A third woman, by her dress a maid, came in and spoke. ‘Did you hear, Justine?’ said the lady in red. ‘Marie tells us they say we will be at Dover in an hour.’
‘And thank God for it,’ said the other feelingly.
Nevertheless, by the time a faint light was appearing in the tumbling skies to the east she evidently felt well enough to go on deck. The two, cloaked together under a long sable belonging to the woman in red, stood by the rail, looking forward, the deck rolling under them.
‘There – see!’ cried the black-clad lady, Justine. She pointed with her long, white hand, on which the ruby seemed to gleam in the darkness. ‘See! The famous white cliffs of Dover.’
‘Soon we shall be in England. And I wonder what fate that very strange country will bring us.’
‘For you it will be fame, my dear,’ said the lady in black. ‘Of that I am sure. As for me, all I require of England is – justice.’ She spoke the word with passion.
The other drew the cloak a little more firmly about them both. In her low, clear voice she said warningly, ‘Yes, my dear. But – and however much I sympathise with your natural desire for justice against the man who has wronged you so deeply – I pray you, do not confuse justice with revenge.’
‘Sometimes,’ responded the other, ‘I think in reality there may be very little difference.’
Morning saw them speeding through bright countryside by train. In London they parted, one to begin what was to be a triumphant season on the London stage, the other to go north and settle in Hay, a village not two miles from Thornfield Hall.
Chapter IV
That fatal voyage marked the beginning of the bad times which came to us, like a sickness or a plague. While we were yet at Ferndean Edward went away to Manchester on business – and with a commission from me to search out the purveyors of some rare and beautiful fabrics of which I had heard. It was then that I decided to go to Thornfield for the first time since the rebuilding had begun. I went not because I would, but because I must.
I knew I must summon up my courage and visit the nearly completed house before the day when we were to move into it. I must face this alone in case my first sight of the new Thornfield caused me to flinch or seem unhappy. I could not let my husband, ever attentive to my moods and thoughts – until sometimes I would have sworn him a gypsy or a mind-reader – see anything but joy on my face as I took in the sight of our new home. Therefore I resolved to make my first visit a solitary one, to prepare myself.
Remember, I had seen the house only twice during the previous ten years. The first occasion was when I had gone to Thornfield to get news of Edward – to be confronted by the sight of the house gutted by fire and learn that he had nearly lost his precious life there.
The second time was when Edward told me he wished to rebuild the house. And now – it was nearly ready.
Early that morning I ordered Jeremy to harness the carriage, kissed my boy farewell and set out, summoning up all my resolution. By midday we were passing through Hay and taking the narrow road to Thornfield, two miles further on. As we progressed I told myself, this Thornfield Hall is not the old one. This Thornfield will be the home you, Jane, make for your husband and children. Leaving the carriage at the foot of the drive I walked up to the house and stood on the overgrown grass of the lawn.
There it was – Thornfield, in every particular the same house I had timidly entered, on my first day as Adèle’s governess. I found myself gazing at it searchingly, hoping to discover changes – but changes there were none. Thornfield was the same. In response to some alarm no doubt, the rooks in the elms behind it went up, whirling and cawing in the blue sky above the trees.
The trees in the orchard to my right were losing their leaves. Far behind the house, nearly a mile off, I could see the long grass on the foothills was browning. A wind began to blow and I pulled my cloak about me.
I knew that, inside, the house was virtually complete. Yet I did not, now, want to enter it and see whether the effect of lightness and freshness I had planned was working to cheer the intimidating grandeur of the place. The old Thornfield had been impressive, but formidable, creating an atmosphere in which it was impossible to imagine children growing up healthy and happy. This melancholy effect had been offset by the efforts Mrs. Fairfax, had made to mitigate its gloom, but no effort could, I think, have changed the atmosphere of the house sufficiently. And then there was Grace Poole, the servant set to guard the madwoman in absolute secrecy. What household containing that strange, surly woman, carrying her secret burden all the while, could have been truly at ease?
My eyes went involuntarily towards the third storey of the building. Though smaller than the rest of the house, being under the roof, it was by no means an attic floor; the rooms were too large to be so described. There was a corridor there, on one side of which the servants had slept. On the other side had been Grace Poole’s quarters and her sewing-room. Behind the sewing-room there had been a door masked by a hanging – and behind that hidden door the madwoman was kept. There she had crouched, filthy, her hair hanging round her in disorder, for she would not suffer it to be touched, living like a beast as furious thoughts of violence circled in her disordered mind. The servants must have known of her existence, or of the existence of something in that room. But Mrs. Fairfax, I am sure, had not.
I had recently written to her in her place of retirement, where she lived on a small pension supplied to her by my husband. In my letter I requested her to become, once more, housekeeper at Thornfield. I asked this because I considered I would need her to help me manage this new and far greater household, where we would certainly be entertaining more often and on a far grander scale than at Ferndean, and there was another, more important reason – and that was that I believed by next spring my time would be less my own than I had thought. Yes – I hoped, but dared not hope, quite yet, that the dearest desire Edward and I had entertained since the birth of our son was about to be fulfilled, that Jonathan would soon be blessed by the presence of a brother or sister. As high summer turned to autumn I had begun to wonder whether this most wonderful gift had been given to me, if I was to be a mother again. Now, I was almost sure.
I hoped my dear Mrs. Fairfax would leave her chosen seclusion and come back to Thornfield with me. I would need her, I thought, and her company while Edward was away. For, little as he wished for any separations, he was sometimes obliged to leave to attend to his business affairs in Manchester or on some occasions travel as far as London. I had known fear in that house before and, though reason told me all cause of fear had gone, some little superstitious feeling made me crave a friend to rely on when my husband was compelled to be absent.
From inside the house came the sound of banging. Two men emerged from the front door carrying a ladder. They observed me, nodded and called a greeting, imagining, no doubt, I was some curious person come to see how work on the house was progressing. They did not know me, nor did I make myself known. I had come to prepare myself for the sight of the new Thornfield and I had done so. That was enough.
The men put the ladder up to a ground-floor window and began to paint the woodwork around it. Meanwhile I stood, as if transfixed, the wind growing chillier, gazing at those mournful upper windows behind which had lain that creature who had caused me so much pain. And I suddenly felt her malignity blowing about me again, like another wind, and thought that, even though she was dead, something of her remained at Thornfield. I reflected that never, in all the ensuing years, had I wondered where she was buried. She should have been consumed in the flames of the house she burned, I found myself thinking, burned on the pyre she had made for herself.
It might have been the strength of this feeling which caused me to shudder – it might have been the chill wind. At all events I determined to return as soon as possible to the kindly safety of Ferndean.
Thornfield had risen from the ashes, sound and renewed. Yet one may enter any house, be it grand or humble, and find within it a cold grate, a
savage dog, an enemy. Suddenly I felt Thornfield was awaiting me like a fierce beast poised to spring. Jane, Jane, I admonished myself, this house’s past is done, you and you alone will create its future. So I encouraged myself and then thought, yes, yes, I will – I will make the new Thornfield as I wish. And in this mood I left, unrecognised by any as the future mistress of the house, and found my carriage waiting at the foot of the drive.
One further pilgrimage lay before me. Asking Jeremy to wait, I took the rough road leftwards, away from the village, and stood by a gate in a hedge, looking into the thorn field.
They had cut the hay. Rough grass was growing up through the stubble. I looked up that large and sloping field where, scattered as they had grown, were the forty twisted thorn trees, still in leaf. Not a bird or a beast stirred. The rising wind sighed and shook the branches of the trees and, as if to emphasise the desolation of the place, a cloud came across the sun.
To one side of this field lay the oaks and elms which edged the wall of the Thornfield gardens. Higher, where the clouds were creating long fingers of light and shade across the high hills, were mountains. Gazing over the thorn field, I could not prevent myself from imagining it in winter when those white trunks and branches, twisted and spiky, were without the masking of leaves, when the grass below the trees was sere and the sky black overhead. I shuddered. If only, I thought ruefully, in years gone by some old Rochester had taken it into his head to cut down the trees – but he had not and now, tradition being what it was, no man could, nor woman either. I turned away and walked back to the carriage, not happy, but braver for having confronted and taken the measure of the house and that ancient thorn field.
Great as was my desire to return to the comfort and welcome of Ferndean and see my boy again, for at that time we were rarely apart for many hours, I could not leave the neighbourhood without calling on the clergyman in the village of Hay, some two miles off. I did not look forward to the encounter with Mr. Todd, for though he and I had long been acquainted, for he had paid some visits to Ferndean, the acquaintance could not have been described as a happy one. For my part I found him too little a man of the parish. He was a plump man, always in a good black coat and spotless linen, greatly fond of vestments and decorated altars, a man more easily to be found dining at a good table in the neighbourhood than visiting the poor in their cottages. He was unmarried; a housekeeper, Mrs. Willows, presided over his comfortable household and his well-supplied table.
I must confess, though, I was uncertain how much of my cold feeling towards Mr. Todd stemmed from what he must have heard of that most terrible of days, when his predecessor stood at his altar, ready to conduct my first, sad mockery of a marriage, attended by no friends, no relatives, no neighbours – and cruelly interrupted by Bertha Mason’s brother and his lawyer, making the hideous revelation that she was alive and concealed, mad, at Thornfield.
Oh, my poor, desperate Edward. In the first years of our marriage he told me, ‘You could not, thank God, even imagine the kind of life to which a man with a wife such as mine was tempted to descend. I started on that path – that vicious path – I could not go on. Only you, Jane, could save me.’
And mercifully, that is what I was able to do, if indeed I did, and I am absolutely confident that he saved me, from loneliness and desolation and gave me a life happier than I could ever have dreamed.
How different was my true wedding at Ferndean. We took the quiet walk through summer lanes to the flower-decked village church, Edward and I together, I on his strong, good arm, and he leaning towards me, for I was at that time his eyes. A quiet wedding we had. I had no attendants; he no groomsman. Mr. Weatherfield and his clerk alone were present. I myself gave my hand in marriage to Edward, for there was none other to do so.
My only male relative, St. John Rivers, was in India on missionary work – had he not been, perhaps he might have wished to give me to Edward. St. John had himself offered me marriage before he left for India, while I was still separated from Edward and did not, in fact, know where he was or even if he lived. But my feeling for Edward Rochester transcended all – even if I had known for certain he was dead, the fact that he had once existed, that I had loved him, would have prevented me from marrying my cousin St. John.
And so we walked to church on that sunny day and were married by the good Mr. Weatherfield. We returned to a modest wedding breakfast at Ferndean, all laughter and good humour. How happy I was! I believed I could never be more happy; yet, next day, joy was transformed into ecstasy, an ecstasy which in quieter form has been with me ever since, every day of my marriage. What can one say of such loving companionship, such passion, such loyalty and meeting of minds? The bliss can scarcely be made real to those who have not experienced it, yet so it was between myself and Edward.
And at Hay I knew I must confront the man who must have been aware of all the details of that attempted marriage which destroyed all my hope, and, so far as I knew then, had destroyed it for the rest of my life.
Now, however, we were to return. I was to be mistress of Thornfield and I had reasons to compel myself to visit the Reverend Mr. Todd.
Hay is reached from Thornfield by a road of no merit, in winter scarcely better than a track. Halfway from Thornfield the land rises and then one can see from the eminence the village itself strung out along the road and spreading on one side halfway up the hill. On this rising ground are a few poor farms and some of the lead-miners’ cottages. To the other side of the road, where the land is level and richer, lies the better part of the village. This doubles back towards Thornfield, on a road which is like a kind of horse-shoe, and includes some good smallholdings, substantial houses, the rectory and, of course, the church itself. The church, lying halfway between the village and Thornfield Hall, can be reached either by the road or by walking the lane across the fields from the house. This path, though, I would not take. It was the way we had walked on my first wedding day. I did not wish to revive the memory.
So I drove to Hay, where the return of my coach caused as much excitement – coming to cottage doors, turning, staring – as it had when we went through on the way to Thornfield. Two little boys, black from their heads to their bare feet, stood, dirty fingers in their mouths, to watch us go. A woman with a flapping hen clutched by its scrawny legs stood and stared through her open door. There were little children round her feet on a mud floor. As my carriage passed, one man in a group outside the inn spat on the ground.
I was pleased to round the corner that would take us to the pleasanter pastures of Lower Hay. We passed a well-kept farmhouse, a tidy field of sheep, then a small collection of neat cottages, with well-tended gardens, full of vegetables, brightened by a few Michaelmas daisies. We reached the village of Lower Hay, which consisted, on one side of the road, of a post office and a small general store. There were also several good houses opposite the church, which was itself surrounded by a well-kept churchyard. Next to it lay the rectory.
This was a commodious house of red brick with a large garden in front and, I believed, half an acre of useful ground at the back. As we drove up I noted the portly figure of Mr. Todd, who was talking to his gardener and gesturing up at the elms which separated his dwelling from the church grounds. Seeing my carriage he broke off and hurried towards it. The blue eyes in his red face opened wide as he watched Jeremy open the carriage door and help me down. At first, I believe, he could not quite credit what he saw. Then recognition dawned and, his mouth opening in an ‘Oh’, he hurried forward to greet me, little Jane Eyre, once humble governess at Thornfield, now Mrs. Edward Rochester.
I advanced, smiling as composedly as I could. Mr. Todd, his heavy chin quivering above his clerical stock, arranged his face hurriedly and began to beam, coming towards me with hand outstretched. ‘Mrs. Rochester! Mrs. Rochester – I cannot believe this! I am honoured. Do, please, come into the house with me. We are not ready for you, alas. If only you had let me know – but nevertheless, how delighted I am that you chose to call. You will
overlook our shortcomings I am sure. Enter, I pray you.’ And he bowed me in, all smiles and civility, smothering me, as we went through his charming little hall into his drawing-room, with honeyed words and compliments.
I entered, responding as agreeably as possible, for I knew I must maintain good relations with Mr. Todd if I was to fulfil my coming duties as mistress of Thornfield. And that was the reason for my visit.
For do not believe I was unmoved by the wretchedness in Hay, or wished to take my ease at Thornfield as if I had nothing better to think of than upholstery, invitations and dresses. I would be leaving the school I had founded at Ferndean in the capable hands of Miss Crane, but no power on earth would stop me from using my position to help the folk of Hay to the best of my poor abilities. In order to do this it was necessary to be on good terms with Hay’s vicar.
Mr. Todd urged me into a seat. He called for Madeira and biscuits, though I requested only a cup of tea, and he begged me to remain until luncheon. He made no allusion to our past, merely saying, ‘I am so happy to see the great position you have been called to.’ Then he exclaimed with joy at the prospect of our removal back to Thornfield.
I sat on throughout, saying little but what politeness demanded, Mr. Todd making up for both of us in the way of conversation. Some might term me hypocrite; certainly I would always desire complete frankness and confidentiality among friends; anything less makes for a life without value. Yet, as I have said, though Mr. Todd was not my friend and I did not conceive that he ever would be, what politeness I showed him was a means to a higher end. For the sake of the future I felt I must put all thoughts of the past, as well as my mistrust of him, behind me.
There was want, distress and ignorance in Hay and, although much can be done by the mistress of the neighbourhood’s most important house, even if the vicar is no friend, a great deal more can be achieved if they are on good terms. Consequently I made myself as pleasant as I could. It was plain that Mr. Todd desired to dine at Thornfield when we returned. I extended that invitation. He glowed with pleasure. I returned his smile. What a difference ten years of happy marriage will make – what confidence it imparts. Even the confidence to play the hypocrite, thought I, wryly. I was on the verge of making my farewells when a maid came in, somewhat excited, and said, ‘Sir – I am sorry to interrupt you but Mrs. Willows thought you would like to know folk are moving into Old House.’
Mrs Rochester Page 3