Chapter: CHAPTER IV.

MISS MARCHMONT.


On quitting Bretton, which I did a few weeks after Paulina's
departure--little thinking then I was never again to visit it; never
more to tread its calm old streets--I betook myself home, having been
absent six months. It will be conjectured that I was of course glad to
return to the bosom of my kindred. Well! the amiable conjecture does no
harm, and may therefore be safely left uncontradicted. Far from saying
nay, indeed, I will permit the reader to picture me, for the next eight
years, as a bark slumbering through halcyon weather, in a harbour still
as glass--the steersman stretched on the little deck, his face up to
heaven, his eyes closed: buried, if you will, in a long prayer. A great
many women and girls are supposed to pass their lives something in that
fashion; why not I with the rest?

Picture me then idle, basking, plump, and happy, stretched on a
cushioned deck, warmed with constant sunshine, rocked by breezes
indolently soft. However, it cannot be concealed that, in that case, I
must somehow have fallen overboard, or that there must have been wreck
at last. I too well remember a time--a long time--of cold, of danger,
of contention. To this hour, when I have the nightmare, it repeats the
rush and saltness of briny waves in my throat, and their icy pressure
on my lungs. I even know there was a storm, and that not of one hour
nor one day. For many days and nights neither sun nor stars appeared;
we cast with our own hands the tackling out of the ship; a heavy
tempest lay on us; all hope that we should be saved was taken away. In
fine, the ship was lost, the crew perished.

As far as I recollect, I complained to no one about these troubles.
Indeed, to whom could I complain? Of Mrs. Bretton I had long lost
sight. Impediments, raised by others, had, years ago, come in the way
of our intercourse, and cut it off. Besides, time had brought changes
for her, too: the handsome property of which she was left guardian for
her son, and which had been chiefly invested in some joint-stock
undertaking, had melted, it was said, to a fraction of its original
amount. Graham, I learned from incidental rumours, had adopted a
profession; both he and his mother were gone from Bretton, and were
understood to be now in London. Thus, there remained no possibility of
dependence on others; to myself alone could I look. I know not that I
was of a self-reliant or active nature; but self-reliance and exertion
were forced upon me by circumstances, as they are upon thousands
besides; and when Miss Marchmont, a maiden lady of our neighbourhood,
sent for me, I obeyed her behest, in the hope that she might assign me
some task I could undertake.

Miss Marchmont was a woman of fortune, and lived in a handsome
residence; but she was a rheumatic cripple, impotent, foot and hand,
and had been so for twenty years. She always sat upstairs: her
drawing-room adjoined her bed-room. I had often heard of Miss
Marchmont, and of her peculiarities (she had the character of being
very eccentric), but till now had never seen her. I found her a
furrowed, grey-haired woman, grave with solitude, stern with long
affliction, irritable also, and perhaps exacting. It seemed that a
maid, or rather companion, who had waited on her for some years, was
about to be married; and she, hearing of my bereaved lot, had sent for
me, with the idea that I might supply this person's place. She made the
proposal to me after tea, as she and I sat alone by her fireside.

"It will not be an easy life;" said she candidly, "for I require a good
deal of attention, and you will be much confined; yet, perhaps,
contrasted with the existence you have lately led, it may appear
tolerable."

I reflected. Of course it ought to appear tolerable, I argued inwardly;
but somehow, by some strange fatality, it would not. To live here, in
this close room, the watcher of suffering--sometimes, perhaps, the butt
of temper--through all that was to come of my youth; while all that was
gone had passed, to say the least, not blissfully! My heart sunk one
moment, then it revived; for though I forced myself to _realise_ evils,
I think I was too prosaic to _idealise_, and consequently to exaggerate
them.

"My doubt is whether I should have strength for the undertaking," I
observed.

"That is my own scruple," said she; "for you look a worn-out creature."

So I did. I saw myself in the glass, in my mourning-dress, a faded,
hollow-eyed vision. Yet I thought little of the wan spectacle. The
blight, I believed, was chiefly external: I still felt life at life's
sources.

"What else have you in view--anything?"

"Nothing clear as yet: but I may find something."

"So you imagine: perhaps you are right. Try your own method, then; and
if it does not succeed, test mine. The chance I have offered shall be
left open to you for three months."

This was kind. I told her so, and expressed my gratitude. While I was
speaking, a paroxysm of pain came on. I ministered to her; made the
necessary applications, according to her directions, and, by the time
she was relieved, a sort of intimacy was already formed between us. I,
for my part, had learned from the manner in which she bore this attack,
that she was a firm, patient woman (patient under physical pain, though
sometimes perhaps excitable under long mental canker); and she, from
the good-will with which I succoured her, discovered that she could
influence my sympathies (such as they were). She sent for me the next
day; for five or six successive days she claimed my company. Closer
acquaintance, while it developed both faults and eccentricities,
opened, at the same time, a view of a character I could respect. Stern
and even morose as she sometimes was, I could wait on her and sit
beside her with that calm which always blesses us when we are sensible
that our manners, presence, contact, please and soothe the persons we
serve. Even when she scolded me--which she did, now and then, very
tartly--it was in such a way as did not humiliate, and left no sting;
it was rather like an irascible mother rating her daughter, than a
harsh mistress lecturing a dependant: lecture, indeed, she could not,
though she could occasionally storm. Moreover, a vein of reason ever
ran through her passion: she was logical even when fierce. Ere long a
growing sense of attachment began to present the thought of staying
with her as companion in quite a new light; in another week I had
agreed to remain.

Two hot, close rooms thus became my world; and a crippled old woman, my
mistress, my friend, my all. Her service was my duty--her pain, my
suffering--her relief, my hope--her anger, my punishment--her regard,
my reward. I forgot that there were fields, woods, rivers, seas, an
ever-changing sky outside the steam-dimmed lattice of this sick
chamber; I was almost content to forget it. All within me became
narrowed to my lot. Tame and still by habit, disciplined by destiny, I
demanded no walks in the fresh air; my appetite needed no more than the
tiny messes served for the invalid. In addition, she gave me the
originality of her character to study: the steadiness of her virtues, I
will add, the power of her passions, to admire; the truth of her
feelings to trust. All these things she had, and for these things I
clung to her.

For these things I would have crawled on with her for twenty years, if
for twenty years longer her life of endurance had been protracted. But
another decree was written. It seemed I must be stimulated into action.
I must be goaded, driven, stung, forced to energy. My little morsel of
human affection, which I prized as if it were a solid pearl, must melt
in my fingers and slip thence like a dissolving hailstone. My small
adopted duty must be snatched from my easily contented conscience. I
had wanted to compromise with Fate: to escape occasional great agonies
by submitting to a whole life of privation and small pains. Fate would
not so be pacified; nor would Providence sanction this shrinking sloth
and cowardly indolence.

One February night--I remember it well--there came a voice near Miss
Marchmont's house, heard by every inmate, but translated, perhaps, only
by one. After a calm winter, storms were ushering in the spring. I had
put Miss Marchmont to bed; I sat at the fireside sewing. The wind was
wailing at the windows; it had wailed all day; but, as night deepened,
it took a new tone--an accent keen, piercing, almost articulate to the
ear; a plaint, piteous and disconsolate to the nerves, trilled in every
gust.

"Oh, hush! hush!" I said in my disturbed mind, dropping my work, and
making a vain effort to stop my ears against that subtle, searching
cry. I had heard that very voice ere this, and compulsory observation
had forced on me a theory as to what it boded. Three times in the
course of my life, events had taught me that these strange accents in
the storm--this restless, hopeless cry--denote a coming state of the
atmosphere unpropitious to life. Epidemic diseases, I believed, were
often heralded by a gasping, sobbing, tormented, long-lamenting east
wind. Hence, I inferred, arose the legend of the Banshee. I fancied,
too, I had noticed--but was not philosopher enough to know whether
there was any connection between the circumstances--that we often at
the same time hear of disturbed volcanic action in distant parts of the
world; of rivers suddenly rushing above their banks; and of strange
high tides flowing furiously in on low sea-coasts. "Our globe," I had
said to myself, "seems at such periods torn and disordered; the feeble
amongst us wither in her distempered breath, rushing hot from steaming
volcanoes."

I listened and trembled; Miss Marchmont slept.

About midnight, the storm in one half-hour fell to a dead calm. The
fire, which had been burning dead, glowed up vividly. I felt the air
change, and become keen. Raising blind and curtain, I looked out, and
saw in the stars the keen sparkle of a sharp frost.

Turning away, the object that met my eyes was Miss Marchmont awake,
lifting her head from the pillow, and regarding me with unusual
earnestness.

"Is it a fine night?" she asked.

I replied in the affirmative.

"I thought so," she said; "for I feel so strong, so well. Raise me. I
feel young to-night," she continued: "young, light-hearted, and happy.
What if my complaint be about to take a turn, and I am yet destined to
enjoy health? It would be a miracle!"

"And these are not the days of miracles," I thought to myself, and
wondered to hear her talk so. She went on directing her conversation to
the past, and seeming to recall its incidents, scenes, and personages,
with singular vividness.

"I love Memory to-night," she said: "I prize her as my best friend. She
is just now giving me a deep delight: she is bringing back to my heart,
in warm and beautiful life, realities--not mere empty ideas, but what
were once realities, and that I long have thought decayed, dissolved,
mixed in with grave-mould. I possess just now the hours, the thoughts,
the hopes of my youth. I renew the love of my life--its only
love--almost its only affection; for I am not a particularly good
woman: I am not amiable. Yet I have had my feelings, strong and
concentrated; and these feelings had their object; which, in its single
self, was dear to me, as to the majority of men and women, are all the
unnumbered points on which they dissipate their regard. While I loved,
and while I was loved, what an existence I enjoyed! What a glorious
year I can recall--how bright it comes back to me! What a living
spring--what a warm, glad summer--what soft moonlight, silvering the
autumn evenings--what strength of hope under the ice-bound waters and
frost-hoar fields of that year's winter! Through that year my heart
lived with Frank's heart. O my noble Frank--my faithful Frank--my
_good_ Frank! so much better than myself--his standard in all things so
much higher! This I can now see and say: if few women have suffered as
I did in his loss, few have enjoyed what I did in his love. It was a
far better kind of love than common; I had no doubts about it or him:
it was such a love as honoured, protected, and elevated, no less than
it gladdened her to whom it was given. Let me now ask, just at this
moment, when my mind is so strangely clear,--let me reflect why it was
taken from me? For what crime was I condemned, after twelve months of
bliss, to undergo thirty years of sorrow?

"I do not know," she continued after a pause: "I cannot--_cannot_ see
the reason; yet at this hour I can say with sincerity, what I never
tried to say before, Inscrutable God, Thy will be done! And at this
moment I can believe that death will restore me to Frank. I never
believed it till now."

"He is dead, then?" I inquired in a low voice.

"My dear girl," she said, "one happy Christmas Eve I dressed and
decorated myself, expecting my lover, very soon to be my husband, would
come that night to visit me. I sat down to wait. Once more I see that
moment--I see the snow twilight stealing through the window over which
the curtain was not dropped, for I designed to watch him ride up the
white walk; I see and feel the soft firelight warming me, playing on my
silk dress, and fitfully showing me my own young figure in a glass. I
see the moon of a calm winter night, float full, clear, and cold, over
the inky mass of shrubbery, and the silvered turf of my grounds. I
wait, with some impatience in my pulse, but no doubt in my breast. The
flames had died in the fire, but it was a bright mass yet; the moon was
mounting high, but she was still visible from the lattice; the clock
neared ten; he rarely tarried later than this, but once or twice he had
been delayed so long.

"Would he for once fail me? No--not even for once; and now he was
coming--and coming fast--to atone for lost time. 'Frank! you furious
rider,' I said inwardly, listening gladly, yet anxiously, to his
approaching gallop, 'you shall be rebuked for this: I will tell you it
is _my_ neck you are putting in peril; for whatever is yours is, in a
dearer and tenderer sense, mine.' There he was: I saw him; but I think
tears were in my eyes, my sight was so confused. I saw the horse; I
heard it stamp--I saw at least a mass; I heard a clamour. _Was_ it a
horse? or what heavy, dragging thing was it, crossing, strangely dark,
the lawn. How could I name that thing in the moonlight before me? or
how could I utter the feeling which rose in my soul?

"I could only run out. A great animal--truly, Frank's black
horse--stood trembling, panting, snorting before the door; a man held
it, Frank, as I thought.

"'What is the matter?' I demanded. Thomas, my own servant, answered by
saying sharply, 'Go into the house, madam.' And then calling to another
servant, who came hurrying from the kitchen as if summoned by some
instinct, 'Ruth, take missis into the house directly.' But I was
kneeling down in the snow, beside something that lay there--something
that I had seen dragged along the ground--something that sighed, that
groaned on my breast, as I lifted and drew it to me. He was not dead;
he was not quite unconscious. I had him carried in; I refused to be
ordered about and thrust from him. I was quite collected enough, not
only to be my own mistress but the mistress of others. They had begun
by trying to treat me like a child, as they always do with people
struck by God's hand; but I gave place to none except the surgeon; and
when he had done what he could, I took my dying Frank to myself. He had
strength to fold me in his arms; he had power to speak my name; he
heard me as I prayed over him very softly; he felt me as I tenderly and
fondly comforted him.

"'Maria,' he said, 'I am dying in Paradise.' He spent his last breath
in faithful words for me. When the dawn of Christmas morning broke, my
Frank was with God.

"And that," she went on, "happened thirty years ago. I have suffered
since. I doubt if I have made the best use of all my calamities. Soft,
amiable natures they would have refined to saintliness; of strong, evil
spirits they would have made demons; as for me, I have only been a
woe-struck and selfish woman."

"You have done much good," I said; for she was noted for her liberal
almsgiving.

"I have not withheld money, you mean, where it could assuage
affliction. What of that? It cost me no effort or pang to give. But I
think from this day I am about to enter a better frame of mind, to
prepare myself for reunion with Frank. You see I still think of Frank
more than of God; and unless it be counted that in thus loving the
creature so much, so long, and so exclusively, I have not at least
blasphemed the Creator, small is my chance of salvation. What do you
think, Lucy, of these things? Be my chaplain, and tell me."

This question I could not answer: I had no words. It seemed as if she
thought I _had_ answered it.

"Very right, my child. We should acknowledge God merciful, but not
always for us comprehensible. We should accept our own lot, whatever it
be, and try to render happy that of others. Should we not? Well,
to-morrow I will begin by trying to make you happy. I will endeavour to
do something for you, Lucy: something that will benefit you when I am
dead. My head aches now with talking too much; still I am happy. Go to
bed. The clock strikes two. How late you sit up; or rather how late I,
in my selfishness, keep you up. But go now; have no more anxiety for
me; I feel I shall rest well."

She composed herself as if to slumber. I, too, retired to my crib in a
closet within her room. The night passed in quietness; quietly her doom
must at last have come: peacefully and painlessly: in the morning she
was found without life, nearly cold, but all calm and undisturbed. Her
previous excitement of spirits and change of mood had been the prelude
of a fit; one stroke sufficed to sever the thread of an existence so
long fretted by affliction.

 "Miss Marchmont," takes an abrupt leap forward in time. There is a strange monologue at the beginning of the chapter, alluding to the literary convention that heroines in novels live happy childhoods, or at least have long stretches of protected and easy domesticity. But in the most general of terms-without naming any specific people, places, or events-Lucy Snowe intimates that, since her girlhood visits to the house of the Brettons, her life has been difficult, sad, and even tragic. It is not known whom she lived with or in what circumstances they lived, other than the fact that Lucy is of the educated classes and not the daughter of servants or laborers. Lucy urges the reader to imagine her "basking" in the happiness of a good childhood, but she makes clear that this was not the case. The narrator is at pains to reveal nothing other than that Lucy has suffered. When or how Lucy's parents died or, perhaps, disowned her, leaving her with little or no money, is not explained. The reader knows only that Lucy has suffered at least one family death, for she wears a mourning dress. It is known, however vaguely and obliquely, that before that death and Lucy's current status as a poor, genteel young woman with no family or friends, there was some sort of emotional suffering or neglect in her life. But Lucy is cagey and reveals nothing, and the reader can only imagine what might have happened. The Brettons have fallen upon harder times, too. The property Mrs. Bretton held in trust for her son has fallen to a fraction of its value, and the mother and son now live in London. Lucy knows that she cannot appeal to them for any kind of help. Miss Marchmont is introduced. She is a "woman of fortune" who lives in the neighborhood where Lucy is now destitute. She is a paralyzed invalid who cannot stir from her sickroom. She offers Lucy the position of nurse-companion, a hard job but one that is at least socially acceptable for an educated young lady. Lucy is loath to accept it at first, though she desperately needs a job, because she understands how limiting it would be both emotionally and physically for her. Lucy thinks perhaps that she may find some other employment to suit her better. For the next few days Miss Marchmont requests that Lucy come to visit her, and during that time Lucy forms respect for and attachment to the invalid's patient suffering. The respect is such that Lucy decides to take Miss Marchmont's offer. One night there is a terrible storm, which Lucy thinks portends death or change. That night Miss Marchmont is excitable and tells Lucy the tragic story of her youth. She was engaged to be married to a man she deeply loved. This man, Frank, was riding to see her one Christmas Eve, but he fell from his horse and was dragged to her door. Frank died in Miss Marchmont's arms. She says that she hopes soon to be reunited with Frank, and that night Miss Marchmont dies. Lucy is very affected by the story of Frank's death, and she mourns Miss Marchmont bitterly, for she was her only friend on earth. The reader is now led to believe, through her dying words, that Miss Marchmont may have left a fortune for Lucy upon her death. But Miss Marchmont had not made any such provision before she died, so Lucy, after having experienced another death of a person dear to her, will be thrust again on the world in much the same state of poverty as before. The next chapter finds Lucy nearing the end of her stay at Miss Marchmont's. The heir to her estate , Miss Marchmont's second cousin, pays Lucy her wages, and Lucy is to find her way in the world as the possessor of fifteen pounds. Lucy is worn but still has intact health, and she is now in need of employment and a place to live. Lucy goes to visit an old servant of her family, a housekeeper who is working at a large estate nearby. During the interview Lucy catches sight of a daughter of the house, an old school friend of hers. She does not speak to the woman, but she notes that this woman retains a French nurse for her child. The housekeeper informs Lucy that English governesses, too, are in demand abroad, where they are quite well-paid and well-treated. During this passage it becomes clear that Lucy was a good student. But in a moment of unreliability, Lucy makes us think that at this point in the narrative her command of French is good, for she critiques her old school friend's French. Lucy resolves to go to London, which is not far distant. She stays at an old, respectable inn that had been used by her uncles. Upon arriving in the metropolis, Lucy is a bit bewildered, but she endeavors to keep a calm and quiet demeanor. Her shabby clothing, worn looks, and insignificant presence do not impress the smart-looking servants at this hotel, but she eventually persuades them by her speech and ladylike words to sufficiently provide for her needs. Then she goes to her own room and cries herself to sleep, wondering what she will do and how she will make her way in this world

