Uncle Arthur is Dying
Hill House, Banagher
Lottie 1906
Introduction
This installment of my Brontë stories was going to be about Arthur Bell Nicholls selling the copyright to Clement Shorter in 1895. But that will require some more piecing together of the time line.
Also, if truth be known, Mary Anna Bell Nicholls, Arthur's second wife, should have her part come forward at last. It happens to involve a great deal of the generally known history, since she was in Arthur's life from birth and loved him all her life.
Mary Anna Bell was 12 years younger than Arthur. He was already a part of her immediate family for five years before she was born.
In the stories, Mary Anna adores him while he remained oblivious to the nature of her regard. Particularly after 1845 when Arthur took up his post in Haworth.
Due to Rev Brontë's blindness, Arthur could not return to Ireland for some time. Miss Brontë was the only woman in his vision when he did.
It's not to be forgotten, Mary Anna met Charlotte when the honeymooners came to Dublin and then spent a few days in Banagher.
I have the two wives speak together when CBN was in bed recovering from the whirlwind of the marriage, a cold and then a fast-paced tour of Dublin (CBN bed rest part is true.)
Mary Anna is second only to Charlotte in importance...and that was Mary Anna's predicament; being second.
Mary Anna's tragedy is not that she remained forever second in Arthur's heart, even though she and Arthur were married over 40 years. Mary Anna’s tragedy – and triumph – was that she thoroughly understood, indeed, lived the reason why; because, as I say, Mary Anna loved Arthur as he loved Charlotte Brontë.
There is no fighting that. Surrender is its nature. There's no room even for honest indignation; for you walk the same road and because you do love, you are always confronted with fact that you want your beloved to be happy.
Because she loved Arthur in this way, Mary Anna could accept what he could give her rather than fume over what he could not.
It makes her rather a mystery to her niece by marriage, Arthur's brother, Alan's daughter, Lottie. She is the individual speaking this story.
Lottie was a real person and her full name was "Charlotte Brontë Nicholl." (the brothers spelled their names differently).
The story opens in December 1906 at Hill House and Arthur Bell Nicholls is dying. Lottie came from her home in Dublin to see to things as her Aunt, Mary Anna, is ill as well.
This situation affords some heart-to-heart talk, and eventually Lottie comes to understand her Aunt's position. But another event truly changes Lottie's thinking and that is in the story.
When my Brontë writings were to be presented in one piece as a novel, this story was to be the beginning; in order to explain how Arthur, a man famous for his reticence and the burning of papers, produced all these pages about his life.
But this story works as an end piece too. So when I publish my stories in a book form. I might place it last, we'll see.
But for now it takes its place as the 9th blog installment and I hope you enjoy it.
I want to say the little girl in the story, Helen, was real too. She was the parson's daughter who lived next door to Hill House. She called Arthur "my other grandfather" and was a constant visitor to Arthur's home. They had a warm friendship.
We only know about Helen because when Winifred Gérin's biography of Charlotte was published in 1967, Helen, then in her 80's, sent Gérin a letter and photo of her with her "other grandfather, Arthur Bell Nicholls, in the front garden of Hill House with one of his many dogs.
Look at that delicious, large hat on Helen. I can easily see this picture being taken after Sunday service because Helen seems to be dressed in her best, while Arthur is as always, outfitted as a curate of the last century .
The photo was taken in 1904, the year I have Arthur composed his memoirs.
We only know of the photograph because an author (forgive me, I forget who) many years later bought some of Gerin's library at an auction and the photo and letter fell out of one of the tomes.
I have no idea if, in 1967, Gérin hotfooted to Ireland to meet Helen, a person who knew Arthur Bell Nicholls, but Lord knows I would have!
For some reason, at times Arthur and Lottie call Mary Anna "May." May was often a nickname for Mary so I kept it in.
This story is a long one. So get comfortable with your favorite beverage.
I have to give a shout to my husband, Ed Voves for his endless support. Thanks, Hon!
Hoping everyone has a great holiday season, see you next year.
Anne Lloyd
_____________________________________________
Uncle Arthur is dying.
Hill House 1906
Miss Charlotte Brontë Nicholl " Lottie"
Hill House's interior is darker than I remember when I was a child . Over the years, Uncle Arthur has allowed the trees to consume the house. He said he did not wish to disturb "the poor squirrels." I think perhaps he liked to be hidden among the subsequent groves himself.
If the servants did not insist on a clear space for their wash lines, even the sunny rear of the house would be eclipsed. Add to this, it is now December and the resulting gloom and quiet is unseemly, even unsettling. This was always a sun-shining place. A happy house.
But then we children were here mostly in summer. Now Uncle Arthur is dying, yet even so, Aunt Mary would not dream of contradicting his wishes. I will see to the trees myself, afterwards, and will ask Pat to clear more than a few.
Indeed, Uncle is dying. That is what the doctor has insinuated. The bronchitis has finally overmastered him. Aunt Mary is ill too. Not as to be in danger, but too ill to see to Uncle Arthur. I'll tend to Aunt and a nurse sister has been hired to see to Uncle.
Over these last years, while remaining his kind self, Uncle Arthur had grown even more reclusive and disinterested in society. He was always so in my experience. And made even more so after the loss of Gran Bell, matriarch of Hill House, his mother-in-law and indeed, the woman who raised him and my father along with her natural children.
Bless her soul, Gran Bell passed four years ago at the great age of 102. Uncle never quite recovered. He said Gran Bell's passing overwhelmed him as it," was quite unexpected!“
At 102? I believe that was one of his odd witticisms.
In my younger years, Hill House teemed with all manner of Bells, Nicholls and Adamsons. We knew who belonged to whom and who was blood; and who was not, to such a degree, the knowledge was put away from everyday use as we tumbled from boat rides to horse rides, riotous games in the garden and rich cream teas.
The children were the children and Gran Bell was Gran to all and that was the end of it. Those children have since grown and gone. Everyone but myself has made their own families and are now "busy" and Hill House is quiet, even in summer. What is quieter than a house that one only knew in happy tumult?
But I am here, Lottie Nicholl, seeing to things at Hill House. Of course, the unmarried niece with neither husband nor chick, is called upon. But the truth is, I could not have stayed away. I always looked behind, rather than forward. I wanted to be with my old people, and my own blood relation, my father's brother, my Uncle Arthur, as he lay upstairs dying and with Aunt May ill. Now, where else would I be?
The family knew of Uncle's reserved habits and respected them. Yet recently, all this was overturned. Many in the village and beyond, pressed to see him. They must have known what we dare not guess; that his time with us is short.
The odd thing is, Uncle Arthur’s reclusive habits of many years standing also vanished. He wanted to see everyone. And as they crept into his sick room, both the high and the humble, he greeted all with the joviality of a sweepstakes winner buying the house a round.
I had not seen Uncle Arthur so exuberant, for years. His humor and goodness is of the twinkle and slight smile variety. It's as if everyone were seeing him off on some wondrous voyage and I suppose that is true. It's one he has longed for, it must be admitted. That was a week ago. Uncle has grown very weak since and is no longer allowed visitors.
The dimness of house seems to unnerve the nurse too. A sturdy body usually; that's what her references said. Currently she was before me, ringing her hands.
"He groans so, Miss, yet I know Mr. Arthur is not in any physical pain."
"Oh dear, sister, well Uncle ever was a groaner. I am sorry, try not to let it bother you."
"Other times, Mr. Arthur seems very happy," Nurse added.
"I have noticed that too," I said, knitting my brow." Rather jolly."
These last years, my Uncle's mind would occasionally slip its moorings, as it does with the elderly. Not surprisingly this state accelerated while he was so ill. It bothered the nurse so, that she spoke to me about it.
"He keeps speaking of a gate, Miss, and how she is waiting."
"She and a gate?"
"Yes, Miss."
She looked intently at me, as if I could unravel the mystery. Perhaps I could have, but I choose not to.
"Sister, my Uncle Arthur lived a blameless life, and for many years, he was a clergyman. In some ways he's never stop being a clergyman. I assume he is speaking of the pearly gates perhaps? “said with a sad smile.
"Perhaps so, Miss," said Nurse quietly.
She disapproved of my flippancy, with which those of my generation converse with underlings, servants and this last vestige of the old time governess, who were neither family nor servant. We today haven’t the knack of it you see. It embarrasses one so, might as well admit it.
Gran Bell had some serene magic in this regard and she was treated like a Queen. My Aunt Mary, her daughter, is fondly indulged like a favorite child and I? I am like a kindly, but bothersome interloper they endure. Presently, I could not quite see the cause of sister's discomfort.
"Surely you are used to such utterances in your field, Sister?" I replied. Such talk seemed more than conventional. This was by no means her first deathbed.
"Why yes, Miss, of course. But Mr. Arthur sounds so definite, so sure.
I half expect to see the gate myself. Beg pardon, Miss."
I didn't know what to say, beyond asking her to please do as best she could. I could hardly tell her it was thought by the family that my Uncle Arthur was speaking of (if not to) his first wife, the novelist, Charlotte Brontë. Nurse might find that even more unsettling than Uncle’s calls.
Without doubt he was referring to the back gate at Haworth Parsonage over fifty years ealier, when Miss Bronte found my uncle broken and sobbing because he believes he would see her no more.
I only know of that because of Mrs Gaskell's book related the incidentand in his dotage, Uncle spoke of it too.
Uncle Arthur's awareness and consciousness of the first Mrs. Nicholls after a half century sounds absurdly fantastic, yet it was completely true. She was never far from his mind. Call it a practical man's freak if you like. Uncle was no nonsense otherwise. We children were taught never to refer to that lady and some lessons stay with one. So I chose not to impart all this information to Nurse.
The fact of the matter is I and others in the family were used to Uncle Arthur's groans and self-utterances. His most common one in later years being " I wonder what it will be like?" He meant his reunion with his first wife.
When I gained my majority, my own womanly pride would be peaked, for Aunt Mary's sake. In these last years, Uncle Arthur, in a child-like manner, and seemingly unaware to whom he was speaking, would repeat his refrain to Aunt, his wife of forty years, "I wonder what it will be like." Aunt Mary, the angel, would smile and pat his hand. "Time will tell, my Dear, for it is certain," and he was comforted.
I learned at least the major points of Uncle Arthur's English life when I read Mrs Gaskell's book. (Of course, unbeknownst to Uncle!) Reading that book is quite a revelation to my generation of Bell, Nicholl and Adamson offspring.
Our quite, deeply reserved, even repressed, Uncle Arthur after eight years of servitude as Haworth's curate had suddenly declared himself to the world famous Miss Brontë, and for months set the village of Haworth on its ear. It's difficult to imagine my Uncle Arthur could set off such a whirlwind and was capable of such passion.
However, small signs of that nature have occasionally risen in my experience. About every ten years or so, when another wave of interest for the Brontës rises up and when Uncle Arthur reads the new articles about the family and about himself and they were often not to his liking. Then one could see the man quietly seethed.
Aunt Mary also would keen for his pain. Really, right now, my concern was for her in being left behind. I once asked Uncle all about his other life when I was too young to know the topic was a strict taboo. He refused to say. But after I badgered the poor man, he promised to tell me one day, mostly to quiet me, I suppose. He never did speak of it, nor did I dare to press him again and now it is too late.
Sister recalled me to the present.
“Miss, if you would come and see him? Perhaps you would know what disturbs Mr. Arthur. He is particularly uneasy right now. It's not good for him."
"Very well Sister," I agreed to placate her, if not Uncle.
Uncle was always a great one for fresh air. If at least one window was not open, no matter the season, he would say, " I can hardly catch my breath!" Now it was truer than true. A cruel ending for a man who loved deep draughts of air.
Uncle Arthur was indeed very disquieted, with an anxious look, breathing hard. His hands opening and clenching. I sat beside him and took up those restless hands
"What is it dear?"
He stared at me and I thought perhaps he could not speak, but then he wheezed out "Lottie, bring her to me!"
"That's what he keeps saying, Miss," the nurse said. "Bring her to me. But who? The whole neighborhood has been in and your Aunt left just a half hour ago. He just shakes his head in a fury when I suggest someone."
As Nurse spoke, Uncle Arthur's delft blue eyes watched me. They are near ice blue and yet never cold. A dark ring went around the edge of the iris. They can fix one in their gaze. His eyes never changed as Uncle melted into old age and illness. They remained vital and potent. Now they were blazing with meaning and purpose.
"Who do you want Uncle? Who, Dear?" I urged him to speak.
"Her!“ he could barely gasp out. “Child, I'm dying. I must.... see her!"
I was perplexed for a moment. Then, in a flash I will never forget, I understood and straightened as if electrified. Of course, of course.
"The portrait? Uncle, is that it? Is that who you want?"
His relief and gratitude was piteous. Of course, The Richmond.
"A portrait? “The nurse said" Fancy that." I swept pass her on my way to Aunt Mary to gain permission.
Once Miss Brontë’s Richmond portrait was hung for Uncle to see, he relaxed and was at peace. I watched its magical effect upon him.
I went to Aunt to inform her.
“Is he more at peace, Dear?”
“Yes, Aunt.”
“That is good."and Aunt was more at peace as well.
"Are any more people coming to the house, Lottie?"
"Well, little Helen Sharrard has come by again to inquire about Mr. Arthur and to walk the dogs. The dear girl has come every day."
"Bless the child," Aunt said.
"Only once or twice did she forget herself and referred to Uncle as " Baboo Nick." I laughed.
Aunt smiled, "The village children's pet name."
I remember when we cousins would as children walk with Uncle Arthur and the dogs of that day on the lane. There were always dogs about Uncle Arthur. Strays and even canines with masters came from everywhere to accompany us on our walks. Uncle would see one who was hungry or ill and do the best he could by them.
I recall he once had sharp words for a farmer who allowed his dog to suffer a wounded paw without attention. When Aunt went to Dublin for visiting, uncle's first act after he returned from the station , was to let the dogs into the house. I could see him now in his office with the pack piled happily around him. The dogs were usually barred the house by Aunt as they tended to knock, both she and Gran Bell, down in their rushing about.
Uncle Arthur dressed as a clergyman as he had for decades and saw no reason to change from the garb of a curate. The coat and hat had some rust on them now and his hair is no long jet black. Still if old time Haworth villagers somehow came upon the band of children and dogs that trailed behind Uncle on an Irish lane, they would have recognized instantly their High Church, exacting curate, Mr. Nicholls, from years and years before.
Speaking to Aunt May now, I could see again Helen's small, worried face at the door that morning. The Parson's daughter, she lived with her parents at St Paul's Rectory next door. Helen was used to freely come and go at Hill House.
She would find Uncle in his office, or fireside chair and pull him out to the garden or some adventure with the dogs upon the fields and lanes, like I and my cousins did many years before.
Now Helen stood timid and formal at the Hill House threshold to inquire after Mr. Arthur. I asked her in to the hall, out of the cold. She did not want to venture further if she wouldn’t find Uncle, her “other grandfather” and friend up and about. Helen’s large, grave eyes charged me solemnly.
"Please Miss, tell Mr. Nic, I mean Mr. Arthur, I came to walk the dogs and that I asked after him. "
"I surely will, Helen."
And I did, even on those days when Uncle could not be sensible to the news. It was a point of honor.
"He would not want the dogs to go without their walk," Helen said. "And they would not be wanting a stranger to take them."
"Indeed not Helen, it's good of you to do so."
"Oh, I couldn't fail Mr. Arthur, Miss. The dogs would grow fat and lazy and then what would he say?"
But today Helen had more on her heart and finally came out with it.
"Please Miss, will Mr. Arthur get well?" she asked me. I could only tell her we all hoped so. I kept my fears to myself.
The little face creased in grief and worry.
"Our Margaret says he'll not get well again,". So there was the burden. I took out my extra, clean handkerchief and gave it to the girl. Uncle always taught us to have two. How often did I bless him for it!
"Did you overhear her say so, Helen?" For I could not believe the Parsonage’s Margaret would pronounce it straight out to the girl.
There was a nod. "But I wasn't listening!" she insisted. “I just heard her."
"Well I don't know your Margaret to be a doctor, do you?"
"No, Miss."
"Then let us hope for the best, shall we?"
Helen nodded again and furiously wiped her eyes. For all my assurances, the child knew.
"I pray for Mr. Arthur, Miss. Father said to, but I did before he said so."
"That is well, Helen, and most kind. Thank you. I'm sure we all do."
Then Helen spoke with the urgency of childhood passions.
"Please Miss, tell Baboo Nick I came and I'll be walking the dogs until he's better again." This was a solemn vow and I honored it as such. At the door, Helen wished me goodbye and suddenly said.
“I will never walk a dog without thinking of him, Miss. Without thinking of Mr. Nic." As if Uncle was already gone. And I felt a chill as if he were.
"Bless the child," Aunt Mary sighed.
"Also, Aunt, Mrs. Griffin has come to the kitchen."
Aunt's eyes opened wide.
"Mrs. Griffen! Lottie you should have told me so right away. Widow Griffen has come, has she?"
"Yes, and what's the fuss about it?" I asked Aunt. She had watched a crowd troop though Uncle’s bedroom a few days before in a calm manner.
"Lottie! More sure than any doctor, Widow Griffen's appearance tells me my Arthur is indeed passing."
More of Aunt's whims.
"Oh, Aunt May, but in any case, it's odd. She's asking for a spoonful of jam." I said wondering.
Even though she was ill, I asked Aunt Mary about Mrs. Griffin as this is her house after all and I did not understand such a request.
A spoonful? What was the use of that?
"And"? Aunt asked weakly. She spoke with her eyes closed again.
"What shall I do about it?"
"Don't you know, girl? Give her a whole jar Lottie," said Aunt mildly enough, "from the store room."
"A whole jar!"
"Better a jar of jam, than have the cow go lame."
"Really Aunt, Mrs. Griffin?"
A wizened little body, who was an old, raisin-sized woman when I was a girl. It was more likely she would cast a spell than a cast a stone at the poor cow.
"I hardly think..."
"Widow Griffin would never harm any creature by any means, not for the world." said Aunt. "But Lottie it is for that very reason that if she goes from this house without her jar of jam, the little people will weep and our cow go lame." Aunt May explained as if I were a child that she thought me to be.
I scoffed, "Oh Aunt! Do you truly believe so?"
Aunt Mary thought on that.
"I believe it is as good as an explanation as any for what is true," she said. "If explanations are needed." And she seem to think only vulgar people would need one.
"Aunt, you are joking!"
"Not entirely, Dear. No, not altogether," said Aunt Mary.
"What part is not a joke?" I still needed more direction.
"It's a general policy of the house, Lottie. Ask and you shall receive. I suppose with my Arthur dying, people want to see how things will stand. They will expect a less generous regime I imagine, as that seems the way of things these days when there is a change. Let us keep up Hill House shall we? Both Mother and your Uncle would want that."
"Gran Bell was masterly in these matters," I admitted. "Bless her."
"Indeed, she was Lottie," Aunt Mary said. "Being the most Irish among all we Scots. "
"A jar does seem generous, considering a spoonful was the request!" I remarked.
"That's the point, dear. They ask for little, so we may give more than was asked for."
"So, a jar was asked for?"
Aunt held up her finger to make her point.
"Requested; an opportunity is offered us, and with great delicacy."
"Dublin is less confusing," I muttered.
"You are your father's daughter indeed, my girl," Aunt May said. “It was rare when Allen Nicholl would agree to leave his beloved Dublin's docks, streets, and smoke. You get that from him. But dear, this is not Dublin, this is Ireland and if the truth be told, you are a Scot and can hardly be expected to understand these things. But go now, tell young Pat to fetch Widow Griffin and give her the jar, please do, Dear."
"Myself? Wouldn't Kate do just as well?"
Aunt's eyes flew open again!
"Of course, it must be you, Lottie! It is bad enough I cannot see to it. But if it is Kate, it will be deemed an insult! A charity!"
"Well, isn't?" I asked frankly.
"Yes, of course. But that precisely is why it must not seem so! Oh, you children were ever indulged and your education sadly neglected! I see that now."
“Aunt! I am going on forty and can hardly be spoken of as child!” I protested.
“Forty, is it? Girl?” Aunt said “In this house Lottie, forty is an infant.
Now listen to me. Tell Widow Griffin Mrs. Arthur Bell Nicholls asks for her pardon, but I am too ill to come down myself, and Lottie, when you approach Mrs.Griffen, smile and ask her if she would be so kind as to accept a small jar of jam. If you say "wee", you will spoil it. She will know of course that is not natural to you. That word is for her to say. Attend to what she does say, as I'll want to hear all of it."
"She did ask for a wee spoonful," I remembered.
"I'm sure of it. Oh, do please go." Aunt was tiring.
"Aunt, of course, since you ask it." She was ill and her husband was dying, my bewilderment could wait. I marched forth to do as I was bid.
When I later returned, Aunt asked what transpired.
"Mrs. Griffen blessed Uncle, you, the house and all in it," I said.
"With tears?" Aunt inquired, her eyes brows lifting.
"Some, at the end, and blessing you and 'the Master particularly, Lord bless his soul.'"
"A fine tribute. That woman is an artist. Mother always said so.I'm sorry I missed it. It's not likely the newer generation will be as skilled."
"It's all a trick then?"
"Of course not, Lottie! However, tricks are use... “Aunt Mary Anna admitted .
"Then it is an art." I said.
"Indeed. But a fading one I fear."
"Well, Mrs. Griffen seemed happy enough with her jar as she went off.”
"Good. That is well," sighed Aunt.
I can see all this made her more restful and I was thankful for that.
"Oh, course I don't begrudge the old girl the jar." I said. "I'm thinking of all the jars that will be called for when word gets about."
"Widow Griffen has a special place. It's enough for many to know she was accommodated." Aunt said behind closed eyes. “No Irish home is called beyond its means .... unless times be bad."
"Aren't they now?" I asked her.
“Ha! Bite your tongue, Lottie Nicholl! You don't remember truly bad times my Dear! Oh, you think you do, having seen the '80's. But even the crop failures in the '80's had not a patch on the worst I've seen and we in Banagher did not see the worst of that. Though it was bad enough! "Aunt May did not have to tell me she was speaking of the Hungry 40's when she was young.
"Presently times are no more ill than usual. It is winter, of course, which is always difficult. " Aunt May sighed.
Then she brightened." But I will be selling many of the Brontë effects, save the Richmond portrait. Once Miss Brontë sees your uncle buried, she's bound for London at last, the National Portrait Gallery, to be exact," Aunt said.
"See Uncle buried?" I said. "What can you mean Aunt?" Was her mind now wandering too?
"My dear Arthur is to be laid out under the Richmond portrait, Lottie, in the parlor come the wake and funeral. The Brontë jewelry, the rings and broaches, they are for you girls, his nieces."
"It's quite a horde for a poor, Evangelical Irish parson's family, "I could not help remark. Of course, I had seen the Brontë jewelry over the course of the years. One would not think they went in for such trumpery," as that sect would say, besides not usually having such means.
"I believe much of it came from the mother's family.... Methodists, well-to-do... merchants in Cornwall," Aunt said meaningfully.
"Aunt, do you mean smugglers?"
"I did not say so, Lottie." Aunt said dryly."But I can hardly think a prominent Cornwall merchant from that time would be wholly uninvolved....if only for his own safety sake!"
All that explained why we nieces were receiving the jewelry now. Family and precedence, Uncle Arthur took such traditions seriously. He ever looked backward to gain direction forward. The Brontë nieces before us had once received the Branwell pieces and now, nieces many years later would inherit them again.
"The Rev. Patrick Brontë married rather above himself, Aunt," I said.
"Though I never met the gentleman, I believe he would have heartily agreed with you there, Lottie." Aunt smiled.
It was wonderful to finally speak openly of the Brontës, without the fear of upsetting Uncle. However, all this talk of the effects set me back.
"Rather cool to speak of the Brontë items and all that now, Aunt!" I said.
And she thought me hard and "modern"! It was so unlike her. All her life, Aunt Mary had been sheltered from the monetary concerns that had ground down the Anglo-Irish men and women of her station.
My Grandmother and, then from the '60's onward, my Uncle, bore those burdens to my understanding. Aunt saw to her house crisply, and was generous when there was a need.
But she seemed to know nothing of other pecuniary cares, such as the insistent juggling of mortgages, little ready money, late rents, the needs of tenants, the lack therefore of ready cash and such.
I speak of the scant cash twice, because it bears repeating. Uncle protected her from those worries.
Aunt Mary's calculations were of linens, food stocks, peace between the servants; not pounds sterling or the land. So, to speak of such things now!? Why, Uncle Arthur had not even breathed his last!
"Your Uncle spoke of this to me, himself. Often when a Brontë enthusiast's carriage went back down the Hill, as he raged. I will be carrying out my Arthur's wishes, as always," she said complacently.
There was her motive. But I had to ask:
"To be laid out under her portrait in your house? Uncle stipulated that?"
"No, he did not say so. He wouldn't. He did not ask that of me. But it will be so. I will see to it," Aunt said.
"Why Aunt Mary?"
"Because Lottie it is the truth and all should know it. I know My Arthur; he would dearly wish it and therefore it will ease a pain in my own heart to grant it to him."
"How so?" I asked. She was incomprehensible.
"Because a great sorrow will have ceased at last and My Arthur will know peace," Aunt sighed. "Peace! I am sad he is leaving me; my heart is breaking. But glad I am for him, Lottie. For 5o years, he has hidden his heart from all, save myself and Mother. It was there, you know, for all this time, in Haworth buried with her.
I finally had to ask " Oh Aunt how can you be so forgiving ?"
" Forgiving Lottie? You mean the old question? Because I was not first in his heart?
" You should have been so! What is their short time next to your forty years?"
" That is mathematics Lottie , not love. The way your uncle Arthur and I lived these last forty years is what love is ! How can I say I loved him, if I begrudge what and who he loved? Who he could not help but love? It's his very self Lottie ."
" But I know Uncle Arthur loved you Aunt." I said doggedly and not understanding
" Indeed he did Lottie...it just was not the same as with her. It could not be. "
She turned to look at me
" Lottie! This is what love is ; acceptance and loving anyway. Other wise it's just a bargain and one could say I made a poor one. But love is a miracle Lottie, that does not add up on a ledger page. Indeed we were married over forty years. I had my Arthur for forty years and he was my loving cousin for many years before that. Should I not be grateful? They had so little time together."
She was sad at the thought
" You can cry for them?"
" How can I say I loved your Uncle Arthur and not weep for his sadness? That least that is over, I'm sure.Lottie I can't help finding peace in that. I knew his pain better than anyone.
“When he and I spoke of marriage, my Arthur said to me, ‘May, you know my heart is in Haworth.’ I said I indeed knew it. He had said so for years.
But I had known since I was a girl, after his first return from Yorkshire and me a lass of 16. It was “Miss Brontë this and “Miss Brontë that “and Miss Brontë forever after."
"If I accepted that as absolute, he said, then he would agree to our marriage. Then he would humbly ask me to be his wife. My Arthur would not have me deceived you see. But I loved the same as he did. So I knew where his heart was.
"Now the world will know. It would be wrong to keep them apart here again. I could not do that, be that cruel and it would be a lie. They will be together in Heaven. So let it be on earth."
I had no answer to that. I would not probe so tender a belief.
Aunt went on after a few moments.
"Then Miss Brontë is bound for London and My Arthur for St Paul's church yard, where I will join him someday. They all expect him to bequeath the Brontë relics, all those who have come to Hill House over the years, seeking to buy or even be given treasures from his Brontë possessions.
The publisher’s son wanted Miss Brontës's desk as a donation! Ha! Like bees to honey they were. Buzzing about and thinking, oh you could see it on their faces! They were sure the country curate, The Rev. Arthur Bell Nicholls, was incapable of knowing the item's importance or worth!" Even while she rested, Aunt laughed.
"The truth is, they could not know My Arthur's worth! He did not, could not, see the family's effects as objects of historical importance, no matter how lofty, nor see them having a monetary value. The Brontë family possessions were the personal items and mementos of departed love ones! His family! All that was left of those that had gone from him. They had no price!
"Ask him for the air from his lungs, one might as well. Even so, how to decide what to give to whom in a will? King Solomon himself couldn't do so and then the resulting hurt feelings that concerned your uncle greatly, as always. He couldn't decide where or to whom to bestow them. There's the truth of it."
"Well, there is the Brontë Society in Haworth surely," I said. “ Uncle was supportive of that.”
"Yes, they will receive a good deal, family portraits the most important items of the hoard, really and be sold other items. But there is no secure place for the items to reside in Haworth, Brontë Society or no. They rent the place they have now. Can anyone show a place where the Society itself rests securely? No. For its meetings, it flits from place to place. It has no home. It can hardly offer one to the Miss Brontë's writing desks."
"Oh, the desks, too!?" I said.
"Indeed.”
"I rather favor one of the desks, Aunt." What was I saying?
“You too Lottie? I will send you a catalog, girl. See, it is not just a desk. It was hers. It can't just disappear into simply being a desk again. Lines of ownership must be made from this house out to the world."
"I thought you said Uncle did not see the family's possessions in that way?”
"Not whilst My Arthur lived, Lottie. I am speaking of afterwards...., Oh God...soon."
It was then, the hard reality of Uncle's death intruded and her voice caught. On her face, I saw the pain of it. She spoke . But more to herself than me. She seemed haunted.
"I walked his road of waiting. Now, I will travel his road of grief."
Aunt was lost in herself and let out some sighs. Speaking of such things as the Brontë items was a means to push back the pain. Thinking what she must do, kept the grief at arm’s length. So I brought up the topic again.
"Aunt, what about the wedding dress?"
Aunt Mary returned to me.
"Why I should have said so from the start! The dress is to go to you, Lottie."
"I, Aunt? An odd bequest for an unmarried woman, wouldn't you say?"
Or was it?
"The will was made up years ago Lottie, when you and Ellen were little girls and none could know the future . You are the elder, so it was fitting. I must tell you Lottie, a task comes along with the gift; the wedding dress is strictly to be kept in the family and when you give it up, it’s to be burnt."
"Burnt?" I said" One would think it a holy relic!"
"To your uncle, Lottie it is. He will not have it sold for money, ever." Aunt said, "and the thought of it touched by strangers, drove him mad. It would be eventually both so handled and sold if it leaves our hands even as a gift." She shivered, having taken in Uncle's view. "But most of the Brontë effects will be sold, so there's a boon ahead." It was as if she was reciting a lesson learned.
"A public sale in London at least will leave a trail for all these items, the winner is recorded. Over time, likely the items will make their own way to Haworth as gifts and requests, if a proper place be made at last.
“But as it stands, everyone will be given their chance. They that want the items, will bid and pay for them, said he. The care the items receive will be far better and My Arthur could leave me something besides, bless him. Heavens knows I cannot care for such precious objects when he is gone! I would stay up nights with the worry of it."
"Uncle Arthur sold items to that Mr. Shorter years ago," I said "even the Brontë copyright.”
I remember him myself. I met him on one of his numerous visits to Uncle. He seemed quite sharp, knew what he was about. Short man, frizzled hair with gold rim glasses. Uncle Arthur was far more able to see to his own affairs then than these last few years so I made no inquires. However I was surprised Uncle sold the Brontë copyright and said so to Aunt May.
"Well, that was different, Lottie. My Arthur knew Mr. Shorter was the one to have the copyright because Mr. Shorter is a literary man. He was far above the average in that regard. And one of the few who seemed to take Charlotte Brontë's ultimate opinion of your uncle seriously. "
It seemed incredible the name could be spoken so simply and aloud.... rather than whispered, if said at all. Uncle indeed must be dying.
"In addition, Mr. Shorter handled Miss Nussey adroitly and firmly. That recommended him to your uncle," Aunt smiled. “For no one had done that since Mrs. Gaskell herself!
"However, Mr. Shorter did not always do your uncle’s bidding, “Aunt continued "indeed, at times, he did exactly the opposite. Your Uncle endured it, because he liked Mr. Shorter. My Arthur considered him a friend and besides, how could my Arthur see about things in London and such? Better to deal with one rogue than a hundred. “
I could just hear Uncle say so.
Aunt thought a bit more. "My Arthur would get his own back with Mr. Shorter on occasion. There were pages of Miss Brontë 's poems among the papers. Mr. Shorter said he wanted the poems very much. Your Uncle said he would copy them out for him as he could not spare the author's penmanship,“ Aunt smiled, “you see my Arthur called Mr. Shorter's buff there. It wasn't the poems he wanted. Not at all, it was the authoress’s autograph. Just what My Arthur could not spare."
Then I had to say, "Aunt, you have always called Uncle Arthur, "My Arthur" and yet we've always known and you, yourself, just told me how completely, he was hers!"
Aunt Mary’s brown eyes looked at me in surprise and she spoke with the ready, strong answer of love.
"He is My Arthur to me, Lottie! He always has been so. Long, long before we ever heard of Haworth, I considered him mine and called him "My Arthur." Always. As a child, I called out “Where is My Arthur? Is My Arthur here?" After my accident, it was he who carried me about. Where I give my heart is my own affair, Lottie, and not dependent on other's circumstances, even theirs."
"I still don't understand, Aunt," I admitted, "your acceptance..."
"Well, I did not come to this peaceful place all at once, Dear. I assure you. I'm not the Saint you may suppose. I had years of waiting to teach me their hard lessons, just as he did. My Arthur waited too you know, eight years and then these last fifty.
Lottie, as I say, since I was a very small child, I called him" My Arthur. “Everyone thought it so amusing. I did not understand their laughter, as I was very serious about my claim. The young are very serious creatures. He was always My Arthur to me."
"But you met her, during the Honeymoon." I could finally broach the topic.
"Of course. Your father, Uncle James and I met them in Dublin and we all traveled to Cuba House together."
"What was Charlotte Brontë like, Aunt? I have often wondered."
Aunt Mary thought on this.
"A tiny lady who was quite sweet. They say she was plain, and I suppose she was. But one forgot that soon in her company. She seemed from an earlier era. Watchful, she didn't speak much, she looked. But when she did speak, what she said was of worth or very amusing. Said low, the remark curled up to one's ear and perhaps in a minute or two the full meaning came into your brain and one laughed, and laughed long.
“Again, her manner of speech was from an earlier time. But I do remember her showing excitement over our ferns, of all things. She made a book of them, which we still have. Mother loved her right away and she, I believe, soon came to love mother. She could see Mother was a great lady. Then the house, Cuba, greatly impressed her too, I know that. 'A gentleman's seat' she called it, and she had seen and stayed in quite a few by that time."
Then Aunt looked disturbed, but went on hurriedly.
"Charlotte Brontë Nicholls was also a person who was able to have me confess my feelings for her husband just by the power of her eyes and what emanated from them. That portrait in the parlor is no lie, Lottie. It is but the faint replica of fact.
"Those eyes! She didn't say a word about it mind you, until I did.There was no need. The first Mrs. Nicholls knew my deepest truth and had me confessing my greatest secret in a quarter hour. My Arthur and the family were oblivious of it, save Mother. But only because I told her how I loved him, how I would always love him."
Aunt shook her head while remembering." Finally, after I told her, I had to ask Charlotte when did she know? She said from the first glance as I and the cousins came up to she and Arthur in Dublin.
"She said when I turned towards them and I saw Arthur, she knew. I blushed at that. “Aunt blushed again at the memory of more than half a century.
"Aunt! Was she angry?" I asked. "I mean Charlotte Brontë, that you loved Uncle?"
"No bless her, there was pain in her eyes, how tender they were! But it was for me! The first Mrs. Nicholls pitied me and was so kind and I was so grateful, I forgave her pity and her place!
“I wondered about that too, I begged her not to resent me for it. She told me no, she couldn't do that. She knew too well how it was to love as I did. That was all she said about it. She did not say what I could see for myself. What everyone saw."
"And what was that aunt?" I prodded.
Aunt Mary sighed, "As you said before Lottie, it was obvious he was hers so completely, that she could be generous....and then I knew Lottie, that she had walked the same path as I."
Aunt thought more
"She was someone who can seem a most impersonal person, even frosty and then in the following moment, in feeling, she would come right next to you in a rush of intimacy you would never forget."
Aunt said, "Charlotte took my hand with hers and said, ‘Forgive me, Mary Anna. I am unused to a seat at the rich man's table. My manners are unsure."
"I barely understood her meaning, but I believe Charlotte meant she too knew my plight as she had said earlier. Still, she asked my forgiveness! How could I not love her and understand Arthur's love for her?"
"I assured her Arthur did not know of my regard. She could be secure on that point. Charlotte smiled and said, she was sure of it too. And that if Arthur had known, he would be hopelessly awkward and tongue-tied during the visit and then blurt it out at an impossible moment."
Aunt laughed deeply. "How true. Charlotte and I laughed together and then it was all right. She said to please call her Charlotte. She insisted. “We are sisters now, May" she said. It was only later I fully realized the importance of that station to her. Charlotte said she "approved of her new relations." Aunt May smiled. “She could make one laugh, just by the way she said something."
"So, she and Uncle did love each other?" I said,
"Yes, of course. What makes people think they didn't?" Aunt asked as if she had touched something cold unexpectedly.
"She was a genius and he but a curate, Aunt," I reminded her.
I loved my uncle very much as did the family, neighbors and the village too. But Arthur Bell Nicholls was no genius. Unless you count goodness, humor, good will, a tender heart and the afternoon punch he concocted for Gran Bell and Aunt and how every dog and child in Banagher adored him. They claimed him for their own. But the world counted these gifts for little.
"Charlotte Brontë's most famous novel is all about how the inconsequential are more than they seem. If a governess be a heroin, cannot a curate be a hero? " Aunt said.
"Well, it seems for Charlotte Brontë a curate could, Aunt."
Aunt Mary Anna nodded. “A woman of genius and a simple, good man. Sure, why can't they draw together Lottie? Since both such beings are often the outcasts of society! "
"Oh Aunt!" The truth of that made me laugh.
"Seeing them together helped me, Lottie." she said "I knew it was fate then. I did not lose My Arthur though a mistake or miscalculation or a fault of my own. That was a comfort to me. I believe I did resent her until I saw them in Dublin. You would not know your Uncle Arthur then, laughing, carefree, bursting with pride, happy. His fine voice boomed though the house that week."
"I knew Uncle loved her," I said. Indeed, had I not watched him pine all my life? "But there's often talk it was one-sided."
"Nonsense," Aunt said. "I know what I saw. Charlotte Brontë thrilled when he came into a room, as I did, perhaps more. There was a kind of unexpected kinship between she and I in that regard," Aunt admitted "and recall, it was their honeymoon when they were here."
"Is the portrait like, her aunt?" For I knew the prints of Richmond's portrait in books and such were nothing like our original at Hill House.
"At times when she looked at My Arthur, yes," Aunt May said quietly.
"I see. Well, you got Uncle Arthur in the end Aunt, there's that."
"Yes, I did, and for forty years, Lottie. But he wasn't the same man he was with her for that honeymoon week. Still, that didn't matter to me and after all he had been though, losing her so soon and then the living, it was not to be wondered at."
"But how did you and she find an opportunity for such a private talk as that?" I asked, amazed. In those long ago summer days , Cuba House and Hill House in summer, teemed with many Bells, Adamsons and Nicholls, of at least two generations, or more.
"Charlotte was ill with a cold when they arrived and fatigued from our Dublin sight-seeing, with everything the wedding and travel," said Aunt. "She was nursed back to health by Mother. One day the rest of the household went off on a boat trip or picnic. I stayed back to keep her company one of those days as Mother saw to other matters and I took her place.”
"And Uncle went off too?" I asked.
"She told him to! Charlotte said she wanted less fuss and to get better acquainted with ‘the female constituency of the household’ as she said." Aunt laughed as I believe she did then, "As I’ve said, her way of speaking was so quaint, far older than herself."
But Aunt became serious again and nearly wailed.
"I never dreamed what we would discuss! I had not even as yet told Mother my secret. No one else knew. I had asked Charlotte about their trip in Wales, before we met them! A mild topic I thought! Of course, she did not inquire as to my feelings. No. Charlotte Brontë Nicholls simply looked the truth out of me." Aunt gave a small shiver. "She saw right though me and I had to confess the dearest truth of my life!"
"No wonder you were perturbed when Miss Brontë's portrait fell upon you later!" I said in awe.
Back in the '70's when Aunt was dozing on the sofa, after 25 years of service, the Richmond portrait’s wire snapped, and down came Miss Brontë onto Aunt Mary Anna with a thump. Before it was to me a subject of laughter, but not now so much.
"Yes, Lottie, everyone laughed about it later. But when it happened, our old Bridget cried out ‘It be the first wife come back! God rest her soul!’ and crossed herself. Also, and I had a bit of a bruise the next day and for a week."
"What did Uncle say?" I asked.
"Not much. When he came back from seeing to the fields, and saw the picture on the sofa and I told him what happened , his eyes became great saucers and yet, when it was plain I was alright, mostly shaken by the surprise and the picture unharmed... he laughed , even as he put his arm around me to comfort me. You know his odd humor and strange to say, but I knew he was laughing with her and then, I did too."
"You say Uncle did not know your feelings, all those years before, Aunt?"
Getting back to what really interested me. It seemed impossible he didn't know, given how she hung on his every word.
"Your Uncle Arthur saw me as his dear little sister. I am 12 years younger. That length means more when one is young... and old."
"But how did he learn of your regard?" I asked. These were things we dared not ask before!
"Mother had to inform him" came a wry smile. "Years later, long after Charlotte Brontë passed and he had returned to Ireland and us. When we three were established here, at Hill House and for years. You know he lost the Haworth living after Rev. Brontë passed. "
"Of course," I said. The public part of the story we all knew, as did everyone.
"It hurt him, Lottie and though Mother and I pretended to be sad too, we were very glad of it," Aunt said sheepishly. "It meant he would return to us, you see and we could care for him properly. He so needed care."
"Us? You mean the family?"
"I mean Mother and me. I could no more leave Mother than Charlotte Brontë could leave her father."
Uncle Arthur's first marriage had been so short, even Aunt Mary called the first Mrs. Nicholls mostly by her maiden name.
"Oh Aunt! I see." Uncle Arthur had waited a long time for Charlotte Brontë, but nowhere near how long as Aunt Mary Anna had waited for Uncle!
"My Arthur brought Martha Brown from Haworth with him too. Do you remember her Lottie?" Aunt asked.
"Miss Martha? I should hope I do!" Miss Martha Brown was a wonderful woman. We children loved to hear her odd accent and to eat her famous butter pound cake.
Always dressed in black silk during her summer visits, She was a favorite of the servants too, even though there was no shilly-shally when Miss Martha was in residence. Aunt would hold-off projects until Miss Martha's annual visit.
"Mother and I loved her," Aunt said "We loved having that good, Yorkshire woman coming to see to us and the house for a time each year. We were in fine trim then. Miss Martha was all the family Arthur had left in England, after his friend, Mr. Sowden died She kindly came along with him when he returned. I don't know which one came to give support to the other!"
"Family, Aunt?"
"Brontë family, Lottie. They were the only two left. And Brontës don't leave each other easily. Rev. Sowden was like a brother to your Uncle. Oh, 1861 was a hard year for my Arthur. He lost his father-in-law, his best friend and the living too."
"Ireland didn't sit well with Martha Brown at first. I don't think it would if one comes the first time in November! In the spring, she was better and at one time even thought of marrying here. We wanted her here as family regardless. But naturally Brown family ties kept calling her back to Yorkshire and of course had the greatest claim. They couldn't do without Martha."
"What caused Gran to finally tell Uncle of your regard?" I asked her. Only Gran would have to courage to awaken Uncle Arthur from his half-dreaming state. Uncle Arthur adored her and became a mindful boy in her presence.
"My Arthur was back with us nearly three years, and so there we were two unmarried persons of a certain age living year after year at Hill House." Aunt shook her head. "Village gossip brought it all to a head!"
"Village gossip!" I barked.
"Why Lottie, you sound surprised. Do you think your Uncle Arthur and I are too dull personages to excite local gossip?"
I quickly assured her I didn't, exactly because I did.
"But surely Aunt, Gran Bell was living here as well!"
"It was not enough to still the talk. The village knew my heart, even if the family professed not to."
"How was that?"
"Love is wonderfully plain to others who have no reason to be blind to it," Aunt said simply. "Besides Lottie, what brought it all to the fore also, was I had an offer from another gentleman," said with a smile.
"An offer? ...Of marriage?" I blurted out.
"What else? Again you sound surprised, Dear."
Up went a reproving eyebrow. It was not the surprise Aunt disapproved of, as much as the indelicacy in showing it.
"Nothing of the sort, Aunt!"
"Well, when Mother told My Arthur of this offer, he remarked from behind his evening paper, mildly and offhandedly:
“But Mary Anna belongs to us."'
Aunt laughed. "Well! That sent Mother on a roar and she told him if he wanted me to stay on at Hill House, when a good man had offered for me, he needed to marry me himself!"
"And what did he say to that?"
I could just see Gran Bell in a such a temper, if so provoked. Indulgent though Gran Bell was, she did not suffer foolishness forever and she had news that had waited twenty years to be told: Aunt's love.
"He was dumbfounded. Speechless. When he found his voice again, My Arthur said he could not marry me. He was already married. After a shock, Mother took him to greater task. But that was how he felt.
Finally mother said to him." Lad, you are waiting for Charlotte. Many Anna is waiting for you. Cannot you both wait together?" He had no answer to that wisdom."
And Aunt thought on this, but said in a few moments,
"The rest of that story will have to wait for another day, Dear. I am very tired."
In my absorption and interest, I had forgotten she was ill herself.
"Forgive me, Aunt! I've tried you too far!" I was most sorry.
"Just a little, Dear. Now Lottie, I must rest. But first I have something to give you."
“For me, Aunt?”
“Yes, in the middle drawer there you will find a package of papers. Please bring it to me.
As I opened the drawer, I asked what it was.
"Actually, I cannot imagine." said Aunt. “He was burning papers again in his study just a short time ago."
I procured it and held it out to her.
“Please read the label aloud, Dear.”
I bent over the thick packet to read the writing. It was my Uncle Arthur's strong hand only somewhat bent with age.
My heart is in Haworth
The record of my English life and 1st marriage to be read upon my death by my brother's daughter, my niece, Miss Charlotte Brontë Nicholl.
Arthur Bell Nicholls Hill House 1904
I looked up " Have you read it Aunt? I asked.
Even in her grief and illness, my question made her smile. I did not understand her still.
"No Dear. It says it is for you to read."
Aunt's forbearance! It would shame a Saint. My Uncle lay dying in the next room, yet his word was still immutable law. So many paid Arthur Bell Nicholls no mind. My aunt Mary Anna was not among them.
"Uncle is near gone , Aunt , you can do as you want.”
"But Lottie, I am doing as I want! I want to do as my Arthur wishes. I leave it with you My Dear," murmured Aunt "Now please I wish to be alone."
She soon slept and I returned to my room where I ventured to open the packet.
I could not help but write down some of the passages in my own day book.
Hill House
Banagher
1904
My Dear Lottie, If you are reading this then my waiting is near over or done at last . Praise God.
My Dear do you recall many years back when you were a little girl and asked me about my English life and about a famous lady I married there so long ago? Do you recall how I told you none wanted to hear the true story? In your childish boldness and candor, you persisted. You said well you wanted to know!
If your Aunt Mary was with us , she would have hushed you and told you to be silent. But it was just you and I with the dogs on the lane. You were not being nosy , you just wanted to know in your guileless way.
To satisfy you and to cease the topic, I said I would tell you the story one day. In the years since you must have learned the topic was taboo for you have not visited it since. Undoubtedly you learned the lady's name, even read her books (I dare say though, you all hide them from me when you do) and that was enough. It must seem now like myths from long ago. I know I regularly read in the newspaper the astonishing fact that the husband of Jane Eyre still lives. Indeed, I do and none are more astonished than I , myself
Though I'm a relic of the last century, walking about in my ancient frock coat and curate's hat, an object of fun and affection for our local urchins, these pages will show that I'm still a man of my word and I have not forgotten my promise to you, even when it was given in haste to a persistent child
It is still beyond my power to discuss this topic at length. Oh, I could speak somewhat with Mr. Shorter, the gentleman who came to Banagher in '95; because he knew a great deal already, in some aspects more than I. But otherwise, even now as I write, I feel my throat closing in emotion as it does when this topic arises. So I , no master of the written word , will attempt to write out the tale in these pages.
I can at last tell the story because my waiting is blessedly near over. The old climes and hallowed memories can be revisited as the pain they cause will soon have its remedy. With what joy I greet each day now knowing I am one day closer to the end of my waiting and the joyous reunion Our Savor has promised us draws ever nearer. Oh, Lottie, how I have longed for it
At times I seem halfway there already. When I come back to myself and see your faces, I know I have exalted too freely, too excitedly. My dear wife, your excellent Aunt Mary, alone looks not away, but to me with love and happiness for me. That is love, Lottie. What a fine woman your Aunt is ! But I need not tell you that.
Rather than distress you all with my ramblings, I will tell my tale in these pages . I will at last open my innermost heart, a heart that has resided under a church's flag stones in Haworth all these years, with her and the child. There was a child, did you know that?
I will tell how I came to Haworth in the West Riding of Yorkshire, fell in love with Miss Charlotte Bronte, waited 8 years to marry her and then came to understand Miss Emily's book about grief better than I would wish it so on my worst enemy.
In Miss Emily's book, Mr. Heathcliff asks "How can I live without my life?" My life has been an exploration of that question. Truth to tell, after eight years of waiting, I was far more used to longing for Charlotte Brontë than having her; and having her as my wife, only made the longing later infinitely worse.
Yet I would not forgo those months of marriage to Charlotte Brontë for anything, even if I knew I faced 50 years of grief ahead. What is that ? I would face them anyway if her no had remained no. But I had the joy of those months, do you see the vast difference? I have learned to think on what was given, rather than dwell on what was withheld. But it took a lifetime to lean that lesson.
Nothing can take from me those grand months and the fact we were man and wife, nor the fact there was a child, our child. Did you know that? If my heart breaks on the stony facts, I am upheld by them as well.
You may have wondered why my first wife’s passing day and her birthday are so marked in our household. I dare say it is unusual to have a first wife so honored in the house of the second. But this habit was established at Hill House well before your Aunt May and I married or even thought of it, at least on my part. So I could hardly cease the practice once May and I were married. Nor did I want to, Lottie.
When I left Haworth, I could no longer care for her grave, their grave. That trust, that service, I was forced to give over to uncaring strangers. It galled me bitterly. I wasn't even allowed that. Of course, I had marked those particular days when widowed in Haworth. The Richmond hung in the dining rom, which since my wife's passing saw little activity and the room had become something of a shrine.
I would place fresh flowers underneath the picture on these days particularly. When I returned to Ireland in late '61, the portrait took pride of place among the other Bronte relics at Hill House. And in 1862, the first spring after my return, it was natural such observances begin again, as you know, they continue every Spring to this day."
I thought on this.
When we children were young people and, of course, irreverent scamps, we called those two days of the year, March 31 and April 21 " The Brontë High Holy Days" and thoroughly enjoyed our wickedness.
Then later, I resented the practice on Aunt Mary Anna's behalf. However with the passing of more years, I came to respect, even rely upon Uncle Arthur's constancy. Something that Charlotte Brontë valued about him it seems. When Uncle's health had declined, of course Aunt May, remarkable woman that she is, kept up the practice these last few years.
It has always been my custom to refer to Charlotte Brontë Nicholls as my wife and I will do so when it is clear it is she to whom I am referring. But I can hardly call her "Mrs. Nicholls " as that title belongs to another and it has for over 40 years, to your dear Aunt Mary Anna.
So in these pages I will call Charlotte Bronte Nicholls, simply "Charlotte". It's what I call her within myself, as well as some nicknames, which you will read as you go on......
.......Many believe they knew the authoress, but they knew nothing of the everyday woman, so how can they know her at all? And she was a changeling. For if one drew near to one aspect of Miss Brontë, she would place another in one's way like a shield.
Draw near to the authoress, and the flinty Yorkshire's parson's daughter would appear. Draw close to the Parson's daughter and one would find the famous authoress before them.
One had to somehow find the true woman between the two. But let me tell you, Lottie, no man before me cared to look for that woman, truly. They would fail to transcend some impediment and that was that. I, however, would not be defeated! .....
.........I have often wondered why I was given this destiny, why I alone seemed to be the only one who could fulfill various offices during my long life and now I wonder why I have been the last among so many to gain my rest? I remember how Father Brontë could not comprehend why he lived so long and outlived all his love ones.
That old warrior! He didn't know his own strength. After a night long vigil when Mr. Brontë cared for and prayed over his unhappy son, Mr. Branwell used to remark to his sisters, "He'll be the death of me, you'll see. That old man will bury us all."
It was no joke nor did Mr. Branwell mean it to be.
.........I was a mere curate, Irish, without a penny beyond my pay and perhaps the worst, a staunch High Churchmen, indeed the worst of the whole lot, a stiff Tractarian. All seemed insuperable disadvantages in the winning of Miss Charlotte Brontë. That was before I knew she was a famous authoress as well. With this knowledge, she spun away even further from my grasp....
Sometimes, I indeed played the boor and dullard, daring others to have the discernment to see the ruse, as she dared others to see though her hard-bitten, formality. Few did. In my case, it was because they could not bother to or it pleased them to find me so. In hers,because they lacked that insight that only love gives.
After some time reading this and much more, I put the pages away and looked in on Uncle. In the dim light, Miss Brontë and the nurse were keeping watch.
Supported by pillows, he was sitting upright in bed to help him breathe. Uncle was pale, but on his cheeks there was a red flush. The room rang with his raspy breath as his lungs gasped for air. He seemed weaker to me. There was less fight.
I greeted the sister and asked how her patient seemed.
"Resting now a least, Miss."
"Sister, you have seen many a sick bed?
"Oh indeed, Miss. I have."
"Is my uncle dying do you think?" I asked her directly.
This discomforted her. She rather jumped
"It's not my place to say, Miss. That is for the doctor to say and God." said primly.
"Indeed, Sister. But what do you say?"
"Miss! It would be seen as meddling for me to give such an opinion."
"I won't hold you to it, Sister," I answered. "I understand it is but an opinion and given only because I asked you. And most importantly, I will keep it to myself." She looked at me, whilst considering.
"Well, Miss, then I would say......them that want to see Mr. Arthur in this world, had better be busy doing it. God bless the poor gentleman."
Though she spoke in the most general terms, I felt there was a message for me in her words.
I had known Uncle Arthur all my life. He was my father's brother and a Father to me and my sister since Papa's passing. Yet the heart of this man was only opened to me now, just as he was leaving us. There was little time.
"Thank you nurse. I will stay with Uncle for an hour. Please get yourself some tea in the kitchen. There is a plate for you.
"That is very kind of you, Miss! I surely will. Thank you."
And off she went. Nurses never miss a chance for tea and rest. There may not be another opportunity for some time to come.
I took the chair next to Uncle myself and thought on what I had read and would read. In an impulse I could not repress, I picked up his now wasted hand.
Wasn't it just a short time ago when I read his own words about them, along with much else? He was after all a farmer's son with "great, farmer hands" he called them. I remembered their strength and warmth. How they always had a treat or an answer.
How they gently caressed his dogs, yet were able to break open walnuts, much to his nieces' and nephews' delight. Uncle's hand now was chilled, shrunken, more than half-dead already. The warmth of my own hand woke Uncle Arthur somewhat. He did not speak, but I saw the glint of his eyes as I smoothed his hand and comforted him.
"Darling, I'm listening now. I'm reading all about it."
He was frowning as best he could. The after some time
"…was to be after.... Lottie" So! He knew me.
"Oh, Uncle Arthur! Please don't be cross. We thought you were gone, but you rallied!" His eyes smiled. I laughed too.
But then I remembered what the nurse had said first thing that morning.
"He keeps speaking of a gate, Miss, and how she is waiting."
I grasped his hand even more firmly.
"Uncle, she's waiting for you "I told him" At the gate."
He looked amazed as his thoughts were spoken.
"Do you think so?" came the rasp.
I gave him Aunt's answer.
"It is certain."
The End
© Anne Lloyd 2025
