his
wife to do, and I hope she is not sorry to help him. I believe it
is not bad for me that his bent should be so wholly towards
matters of real life and active usefulness--so little inclined to
the literary and contemplative. As to his continued affection and
kind attentions, it does not become me to say much of them; but as
yet they neither change nor diminish. I wish, my dear Miss ----,
_you_ had some kind, faithful companion to enliven your solitude
at R----, some friend to whom to communicate your pleasure in the
scenery, the fine weather, the pleasant walks. You never complain,
never murmur, never seem otherwise than thankful; but I know you
must miss a privilege none could more keenly appreciate than
yourself.

There are other letters like the foregoing, all speaking of the constant occupation of time, which once hung heavily, all giving evidence that peace and love had made their home in her heart, all free from that strain of sadness which was so common in other years. One only of these letters, that written on the morrow of her last Christmas Day, need be quoted, however.

Haworth, December 26th.

I return Mrs. ----'s letter: it is as you say, very genuine,
truthful, affectionate, _maternal_, without a taint of sham or
exaggeration. She will love her child without spoiling it, I
think. She does not make an uproar about her happiness either. The
longer I live the more I suspect exaggerations. I fancy it is
sometimes a sort of fashion for each to vie with the other in
protestations about their wondrous felicity--and sometimes they
_fib_! I am truly glad to hear you are all better at B----. In the
course of three or four weeks now I expect to get leave to come
to you. I certainly long to see you again. One circumstance
reconciles me to this delay--the weather. I do not know whether it
has been as bad with you as with us; but here for three weeks we
have had little else than a succession of hurricanes.... You
inquire after Mrs. Gaskell. She has not been here, and I think I
should not like her to come now till summer. She is very busy now
with her story of "North and South." I must make this note very
short. Arthur joins me in sincere good wishes for a happy
Christmas and many of them to you and yours. He is well, thank
God, and so am I; and he _is_ "my dear boy" certainly--dearer
now than he was six months ago. In three days we shall actually
have been married that length of time.

There was not much time for literary labours during these happy months of married life. The wife, new to her duties, was engaged in mastering them with all the patience, self-suppression, and industry which had characterised her throughout her life. Her husband was now her first thought; and he took the time which had formerly been devoted to reading, study, thought, and writing. But occasionally the pressure she was forced to put upon herself was very severe. Mr. Nicholls had never been attracted towards her by her literary fame; with literary effort, indeed, he had no sympathy, and upon the whole he would rather that his wife should lay aside her pen entirely than that she should gain any fresh triumphs in the world of letters. So she submitted, and with cheerful courage repressed that "gift" which had been her solace in sorrows deep and many. Yet once "the spell" was too strong to be resisted, and she hastily wrote a few pages of a new story called "Emma," in which once more she proposed to deal with her favourite theme--the history of a friendless girl. One would fain have seen how she would have treated her subject, now that "the colour of her thoughts" had been changed, and that a happy marriage had introduced her to a new phase of that life which she had studied so closely and so constantly. But it was not to be. On January 19, when she had returned to Haworth, after a visit to Sir J. K. Shuttleworth's, she wrote to her friend as follows. This letter was the last written in ink to her schoolfellow:

Haworth, January 19th, 1855.

Since our return from Gawthorpe we have had Mr. B----, one of
Arthur's cousins, staying with us. It was a great pleasure. I wish
you could have seen him and made his acquaintance: a true
gentleman by nature and cultivation is not, after all, an everyday
thing.... I very much wish to come to B----, and I hoped to be
able to write with certainty and fix Wednesday, the 31st January,
as the day; but the fact is I am not sure whether I shall be well
enough to leave home. At present I should be a most tedious
visitor. My health has really been very good ever since my return
from Ireland, till about ten days ago. Indigestion and continual
faint sickness have been my portion ever since. I never before
felt as I have done lately. I am rather mortified to lose my good
looks and grow thin as I am doing, just when I thought of going to
B----. Poor J----! I still hope he will get better, but A----
writes grievous though not always clear or consistent accounts.
Dear Ellen, I want to see you, and I hope I shall see you well.

Those around her were not alarmed at first. They hoped that before long all would be well with her again; they could not believe that the joys of which she had just begun to taste were about to be snatched away. But her weakness grew apace; the sickness knew no abatement; and a deadly fear began to creep into the hearts of husband and father. She was soon so weak that she was compelled to remain in bed, and from that "dreary bed" she wrote two or three faint pencil notes which still exist--the last pathetic chapters in that life-long correspondence from which we have gathered so many extracts. In one of them, which Mrs. Gaskell has published, she says: "I want to give you an assurance which I know will comfort you--and that is that I find in my husband the tenderest nurse, the kindest support, the best earthly comfort that ever woman had. His patience never fails, and it is tried by sad days and broken nights." In another, the last, she says: "I cannot talk--even to my dear, patient, constant Arthur I can say but few words at once." One dreary March morning, when frost still bound the earth and no spring sun had come to gladden the hearts of those who watched for summer, her friend received another letter, written, not in the neat, minute hand of Charlotte Brontë, but in her father's tremulous characters:

Haworth, near Keighley,
March 30th, 1855.

MY DEAR MADAM,--We are all in great trouble, and Mr. Nicholls so
much so that he is not sufficiently strong and composed as to be
able to write. I therefore devote a few lines to tell you that my
dear daughter is very ill, and apparently on the verge of the
grave. If she could speak she would no doubt dictate to us whilst
answering your kind letter. But we are left to ourselves to give
what answer we can. The doctors have no hope of her case, and
fondly as we a long time cherished hope, that hope is now gone; and
we have only to look forward to the solemn event with prayer to God
that He will give us grace and strength sufficient unto our day.

Ever truly and respectfully yours,

P. Brontë.

The following day, March 31st, 1855, the blinds were drawn once again at Haworth Parsonage; the last and greatest of the children of the house had passed away; and the brilliant name of Charlotte Brontë had become a name and nothing more! "We are left to ourselves," said Mr. Brontë in the letter I have just quoted--and so it was. Not the glory only, but the light, had fled from the parsonage where the childless father and the widowed husband sat together beside their dead. Of all the drear and desolate spots upon that wild Yorkshire moorland there was none now so dreary and so desolate as the house which had once been the home of Charlotte Brontë.

XII.

POSTHUMOUS HONOURS.

There is a deeper truth in the maxim which bids us judge no man happy till his death than most of us are apt to perceive. For sometimes the happiness of a life is crowned by death itself; and that which to the superficial gaze seems but the dreary and tragic close of the play, is really the welcome release from the burden which had become too heavy to be borne longer. But where life and breath fail suddenly in the moment of fullest hope, apparently in the moment also of greatest bliss, the strain upon our faith is almost too severe, and blinded and bewildered, we see nothing and feel nothing but the awful stroke of fate which has laid the loved one low, and the great gap which remains at the table and the hearth. It was with such a feeling as this that the outer world heard of that Easter-day tragedy which had been enacted to the bitter end among the Yorkshire hills. Those who knew the little household at Haworth had been watching, as has already been told, for that fulness of joy which seemed close at hand. They had seen the lonely authoress developing into the trustful happy wife, and they looked forward to no distant day when children should be gathered at her knee, and a new generation, born amid happier circumstances, freed from the strain and stress which had been laid upon her, should perpetuate a great name, and perhaps something of a great genius.

The announcement that all these hopes had been brought to nothing fell upon the world as a blow not easily to be borne. When it was made known that the author of "Jane Eyre" was dead, there rose up even from those who had been her bitter critics during her lifetime, a cry of pain and regret which would have astonished nobody more than herself had she been able to hear it. The genuine unaffected modesty which had enabled her to preserve the simplicity of her character amid all the temptations which thronged round her at the height of her fame, had prevented her from ever feeling herself to be a person of consequence in the world. What she did in the way of writing she did because she could not escape the commanding authority of her own genius; but the idea that by doing this she had made herself conspicuously great never once occurred to her. There is not a letter extant from her which shows that she thought anything of the fame or the fortune she had acquired. On the contrary everything that remains of her inner life proves that to the very last she esteemed herself as humbly as ever she did during the days of her "governessing" in Yorkshire or at Brussels. She knew of course that she attracted attention wherever she went; but her own unfeigned belief seems to have been that this attention was due solely to curiosity, and to curiosity of a not very pleasant or flattering kind. Brought up as she had been among those who regarded any literary pursuit, and above all the writing of a book, as something beyond the proper limits of the rights and duties of her sex, she had never quite escaped from the notion that in putting pen to paper she was in some vague way offending against the proprieties of society. It has been shown by an extract from one of her letters, how keenly and indignantly she repudiated the notion that she had ever written anything of which she needed to be ashamed. Her pure heart vindicated her absolutely upon that point. But, from first to last, she seemed during her literary career to feel that in writing novels she had sinned against the conventional canons, and that she was in consequence looked upon not as a great woman who had taken a lofty place in the republic of letters, but as a social curiosity who had done something which made her for the time-being notorious. How ready she was to forget her success as a writer is shown by a thousand passages in her correspondence, many of these passages being too tender or sacred for quotation. It is impossible to read her letters without seeing that, with the exception of a solitary friend, the companions of her daily life in Yorkshire did not feel at all drawn towards her by her literary fame. With her accustomed humility she accepted herself at their valuation, and whilst the nations afar off were praising her, she herself was perfectly ready to take a humble place in the circle of her friends at home. The tastes of her husband had unquestionably something to do in maintaining this simple and sincere modesty up to the end of her life. He was resolute in putting aside all thought of her literary achievements; his whole anxiety--an anxiety arising almost entirely from his desire for her happiness--was that she should cease entirely to be the author, and should become the busy, useful, contented wife of the village clergyman. It would be wrong to hide the fact that she was compelled to place a severe strain upon herself in order to comply with her husband's wishes; and once, as we have seen, her strength of self-repression gave way, and she indulged in the forbidden luxury of work with the pen. But it is not surprising that, surrounded by those who, loving her very dearly, yet withheld from her all recognition of her position as one of the great writers of the day, she should have accepted their estimate of her place with characteristic humility, and believed herself to be of little or no account outside the walls of her own home.

In this belief she lived and died. Among the letters before me, but from which I must forbear to quote, are not a few written during that last sad illness when the end began to loom before her vision. In these, whilst there are many anxious inquiries after the friends of early days, and many remarks upon their varying fortunes, many allusions, too, to her husband and father, and to parish work at Haworth, there is not a line which speaks of her own feelings as an author, or of the work which she had accomplished during the brief closing years of her life. The novelist has passed entirely out of sight, and only the wife, the friend, the expectant mother, remains. I know nothing which more touchingly shows one how small a thing is great fame, how little even the most marked and marvellous successes can affect the realities of life, than the last chapters of Charlotte Brontë's correspondence do. Her death, all unknown to the great world outside; her quiet funeral, treated only as the funeral of the clergyman's daughter, the curate's wife; the modest announcement of her end sent to the local papers--all these are in keeping with her own low estimate of herself.

But death, the great touchstone of humanity, revealed her true position to the world, and to her surviving relatives and friends. Copies of the newspapers of that sad March week in 1855 lie before me, carefully treasured up by loving hands. They speak with an eloquence which is not always that of mere words, of a nation's mourning for a great soul gone prematurely to its account. Of all these tributes of loving admiration, there are two which must be singled out for special mention. One is Miss Martineau's generous though not wholly satisfactory notice of "Currer Bell" in _The Daily News_, and the other the far more sympathetic article by "Shirley," which appeared in _Fraser's Magazine_ a few months later.