It was a sad day when
the intelligence of this young creature's death arrived. Charlotte wrote
thus on January 12th, 1840:--
"Your letter, which I received this morning, was one of painful
interest. Anne C., it seems, is _dead_; when I saw her last, she was
a young, beautiful, and happy girl; and now 'life's fitful fever' is
over with her, and she 'sleeps well.' I shall never see her again. It
is a sorrowful thought; for she was a warm-hearted, affectionate
being, and I cared for her. Wherever I seek for her now in this
world, she cannot be found, no more than a flower or a leaf which
withered twenty years ago. A bereavement of this kind gives one a
glimpse of the feeling those must have who have seen all drop round
them, friend after friend, and are left to end their pilgrimage alone.
But tears are fruitless, and I try not to repine."
During this winter, Charlotte employed her leisure hours in writing a
story. Some fragments of the manuscript yet remain, but it is in too
small a hand to be read without great fatigue to the eyes; and one cares
the less to read it, as she herself condemned it, in the preface to the
"Professor," by saying that in this story she had got over such taste as
she might once have had for the "ornamental and redundant in
composition.
Pages:
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244