Jane Slayre

by Sherri Browning Erwin

  "And this lady?"

  "This lady, ma'am, turned out to be Mr. Rochester's wife! The discovery was brought about in the strangest way. There was a young lady, a governess at the hall, that Mr. Rochester fell in--"

  "But the fire," I suggested.

  "I'm coming to that, ma'am--that Mr. Edward fell in love with this girl. The servants say they never saw anybody so much in love as he was. Mr. Rochester was about forty, and this governess not twenty. Yet, they would marry."

  "But they could not," I said, to hurry him along. "Because he was married. Was it suspected that this lunatic, Mrs. Rochester, had any hand in it?"

  "You've hit it, ma'am. It's quite certain that it was her, and nobody but her, that set it going. She had a woman to take care of her called Mrs. Poole, an able woman in her line, and very trustworthy, but for one fault. When Mrs. Poole was fast asleep after too much gin, the mad lady--who was as cunning as a witch they say and may have been one after all--would take the keys out of her pocket, let herself out of her chamber, and go roaming about the house, doing any wild mischief that came into her head. They say she had nearly burnt her husband in his bed once, but I don't know about that."

  "But this time? She went after him again?"

  "Oh, no, ma'am. On this night, she set fire first to the hangings of the room next her own, and then she got down to a lower story and made her way to the chamber that had been the governess's--

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  she was like as if she knew somehow how matters had gone on and had a spite at her--and she kindled the bed there."

  I stifled my gasp at these words, not wishing to interrupt. Mr. Rochester had thought she would do me no harm, but he was wrong. I could have been killed had I stayed. Except that we would have been away, on our honeymoon, or what would have served as one. "And the governess?"

  "The governess had run away two months before, and for all Mr. Rochester sought her as if she had been the most precious thing he had in the world, he never could hear a word of her. They say he grew savage--quite savage on his disappointment. He would be alone, too. He sent Mrs. Fairfax, the housekeeper, away to her friends at a distance. He did it handsomely, though. He settled an annuity on her for life."

  "So when the fire broke out, she was safely not at home." I was relieved. Dear Mrs. Fairfax.

  "Miss Adele, a ward he had, was put to school. He broke off acquaintance with all the gentry and shut himself up like a hermit at the hall. At night, he walked just like a ghost about the grounds and in the orchard as if he had lost his senses--which it is my opinion he had. He was wild, spirited, and full of life, and then dejected and empty."

  "Then Mr. Rochester was at home when the fire broke out?"

  "Yes, indeed, and he went up to the attics when all was burning above and below and got the servants out of their beds and helped them down himself, and went back to get his mad wife out of her cell, where she went back, apparently, after she started the place ablaze. And then they called out to him that she was on the roof, where she was standing, waving her arms, above the battlements, and shouting out until they could hear her a mile off. I saw her and heard her with my own eyes. I witnessed, and several more witnessed, Mr. Rochester ascend through the skylight onto the roof. We heard him call, 'Bertha!' We saw him approach her. And then,

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  ma'am, she yelled and gave a spring, and the next minute she lay smashed on the pavement."

  "Dead?"

  "Dead! Ay, dead as the stones on which her brains and blood were scattered."

  "Good God! You're sure her brains were scattered? And her heart?"

  "Crushed, too, I'm sure. It was frightful!" He shuddered. "And afterwards?"

  "Well, ma'am, afterwards the house was burnt to the ground. There are only some bits of walls standing now."

  "Were any other lives lost?"

  "No. Perhaps it would have been better if there had. Poor Mr. Edward! Some say it was a just judgment on him for keeping his first marriage secret, and wanting to take another wife while he had one living. I pity him, for my part."

  "You said he was alive? Why? How?" My blood was again running cold. "Where is he? Is he in England?"

  "He is stone-blind," the host said at last. "Yes, he is stone-blind, is Mr. Edward."

  I had dreaded worse. I had dreaded he was mad or had been bitten. Perhaps yet he was. I summoned strength to ask what had caused this calamity.

  "It was all his own courage and, a body may say, his kindness, in a way, ma'am. He wouldn't leave the house until everyone else was out before him. As he came down the great staircase at last, after Mrs. Rochester had flung herself from the battlements, there was a great crash--all fell. He was taken out from under the ruins, alive, but sadly hurt. A beam had fallen in such a way as to protect him partly, but his sight was dazed. He is now helpless, indeed--blind."

  "Where is he? Where does he now live?"

  "At Ferndean, about thirty miles off. Quite a desolate spot."

  "Who is with him?"

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  "Old John and his wife. He is quite broken-down, they say."

  "Have you any sort of conveyance?"

  "We have a chaise, ma'am. A very handsome chaise."

  "Order it to be ready instantly, and if your postboy can drive me to Ferndean before dark this day, I'll pay both you and him twice the hire you usually demand."

  CHAPTER 39

  THE MANOR HOUSE OF Ferndean was of considerable antiquity, moderate size, and no architectural pretensions, deep buried in a wood. Mr. Rochester often spoke of it and sometimes went there. His father had purchased the estate for the sake of the game covers. Ferndean remained uninhabited and unfurnished, with the exception of some two or three rooms fitted up for the accommodation of the squire when he went there in the season to shoot.

  I made it there before dark, as the sky turned cold and rain began to fall. I walked the last mile over rough terrain, having dismissed the chaise and the driver with double remuneration as I had promised. Even when within a short distance of the manor house, one could see nothing of it, the woods were so thick and dark. I passed through iron gates between granite pillars and crossed a grass-grown track to reach the dwelling.

  I began to fear I had taken a wrong direction and lost my way. The darkness of natural as well as of sylvan dusk gathered over me. I looked around, but saw no other road, no opening, anywhere. I proceeded. At last my way opened, the trees thinned a little. Presently I beheld a railing, then the house. The house presented two pointed gables in its front. The windows were latticed and narrow. The front

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  door was narrow, too, one step leading up to it. The whole looked, as the host of the Rochester Arms had said, "quite a desolate spot."

  I heard a movement. The narrow front door opened and some shape was about to issue from the grange. A figure came out into the twilight and stood on the step. A man without a hat. He stretched forth his hand as if to feel whether it rained. It was my Edward Fairfax Rochester.

  I forced myself to stay in place, to watch. His form was of the same strong and stalwart contour as ever. He stood tall, not stooped or hunched as the Rochester Arms host had led me to fear. His hair was still raven black, and his features regular and fine. Only his expression had changed. He looked desperate and brooding.

  And, reader, do you think I feared him in his blind ferocity? I could not wait to run up and throw myself in his arms and kiss him, but wait I did. I would not accost him yet. Rain began to fall on him.

  At this moment John approached him from some quarter. "Will you take my arm, sir? There is a heavy shower coming on. Had you not better go in?"

  "Leave me alone."

  John withdrew without having observed me. Mr. Rochester now tried to walk about but stopped, groped his way back to the house, and, reentering it, closed the door.

  I now drew near and knocked. John's wife opened for me.

  "Mary, how are you?"

  "Is it really you, miss, come at this late hour
to this lonely place?" She looked at me with wide eyes, as if looking at a ghost.

  "It is Jane, Mary. Your eyes do not deceive you." I followed her into the kitchen, where John now sat by a good fire. He started to rise, but I bid him to keep his seat. I explained to them, in few words, that I had heard all that had happened since I left Thorn-field, and that I had come to see Mr. Rochester.

  I asked John to go down to the turnpike house, where I had dismissed the chaise, and bring my trunk, which I had left there. Then,

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  while I removed my bonnet and shawl, I asked Mary if I could be accommodated at the house for the night. Arrangements to that effect, though difficult, would not be impossible. I informed her I should stay. Just at this moment the parlour bell rang.

  "When you go in," I said, "tell your master that a person wishes to speak to him, but do not give my name."

  "I don't think he will see you. He refuses everybody."

  When she returned, I inquired what he had said.

  "You are to send in your name and your business 'or go to hell.' Excuse me, but those were his words." She then filled a glass with water and placed it on a tray, together with candles.

  "Is that what he rang for?"

  "Yes. He always has candles brought in at dark, though he is blind."

  "Give me the tray. I will carry it in."

  I took it from her. The tray shook as I held it. The water spilt from the glass. My heart struck my ribs loud and fast. Mary opened the door for me, then shut it behind me.

  The parlour looked gloomy. A fire burned low in the grate, and leaning over it, his head supported against the high, old-fashioned mantelpiece, appeared the blind tenant of the room. His old dog, Pilot, lay on one side, out of the way, and coiled up as if afraid of being inadvertently trodden upon. Pilot pricked up his ears when I came in. Then he jumped up with a yelp and a whine and bounded towards me. He almost knocked the tray from my hands. I set it on the table, then patted him and said softly, "Lie down!"

  Mr. Rochester turned mechanically to see what the commotion was, but as he could not see a thing, he returned and sighed.

  "Give me the water, Mary."

  I approached him with the now only half-filled glass. Pilot followed me, still excited.

  "What is the matter?"

  "Down, Pilot!" I again said.

  Mr. Rochester checked the water on its way to his lips and

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  seemed to listen. He drank, then put the glass down. "This is you, Mary, is it not?"

  "Mary is in the kitchen."

  He put out his hand with a quick gesture, but not seeing where I stood, he did not touch me.

  "Who is this? Who is this?" he demanded, trying, as it seemed, to see with those sightless eyes. "Answer me--speak again!" he ordered imperiously and aloud.

  "Will you have a little more water, sir? I spilt half of what was in the glass."

  "Who is it? What is it? Who speaks?"

  "Pilot knows me, and John and Mary know I am here. I came only this evening."

  "Come here, come here at once! I must feel, or my heart will stop and my brain burst. Whatever--whoever you are--be perceptible to the touch or I cannot live!"

  He groped. I arrested his wandering hand and imprisoned it in both of mine.

  "Her very fingers!" he cried. "Her small, slight fingers! If so there must be more of her."

  The muscular hand broke from my custody. He seized me around the waist, pulled me to him, and nestled his face in between my neck and shoulder. "Oh, the smell of you! My Jane! Is it Jane? She is her shape and size."

  "And her voice. She is all here. Her heart, too. God bless you, sir! I am glad to be so near you again."

  "Jane Slayre! Jane Slayre."

  "My dear Edward, I have found you. I have come back to you."

  "My living darling! How I have searched for you. It is a dream. Tell me it is not a dream? Such dreams as I have had at night when I have clasped her once more to my heart, as I do now. And kissed her, and felt that she loved me, and would not leave."

  "Which I never will, sir, from this day."

  " 'Never will,' says the vision? But I always wake alone abandoned,

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  my life dark, lonely, hopeless. Kiss me, Jane. Kiss me and prove that you are real."

  "There, sir--and there!' " I pressed my lips to his brilliant and now sightless eyes. I swept his hair from his brow and kissed that, too.

  "Oh, Jane! It is you! You have come back to me then?"

  "I am."

  "And you do not lie dead in some ditch under some stream? And you are not a pining outcast amongst strangers? Oh, the terrible things I had feared!"

  "Sir, I am alive, and I am an independent woman now. My uncle in Madeira is dead, and he left me five thousand pounds."

  "What, Janet! You are a rich woman."

  "If you won't let me live with you, I can build a house of my own close up to your door, and you may come and sit in my parlour when you want company of an evening."

  "But as you are rich, Jane, you have now, no doubt, friends who will look after you and not suffer you to devote yourself to a blind--a man like me?"

  "I told you I am independent, sir, as well as rich. I am my own mistress."

  "And you will stay with me?"

  "Certainly--unless you object. I will be your neighbour, your nurse, your housekeeper. If I find you lonely, I will be your companion--to read to you, to walk with you, to sit with you, to wait on you, to be eyes and hands to you. Cease to look so melancholy, my dear master. You shall not be left desolate so long as I live."

  He sighed. "You think so, Jane? You see my sightless eyes, and you think it is well enough. What are lost eyes to you who can see for me? But you don't understand, Jane. You don't know the whole of it."

  "And I don't care. I love you. I am here now. We will work through anything that arises."

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  He remained grave. "I don't want you for a servant, Jane. I have enough who can wait on me. I want you for my wife, but I have no right to ask."

  "That didn't stop you when it was true. What holds you back now? Your wife is dead, or so I have come to understand. Did I hear wrong?"

  I swore to God if she was in the attic now, I was going to dig out my gun with the silver bullet and march right upstairs and shoot her, right or wrong. Against his wishes or with his blessing.

  "She is dead. I have no wife. But, Jane, please. You must not go. Not yet. I have barely touched you, heard you, felt the comfort of your presence. I cannot give up these joys. I have little left in myself--I must have you."

  "You have me. I am here. I am here in any way you want me. I will never run from you again."

  "You must know. Before you make promises. Things have changed."

  "I see that. It makes no difference to me."

  "It's more than you think. The night of the fire, I tried to save her. The house was wild with flames. I made sure everyone got out, and I went back for her. God help me, I couldn't let her die. I found her on the third story, in her usual haunt. It wasn't quite a full moon. She was not in her full state, but somewhat altered. She would not come. I thought perhaps I could get her to chase me, but she wouldn't move. She sat there as if waiting for the flames."

  "Poor thing." I couldn't help it. She reminded me of my aunt Reed, for I was sure it was a sign that she wanted to die, and perhaps she'd died remorseful.

  "The poor thing jumped on me, all teeth and claws. We had minutes to get out, if that, and she decided to take me down with her. I finally got her off, and she ran for the roof. I tried, once more, to bring her down, but she jumped to her death. It was only later, while escaping the flames, did I realise she had bitten me when we grappled. More than once. She broke the skin."

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  "Oh! Oh, sir."

  He sighed heavily. "Indeed, Jane. I'd already dismissed all but the necessary servants. Adele was sent to school. I set Sophie up in a little house near her to look after her
when school was out of session. Mrs. Fairfax has an income and a small house in the country. Grace Poole, well, after the fire, I let her go. John and Mary are my jailors now, when, once a month, the moon is full. They lock me in the attic, Jane. Can you bear it?"

  I wrapped my arms around him. "I can bear anything, Edward! Anything. As long as I have you."

  "But I am a monster now. I'm the dangerous one."

  "You always were a bit of a danger, sir. Those moods of yours! And, well, it is only once a month. You're not a lunatic, as well, for that is not contagious. So you're a werewolf. It is good that I have come." I parted his thick and long, uncut locks. "For I see you are taking it on as a sort of fashion statement. We will need to keep this hair cut shorter, no? The worst of it is, one is in danger of loving you too well for all this, and making too much of you."

  "I thought you would be revolted, Jane, when you saw my face and heard of it."

  "Did you? Don't tell me so, lest I should say something disparaging to your judgment. Now, let me leave you an instant to make a better fire and have the hearth swept up. Can you tell when there is a good fire?"

  "Yes. I see a glow--a ruddy haze."

  "And you see the candles?"

  "Very dimly--each is a luminous cloud."

  "Can you see me?"

  "No, my fairy, but I am only too thankful to hear and feel you."

  "When do you take supper?"

  "I never take supper."

  "But you shall have some tonight. I am hungry. So are you, I daresay, only you forget."

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  Summoning Mary, I soon had the room in more cheerful order. I prepared him, likewise, a comfortable repast. My spirits were excited, and with pleasure and ease I talked to him during supper.

  "Tell me," I said. "Those vials, like the ones you gave to Richard Mason, do you still have them or did they burn?"

  "It is what delayed me further on my way out of the house. I went back for them. They contain a special potion from Italy meant to reduce or put off the effects of the disease that turns one to a wolflike state. Not a cure entirely, but as close as one can get. I took one right after the fire, or the next day, it was, by then. And I have taken another before each full moon. My transformations have been weak, but I fear they may, like Bertha's did, get stronger over time."