“Dead?”
“Dead? Ay, dead as the stones on which her brains and blood were scattered.”
“Good God!”
“You may well say so, ma‘am; it was frightful!”
He shuddered.
“And afterward?” I urged.
“Well, ma‘am, afterward the house was burned to the ground; there are only some bits of wall standing now.”
“Were any other lives lost?”
“No—perhaps it would have been better if there had.”
“What do you mean?”
“Poor Mr. Edward!” he ejaculated. “I little thought ever to have seen it! 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; but I pity him, for my part.”
“You said he was alive?” I exclaimed.
“Yes, yes—he is alive; but many think he had better be dead.”
“Why? How?” My blood was again running cold.
“Where is he?” I demanded. “Is he in England?”
“Ay—ay—he is in England; he can’t get out of England, I fancy—he’s a fixture now.”
What agony was this! And the man seemed resolved to protract it!
“He is stone-blind,” he said at last. “Yes—he is stone-blind-is Mr. Edward.”
I had dreaded worse. I had dreaded he was mad. 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 till every one else was out before him. As he came down the great stair-case 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 one eye was knocked out, and one hand so crushed that Mr. Carter, the surgeon, had to amputate it directly. The other eye inflamed; he lost the sight of that also. He is now helpless, indeed—blind and a cripple.”
“Where is he? Where does he now live?”
“At Ferndean, a manor-house on a farm he has, about thirty miles off; quite a desolate spot.”
“Who is with him?”
“Old John and his wife; he would have none else. He is quite broken down, they say.”
“Have you any sort of conveyance?”
“We have a chaise, ma‘am—a very handsome chaise.”
“Let it be got ready instantly; and if your post-boy can drive me to Ferndean before dark this day, I’ll pay both you and him twice the hire you usually demand.”
Chapter XXXVII
The manor-house of Ferndean was a building of considerable antiquity, moderate size, and no architectural pretensions, deep buried in a wood. I had heard of it before. Mr. Rochester often spoke of it, and sometimes went there. His father had purchased the estate for the sake of the game covers.ie He would have let the house, but could find no tenant, in consequence of its ineligible and insalubrious site. Ferndean then 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.
To this house I came, just ere dark, on an evening marked by the characteristics of sad sky, cold gale, and continued small penetrating rain. The last mile I performed on foot, having dismissed the chaise and driver with the double remuneration I had promised. Even when within a very short distance of the manor-house, you could see nothing of it, so thick and dark grew the timber of the gloomy wood about it. Iron gates between granite pillars showed me where to enter, and passing through them, I found myself at once in the twilight of close-ranked trees. There was a grass-grown track descending the forest-aisle, between hoar and knotty shafts and under branched arches. I followed it, expecting soon to reach the dwelling, but it stretched on and on, it wound far and further; no sign of habitation or grounds was visible.
I thought 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 round in search of another road. There was none; all was interwoven stem, columnar trunk, dense summer foliage—no opening anywhere.
I proceeded; at last my way opened, the trees thinned a little; presently I beheld a railing, then the house—scarce, by this dim light, distinguishable from the trees, so dank and green were its decaying walls. Entering a portal, fastened only by a latch, I stood amid a space of inclosed ground, from which the wood swept away in a semi-circle. There were no flowers, no garden-beds; only a broad gravel-walk girdling a grass-plat, if and this set in the heavy frame of the forest. The house presented two pointed gables in its front; the windows were latticed and narrow; the front-door was narrow too; one step led up to it. The whole looked, as the host of the Rochester Arms had said, “quite a desolate spot.” It was as still as a church on a week-day—the pattering rain on the forest leaves was the only sound audible in its vicinage.
“Can there be life here?” I asked.
Yes; life of some kind there was, for I heard a movement—that narrow front-door was unclosing, and some shape was about to issue from the grange.ig
It opened slowly; 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. Dusk as it was, I had recognized him; it was my master, Edward Fairfax Rochester, and no other.
I stayed my step, almost my breath, and stood to watch him—to examine him, myself unseen, and, alas! to him invisible. It was a sudden meeting, and one in which rapture was kept well in check by pain. I had no difficulty in restraining my voice from exclamation, my step from hasty advance.
His form was of the same strong and stalwart contour as ever. His port was still erect, his hair was still raven black; nor were his features altered or sunk. Not in one year’s space, by any sorrow, could his athletic strength be quelled or his vigorous prime blighted. But in his countenance I saw a change. That looked desperate and brooding—that reminded me of some wronged and fettered wild beast or bird, dangerous to approach in his sullen woe. The caged eagle, whose gold-ringed eyes cruelty has extinguished, might look as looked that sightless Samson.115
And, reader, do you think I feared him in his blind ferocity? If you do, you little know me. A soft hope blended with my sorrow that soon I should dare to drop a kiss on that brow of rock, and on those lids so sternly sealed beneath it; but not yet; I would not accost him yet.
He descended the one step, and advanced slowly and gropingly toward the grass-plat. Where was his daring stride now? Then he paused, as if he knew not which way to turn. He lifted his hand and opened his eyelids; gazed blank, and with a straining effort, on the sky, and toward the amphitheatre of trees. One saw that all to him was void darkness. He stretched his right hand (the left arm; the mutilated one he kept hidden in his bosom), he seemed to wish, by touch, to gain an idea of what lay round him. He met but vacancy still, for the trees were some yards off where he stood. He relinquished the endeavor, folded his arms, and stood quiet and mute in the rain, now falling fast on his uncovered head. At this moment John approached from some quarter.
“Will you take my arm, sir?” he said; “there is a heavy shower coming on; had you not better go in?”
“Let me alone,” was the answer.
John withdrew, without having observed me. Mr. Rochester now tried to walk about, vainly—all was too uncertain. He 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,” I said, “how are you?”
She started as if she had seen a ghost; I calmed her. To her hurried “Is it really you, miss, come at this late hour to this ‘onlyih place?” I answered by taking her hand, and then I followed her into the kitchen, where John now sat by a good fire. I explained to them, in few words, that I had heard all which had happened since I left Thornfield, and that I was 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; and then, while I removed my bonnet and shawl, I questioned Mary as to whether I could be accommodated at the manor-house for the night, and finding that arrangements to that effect, though difficult, would not be impossible, I informed her I should stay. Just at this moment the parlor-bell rung.
“When you go in,” said I, “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,” she answered; “he refuses everybody.”
When she returned, I inquired what he had said.
“You are to send in your name and your business,” she replied. She then proceeded to fill a glass with water and place it on a tray, together with candles.
“Is that what he rung for?” I asked.
“Yes; he always has candles brought in at dark, though he is blind.”
“Give the tray to me; I will carry it in.”
I took it from her hand; she pointed me out the parlor-door. The tray shook as I held it; the water spilled from the glass; my heart struck my ribs loud and fast. Mary opened the door for me, and shut it behind me.
This parlor looked gloomy; a neglected handful of fire burned low in the grate, and, leaning over it, with his head supported against the high, old-fashioned mantle-piece, appeared the blind tenant of the room. His old dog, Pilot, lay on one side, removed out of the way, and coiled up as if afraid of being inadvertently trodden on. Pilot pricked up his ears when I came in, then he jumped up with a yelp and a whine, and bounded toward 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 saw nothing, he returned and sighed.
“Give me the water, Mary,” he said.
I approached him with the now only half-filled glass; Pilot followed me, still excited.
“What is the matter?” he inquired.
“Down, Pilot!” I again said. He checked the water on its way to his lips, and seemed to listen; he drank, and put the glass down.
“This is you, Mary, is it not?”
“Mary is in the kitchen,” I answered.
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—unavailing and distressing attempt! “Answer me—speak again!” he ordered, imperiously and aloud.
“Will you have a little more water, sir? I spilled half of what was in the glass,” I said.
“Who is it? What is it? Who speaks?”
“Pilot knows me, and John and Mary know I am here; I came only this evening,” I answered.
“Great God!—what delusion has come over me? What sweet madness has seized me?”
“No delusion—no madness; your mind, sir, is too strong for delusion—your health too sound for frenzy.”
“And where is this speaker? Is it only a voice? Oh! I cannot see, but 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 prisoned it in both 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; my arm was seized, my shoulder—neck—waist—I was entwined and gathered to him.
“Is it Jane? What is it? This is her shape—this is her size—” “And this is her voice,” I added. “She is all here; her heart, too. God bless you, sir! I am glad to be so near you again.”
“Jane Eyre! Jane Eyre!” was all he said.
“My dear master,” I answered, “I am Jane Eyre; I have found you out—I am come back to you.”
“In truth? In the flesh? My living Jane?”
“You touch me, sir—you hold me, and fast enough; I am not cold like a corpse, nor vacant like air, am I?”
“My living darling! These are certainly her limbs, and these her features; but I cannot be so blessed after all my misery. It is a dream; such dreams as I have had at night, when I had clasped her once more to my heart, as I do now; and kissed her, as thus—and felt that she loved me, and trusted she would not leave me.”
“Which I never will, sir, from this day.”
“Never will, says the vision! But I always woke and found it an empty mockery; and I was desolate and abandoned—my life, dark, lonely, hopeless—my soul athirst and forbidden to drink—my heart famished and never to be fed. Gentle, soft dream, nestling in my arms now, you will fly, too, as your sisters have all fled before you; but kiss me before you go—embrace me, Jane.”
“There, sir—and there!”
I pressed my lips to his once brilliant and now rayless eyes—I swept his hair from his brow, and kissed that, too. He suddenly seemed to rouse himself; the conviction of the reality of all this seized him.
“It is you—is it Jane? You are 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 among strangers?”
“No, sir; I am an independent woman now.”
“Independent! What do you mean, Jane?”
“My uncle in Madeira is dead, and he left me five thousand pounds.”
“Ah, this is practical—this is real!” he cried. “I should never dream that. Besides, there is that peculiar voice of hers, so animating and piquant, as well as soft; it cheers my withered heart; it puts life into it. What, Janet! Are you an independent woman, a rich woman?”
“Quite rich, sir. 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 parlor 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 lameterii 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 neighbor, your nurse, your housekeeper. 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 replied not; he seemed serious—abstracted; he sighed; he half opened his lips as if to speak; he closed them again. I felt a little embarrassed. Perhaps I had been too officious in my offers of companionship and aid; perhaps I had too rashly overleaped conventionalities; and he, like St. John, saw impropriety in my inconsiderateness. I had, indeed, made my proposal from the idea that he wished and would ask me to be his wife; an expectation, not the less certain because unexpressed, had buoyed me up, that he would claim me at once as his own. But no hint to that effect escaping him, and his countenance becoming more overcast, I suddenly remembered that I might have been all wrong, and was perhaps playing the fool unwittingly; and I began gently to withdraw myself from his arms—but he eagerly snatched me closer.
“No—no—Jane; you must not go. No—I have touched you, heard you, felt the comfort of your presence—the sweetness of your consolation; I cannot give up these joys. I have little left in myself—I must have you. The world may laugh—may call me absurd, selfish—but it does not signify. My very soul demands you; it will be satisfied; or it will take deadly vengeance on its frame.”
“Well, sir, I will stay with you; I have said so.”
“Yes—but you understand one thing by staying with me, and I understand another. You, perhaps, could make up your mind to be about my hand and chair—to wait on me as a kind little nurse (for you have an affectionate heart and a generous spirit, which prompt you to make sacrifices for those you pity), and that ought to suffice for me, no doubt. I suppose I should n
ow entertain none but fatherly feelings for you; do you think so? Come—tell me.”
“I will think what you like, sir; I am content to be only your nurse, if you think it better.”
“But you cannot always be my nurse, Janet; you are young, and must marry one day.”
“I don’t care about being married.”
“You should care, Janet; if I were what I once was I would try to make you care—but—a sightless block!”
He relapsed again into gloom. I, on the contrary, became more cheerful, and took fresh courage; these last words gave me an insight as to where the difficulty lay; and as it was no difficulty with me, I felt quite relieved from my previous embarrassment. I resumed a livelier vein of conversation.
“It is time some one undertook to rehumanize you,” said I, parting his thick and long-uncut locks; “for I see you are being metamorphosed into a lion, or something of that sort. You have a ‘faux air’ij of Nebuchadnezzar in the fields about you, that is certain; your hair reminds me of eagles’ feathers; whether your nails are grown like birds’ claws or not, I have not yet noticed.”116
“On this arm, I have neither hand nor nails,” he said, drawing the mutilated limb from his breast, and showing it to me. “It is a mere stump—a ghastly sight! Don’t you think so, Jane?”
“It is a pity to see it; and a pity to see your eyes—and the scar of fire on your forehead; and 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 arm and my cicatrized visage.”
“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; with the right eye I see a glow, a ruddy haze.”
“And you see the candles?”
“Very dimly; each is a luminous cloud.”
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