Edward, with Blanche and Stanley Norton, had dined elsewhere that evening and came on, with their party, arriving just after Céline’s recital had begun. ‘Of course,’ said Blanche to me, ‘many of those present knew of the earlier connection between Rochester and Madame Varens, and had heard of a child born of that union, so that as we arrived there was in the room what might vulgarly be called – a quiet sensation. As we entered heads turned. Those observing Rochester to be of the party speculated as to what effect his presence might have upon Céline, who, so far as anyone knew, was unaware that he would be attending her recital or, for aught we knew, that he was even in town. And there she was, my dear, lovely beyond all description, speaking her lines in that voice, so flexible and so musical that the effect seemed to me to touch one’s very soul – as does a cello, beautifully played.
‘As we entered she had come to the concluding lines of some piece – I know not what it was,’ Blanche told me, her eyes aglow with remembered excitement. ‘She did not, then, appear to have seen Mr. Rochester, yet, whether by coincidence or not, when she next began to speak there was a movement, a rustle, some words quietly exchanged in the audience, among those who recognised the opening lines of the poem – “Oriolant en haut solier Sospirant prist à lermoier”, for this, you see,’ said Blanche, ‘is the opening of an old French poem in which the lady Oriolant laments that she drove away her lover, Helier. I believe Mr. Rochester knew the poem also, for as she began to speak he stood there, quite still, very pale, eyes burning and fixed on Céline as if there were no one else in the room – in the world, one might say. She spoke on, that mellifluous voice flowing over the transfixed listeners and each time she spoke the refrain, “Dieus! tant par vient sa joie lente à celui cui ele atalente!” – ‘Oh God! how slowly joy comes to one who longs for it!’ – she said those lines to Rochester and only Rochester; all could tell.
‘Her head slightly thrown back, her eyes fixed on his, as his were on hers – oh Jane, I cannot describe it – the sadness. We knew we saw tragedy, the tragedy of a woman bitterly regretting the errors of her youth, the tragedy of a man recalling dead love, past days… Who among us could have been unmoved by that extraordinary performance?
‘As Céline pronounced the last words of that poem she stood for a moment quite still, accepting the applause. And then,’ said Blanche, ‘down the aisle, between chairs occupied by the most handsome and distinguished men, the most beautiful and well-born women of our generation, Edward Fairfax Rochester made his way. On reaching the dais he bowed gravely to Céline and offered her his arm. Calmly, she descended, took his arm and with great dignity, almost as if they were royal personages they progressed through the room – they left it, and, as it seemed, the house, without a word. When we looked for them moments later they were gone – where, none knew.
‘Next morning Edward was at home: I do not know at what hour he returned, for he had a key to the front door. Of his meeting with Céline he would say nothing but “The lady and I spoke together for some hours.” Since he made it plain he wished no questions, it was for Stanley and me, for all of us, to say nothing and to behave as if nothing unusual had occurred.
‘Out of his presence, of course, there was a ferment of talk and speculation. The arrival of Adèle, so like her mother, fed the flames. You see, Jane,’ Blanche told me, complacently smoothing her silk dress, ‘strange affairs conducted behind closed doors in our remote part of the country do not escape the attention of the metropolis.
‘Adèle threw herself into London life. Imagine her, dressed simply yet in the latest style, entering our salon, which was crowded with the haut ton of London, on the arm of her distinguished and interesting father, or the man all thought to be her father. It was moving, Jane, so very moving. And she comported herself very well, marvellously, with great charm and grace. All London was fascinated – we were badgered, Jane, badgered, I assure you. We had scarce a moment to ourselves. And how Adèle adored it.’ Blanche sighed happily at the memory of this past triumph, then continued with determination.
‘Then came the evening when Edward insisted we visit the theatre to see Céline’s Phèdre, which has been so praised. It has been called the performance of the century, and I hear that they wept in Paris, and openly, when she performed it – how extraordinary.
‘Mr. Rochester had procured a box and Stanley and I were to go, Adèle, of course, and Sir George Lynn, who was in London, Parliament being in session, and Lady Jago, too.
‘What a performance! Imagine that tall figure, all in black in the role of Racine’s tormented heroine, helpless in the grip of an illicit passion.
‘We had by then, I may say, no clearer idea than before of the relations between Mr. Rochester and Céline. He had not mentioned seeing her after that evening at Lady Jago’s, which is not to say he had not seen her. On that subject he was as silent as the grave, and none had the temerity to raise it with him.
‘So there we were in our box, Jane, overlooking a crowded auditorium. Céline launched into the heroine’s great speech of love and shame. As she sank to her knees on the stage, I saw Edward, his hands clenched on the front of the box, dip his head forward and I heard him – groan. So sad, I thought it, Jane,’ Blanche told me. ‘Ah – that groan of sadness – for deeds that could not be undone, of remorse for the past. That was that I heard in that groan. Do you not think I was right to be moved, Jane, at such grief?’
‘I do,’ I answered, and said no more, for my heart was also full of sadness about which I could not speak.
Chapter XXIV
During the days after Edward’s angry departure from left Thornfield, St. John did all in his power to help and console me, for I was as one bereaved. The sorrow I felt was, I believe, nearly as great as if Edward had died. Never, from the time I had first known him, had he spoken to me in such a manner, as if he hated me; never had he flung away from me in a rage as he had on the night when he left.
I feared irreparable damage had been done. I loved him still, but I dreaded – no, not his rage, not even the withdrawal of his love, but that my own trust and confidence in him had disappeared. If I could not believe in Edward, I could believe in no one and nothing. My confidence in life itself had gone. And as one day followed another without a message from him, my last hopes that our parting had been a cruel mistake he would soon regret failed, and I began to think my husband’s love might be lost to me for ever.
Adèle was subdued, careful of St. John, whose character and strength I think she was trying to estimate, and alarmed by the consequences of her absconding from Thornfield.
The weary December days wore on, dark and cold. As we neared the middle of the month there was a slight thaw. The snow melted, bringing mists. A week after his departure a letter from Edward came at last. I seized it from the maid and, trembling, opened it. It was brief, too brief, saying only: ‘I am at Lady Norton’s and require you to send Adèle to me. She should bring a maid. Be good enough to find a reliable coachman to drive. I shall send him back when is Adèle is delivered, for I imagine you and Mr. Rivers will have need of the carriage.’
On reading this cold message, I sank into a chair, unable to move for some time. My worst fears were fulfilled – Edward had not forgiven; he remained angry. And now he wished his ward, Céline’s child, to go to him in London. He sent me not one word of love; this message confirmed his resolution not to cross the chasm which had opened between us.
I said nothing to Adèle or St. John of this, merely telling Adèle she was to go to London to join her father at the Nortons’, which filled her with feverish excitement not unmixed with malice, for, ‘Did Papa not ask you also to go, Step-mama?’ she asked with a sly, small smile, as she stood in the hall swathed in furs, trunks packed and ready. I could not answer and only shook my head. Filled with thoughts of the plays, visits and entertainment awaiting her, she might not have noticed that tears had come to my eyes, not so much for the thoughts of pleasures missed but that Edward chose to be away withou
t me.
And so Adèle left and St. John and I continued at Thornfield. It had been planned that my cousin Mary and her husband should visit us, but she became ill with a congestion of the lungs, and a December journey would plainly have been unwise. Thus the visit had to be deferred.
For many days thereafter I existed as if in a fog, sometimes despondent to the point of wondering what value my life had. Was I to bring my child into a fatherless home, to be reared by a deserted mother? These were black moments in the long watches of the night when I wondered if it would not be better if, when my time came, both I and my child closed our eyes upon the world.
Although I made all the efforts I could to conceal my state of mind, St. John, I believe, noted it. His years as a missionary had broadened his sympathies and understanding of mankind in ways of which I could not conceive. Whatever the effect of his mission on others, that experience had transformed the righteous but narrow St. John Rivers into a man of large heart and sympathies. Patient and kindly, he comforted me in small ways. He talked when I would talk, persuaded me to drive out on good days, even assumed for me some of the burdens of the household, for Mrs. Willows was obliged to go back to Mr. Todd. I was too heart-sick and uncertain of the future to appoint another housekeeper.
It was St. John too, who, when I had been in this sad state for over a fortnight, persuaded me to go to Jonathan for, shameful though it is to confess, I had scarcely given a thought even to my son during that dark period. I did not wish him to come home to that sad, abandoned house. So when a fine day came, bright but cold with a watery blue sky, we took the carriage and set off for Ferndean.
‘We were so happy at Ferndean, Edward and I,’ I told St. John, ‘and that is where our dear son was born.’
Blessed St. John! How many such sad remarks had he heard from me, during that bitter time. Never once did he in any way show impatience, nor did he, as people will, though often more for their own satisfaction than to afford any comfort to the sufferer, urge me to rally myself, take a cheerful view and count my blessings, or make any of those other suggestions which further depress the spirits of an afflicted individual who knows full well what he should do, but finds, try as he may, that he cannot achieve it.
The visit to Jonathan at Ferndean was of more benefit to me than can be imagined. There was my dear boy, smiling, healthy and loving, providing me with the most excellent of reasons for continuing in the mid-stream of life; there were my gentle friends the Weatherfields and all around me all the memories of earlier happiness with Edward. And such happiness! I could not believe that our union of so many years could collapse in the face of difficulties and misunderstandings, of harsh words delivered under the stress of adverse circumstances.
Therefore, after merrily eating a large tea with the Weatherfields, Jonathan and their two boys, St. John and I departed, with the promise that my friends would pay a visit to Thornfield very shortly, and I returned in much better spirits.
From that point on, slowly, I think, some courage came to me, and some hope for the future.
Sleepless might still followed sleepless night; sometimes grief still struck me like a blow. But, whatever my private griefs, I occupied the position of Mrs. Rochester of Thornfield, a position of dignity and influence in the neighbourhood and the county and, although the grandeur of this position attracted me not at all, it gave me the opportunity to do some good, to be of some use to others. And if it were to be – Heaven forbid! – that Edward were to absent himself from me and from the house for long periods in future, as was fully in his power, as indeed he had been accustomed to do when the presence of Bertha Mason had made his home a place of dread for him, I would still be at Thornfield. But if that sad fate were what Providence had dictated for me, then I would endeavour to make this solitary, mournful life a thing of some virtue and grace. If I were forced to live as but half a woman, scorned by and useless to my husband, it might yet be that by my efforts I could do some good in my life. Harsh consolation, but consolation nevertheless.
And so it was that, not long after our visit to Ferndean I said one morning at breakfast, ‘St. John, the days grow shorter; Christmas is nearly here. It will be a hard time for the poor from now on. Will you help me?’
‘Of course, Cousin, and gladly,’ he agreed. ‘But I must tell you first that Mr. Sugden has come to me again for instructions. I have felt I ought to spare you news of his visits, but he needs orders, which I have no authority to give. If you are well enough, will you see him? A farm has fallen vacant and should be relet. There are sheep to be slaughtered, but he knows not how many. Forgive me, Jane, for mentioning all this, if you are unable to bear it. But Sugden tells me he has been sending messages through Mr. Rochester’s bankers in London, and although he knows they have been delivered there has been no reply.’ He paused, then evidently decided to speak on. ‘Sugden hints he has received intimations there is cause for concern about the estates’ revenues. Jane, may I ask if on your marriage you caused any settlement to be drawn up reserving any of your money to yourself? Otherwise, of course, under the law all you have is your husband’s.’
‘No,’ I told him, ‘I entrusted all to Edward.’
That is as I thought,’ he said soberly. ‘And tell me, do you know aught of Mr. Rochester’s affairs?’
‘At Ferndean I knew all. Now, nothing,’ I replied.
‘If you are well enough, you should see Sugden,’ he said in a tone of resolve. He paused. ‘I should like myself to find out how matters stand. I am not eager to do this, Jane, but it is no more than my duty. I hope you have no objection?’
‘I have always thought it right for a woman to trust her husband in all things,’ I answered.
‘That I understand. But here is Sugden with no instructions, and you cannot deny you have a responsibility to protect your husband’s interests during his absence. And without some knowledge of how matters stand, decisions cannot be correctly made.’
‘Very well, then,’ I answered. ‘If you will sit with me, I will ask Sugden for an account of the estate, but I think, as to the factory in Manchester or any other matters – those are Edward’s concerns and should remain so.’
‘As you wish,’ he said. ‘I will ride over and get Sugden.’
‘Bring Mrs. Sugden, also, if convenient,’ I requested him. ‘I still wish to relieve want in the village and to bring a little cheer to the children there, for Christmas.’
‘Of course, Jane,’ he said courteously.
We saw Sugden in my husband’s study, though I did not sit behind his desk as he was wont to. Instead, St. John and I sat with Sugden by the fire. The news he brought was most unwelcome. Since Edward’s departure, very large sums had been drawn from the estate accounts, on his instructions, and forwarded to him in London. But – and Sugden brought all this out with some embarrassment – for several months prior to his departure there had also been withdrawals, not explained by any work on the estate or Thornfield itself. On hearing this information, St. John became grave; and to me the position was utterly bewildering, for I could not understand why Edward had need of such large sums.
The interview concluded with St. John’s agreeing, on Sugden’s advice, to certain courses of action as far as the estate was concerned, and saying that, as to the more important decisions, they could not be taken without Mr. Rochester’s own authority, so Sugden must manage as best he could until his return.
I then arranged with Mrs. Sugden that she, I and St. John would all visit Hay in three days’ time to see what were the main necessities of the local people. Things were very bad there, she told me, for now there was sickness – fever – in almost every home, and the people had no money for medicines. I had no money of my own, only what I had saved from Edward’s more than generous allowance to me; but I thought it would suffice to fill the most pressing of the people’s needs.
What distressing conditions met us when we began to go from house to house in Hay! Poverty and hunger were everywhere apparent, and the pe
ople had no strength to resist the sickness. I ignored Mrs. Sugden’s warning not to enter the cottages, lest I catch the fever; and what pitiful sights met my eyes. In one house five children lay sick and likely to die; in another, an old woman was starving; in a third, a recently delivered woman and her baby lay stupefied, only a day, it seemed, from death.
St. John went immediately for the doctor, who agreed to visit each desolate house and do what he could. He then set off to Millcote to procure supplies of fuel, clothing, soap, food, and everything which was wanting; though only, he insisted, on condition I would return to Thornfield, go to my bed and rest.
However, I could scarcely repose myself. The sights and scenes at Hay filled my head – poverty-stricken homes, of hopeless despair, of gentleness in the face of impossible adversity, of brutishness born of misery. Even when the fever passed, I thought, taking what toll it might, even if I contrived to relieve want from my own, alas, slender purse, what permanent solution could I supply? The people wanted work, and there was none; the weaving trade was lost to them for ever.
St. John, all his missions accomplished, was back by evening. The doctor is in the village,’ he told me, ‘and the waggons of fuel and food and all necessities will be here early tomorrow. Yet, as you say, the problems are more profound. The people need schooling, and, above all else, work.’
‘There is so much to do, and my means are so small,’ said I.
‘Well, Jane,’ he told me, ‘if you have no shovel, you must dig with a teaspoon. Enlist Mr. Todd as your ally—’
‘Easily said but less easily done,’ I interrupted.
‘No,’ he said briskly. ‘Todd is not a bad man. He only wants direction, which you can give, if you will. And,’ he continued smiling ‘you will recall a certain legacy which came some time ago to a certain Miss Eyre from her uncle – and which that Miss Eyre, appalled by the magnificence of the sum she had so unexpectedly inherited, insisted should be divided between herself and her three unworthy cousins.’
Mrs Rochester Page 17