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He never omitted the ceremony afterwards, and the gravity and quiescence with which I underwent it seemed to invest it for him with a certain charm.
CHAPTER 37
PERHAPS YOU THINK I had forgotten Mr. Rochester, reader, amidst these changes of place and fortune? Not for a moment. The craving to know what had become of him followed me everywhere. When I was at Morton, I thought of him every evening as I sat alone in my cottage. Now at Moor House, I sought my bedroom each night to brood over him.
In my necessary correspondence with Mr. Briggs about the will, I had inquired if he knew anything of Mr. Rochester's present residence and state of health. But, as St. John had conjectured, Mr. Briggs was quite ignorant of all concerning him. I then wrote to Mrs. Fairfax, entreating information on the subject. I had calculated with certainty on this step answering my end. I felt sure it would elicit an early answer. I was astonished when a fortnight passed without reply, but when two months wore away, and day after day the post arrived and brought nothing, I fell prey to the keenest anxiety.
I wrote again. Perhaps my first letter had missed. Renewed hope followed this renewed effort, but not a line, not a word, reached me. When half a year was wasted in vain expectancy, my hope died out, and then I felt dark indeed.
A fine spring shone around me, which I could not enjoy. Summer approached. Diana tried to cheer me. She said I looked ill and wished to accompany me to the seaside. This St. John opposed. He
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said I did not want dissipation. I wanted employment. He increased our time training together and studying Hindustani as if the additional hours spent pouring over the intricate language would bring me cheer. I could not even find satisfaction in our training sessions, though it normally lifted my spirits considerably to shoot targets with the crossbow or to wrestle St. John to the ground.
I could not stop loving Mr. Rochester, and I couldn't imagine why I had ever left him. We were equals now. I could return to him with my own fortune, as my own woman, without any reason to feel inferior or worry that he might begin to regret my dependency. True, he had a wife. And now, all of our acquaintance knew he had a wife. I could be nothing but his mistress. It was hopeless, I knew, to think that he would ever let me kill Bertha Mason. He believed in mercy and would not stand for harming or killing her. He would not accept that in releasing her from her earthly bonds, I would be setting her free. Indeed, I wasn't sure of it myself.
Was she evil, like a vampyre? Soulless? Nothing in my reading indicated that she had chosen her current state and willingly given up her chance at heaven. By all accounts, she was a slave to her cursed nature, unable to resist the transformation under a full moon. Adding to her blameless state, she was a lunatic. It was a terrible combination of circumstances, but my argument that killing her would be saving others from harm would fail to impress the man that I loved. I loved him because of his reason and compassion, amongst other things, and to strike at Bertha Mason went against his very ideals.
What, then, did this leave us? Was it better that I become his mistress, and sacrifice my pride, or that we endure the torture of being apart for the rest of our lives? I was no longer certain I could bear the separation. But now that I had written and had no reply from Mrs. Fairfax, I wondered if I had been forgotten more easily than I imagined possible. Perhaps, with time, they all--including Mr. Rochester--had replaced me in their hearts and moved on.
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St. John called me to his side to read. In my effort to do this, my voice failed me. Words were lost in tears. We two were the only occupants of the parlour. Diana was practising her music in the drawing room. Mary was gardening. This fine May day was clear, sunny, and breezy. My companion expressed no surprise at this emotion, nor did he question me as to its cause.
"We will wait a few minutes, Jane, until you are more composed."
I stifled my sobs. I wiped my eyes and muttered something about not being well that morning. I resumed my task and succeeded in completing it.
"Now, Jane, you shall take a walk with me." St. John put away our books.
The sun was high as we walked out to the road along the glen. As we advanced and left the track, we trod a soft turf, mossy fine and emerald green, dotted with tiny white flowers.
"Let us rest here," said St. John as we reached some rocks at the edge of a little waterfall, a picturesque spot.
I took a seat. St. John stood near me.
"Jane, I go in six weeks. I have taken my berth in an East India-man, which sails on the twentieth of June. There is much trouble there with vampyres. The population grows unchecked and at an alarming rate."
"God will protect you, for you have undertaken His work."
"Yes, there is my glory and joy. I am the servant of an infallible master. One day, we will rid this world of vampyres and evil creatures."
"One day, perhaps."
"Jane, come with me to India. You, too, are blessed with the Slayre skills. It is right that we have found each other to help each other with the tasks ahead."
"To India? India?" Impossible! So far away from Mr. Rochester? There would be no hope, absolutely no hope, of ever meeting him again.
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"India, Jane. Think of it."
"There are still vampyres here. There is work to be done here at home. India is your choice. Not mine."
"Jane," he said calmly as if confident of his ability to persuade me. "I knew you were meant for me the moment you came in, breathless from fighting in the wood, with your skirts ripped, your hair undone. You were a vision."
A blush spread over my cheeks. I could not believe what I was hearing! That he had ever thought of me that way?
"St. John! You should not have noticed. And if you had, you should not be telling me so. Remember our circumstances, sir."
"Our circumstances? That we're cousins? If we're suited, I hardly see how that matters--and I believe we are suited, Jane. Very much. With you at my side, I feel stronger, more capable somehow. You--you inspire me."
"That is a compliment." I sighed. I was not accustomed to compliments. "I understand now why you wanted me to learn Hindustani."
"Humility, Jane, is the groundwork of Christian virtues. Who that ever was truly called believed himself worthy of the summons? Think like me, Jane--trust like me. We both were chosen."
"Thanks, in part, to your training, I am somewhat skilled at vampyre slaying, I grant you. But I am not called to a missionary life."
"Jane, you are docile, diligent, faithful, constant, and courageous, very gentle, and very heroic. Cease to mistrust yourself. I can trust you unreservedly. As a conductress of Indian schools for training, and a helper amongst Indian women, your assistance will be to me invaluable." He waited for an answer.
I could do what he asked of me, I reasoned. To join St. John in India meant doing worthy work, indeed. Was it the work I was born to do? Was it what my uncle Reed wanted of me when he told me of my history? Was it what my mother wanted of me when she appeared
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to me under the moon and told me to flee, to follow my instincts? What mattered was what I wanted.
I wanted to be loved. I wanted Mr. Rochester. I did not want to go to India. And yet, I had no Mr. Rochester. I had no love. What else did I have but my natural abilities and my family now? St. John was my family, and he needed me. Was it right to abandon him for a dream that had passed me by?
St. John would never love me. He would approve me. I would not disappoint him. Yes, I could work as hard as he could, and with as little grudging. But he did not love me, and I did not love him. We could never marry.
"I am ready to go to India if I may go free," I said. "I do not think we should marry."
He shook his head. "Adopted fraternity will not do in this case. Either our union must be consecrated and sealed by marriage, or it cannot exist. Practical obstacles oppose themselves to any other plan. Do you not see it, Jane? Consider a moment--your strong sense will guide you. You would not be safe to travel a
lone with a man who was not your husband."
"You don't love me."
"I desire you, Jane. We could manage well as a married couple. I would make it easy for you."
"It would never be easy, St. John. You know I love another."
"But for India," he said, his blue eyes entreating. "Do it for India."
"For India?" I laughed. "I will do that for no one but myself, sir, myself and the man that I love. He is not you."
"I tell you again, it could work between us. Think again. Don't be hasty in answering. Take more time. Think of all the good we could accomplish."
I did think of the good. It gave me pause.
As I walked by his side homeward, I read well in his iron silence all he felt towards me: the disapprobation of a cool, inflexible judgment
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that has detected in another feelings and views in which it has no power to sympathise.
That night, after everyone else was in bed, I was awake pacing. Had I made the right choice? I was certain I had. How could I follow St. John to India with no real love between us? How could I be with him without continually thinking of the man I loved, the man I could never have?
The one candle flickered, dying out. The room was full of moonlight. My heart beat fast. I heard its throb. Suddenly it stood still to an inexpressible feeling that thrilled it through and passed at once to my head and extremities. The feeling was not like an electric shock, but it was quite as sharp, as strange, as startling. It acted on my senses as if their utmost activity hitherto had been but torpor, from which they were now summoned and forced to wake.
I heard a voice.
"Jane! Jane! Jane!"
And nothing more.
It did not seem in the room, not in the house, not from the garden. It did not come from anywhere near, I knew. It was a voice I knew, and loved, and hadn't heard in quite some time, but he called to me now. From wherever he was, Edward Fairfax Rochester called to me.
And I would answer his call.
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CHAPTER 38
I DID NOT SLEEP. I spent the rest of the night packing and staring out the window in silence by turns. I longed to hear his voice again. Inwardly I replied, "I'm coming!" But long-distance telepathy was a skill I had yet to develop. I would have to hope to see him in person at Thornfield.
At breakfast, I was spared having to see St. John as he had already left for his daily visits to parishioners. I sensed he was avoiding me as well, perhaps giving me time to think. I announced to Diana and Mary that I was going on a journey and should be absent at least four days.
"Alone, Jane?" they asked.
They knew me to battle vampyres to the death and to be in possession of a deadly range of weapons designed by their brother and myself, yet they would worry about my taking a carriage ride alone?
"Yes," I said simply. "I seek news of a friend about whom I have for some time been uneasy."
I had no doubt they had believed me to be without any friends save them, for it is indeed what I had often told them. I doubted St. John had ever informed them of a certain Mr. Rochester, and what he thought my past was with that man I could only guess.
"But, it's so sudden," Diana said. "You look pale. Perhaps you should wait a day?"
"I can wait no longer. I'm sorry. I must go at once."
I left Moor House and soon after I stood at the foot of the signpost of Whitcross, waiting the arrival of the coach that would take me to distant Thornfield. It was the same vehicle whence, a year ago, I had alighted one summer evening on this very spot--how
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desolate and hopeless and objectless! It stopped as I beckoned. I entered, not now obliged to part with my whole fortune as the price of its accommodation.
It was a journey of thirty-six hours. I had set out from Whit-cross on a Tuesday afternoon, and early on the succeeding Thursday morning the coach stopped to water the horses at a wayside inn, in the midst of green hedges, vast fields, and low pastoral hills so different from Morton's moors and woods. Yes, I knew the character of this landscape. I was sure I was nearly home.
Home! Yet I still thought of Thornfield hall as home. How could I not? Home would ever be where Mr. Rochester was. How foolish of me to feel that I could ever keep away from him.
"How far is Thornfield hall from here?" I asked of the hostler.
"Just two miles, ma'am, across the fields."
"I will stop here." I got out of the coach and gave a box I had into the hostler's charge, to be kept until I called for it. I paid my fare, satisfied the coachman, and I was going. The brightening day gleamed on the sign of the inn, and I read in gilt letters THE ROCHESTER ARMS. My heart leapt. I was already on Mr. Rochester's very lands.
I cautioned myself. For all I knew, he was not at home. He could be in any one of his old haunts. He could be with friends. If he was at home at Thornfield Hall, so would be his wife. What then? She would always be between us.
I thought perhaps to enter the inn, to ask after the house, the residents. Why not see what I could find out before running all the way home? Alas, I could not wait to even do as much as that. My feet started on the path, and before I knew it, I was running, running, eager for the first view of the woods.
At last the woods rose. A loud cawing broke the morning stillness. The rookery was near. I hastened on, another field crossed, a lane threaded, and there were the courtyard walls, the back offices. The house itself and the rookery still hid behind trees.
"My first view of it shall be in front," I determined. "Where its
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bold battlements will strike the eye nobly at once, and where I can single out Mr. Rochester's very window. Perhaps he will be standing at it. He rises early. Perhaps he is now walking in the orchard, or on the pavement in front."
I had coasted along the lower wall of the orchard and turned its angle. A gate was just there, opening into the meadow, between two stone pillars. From behind one pillar I could view unseen the full front of the mansion. From there I could ascertain if any bedroom window-blinds were yet drawn up. Battlements, windows, front--all from this sheltered station were at my command.
I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply of the earthy scent I knew as Thornfield, pungent grass, fecund soil, and all the sweet flowers of the orchard. I could not smell the orchard's flowers now. Perhaps the winds carried their delicate perfumes in another direction. Slowly, I opened my eyes--and could not believe what I saw. Perhaps I had fallen asleep and was dreaming. I had had this dream before--the nightmare of Thornfield burned down. But it was day. I did not dream. My eyes could not be mistaken.
Reader, I could not contain my gasp. Indeed, I saw no need. Who would hear me in the desolate emptiness? The Thornfield hall I'd expected--stately, majestic, waiting to welcome me home--was no more. What greeted me was a blackened ruin.
The lawn was patchy, with spots of fresh green shoots just poking up here and there in a sea of char. The walkway, crumbled. The facade stood, albeit not intact, the wall yet beginning to fall to decay. The windows all were broken, gone. The silence of death was now about this place, the solitude of a lonesome wild.
I knew why my letters had been unanswered. But what story belonged to this disaster? What loss, other than mortar and marble and woodwork, had followed upon it? Had life been wrecked as well as property? If so, whose? My heart ached and fluttered in a panic.
Nothing but pain was in wandering around the shattered walls and through the devastated interior. Judging from the ruins, it had not been a recent tragedy. Grass and weed grew here and there between
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the stones and fallen rafters. And where were the residents? Mr. Rochester?
I ran all the way back to the inn for news.
The host himself brought my breakfast into the parlour. I requested him to shut the door and sit down.
"You know Thornfield Hall, of course?" I managed to say at last.
"Yes, ma'am. I lived there once. I was the late Mr. Rochester's butl
er."
The late! I startled. I seem to have received, with full force, the blow I had been trying to evade.
I gasped. "Is he dead?"
"I mean the present gentleman's, Mr. Edward's father."
I breathed again. My blood resumed its flow. The present gentleman. He was alive!
"Is Mr. Rochester living at Thornfield Hall now?" I asked, knowing, of course, what the answer would be, but yet desirous of deferring the direct question as to where he really was.
"No, ma'am--oh, no! No one is living there. I suppose you are a stranger in these parts, or you would have heard what happened last autumn. Thornfield Hall is quite a ruin. It was burnt down just about harvesttime. A dreadful calamity! Such an immense quantity of valuable property destroyed. The fire broke out at dead of night, and before the engines arrived from Millcote, the building was one mass of flame. It was a terrible spectacle. I witnessed it myself."
"At dead of night!" I muttered. I knew, then, that it was her doing. Had she tried to burn him, again, in his bed? She was indeed a danger to herself, and to others. And yet, he would keep her alive, and keep her near!
"You are not perhaps aware," he continued, edging his chair a little nearer the table, and speaking low, "that there was a lady--a--a lunatic, kept in the house?"
"I have heard something of it."
"She was kept in very close confinement, ma'am. No one, for
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many years, was certain of her existence. Rumors persisted, of course. Some said she was a ghost. Others that she was a demon. Who or what she was, it was difficult to conjecture. They said Mr. Edward had brought her from abroad, and some believed she had been his mistress. But a queer thing happened a year since--a very queer thing."
I feared now to hear my own story. I endeavoured to recall him to the main fact.
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