The Secret Diaries of Charlotte Brontë, page 44
“I will have a few bites, thank you. Agnes: have you seen my husband?”
“Our Arthur? Aye, that I have!” said Agnes in a fond tone, as she rearranged the pillows about me and helped me to sit up in bed. “He was up early, he was, an’ hoverin’ about, worried t’ death about ye. Yer husband is a good man, if I do say so myself, Mrs. Nicholls. I’ve known him since th’ first day he come here—such a sweet little lad he was—allus lookin’ for ways t’ be of help t’ others, allus wantin’ t’ be and do good. From that day t’ this, I’ve never heard him speak a complaint, nor a word against anybody, nor a word that wasn’t th’ God’s honest truth, an’ ye don’t often find that i’ a boy—or a man. I tell ye, ma’am, ye’re a most fortunate person, for that ye’ve got one o’ th’ best gentlemen i’ th’ country.”
Agnes spoke these praises with such deep affection and respect, that my heart swelled and tears sprang into my eyes. Before I could utter a comment, however, the good servant positioned my tray on my lap, and went on:
“Ah! But ye asked about Arthur’s whereabouts, didn’t ye? An’ me, prattlin’ on! Well, ma’am, he was hoverin’ about, as I said, an’ gettin’ on th’ mistress’s nerves, so she said t’ him, she says, ‘Arthur, there’s no way on God’s green earth that that dear wife of your’n is leavin’ her sickbed to-day. A full day’s rest is what she needs, an’ some proper nursin’. Ye go on,’ she says. After much grumblin’ and complainin’, she finally convinced him t’ go out for a picnic on th’ river wi’ his cousins an’ their friends.”
“Oh! He is gone? Will he be away long, do you think?”
“Well, ma’am, these young folk be so fond o’ goin’ out on th’ Shannon—every one has got a boat, or can hire or borrow one now—an’ th’ weather bein’ so fine this time of year—I shouldna think they’d be back afore supper.”
I thanked her, greatly disappointed. Agnes added more turf to the fire, and left the room.
I ate my breakfast in silence, with little appetite. Not long after the tray was removed, Mrs. Bell came in to see me. All day long, that dear lady nursed me with kindness and skill, interspersed with periods of rest so that I might recoup my strength. Later, when I awoke from my nap, she drew up a chair to my bedside with her needlework, and settled in for a chat.
“I promised Arthur I would keep an eye on you and make sure you got well. You are dear to me already, you know, because you are our Arthur’s wife; and of course, I have a soft spot in my heart for any one English. I may have been born in Dublin, but I went to school in London.”
“So that explains it: you do seem—and sound—very English to me.”
“I did not stay in your country long, truth be told, and I was a very little girl at the time; but it made a lasting impression on me. My father, you see, decided it would be an advantage for me to be educated at an English school like a true lady; so he took me there with a view to leaving me. After only three weeks, he returned to bring me home, having found life quite insupportable without me. In those three weeks, however, I learned high English, I saw London illuminated after Wellington’s victory at the Battle of Waterloo—”
“After Wellington’s victory? How thrilling!”
“And I met the Queen.”
“The Queen?”
“She called at the school to see a child in whom she was interested, and was told, ‘We have a little Irish girl here.’ Evidently I was considered something of a curiosity, and was brought downstairs to be presented. She was a little old thing—funny, is it not—her name was also Charlotte.”
I laughed in delight, and wondered wistfully: is this what it would have been like to have a mother? I could not remember the last time some one tended at my sickbed. It was a strange and wonderful feeling, as if I were a little child again.
Mrs. Bell and I talked amiably all afternoon. She asked me about my own childhood, and then told me about Arthur’s. “He and his brother fit right in with the family, and Arthur took to school like a duck takes to water: a fine student, always vying for top honours in his classes, and the same when he went to university. He was a teacher for a while, you know, and a more caring and dedicated teacher the world has never seen. I could not have been prouder than when he announced his intention of entering the clergy. Alan Nicholls is a good man, too. I love all my children, Charlotte, and I know your Arthur and Alan are not really mine; but a mother could not wish for finer sons, and I thank God every day that he gave my husband the wisdom to bring them into our lives.”
How wonderful it was, to hear Arthur so highly praised by the woman who had raised him! At the same time it filled me with shame, for it served to remind me how gravely I had misjudged and undervalued him, for so many long years.
That evening, I heard the boating party return in high spirits, proclaiming their hearty appetites. I rose and quickly dressed, determined to join them for supper. I was received with great fanfare in the dining-room, where every one pronounced me looking much improved.
“You must come with us next time, Charlotte,” insisted Mary Anna. “There is nothing so relaxing as a quiet float down the Shannon this time of year.”
“I’m glad to see you up and feeling better,” said Arthur as he sat down beside me at the table. “I felt badly about leaving you.”
I was treated to a brief glimpse of the affection to which I had earlier become accustomed; but then, as if reminding himself to veil his emotions, his smile fled and he glanced away. Oh! How maddening it was to be in a roomful of people, with no opportunity to speak! I was about to lean over and whisper in Arthur’s ear a request to withdraw privately for a brief word, when Mrs. Bell suddenly exclaimed, “My goodness! Charlotte has been here two days already, and I think we have all quite forgotten—we are in the presence of a celebrated authoress!”
To my chagrin, all and sundry pounced on this topic as if it were a subject of the greatest fascination, forcing me to relinquish any thought of leaving the table. As the first course was promptly served, Mary Anna said excitedly, “We remember, mama, but we have all tried very hard to remain mum on the subject—not wanting Charlotte to think we loved her only for her literary genius.”
“I adored Jane Eyre,” proclaimed her sister Harriette, beaming. “It is truly the best book I have ever read.”
“The three volumes each appeared separately here in Ireland,” said Mrs. Bell. “We were so electrified by the novel, we could hardly endure the suspense between one part and another! We drove to Birr especially to get each new edition at the earliest possible moment. Of course we had no idea, at the time, who the author was.”
“Do not think your admirers are limited to the women in the family,” added Alan Bell. “We’ve all read Jane Eyre and Villette, and loved them. I enjoyed Shirley as well, particularly your bevy of curates. I can’t remember when I’ve had such a good laugh. Is it true—as our Arthur has so proudly stated—that he was the basis for that little bit at the end, about Mr. Macarthey?”
I smiled, glancing at Arthur with affection—(willing him to see in my eyes, what I had not yet had the opportunity to say aloud)—but he was not looking at me. “It is true, sir. Of course, that was several years ago, before I came to know Arthur as well as I do now.”
“I think he came off rather decently,” said Joseph. “As I recall, you described him as decorous, hard-working, and charitable—if a little too easily upset by Quakers and Dissenters.”
Every one laughed. Mrs. Bell urged, “Tell us, Charlotte. We have all been dying to know: who were your models for Mr. Rochester and Monsieur Paul Emanuel?”
I noticed Arthur stiffen beside me and his face hardened. A chorus went up from the others: “Yes! Yes!” “Who were they?” “Were they based on any one real?”
Quickly, I replied: “They were an amalgam of qualities I have either loathed or admired in men I have met—and men I have imagined—ever since I was old enough to hold a pen.”
“Well, I think Mr. Rochester quite the most romantic man ever portrayed in fiction,” admitted Mary Anna with a sigh.
A lively argument then ensued, as to whether Mr. Rochester was a deplorable character, or a good man trapped by unfortunate circumstances; and a discussion about Jane herself, whom every one seemed to think the most excellent of heroines. Eventually Mrs. Bell asked about my nom de plume.
“As you can imagine, we are all most interested in the origin of the name ‘Currer Bell.’ Such a fine surname!” (Laughter.) “Is the ‘Bell’ a coincidence?”
“Not exactly,” I replied. I acquainted them with the particulars regarding the derivation of that name, which prompted another burst of hilarity from the group.
The clock was just striking nine when Alan Nicholls suggested that we remove to the drawing-room and engage in a game of charades, an idea met with great enthusiasm by the entire party. I begged to be excused on account of my cold; I said my good-nights; and as every one filtered away in the other direction, I retired in a state of confused exhilaration and exhaustion, saddened that my husband had not, at the very least, offered to accompany me back to our room.
The drapes in our chamber were open; it was a mild summer evening, and the sun would not set for a while yet. Something drew me to the window. To my surprise, I saw Arthur exit the house and cross the great lawn, accompanied by two of the dogs; he seemed to be heading for the woods at the side of the property.
I grabbed my shawl and hurried outside, my heart pounding.
“Arthur!” I shouted, but he was too far ahead of me to hear. I pressed on, across the expanse of grass and into the trees, fruitlessly calling his name. I followed the sound of the barking dogs through the woods, until at last I came upon a small clearing, where I found Arthur throwing a pair of sticks to his happy, bounding companions.
“Arthur!” I called again, as I made my approach.
He turned and strode back to meet me, surprise mingled with his reserve. “I thought you went to bed,” said he, stopping a few feet away. “You shouldn’t be out in the night air.”
“It is a mild night, but I would have braved a snowstorm! Oh, Arthur, Arthur! I have wanted so desperately to speak to you. We have not had a moment alone in such a long time.”
“Charlotte—” he began, frowning.
“Please Arthur, just listen to me. I must speak! First: regarding Villette—I did write, in that book, about a man I once knew; but it is just a story.”
His eyes met mine. “Did you love him?”
“I did—a long time ago; but I do no longer, any more than you still have feelings for the girl who caught your fancy at seventeen.”
He fell silent, taking that in. The dogs came bounding back; Arthur grabbed the sticks from their mouths and hurled them into the distance. As the dogs raced off again, I went on:
“The day of our crossing, I was only trying to comfort a young lady whose father did not approve her choice of husband. I used us as an example of how things could turn out right, if she could only wait, and her beloved could prove himself. But she was spoiled, rich, and prejudiced; she turned everything on its head by criticising you, knowing nothing about you, and I—to my everlasting shame—did not rise to your defence as I should have. I see now that I was just as blind and prejudiced as she was. I had no idea that you had such a cultured family, or lived in such a fine place as this! But even if you had come from the poorest of families, Arthur, it should not have mattered. All that matters is you: the man you are to-day—and you are far more than my equal in every way. I am proud to be married to you, Arthur. I love you! I did not realise how much I love you until that moment on the ship, when she asked me how I felt; that is why I took so long to reply. I love you, Arthur, and I am so sorry I said and did anything to cause you pain. Can you ever forgive me?”
Tears sprang into his eyes. He stepped forward and took my hands in his. “You cannot imagine how long I have hoped and dreamt of hearing you say those words. Do you mean it, Charlotte? Do you truly love me?”
“I do, with all my heart.”
As the dogs raced up and circled at our feet, my husband pulled me into his embrace and kissed me, over and over again.
We stayed at Cuba House a week—one of the most delightful weeks of my life. We took leisurely boat rides on the Shannon and long walks into the country-side; we enjoyed delicious picnics and evenings filled with merriment, music, and dancing. During that time, I fully regained my health; at all times, I felt comfortable and completely accepted; and it was with great regret, and heart-felt promises to return the next year, that we took our leave of the Bells.
We spent the remaining two weeks of our honeymoon making a tour of western Ireland, including a stop in Kilkee, a most picturesque sea-side town set above a deeply curving bay. It was the first time since our arrival in Ireland that my new husband and I had been alone. We relished this time together, and the opportunity it afforded to renew our intimacy, and to increase our knowledge of each other. Our first morning in Kilkee, when we went out to the top of the cliffs and saw the Atlantic coming in below, all white with foam along the spectacular shore-line, I was so overwhelmed at the glorious sight that I longed to sit and look and be silent, rather than to walk and talk. Arthur not only graciously acceded to my wish, but admitted that he had had the same thought.
As we visited all the famous beauty spots of Ireland, taking in the magnificent scenery along the way, I enjoyed the kind and ceaseless care and protection of my husband, which made travelling a different and far more enjoyable matter from what it had heretofore been. Most pleasurable of all, however, was the deep contentment which enveloped me in the pure delight of Arthur’s company. Many was the time he would pull me into his arms for an unexpected caress, and pronounce with deep sincerity: “Thank you for marrying me. You make me very happy.” With certainty and joy, I returned the sentiment.
On our honeymoon, I was indebted to my husband not only for this newfound happiness, but for saving my life.
As we were making a guided trek on horseback through the narrow, winding mountain gorge at the top of the Gap of Dunloe near Killarney, my mare slipped and became unruly. Arthur quickly dismounted from his pony and grabbed the bridle of mine, to lead her. Suddenly, my mare reared; I was thrown off and landed on the stones beneath her. I felt her kick and plunge around me; I thought the end had come, and that I should be crushed underfoot. Arthur, in consternation, let the creature loose, and she sprang over me.
“Charlotte!” cried Arthur in terror, as he lifted me up in his arms. “Are you hurt?”
I was stunned by my misadventure, but assured him that the mare’s hoofs never touched me. As the guide retrieved our horses, Arthur set me down and held me tightly to his chest; I felt the pounding of his heart against my cheek. “For a moment, I thought I’d lost you,” he murmured against my hair.
I lifted my face to my husband’s, and standing on tiptoe, I planted a kiss on his lips. “You will never lose me. I love you too much to let you go.”
When we returned home on 11 August after more than a month’s absence, my husband and I were inundated with visitors from every part of the parish, some coming from quite a distance. Wishing to show our appreciation for the hearty welcome and general goodwill shown by the parishioners, Arthur and I decided to hold a small village entertainment. We invited all the students and teachers at the Day and Sunday schools, as well as the church bellringers and singers, to a tea and supper in the schoolroom.
Preparing for the event took some doing. When the appointed hour arrived—when, on that warm August evening, the tables were all laid out in the schoolroom and across the yard, surrounded with benches, covered with white cloths and decorated with flowers, and the food (prepared by many hands) was at last in readiness—to our amazement, nearly five hundred people walked up! Arthur, beaming with delight, welcomed our guests with a brief but gracious speech, and the parishioners took turns making toasts to Arthur’s return to the parish, and to our wedded happiness.
“To Arthur an’ Charlotte,” proclaimed one man—an amiable farmer—with a raised glass and a ready smile, “two o’ th’ finest people i’ th’ parish, who finally had th’ good sense t’ get married. May yer lives together be long an’ prosperous, an’ yer home blessed wi’ mony childer.” The hearty applause which followed brought a deep blush to my cheeks.
Mr. Ainley, to my mind, gave the most affecting toast of all—all the more effective in light of its brevity. In a clear and booming voice, he simply said, “T’ Arthur Bell Nicholls: a consistent Christian, an’ a kind gentleman. T’ yer health, sir.”
As the congregation shouted their approval, I took Arthur’s hand and squeezed it, gazing up at him with shining eyes. I thought: to merit and win such a character as that—a consistent Christian, and a kind gentleman—was far better than to earn either wealth or fame or power. How fortunate I was, to have the love of such a man!
I discovered, in short order, that my life was greatly changed. Time—an article of which I had once had a large stock on hand—now seemed to be in very short supply; as a wife, I had scarcely an unemployed moment. The French newspapers I used to read now stacked up in a neglected pile; I was wanted continually by my husband, constantly called for, constantly occupied. It was a strange thing at first, yet I found it a marvelously good thing.
The mere fact of being wanted was, to me, a blessing after the total solitude of recent years. Arthur seemed to find such pleasure in my company as he performed his many duties, that I could hardly refuse; and I, too, found great pleasure in the going and the doing. Entertaining visiting clergy and visiting the poor, organizing parish tea-drinkings and teaching at the Sunday school—the very same duties I had been obliged to perform as the parson’s daughter—took on a whole new aspect of interest and importance, now that I was the curate’s wife. Marriage, I discovered, was drawing me out of myself, in the best possible way.
