Jane Slayre

by Sherri Browning Erwin

  "The creature of an overstimulated brain, that is certain."

  "Depend on it, my nerves were not in fault. The thing was real. The transaction actually took place, and I have proof. My beautiful wedding veil, the precious gift from you, is destroyed. I found it on my floor, irreparable."

  He considered my words carefully.

  Again he drew me into his embrace. He strained me so close to him, I could scarcely breathe. At last he released me.

  "Now, Janet, you suspect there is more to the employment of Grace Poole than you've been told. You are right, indeed. You are too clever to doubt the evidence when it is standing right in front of you ripping your veil. I see you would ask why I keep such a creature in my house. When we have been married a year and a day, I will tell you; but not now. Are you satisfied, Jane? Do you accept my solution of the mystery?"

  I knew him. I trusted him. I had faith that he would keep his word, and that he held the information back, for now, for reasons of his own. I was not entirely satisfied, but I was accepting.

  "I do," I answered him with a contented smile.

  "Does not Sophie sleep with Adele in the nursery?" he asked as I got up to light a candle.

  "Yes."

  "And there is room enough in Adele's little bed for you. You must share it with her tonight, Jane." he got up, too, and stood behind me. He cupped my shoulders and spoke low, his warm breath brushing my ear. "I am not surprised that the incident you have related should make you nervous, and I would rather you did not sleep alone. Promise me to go to the nursery."

  "I shall be very glad to do so." I turned to face him, again with a reassuring smile.

  "And fasten the door securely on the inside. Wake Sophie when

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  you go upstairs to request her to rouse you in good time tomorrow. You must be dressed and have finished breakfast before eight. And now, no more sombre thoughts. Chase dull care away, Jane. Don't you hear to what soft whispers the wind has fallen? And there is no more beating of rain against the window. Look here." He strolled to the window and lifted up the curtain. "It is a lovely night!"

  I joined him to look out. It was. Half heaven was pure and stainless. The clouds, now trooping before the wind, which had shifted to the west, were filing off eastward in long, silvered columns. The moon shone peacefully.

  "Well," said Mr. Rochester, gazing inquiringly into my eyes, "how is my Janet now?"

  "The night is serene, Edward, and so am I."

  "And you will not dream of separation and sorrow tonight, but of happy love and blissful union."

  This prediction was but half-fulfilled. I did not indeed dream of sorrow, but as little did I dream of joy. I never slept at all. With little Adele in my arms, I watched the slumber of childhood--so tranquil, so passionless, so innocent--and waited for the coming day. All my life was awake and astir in my frame. As soon as the sun rose, I rose, too.

  It was my wedding day.

  CHAPTER 29

  BEFORE SOPHIE CAME AT seven to help dress me, I'd had my bath and arranged my hair and felt I was nearly ready to dress and go. Sophie had other ideas. My hair, in my usual bun, was not right. She asked, in indignant French, if I thought it was just like any

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  other day. Then, how she fussed over me! She took down my hair and brushed it again. I thought she would be brushing for hours. Then she twisted it into an elegant, soft chignon with stray curls framing my face. She smoothed my brow and plucked at stray hairs and pinched my cheeks to a soft glow. She was just adjusting my veil, the plain square of blond after all, to my hair with a brooch when Mr. Rochester, apparently impatient for my appearance, sent word up the stairs to hurry me along. Eager to join him, I almost flew out from Sophie's hands as she still worked. She steadied me.

  "Stop!" she cried in French. "Look at yourself in the mirror. You have not taken one peep."

  I hardly recognised the image staring back. I looked like a fantasy of myself, like the little fairy or angel that Mr. Rochester was always accusing me of being. I thanked her and hurried down to meet my groom.

  He received me at the foot of the stairs.

  "Lingerer!" he said before even looking up. "My brain is on fire with impatience, and you tarry so long!" He surveyed me keenly, then pronounced, "My dearest, you have taken my breath clean away. You are as fair as a lily, nay, fairer. The pride of my life, and desire of my eyes."

  I laughed at him. I could not imagine Mr. Rochester losing his breath over anything, much less my appearance, but I thanked him for the compliments and returned them in the only way he would expect.

  "You look tolerably handsome yourself." I smiled.

  In truth, to my eyes, he looked like a prince stepped out of a novel. He was clean-shaven, and his hair, though recently trimmed, still had a touch of wildness about it, the way I liked it. He wore a dark suit, but he might as well have been clad in medieval armor, for he was my shining protector. My heart surged with pride.

  He told me he would give me but ten minutes to eat some breakfast. He rang the bell. One of his lately hired servants, a footman, answered it.

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  "Is the luggage brought down?"

  "They are bringing it down, sir."

  "And the carriage?"

  "The horses are harnessing."

  "We shall not want it to go to church, but it must be ready the moment we return, all the boxes and luggage arranged and strapped on, and the coachman in his seat."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Jane, are you ready?"

  I rose. There were no groomsmen, no bridesmaids, no relatives, to wait for or marshal, none but Mr. Rochester and I. Mrs. Fairfax stood in the hall as we passed. I would have spoken to her, but I was hurried along by a stride I could hardly follow.

  At the churchyard wicket, he stopped. He discovered I was quite out of breath.

  "Am I cruel in my love?" he said. "Delay an instant. Lean on me, Jane."

  Now I can recall the picture of the grey old house of God rising calm before me, of a rook wheeling round the steeple, of a ruddy morning sky beyond. I have not forgotten, either, two figures of strangers straying amongst the low hillocks and reading the mementos graven on the few mossy headstones. I noticed them because, as they saw us, they passed round to the back of the church, and I suspected they were going to enter by the side door to witness the ceremony. I did not mind. I would gladly share my happiness with all.

  We entered the quiet and humble temple. The priest waited in his white surplice at the altar, the clerk beside him. All was still. Two shadows only moved in a remote corner. As I thought, the strangers had slipped in before us, and they now stood by the vault of the Rochesters, their backs towards us, viewing through the rails the old, time-stained marble tomb, where a kneeling angel guarded the remains of Damer de Rochester, slain at Marston Moor in the time of the civil wars, and of Elizabeth, his wife.

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  We took our places at the communion rail. The service began. The explanation of the intent of matrimony was gone through, then the clergyman came a step farther forward and, bending slightly towards Mr. Rochester, went on:

  "I require and charge you both, as ye will answer at the dreadful day of judgment, when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed, that if either of you know any impediment why ye may not lawfully be joined together in matrimony, ye do now confess it; for be ye well assured that so many as are coupled together otherwise than God's word doth allow, are not joined together by God, neither is their matrimony lawful."

  He paused, as the custom is. When is the pause after that sentence ever broken by reply? Not, perhaps, once in a hundred years. The clergyman, who had not lifted his eyes from his book and had held his breath but for a moment, proceeded, his hand already stretched towards Mr. Rochester.

  "Wilt thou have this woman for thy wedded wife?"

  The sound of someone drawing closer culminated in a voice. "The marriage cannot go on. I declare the existence of an impediment."

 
The clergyman looked up at the speaker and stood mute. The clerk did the same.

  Mr. Rochester moved slightly, as if an earthquake had rolled under his feet. "Proceed," he said, his voice deep and low, rolling through the church as if God's very own. He took a firmer footing and did not turn his head or his eyes.

  "I cannot proceed without some investigation into what has been asserted, and evidence of its truth or falsehood," Mr. Wood said quietly.

  "The ceremony is over," subjoined the voice behind us. "I am in a condition to prove my allegation. An insuperable impediment to this marriage exists."

  Mr. Rochester heard, but heeded not; he stood stubborn and rigid, making no movement but to take my hand. What a hot and

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  strong grasp he had! And how like quarried marble was his pale, firm, massive front at this moment! How his eyes shone, still watchful, and yet wild beneath!

  Mr. Wood seemed at a loss. "What is the nature of the impediment? Perhaps it may be got over--explained away?"

  "Hardly. I have called it insuperable, and I speak advisedly." The speaker came forward and leaned on the rail. "It simply consists in the existence of a previous marriage. Mr. Rochester has a wife now living."

  My nerves vibrated to those low-spoken words as they had never vibrated to thunder. My blood felt their subtle violence as it had never felt frost or fire, but I was collected, and in no danger of swooning. I looked at Mr. Rochester. I made him look at me. His whole face was colourless rock. His gaze was both spark and flint. He seemed as if he would defy all things. Without speaking, without smiling, without seeming to recognise in me a human being, he only twined my waist with his arm and riveted me to his side.

  I knew, now, that the accusations would have to be answered, and that the answer would not please me. I thought of the thing in the attic, and I knew. I knew that Mr. Rochester's long-desired happiness was now as impossible as my own.

  He would not give up as easily. "Who are you?"

  "My name is Briggs, a solicitor from London."

  "And you would thrust on me a wife?"

  "I would remind you of your lady's existence, sir, which the law recognises, if you do not."

  "Favour me with an account of her--with her name, her parentage, her place of abode."

  "Certainly." Mr. Briggs calmly took a paper from his pocket and read out in a sort of official, nasal voice, " 'I affirm and can prove that Edward Fairfax Rochester, of Thornfield Hall, and of Fern-dean Manor, England, was married to my sister, Bertha Antoinetta Mason, daughter of Jonas Mason, merchant, and of Antoinetta, his wife, a Creole, of Spanish Town, Jamaica. The record of the marriage

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  will be found in the register of the church--a copy of it is now in my possession. Signed, Richard Mason.' "

  "That--if a genuine document--may prove I have been married, but it does not prove that the woman mentioned therein as my wife is still living."

  "She was living three months ago," returned the lawyer.

  "How do you know?"

  "I have a witness to the fact, whose testimony even you, sir, will scarcely controvert."

  "Produce him--or go to hell."

  "I will produce him. Mr. Mason, have the goodness to step forward."

  Mr. Rochester, on hearing the name, set his teeth. He experienced, too, a sort of strong convulsive quiver.

  The second stranger, who had hitherto lingered in the background, now drew near. Mr. Rochester turned and glared at him. For a moment, I feared he would strike the man, who was indeed the pale, withering Mr. Mason.

  "What have you to say?" Mr. Rochester dared Mr. Mason with his eyes.

  An inaudible reply escaped Mason's white lips.

  "The devil is in it if you cannot answer distinctly. I again demand, what have you to say?"

  "Sir--sir," interrupted the clergyman, "do not forget you are in a sacred place." Then, addressing Mason, he inquired gently, "Are you aware, sir, whether or not this gentleman's wife is still living?"

  "Courage," urged the lawyer. "Speak out."

  "She is now living at Thornfield Hall," said Mason in more articulate tones. "I saw her there last April. I am her brother."

  Her brother, indeed! That explained Mason's bold midnight visit. He supposed himself a comforting force, perhaps, to his sister, who flew off and attacked him anyway. What was she? Was I at last to know? What was that thing in the attic that had somehow

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  become my love's wife, for she was no longer human if indeed she had ever been.

  "At Thornfield Hall!" The clergyman could not contain his disbelief. "Impossible! I am an old resident in this neighbourhood, sir, and I never heard of a Mrs. Rochester at Thornfield Hall."

  I saw a grim smile contort Mr. Rochester's lips. "No, by God! I took care that none should hear of it--or of her under that name. Enough! There will be no wedding today. I have been married, and the woman to whom I was married lives. You say you never heard of a Mrs. Rochester at the house up yonder, Wood? But I daresay you have many a time inclined your ear to gossip about the mysterious creature kept there under watch and ward. Some have whispered perhaps that she is my bastard half sister, some, my cast-off mistress. I now inform you that she is my wife of fifteen years, Bertha Mason by name, sister of this resolute personage, who is now, with his quivering limbs and white cheeks, showing you what a stout heart men may bear. Cheer up, Dick! Never fear me! I'd almost as soon strike a woman as you."

  "I had to say something." Mr. Mason looked at me as if he would make apologies, but Mr. Rochester stepped in front of me as if to shield me from all.

  "Briggs, Wood, Mason, I invite you all to come up to the house and visit Mrs. Poole's patient, and my wife!"

  The words pained me, but not for my own sake. I ached for him. I knew at last what he'd been trying to hide, to escape, for all these years, the past mistake he could not put behind him to find his way to happiness.

  "You shall see what sort of a being I was cheated into espousing and judge whether or not I had a right to break the compact and seek sympathy with something at least human. This girl"--he looked at me, at last, and my heart broke with the sorrow in his gaze--"she knew no more than you, Wood, of the disgusting secret. She thought all was fair and legal and never dreamt she was going

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  to be entrapped into a feigned union with a defrauded wretch, already bound to a bad, mad, and embruted partner! Come all of you--follow!"

  Still holding me fast, he left the church, the three gentlemen trailing behind. At the front door of the hall, we found the carriage.

  "Take it back to the coach house, John," said Mr. Rochester coolly. "It will not be wanted today."

  At our entrance, Mrs. Fairfax, Adele, Sophie, and Leah advanced to meet and greet us.

  "To the right-about--every soul! Away with your congratulations! Who wants them? Not I! They are fifteen years too late!"

  He passed on and ascended the stairs, still holding my hand, and still beckoning the gentlemen to follow him, which they did. The low, black door, opened by Mr. Rochester's master key, admitted us to the tapestried room, with its great bed and its pictorial cabinet.

  "You know this place, Mason," said our guide. "She bit and stabbed you here."

  He lifted the hangings from the wall, uncovering the second door. This, too, he opened. In a room without a window, there burned a fire guarded by a high and strong fender, and a lamp suspended from the ceiling by a chain. Grace Poole bent over the fire, apparently cooking something in a saucepan. In the deep shade, at the farther end of the room, a figure ran backwards and forwards.

  What it was, whether beast or human being, one could not, at first sight, tell. It groveled, seemingly, on all fours. It snatched and growled like some strange wild animal, but it was covered with clothing, and a quantity of dark, grizzled hair, wild as a mane, hid its head and face.

  "Good morrow, Mrs. Poole!" said Mr. Rochester. "How are you? How is your charge today?"

  "We're tolera
ble, sir, I thank you," replied Grace. "Rather snappish, but not 'rageous."

  A fierce cry seemed to give the lie to her favourable report. The clothed wolf rose up and stood tall on its hind feet.

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  "Ah! Sir, she sees you!" Grace warned. "You'd better not stay."

  "Only a few moments, Grace, You must allow me a few moments."

  "Take care then, sir! For God's sake, take care!"

  The creature bellowed. She parted her shaggy locks and looked out. I recognised well that purple face, those bloated features, though she was not quite in the beastly state at which I had seen her, and probably not in full form even then. I remembered such a creature from fairy stories Bessie had told me in my youth, a creature with a curse of transforming from human to wolf under the glow of a full moon. A werewolf.

  Mrs. Poole advanced.

  "Keep out of the way," said Mr. Rochester, thrusting her aside. "She has no knife now, I suppose, and I'm on my guard."

  "One never knows what she has, sir. She is so cunning."

  "We had better leave her," whispered Mason.

  "Go to the devil!" was his brother-in-law's recommendation.

  "'Ware!" cried Grace.

  The three gentlemen retreated simultaneously. Mr. Rochester flung me behind him, and a good thing, for I hadn't thought to arm myself with stakes on my wedding day, if stakes could even affect such a beast. The creature sprang and grappled his throat viciously. She tried to bite his cheek, but he dodged her teeth. She was a big woman, in stature almost equaling her husband, and corpulent besides. She showed virile force in the contest--more than once she almost throttled him, athletic as he was. He could have settled her with a well-planted blow, but he would not strike. He would only wrestle.

  At last, he mastered her arms. Grace Poole gave him a cord, and he pinioned them behind her. With more rope, which was at hand, he bound her to a chair. The operation was performed amidst the fiercest yells and the most convulsive plunges. Mr. Rochester then turned to the spectators. He looked at them with a smile both acrid and desolate.