Volume Ii Part 13 (1/2)
PERCY HALL.
'The westering sunbeams smiled on Percy Hall, And green leaves glittered o'er the ancient wall Where Mary sat, to feel the summer breeze, And hear its music mingling 'mid the trees.
There she had rested in her quiet bower Through June's long afternoon, while hour on hour Stole, sweetly s.h.i.+ning past her, till the shades, Scarce noticed, lengthened o'er the gra.s.sy glades; But yet she sat, as if she knew not how Her time wore on, with Heaven-directed brow, And eyes that only seemed awake, whene'er Her face was fanned by summer evening's air.
All day her limbs a weariness would feel, As if a slumber o'er her frame would steal; Nor could she wake her drowsy thoughts to care For day, or hour, or what she was, or where: Thus--lost in dreams, although debarred from sleep, While through her limbs a feverish heat would creep, A weariness, a listlessness, that hung About her vigour, and Life's powers unstrung-- She did not feel the iron gripe of pain, But _thought_ felt irksome to her heated brain; Sometimes the stately woods would float before her, Commingled with the cloud-piles brightening o'er her, Then change to scenes for ever lost to view, Or mock with phantoms which she never knew: Sometimes her soul seemed brooding on to-day, And then it wildly wandered far away, s.n.a.t.c.hing short glimpses of her infancy, Or lost in day-dreams of what yet might be.
'Yes--through the labyrinth-like course of thought-- Whate'er might be remembered or forgot, Howe'er diseased the dream might be, or dim, Still seemed the _Future_ through each change to swim, All indefinable, but pointing on To what should welcome her when Life was gone; She felt as if--to all she knew so well-- Its voice was whispering her to say ”farewell;”
Was bidding her forget her happy home; Was farther fleeting still--still beckoning her to come.
'She felt as one might feel who, laid at rest, With cold hands folded on a panting breast, Has just received a husband's last embrace, Has kissed a child, and turned a pallid face From this world--with its feelings all laid by-- To one unknown, yet hovering--oh! how nigh!
'And yet--unlike that image of decay-- There hovered round her, as she silent lay, A holy sunlight, an angelic bloom, That brightened up the terrors of the tomb, And, as it showed Heaven's glorious world beyond, Forbade her heart to throb, her spirit to despond.
'But, who steps forward, o'er the glowing green, With silent tread, these stately groves between?
To watch his fragile flower, who sees him not, Yet keeps his image blended with each thought, Since but for _him_ stole down that single tear From her blue eyes, to think how very near Their farewell hour might be!
'With silent tread Percy bent o'er his wife his golden head; And, while he smiled to see how calm she slept, A gentle feeling o'er his spirit crept, Which made him turn toward the s.h.i.+ning sky With heart expanding to its majesty, While he bethought him how more blest _its_ glow Than _that_ he left one single hour ago, Where proud rooms, heated by a feverish light, Forced vice and villainy upon his sight; Where snared himself, or snaring into crime, His soul had drowned its hour, and lost its count of time.
'The syren-sighs and smiles were banished now, The cares of ”play” had vanished from his brow; He took his Mary's hot hand in his own, She raised her eyes, and--oh, how soft they shone!
Kindling to fondness through their mist of tears, Wakening afresh the light of fading years!-- He knew not why she turned those s.h.i.+ning eyes With such a mute submission to the skies; He knew not why her arm embraced him so, As if she _must_ depart, yet _could not_ let him go!
'With death-like voice, but angel-smile, she said, ”My love, they need not care, when I am dead, To deck with flowers my capped and coffined head; For all the flowers which I should love to see Are blooming now, and will have died with me: The same sun bids us all revive to-day, And the same winds will bid us to decay; When Winter comes we all shall be no more-- Departed into dust--next, covered o'er By Spring's reviving green. See, Percy, now How red my cheek--how red my roses blow!
But come again when blasts of Autumn come; _Then_ mark their changing leaves, their blighted bloom; Then come to my bedside, then look at _me_, How changed in all--_except my love for thee_!”
'She spoke, and laid her hot hand on his own; But he nought answered, save a heart-wrung groan; For oh! too sure, her voice prophetic sounded Too clear the proofs that in her face abounded Of swift Consumption's power! Although each day He'd seen her airy lightness fail away, And gleams unnatural glisten in her eye; He had not dared to dream that she could die, But only fancied his a causeless fear Of losing something which he held so dear; Yet--now--when, startled at her prophet-cries, To hers he turned his stricken, stone-like eyes, And o'er her cheek declined his blighted head.
He saw Death write on it the _fatal red_-- He saw, and straightway sank his spirit's light Into the sunless twilight of the starless night!
'While he sat, shaken by his sudden shock, Again--and with an earnestness--she spoke, As if the world of her Creator shone Through all the cloudy shadows of her own: ”Come grieve not--darling--o'er my early doom; 'Tis well that Death no drearier shape a.s.sume Than this he comes in--well that widowed age Will not extend my friendless pilgrimage Through Life's dim vale of tears--'tis well that Pain Wields not its lash nor binds its burning chain, But leaves my death-bed to a mild decline, Soothed and supported by a love like thine!”'
My copy of the poem is ill.u.s.trated with a portrait, by J. B. Leyland, in pen-and-ink, of the ideal Percy. The drawing is bold and effective; and, though not intended for an exact portrait of Branwell, bears some resemblance to him in general character. The sketch is signed, 'Northangerland,' at the top; and, at the bottom, 'Alexander Percy, Esq.;' while the artist's name is discerned among the shadows which fall from the figure of Percy.
CHAPTER XIV.
FAME AT HAWORTH.
Charlotte Corresponds on Literary Subjects--Novels--Confession of Authors.h.i.+p--Branwell's Failing Health--He Writes to Leyland--Branwell and Mr. George Searle Phillips--Branwell's Intellect Retains its Power--His Description of 'Professor Leonidas Lyon'--The latter Gentleman's Account of his Reading of 'Jane Eyre'--Branwell's Remarks on Charlotte and the Work.
The early months of the year 1848 proved a severe trial for the Bronte family, as they did to the whole of the Haworth villagers. Influenza and other ailments were prevalent, and the sisters did not escape the former: Anne, indeed, suffered from a severe cough, with some fever, and her friends became alarmed. The position of the parsonage in relation to the churchyard rendered it unhealthy; but, at the instance of Mr. Bronte, a new grave-yard was opened in another place. He did not, however, succeed in his attempt to get a good supply of water laid on to each house.
Charlotte, at the time, was still in correspondence with Mr. Lewes and Mr. Williams, about the review of 'Jane Eyre' in 'Fraser's Magazine,'
and about other literary subjects. She was still keeping the secret of the authors.h.i.+p of her book from her friends, putting off 'E.' with evasive letters, and wis.h.i.+ng her to 'laugh or scold A---- out of the publis.h.i.+ng notion.' 'Wuthering Heights' had not been received by the public with much favour, and we do not hear of any further literary work by Emily. But Charlotte was writing 's.h.i.+rley,' and Anne was going on with 'The Tenant of Wildfell Hall,' despite a consumptive listlessness that was upon her, such as Branwell describes in the wife of 'Percy;' and, in her letter written in January, Anne told 'E.' that they had done nothing 'to speak of' since she was at Haworth; yet they contrived to be busy from morning till night. In the spring, however, when this friend visited the Brontes again, full confession of authors.h.i.+p was made, and the poems and novels were shown to her. The ident.i.ty of Mr. Bronte's daughters with the 'Messrs. Bell,' had, however, been known to some, in connection with the poems, at an earlier date, and was occasionally spoken of, though the fact was not made public. Branwell himself was at home, quieter, but still failing in health and strength, for the const.i.tutional taint, aided by his low spirits, and a bronchitis which had become chronic, was telling upon him.
'The Tenant of Wildfell Hall,' was submitted to the publisher of 'Wuthering Heights' and 'Agnes Grey,' and accepted by him in the June of this year. If the first works of Ellis and Acton Bell were undervalued because they were believed to be the earlier productions of the author of 'Jane Eyre,' Acton's new volume derived enhanced importance from being thought to be a production of the same hand.
'Jane Eyre' had had a great run in America, and a publisher there had offered Messrs. Smith and Elder a high price for early sheets of the next work of its author, which they accepted. But the publishers of 'The Tenant of Wildfell Hall,' believing that Acton Bell was but a second name a.s.sumed by Currer Bell, made a similar offer to another American house. This circ.u.mstance led to questions and explanations; and Charlotte and Anne determined to visit London, in order to a.s.sure Messrs. Smith and Elder that they were indeed distinct persons. The publishers were very much astonished to see the two delicate ladies, and they made them very welcome. Charlotte and Anne went to the Opera, they went to the Royal Academy and the National Gallery, and they visited Mr. Smith and Mr. Williams before returning to Haworth.
They found Branwell at home, physically the same as when they left him, gradually failing from the chronic bronchitis which had lasted through the summer, and with the perceptible wasting away of decline.