Emily's Ghost Page 8

  Weightman glanced at her. Her cheeks were red, but whether from the cold east wind or her emotions he could not tell.

  “And what do you think, Mr. Weightman?” Charlotte turned their attention back to the curate.

  Weightman considered his words, not wishing to be forthcoming, and yet feeling compelled to offer some support to Emily. Truth be told, his position was closer to her own than she knew.

  “I think we must remember compassion,” he said at last.

  “Of course, compassion,” Branwell scoffed. “You are a member of the clergy, after all, and a kind fellow. You must show compassion. But someone else must apply discipline.”

  “Discipline!” Emily cried. “Is that what you call it, to turn loose the most powerful army in the world on poor miners and factory workers as you suggest?”

  “Emily,” Charlotte reproved, “Mr. Weightman should have a chance to respond to our brother.”

  Weightman was careful to keep his eyes down, pretending to consider his steps upon the uneven ground.

  “Very well,” Emily said. “Proceed, Mr. Weightman. Tell us how compassion may be applied in this situation. Would you offer everyone involved a bowl of soup?”

  “Indeed I would,” he answered cautiously. “And I would hope things might be reasoned out.”

  “Vain hope,” Emily said, “without justice.”

  “And if you ask Emily what she means by justice,” Branwell said, “she will give you some claptrap about men of property being forced to part with their hard-earned bounty and turn it over to the ignorant.”

  “Have you noted,” Emily said hotly, “the peat harvest is off again this winter, and old and young in Haworth are shivering in their hovels as we speak. Obedience will not keep them warm when their masters think of them not at all. Nor will Mr. Weightman’s bowl of soup help for more than a few minutes.”

  “It will keep them working as they should do,” Branwell said.

  They had come to the headwaters of the beck. A narrow footbridge crossed the frozen water and the path continued steeply up the other side to higher ground. It was their usual stopping point on the shorter rambles they were inclined to in the cold, and they turned to go back the way they had come. But Emily stopped and said abruptly, “I feel like going on.” She turned and continued across the bridge.

  It was clear from the way she set out that she not only did not expect their further company, she did not desire it. They stood and watched her retreating form as she clambered up the steep hill, Keeper at her side. Unlike her sisters and the other women Weightman knew, she did not wear full petticoats, and her skirt clung to her slender form. He could not take his eyes off her.

  “Will she be all right?” he wondered.

  “She will go all the way to Ponden Kirk,” Branwell said. “She is in one of those moods.”

  “She will be fine so long as Keeper is with her,” Charlotte said. “To urge her to return would only mean she would determine to walk all the way to Lancashire.”

  “She has a strong will,” Weightman observed, somewhat superfluously, he realized.

  “Something you must understand about Emily,” Charlotte said, linking one arm through Branwell’s and the other through Weightman’s. “She is a great theorist. She can dream you any sort of philosophy and apply it to a utopia. Practical, she is not. Nevertheless, she will defend her position, untenable though it be.”

  A few days later Weightman was again invited to the parsonage, this time for a festive supper. Branwell, who at Weightman’s urging had been applying for teaching positions, had received a job offer in the Lake District.

  “Tutor to a wealthy family,” Branwell explained. “And I owe it all to you.”

  “Of course not,” Weightman demurred. “You only needed to apply yourself.”

  “Yet you inspired him,” Charlotte said as she slid an especially thick slice of roast beef onto Weightman’s plate. It was a sign of Brontë joy at this upturn of Branwell’s fortunes that they served roast beef instead of mutton.

  Patrick Brontë looked at his curate over his glasses. “Indeed we all appreciate your good influence.”

  “Amen,” Aunt Branwell seconded. She had grown especially fond of the young curate, who always paid her small kindnesses.

  “And you must come for a visit,” Branwell insisted. “We shall have some lovely rambles among the lakes.”

  “You might meet Wordsworth,” Anne suggested.

  “Indeed I expect some inspiration from the environs myself,” Branwell said. “The lakes shall call forth my own poetry far better than Haworth can.”

  Emily said, “Fine poetry may be written in Haworth.”

  “I’ll have none of your parochialism tonight,” Branwell retorted. “I shall see the world even if you do not wish to.”

  “I do not need to,” Emily agreed amiably enough.

  After supper they retired to the parlor where Emily was persuaded to sit at the cottage piano and play for them. She was not so technically proficient as Caroline Dury, the daughter of the curate of Keighley, who hit all the most difficult runs with aplomb. Emily sometimes skipped notes, or paused in the midst of a progression, though she covered for herself admirably well. But she also played with a passion Weightman had not heard before in a parlor and only rarely in a concert hall. As she worked her way through a piano arrangement of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, he found himself leaning forward as though the music were an invisible rope drawing him toward her. Emily, that gangly young woman severe of aspect, seemed to melt, her features transfixed with sheer joy as her fingers coaxed beauty from the piano keys.

  Afterward Weightman carried his teacup into the kitchen. Emily, who had disappeared upon finishing her performance, stood stacking dishes in the sink she had just filled with hot water from the hearth.

  “You still have chores?” he said with surprise.

  “Tabby has gone to bed early with a cold,” she answered. “I’ll just set these to soak and I’ll do them in the morning when the light is better.”

  She took the cup from Weightman’s hand and set it in the tub.

  “You play with great emotion,” Weightman said.

  Emily turned, took up a towel, and wiped her hands. “The world breaks Beethoven’s heart,” she said. “As it does mine. And so I can play him. Not all composers are so open to me.”

  “Ah,” Weightman said. He was considering a response when Charlotte entered and said, “Come, Mr. Weightman, Emily. We are going to have a game of charades.”

  And so Weightman and Emily nodded to one another and went to join the others in the warm glow of the parlor.

  4

  January was bitter, for the peat harvest failed and people fast ran out of fuel. Patrick Brontë and William Weightman joined with the clergy of the dissenting chapels to organize what relief they could. But one by one the chimneys lost their plumes of smoke. Families huddled together for warmth, and saved bits of fuel to use every few days to boil potatoes. Otherwise they ate their plain fare, even the oats, cold and raw. They lacked strength to work and yet labor out of doors was preferable to staying in, for at least it set the blood to flowing.

  The Widow Bland noted on her journeys to the pump to fetch water that the chimney of Old Dean, who lived around the corner, had been without smoke for several days, as had many others in Gauger’s Croft. But she had not noted the old man about on his walks, and the door was shut tight. Nor was his dog Robbie to be seen. A knock on the door roused a sharp barking inside, and scratching at the door. Mary Bland hesitated a moment, then tried the latch. The door swung open with a creak. Robbie bounded out and ran straightway to lift his leg against the side of a wall. The length of his piss told Mary that it had been desperately needed. The dog turned then, ran back inside, and began to bark.

  It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the darkened hovel, but the figure sprawled before the hearth gradually came clear. Old Dean lay upon his back, one arm stretched across a brick of peat he had been c
arrying to the cold hearth. Mary could not see his face, but she doubted not what she would find. She was poorly in her knees and no longer able to walk far. So she hobbled home and dispatched her grandchildren, Susan and Samuel, one to fetch the surgeon, Mr. Wheelhouse, the other to the parsonage.

  Little Susan Bland did not quite reach the parsonage for she first encountered William Weightman walking to the Sunday school. He kept his books and writing materials in a cubbyhole off the main classroom, and there he prepared his sermons and the lessons he taught the children. His mind was on John Donne, for he had an idea to teach the Holy Sonnets to the older pupils. But the cries of Susan Bland interrupted his reverie, and he altered his route, the child’s small cold hand in his large one, to Gauger’s Croft.

  It took only a cursory examination to tell Weightman the old man was dead. He had already prayed with Mary and Susan Bland when Samuel arrived with Mr. Wheelhouse. The surgeon must make his own examination while Robbie paced back and forth before the cot on which they laid the corpse. The dog paused to watch suspiciously as Mr. Wheelhouse poked and prodded the still form of his master. He gave a low anxious whine. Suddenly he turned, barked a high joyful yelp, and ran to the door where two figures stood blocking out the light. One was a large dog, which came forward at once to greet Robbie. The other was a woman, her silhouette black against the sunlit doorway. When she stepped forward into the room, Weightman recognized Emily Brontë.

  She held a basket which she dropped as she entered the room. It was full of bread and the loaves tumbled across to the hearth. She ignored Robbie, who was joyful at her approach and ran frantically between the woman and her dog as though imploring them for help. Mr. Wheelhouse, just finishing his examination, nodded to her and said, “Miss Emily.”

  Emily leaned closer in the gloom and stared at Old Dean, then stifled a sudden sob and turned away, her hand pressed to her mouth.

  “Either his heart stopped or he suffered a hemorrhage in his brain,” Wheelhouse was saying. “It makes no difference which, I suppose.” He glanced at the corpse. “He was a hard old man, and I daresay he lived longer than many of us shall.”

  Emily gave another sob and then mastered herself. She turned to Mr. Wheelhouse and said, “I’m glad he died before you got here.”

  Her tone of voice was not malicious, merely matter-of-fact. But Wheelhouse took clear offense. “Why is that?” he said sharply.

  “Because you would have bled him,” she said, her voice flat. “And it would have done no good.”

  “Please, Miss Emily, do not criticize me for doing the best that can be done. I cannot help Haworth has no physician.”

  Emily stood, her arms folded and her face turned away. “I do not criticize you,” she said. “A physician would do no more good than you do. I simply do not want any of you around if I am taken ill.”

  Mr. Wheelhouse acted as though he wished to respond and then thought better of it. He picked up his surgeon’s bag, put on his hat, gave a nod to Weightman, and left.

  Young Susan Bland, a thin, sickly child, commenced to cry. Her brother stood looking down, his hands in his pockets. Weightman bent and picked up the brick of peat that lay where Old Dean had dropped it. He handed it to Samuel.

  “Take this home with you,” he said. “It’s likely the last divot of peat in Haworth. I know Old Dean would want you to have it for this last act of kindness.”

  The Blands thanked him and the Widow asked what should be done.

  “I shall see to the burying,” Weightman replied. “It shall be tomorrow and we will post the time at the church.”

  “He will have his mourners,” Mary Bland said. “He was much loved in this neighborhood.” She turned to Emily. “And thank you, Miss, for the bread he brought round.”

  Emily nodded and did not reply. She had grown so quiet and withdrawn that the shadows seemed to have devoured her. But when the Blands had taken their leave, she spoke. “You said a prayer?”

  Weightman answered, “I did.” Then he thought he should offer more comfort. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were close to him.”

  “Do you know it now?” she said. “I can’t say that I was. Only he told me stories of the moors, and I remembered them. That is all.”

  “You wept for him,” Weightman pointed out.

  Emily said, “I shall not weep again in front of others. I shed tears when I am alone. But to weep before others is terrible.”

  Weightman could not think what to say. Hers might have been an acceptable answer from a man. From a woman it was decidedly odd. And yet he was touched as she took up the lone blanket in the room and spread it over the old man, covering his face, and went on to gather up the loaves of bread scattered across the floor.

  “If you like,” Weightman offered, “I shall take Old Dean’s place with your bread. I too know who stands in great need.”

  He expected her to reject him, but instead she handed him the replenished basket and said, “I shall hold you to that promise, Mr. Weightman.”

  Weightman felt as though he had passed some test. He accepted the basket. He was about to suggest that Emily return home while he saw to the arrangement of coffin and gravedigging. But she went to kneel beside the collie dog and wrapped her arms around his neck.

  “What shall become of Robbie?” she cried. “Poor, poor Robbie.”

  Weightman set down the bread basket, knelt beside her, and stroked the dog’s head. “Will he leave the corpse, do you think?”

  “He will not.”

  “He will be hungry.”

  “Oh, he will be. I shall go home at once and bring him something to eat.” Emily turned to Weightman. “He must go to the burial. He must.”

  “He shall,” Weightman agreed. “And then?”

  Emily joined Weightman in stroking the dog. “Perhaps we can keep him at the parsonage. Perhaps he will stay with us.”

  “He knows Gauger’s Croft,” Weightman said thoughtfully. “How old would you reckon him?”

  “Old,” she replied. “You see how he hobbles about. Old Dean told me once that Robbie was eleven, and that was more than a year ago.”

  Weightman thought quickly. Then he said, “The Widow Ogden has said I might have a dog about. I am often in Gauger’s Croft, and Robbie could join me on my rounds and see people he knows. He could rest at my feet at the Sunday school or wander the churchyard if he wanted to visit his master’s grave. Then he could come in safety with me to Cook Gate.”

  Emily leaned back. “It would be so kind of you,” she said with more feeling than Weightman had ever heard from her. “And we could help at the parsonage as well. Old Dean would not want Robbie put down early, or to wander friendless.”

  “Very well, then,” Weightman said with a smile. “I shall leave you to tend Robbie now, and I shall take him in hand tomorrow after the burial.”

  He stood to leave. As he reached the door, Emily called, “Mr. Weightman. Thank you.”

  He paused. Then he nodded and said, “Miss Emily,” and went out into the sunlight.

  On the morning of Old Dean’s burial, the skies opened over Haworth, a cold relentless rain on the verge of freezing. A crowd of mourners trudged up the hill from Gauger’s Croft to the church, where Old Dean’s body rested in the nave.

  William Weightman had seen the old man stretched out and coffined the night before. At Emily’s insistence, Robbie had been witness as well. The dog watched with a worried expression in his eyes, alarmed border collie eyes that surveyed all with their whites showing, his head resting on his front paws, as the body was enclosed and the coffin nailed shut. Robbie rose once, when the lid was closed, to sniff the wood up and down along its roughly closed joints.

  “It is the rudest coffin I have seen,” Emily observed. “They have taken no care with it at all. The lid does not fit properly.”

  “I know,” Weightman said. “The wood itself is thin enough for a man to break with his bare hands. But there was not enough money for a better coffin, and the alternative w
as a winding sheet. I thought—” He did not finish. For fear, he considered, of her tongue-lashing. The coffin makers at the top of the high street were busy, and had no interest in a poor man from Gauger’s Croft. So they had shoved their cheapest product at him, and he had thought the money saved might best be used elsewhere.

  “If the coffin required money, who paid for this one?” Emily asked. When Weightman did not answer, it dawned on her. She tried to atone for her previous comment and said, “Old Dean deserves the dignity of a coffin. He would be honored by it.”

  “He does,” Weightman agreed. “He was the oldest man, I don’t doubt, in Haworth.”

  Emily nodded and leaned over Robbie to fix a rope to his collar, and to hide her own emotions. Old Dean had passed most of his life on the moors, and had ended his days in Haworth when it became harder for him to walk great distances. He moved to the village to live with a daughter who was employed in the Bridgehouse Mill. The daughter and her husband and children were all dead, carried away by hard work and the waves of fever that swept through the poor precincts of Haworth. Old Dean had survived them all. He had turned to Emily, the two of them drawn together by the dog Robbie and held fast by the store of tales Old Dean accumulated over the years.

  Emily stood, and Robbie stood with her, as the two men who brought the coffin and wielded the hammer and nails to fasten it, raised the wood box upon their shoulders. They went in procession to the church, Mr. Weightman taking up the rear.

  Robbie, barely visible in the waning light of early evening, surveyed the placement of the coffin in the nave.

  “Let me keep Robbie tonight,” Emily begged Weightman. “He will want to stay close to Old Dean until he sees him in the ground.”

  Weightman agreed, and left for his own lodgings with the Widow Ogden. Emily went on to the parsonage where Aunt Branwell grumbled at having not one but two dogs in the house. But Robbie, who was glad to see Keeper, settled his tired old bones before the hearth fire and slept away the evening and the night.