I found him leaning against the garden door in a paroxysm of anguish, sobbing as women never sob. Of course I went straight to him.

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘May 19th, 1853.

‘Dear Ellen,—I cannot help feeling a certain satisfaction in finding that the people here are getting up a subscription to offer a testimonial of respect to Mr. Nicholls on his leaving the place.  Many are expressing both their commiseration and esteem for him.  The Churchwardens recently put the question to him plainly: Why was he going?  Was it Mr. Brontë’s fault or his own?  “His own,” he answered.  Did he blame Mr. Brontë?  “No! he did not: if anybody was wrong it was himself.”  Was he willing to go?  “No! it gave him great pain.”  Yet he is not always right.  I must be just.  He shows a curious mixture of honour and obstinacy—feeling and sullenness.  Papa addressed him at the school tea-drinking, with constrained civility, but still with civility.  He did not reply civilly; he cut short further words.  This sort of treatment offered in public is what papa never will forget or forgive, it inspires him with a silent bitterness not to be expressed.  I am afraid both are unchristian in their mutual feelings.  Nor do I know which of them is least accessible to reason or least likely to forgive.  It is a dismal state of things.
‘The weather is fine now, dear Nell.  We will take these sunny days as a good omen for your visit to Yarmouth.  With kind regards to all at Brookroyd, and best wishes to yourself,—I am, yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Haworth, May 27th, 1853.

‘Dear Ellen,—You will want to know about the leave-taking?  The whole matter is but a painful subject, but I must treat it briefly.  The testimonial was presented in a public meeting.  Mr. Taylor and Mr. Grant were there. Papa was not very well and I advised him to stay away, which he did.  As to the last Sunday, it was a cruel struggle.  Mr. Nicholls ought not to have had to take any duty.

‘He left Haworth this morning at six o’clock.  Yesterday evening he called to render into papa’s hands the deeds of the National School, and to say good-bye.  They were busy cleaning—washing the paint, etc., in the dining-room, so he did not find me there.  I would not go into the parlour to speak to him in papa’s presence.  He went out, thinking he was not to see me; and indeed, till the very last moment, I thought it best not.  But perceiving that he stayed long before going out at the gate, and remembering his long grief, I took courage and went out, trembling and miserable.  I found him leaning against the garden door in a paroxysm of anguish, sobbing as women never sob.  Of course I went straight to him.  Very few words were interchanged, those few barely articulate.  Several things I should have liked to ask him were swept entirely from my memory.  Poor fellow!  But he wanted such hope and such encouragement as I could not give him.  Still, I trust he must know now that I am not cruelly blind and indifferent to his constancy and grief.  For a few weeks he goes to the south of England, afterwards he takes a curacy somewhere in Yorkshire, but I don’t know where.

‘Papa has been far from strong lately.  I dare not mention Mr. Nicholls’s name to him.  He speaks of him quietly and without opprobrium to others, but to me he is implacable on the matter.  However, he is gone—gone, and there’s an end of it.  I see no chance of hearing a word about him in future, unless some stray shred of intelligence comes through Mr. Sowden or some other second-hand source.  In all this it is not I who am to be pitied at all, and of course nobody pities me.  They all think in Haworth that I have disdainfully refused him.  If pity would do Mr. Nicholls any good, he ought to have, and I believe has it.  They may abuse me if they will; whether they do or not I can’t tell.

‘Write soon and say how your prospects proceed.  I trust they will daily brighten.—Yours faithfully,

‘C. Brontë.’