‘No, Mrs. Rochester,’ said Grace. ‘You must go back to bed.’ There was something menacing in her tone.
I could think of nothing but ridding myself of that threat. ‘Go!’ I cried. ‘I order you to go. Wherever you two are is trouble, misery, plotting, pain. I want no more of you in my house, in my life. You must go. Now Adèle is gone, and Edward is gone and I am sure you, both of you, are somehow the cause of it. Go!’
‘Into the snow?’ asked Grace Poole, as if incredulous.
‘Into anything. What do I care? What consideration do you deserve, either of you?’
Madame Roland fixed me with her eyes, ‘Mrs. Rochester, you are ill—’
But ‘Fool!’ Grace Poole hissed at me. ‘You are a fool!’
‘I have ordered you to leave!’ I cried.
‘Contain yourself. You tread on ground dangerous to yourself,’ said Madame Roland in a tone of contempt.
I could not bear that this woman should speak to me so. ‘Will you go, or shall I have to get servants to deal with you?’
‘There are no servants,’ Mrs. Poole told me.
‘What? My husband—’
‘Be quiet,’ said Madame Roland in a tone of deep anger. ‘I have warned you – I have done all but beg. Now, hear this – your servants are gone – your husband is gone. You make wild charges, you threaten to hurl me into the snow. Mrs. Rochester, you are in danger. Your health is poor – go back to bed and be quiet and cause no further disturbance.’
I was dizzy. I felt weak and defeated. I had no one to call on. My words stumbled from me, ‘Edward will deal with you. Edward will punish you, you evil woman.’
‘You do not know where he is,’ she told me in a low, vicious tone. ‘We do, and you must be told. He is on his way to London following Adèle.’
‘She has gone to London?’
Madame Roland gave an exclamation of rage and despair. ‘Mrs Poole has tried to spare you. God knows, even I have tried, in the face of all insults. Very well – know now – Adèle left a note. She has gone to London, to see her mother. Rochester has gone after her.’
‘Her mother? Céline Varens?’ I cried. ‘Céline Varens is dead.’ Yet as I cried out I knew she spoke the truth; I saw that lovely face in the miniature in my husband’s drawer, and thought of its disappearance.
‘No – Céline is alive,’ said Madame Roland.
As she spoke I gripped the newel post to keep from falling. Her voice flowed, remorselessly, over me. ‘Had you not deliberately kept yourself from the world, at Ferndean, closing your eyes to the past, protecting your own little paradise on earth with such care, you would have heard her name before. She is the most famous tragedienne in France, the most celebrated actress of her generation. Now she is in London, with her company, and Adèle has rejected this cold unfriendly house to be with her.
‘Mrs. Rochester, I have known Céline Varens for many years. It may be that you would scorn her morals in your English way, but I say to you, she is a good woman and brave, very brave. After the duel Mr. Rochester fought over her, with her lover, the vicomte, her fortunes declined sadly. She formed an unfortunate union with a singer who deserted her in Italy. She fell into destitution – was friendless, without money and ill when she returned to Paris. She could not care for Adèle – she could not care for herself. Adèle might have starved had Rochester not taken her. Céline might have died without the pity of the good sisters of Saint-Sulpice. Yet from grave illness and wretched poverty she rose up, and now the world is at her feet.
‘Adèle has gone to her now – and your husband, too.’ There was triumph in her voice as she spoke.
Mrs Poole put a cold hand on my shoulder and said, ‘Now – will you go back to bed and cease to interfere? Your presence cost us all dear at Thornfield a decade ago, Jane Eyre, and will cost us dear again unless we are careful. You are innocent – yes – and mean no harm, but the price of your innocence and purity is high.’
I did not heed her words; they meant nothing to me. I was in despair. The image of Céline would not leave my mind. For how long, I asked myself, had Edward known she was in London? Had he seen her there? For how long had he known she was not dead? And now he was riding through heavy snow to be with her. My head whirled. I felt a huge emptiness.
Grace Poole’s voice came coldly and implacably through this confusion. ‘You are bereft of servants, and of your husband, but you may have your way in one respect. I will not stay here any longer. You have always hated me, Jane Eyre, and today you have made your hatred too plain. I called you fool, and now you are beginning to see the depths of your folly. Madame Roland and I will go to Old House. She will shelter me while I make my plans. No hardship, no poverty, no difficulty, could be worse than remaining here.’
Together, still holding the lamp, they crossed the hall, leaving me in darkness.
In the entrance Grace Poole turned. ‘You find yourself alone. The maids have left, for their families decided they would rather starve than have them work for the Rochesters, and once they had gone the other servants would not stay. You know the neighbourhood believes Mr. Rochester killed his first wife. A man who has killed once may kill again. Think on that.’
I heard them pull back the heavy bolts of the front door. Cold air flooded in from the expanse of white which was the lawn and the road beyond. The branches of the leafless trees bore a burden of snow.
‘Think on that, Jane Eyre.’
And they were gone, through the open door. As I stood transfixed I saw them, arm in arm, two black figures against the snow, helping each other across the white waste.
Chapter XXII
Mechanically, I crossed the hall and closed the door. Chilled to the bone, I found my cloak and threw it on over my bedgown. I went into the drawing-room and sat down by the cold grate, full of ashes, alone in that great, cold, echoing house.
The anguish of that long night is with me still. Try as I might, I could not drag my thoughts away from Céline Varens. Had Edward truly gone in pursuit of Adèle, or was it her mother he sought? My mind was in confusion; I could not tell true from false, real from unreal. The clock struck one, then two, then three…
And then, the doctor’s potion still working within me, no doubt, I dozed for a moment or two and it was as if I were returned to that night when, a girl of eighteen, I left Thornfield; I saw myself creeping off to ‘dreary flight and homeless wandering’. I heard Edward’s voice after the mock marriage had been revealed for what it was: ‘You understand what I want of you? Just this promise – “I will be yours, Mr. Rochester.”’ And I had denied him. I could not live with him as his mistress. Then he had said – and oh, with what pain – “You condemn me to be wretched, and to die accursed.” But though one part of me had desired to yield, I had not.
Then I heard his voice again as I had heard it after I had been separated from him for so long and it called, ‘Jane! Jane!’ and I saw myself journeying to Thornfield to find him and finding only a ruin, and then going on to Ferndean to find that dear man maimed, so ill, so lonely, that he cared not if he lived. I recalled our mutual joy at the discovery that we still loved. In that brief half-dream by the empty grate on that fearful night, I remembered happiness.
I woke with a start and knew the fearful circumstances I was in, and yet knew again that happiness which had come to us after much sacrifice and suffering. ‘Fool’ and ‘innocent’ Mrs. Poole had called me, and she named me ‘Jane Eyre’ as if the name itself were a term of contempt. That fool, that innocent, that Jane Eyre, had survived, somehow, the crushing blow at Thornfield so long ago, had left for integrity’s sake, had struggled and found her love again – and perhaps, I thought, in her folly and innocence, she could do so again. The truth was, I could not live without knowing Edward loved me. I could not live with this uncertainty eating away at my trust in him. He was half my soul; without him life had no meaning. During the course of my marriage my part had been to comfort, to create order and content. Now, to save that marriage, I mus
t take action.
I re-lit the lamps, and the fire. There was no help for it. I could not stay alone at Thornfield. I would follow Edward to London.
Great difficulties faced me. The weather was bad and might become worse. I was sore and bruised from my fall. I had no coachman and would need to find another, with, it seemed, the whole village against me. And yet, I thought, I will try.
Worse than all that was one thought I could hardly bear, that the rough journey in such weather might cause me to miscarry my child. Yet, I told myself, when you were Jane Eyre you were forced into desperate straits, risking all, even your life, as you wandered friendless and alone. Now you must risk all again, even this. Even this.
Dawn was breaking when I passed through great, empty, frozen Thornfield Hall, went upstairs and packed a small bag with the bare necessities for my journey. If the village would not help me I would have to go through the snow to the vicarage, where Mr. Todd would, I hoped, lend me his carriage and coachman.
In the kitchen I found and drank a little milk, to sustain me, and ate a crumb or two of bread, though I had no appetite. Though the fire was out, though I knew the air in that room must be piercingly cold – there was frost inside the window-panes – I thought I felt a little hot.
Nevertheless I went into the hall, picked up my bag and opened the front door. I would walk to the vicarage by the footpath across the fields, through the snow.
A cold wind had got up since the previous night, and I looked in trepidation at the expanse of snow before me, knowing that behind the trees at the end of the lawn lay the road and behind that the way across the fields to the church and vicarage. I would have to traverse a distance of little more than half a mile, no distance at all on a fair day, but a hard challenge to me as I was, in weather such as this. And I had an inkling I was not well, chill at times, warmer at others. Yet, well or ill, I would not and could not stay in this empty house, bereft of my husband and beset by anxieties of every kind.
There is a point, I believe, at which a woman can and will throw away the normal constraints of her sex, and act with the resolution expected of a man. For me, that Jane who had once been an orphan, thrown on her own devices, in a world which showed little sign of friendship to her, that time had come.
I would go from Thornfield, I would go to London, if I must, find Edward and then, if I was spared, find some means to begin to resolve all the mysteries and horrors which beset us. I would do it, or die in the attempt. And though it may seem, from what then ensued, that I was not forced at that time to put this resolve to the final test, this moment was for me a turning-point.
As I stepped on to the snowy threshold, bag in hand, the wind seized my cloak. Then, in the silence, I heard the whinny of a horse. I thought little of it, knowing the remaining horses in the stables were without food or water, a state which I would have to ask Mr. Todd to remedy. And then, from the side of the house where the drive ran I heard a voice: ‘Jane – hulloa! Jane!’
Advancing from the portico, I turned to look. A tall, becloaked figure, with an old shovel-hat on his head, hunched over upon a weary horse, raised a hand to me. He slid from the horse and came towards me, showing me a thin face, yellow-brown. As he took off the hat I saw above that gaunt and aquiline face short hair, very pale, as if bleached by strong sun. It was my cousin, St. John Rivers. I had thought he was in India, where he had gone long ago as a missionary.
He came towards me through the snow and embraced me. As he released me he looked about him wryly at the expanse of snow, saying, ‘England provides a cold welcome to a returning son.’ Then, his hands still on my shoulders, he said, ‘Jane, you do not look well. I was so glad to see my dear little friend when I spotted you in the entrance; but then I wondered, where goes she, with a small bag, alone so early on such a day?’ He looked up at the imposing house and said, ‘So this is Thornfield, rebuilt. What a great sight it is.’
‘It is so good to see you, St. John,’ I said. ‘You must come in, though it is but a cold, sad welcome I can give you.’
‘I will, and gladly. Is there a man to take my horse? The old chap has served me well through all this snow, but he is done up, now.’
‘There is no one. I will lead you to the stables,’ I said.
The stable-yard was a sad sight, untidy, with a bucket overturned, a heap of dirty straw and many other signs of disorder. It was as if the stable-lad had abandoned his work and gone off – as I suppose he had. The two carriage-horses were in their stalls, peering out but – which astonished me – also in a third stall, peering over, was Ruby. I wondered where she had been found and who had brought her home. I went over to her and stroked her nose. She nuzzled at me.
‘Where are the men, Jane?” enquired St. John.
‘One’s dismissed; the other has run off,’ I told him. ‘Indeed, all the servants are gone.’
St. John looked at me curiously, but asked no further questions. ‘I’ll see to the horses, then,’ he said, and, rapidly unsaddling his own horse and throwing the saddle in a corner of the yard, he bent to the pump, which mercifully was not frozen, and started drawing water. ‘Go inside. Jane,’ he said. ‘You must not get too cold. Is Mr. Rochester at home?’
‘He is gone to London,’ said I, and heard my voice coming out very small and weak, almost like a child’s.
St. John straightened up and gazed at me in consternation. ‘Then, who is with you?’
‘No one.’
‘All alone – at such a time?’ he said, which told me one of my cousins, Diana or Mary, had told him I was to have a child. There was concern and pity in his tone as he spoke, but then it changed and became brisker. ‘Well, I do not understand all this,’ he said, ‘but I see I can be of use.’ And he turned again to the pump. ‘Go inside, Jane. This cold and sharp wind may harm you.’
‘And you, St. John,’ I said. ‘You must be used to hotter climes. What brings you back?’ At the same time I began to carry his saddle into the tack-room beneath the servants’ quarters.
‘Put it down, Jane,’ he commanded.
‘The exercise will warm me,’ I told him.
‘Obstinate woman,’ he muttered, carrying water to the stables. When he returned with the empty bucket he said, ‘I’m invalided out. I’ll be well enough for work here, but never again in a fierce climate. But this,’ he said, back at the pump ‘will set me up wonderfully.’
I led his horse to an empty stall and shut him in and, as I did so, wondered a little at St. John’s free manner – new to me, for he had ever been a stiff and sober man, with a sense of right and wrong, but leaning more towards justice than mercy. His ten years in India had changed him, I saw.
At last we were done with the horses and St. John led me inside, sat me down in the drawing-room, cleared and remade the fire and instructed me not to move until he had found some food. While he went off to search the larder I sat still as a frozen bird on a twig. All I knew was that I must go to London to find Edward. But how?
St. John came back with bread and cheese, and set the kettle over the fire on a tripod he had found. As we waited for it to boil, he said self-mockingly, ‘You will note my life abroad has made me practical, adaptable and capable.’
‘And most comforting and reassuring,’ I told him. ‘But have you been very ill?’
‘I was, I imagine, very ill. But I am well now and greatly content. I was called to the missionary field. I followed that call and now, it seems, Providence has dictated I withdraw from that area. I shall seek a parish here now, where I may continue my work. For the time being, I am at liberty, which is why I come here for a visit.’
The years had treated St. John kindly, in many ways. The classical beauty he once possessed, more of a statue than of a man, had been changed but not destroyed by time and the vicissitudes of climate. There was in that steady blue eye a kindlier light; that once-smooth brow now bore some lines – I gained the impression they had been drawn by endurance and the necessity to tolerate, forgive and understand.
The old, pure beauty had grown older, had suffered, yes, but in his new gauntness, in the marks time had set on him, one saw the fruits of experience met, and bravely met. St. John had been tried in the fire; had learned of victory and defeat, had confronted weakness, not least his own, and had emerged from that fire tested, stronger, more humane. This was the man whom, young and ardent for his faith, yet withal unyielding and condemnatory, I had once found it impossible to marry.
He bent his keen yet patient eyes upon me. ‘May I take the liberty of a cousin and ask some searching questions? I learn Diana and Mary have not heard from you for some time. They assumed that your removal, and the state of your health, might be occupying you and thought little of it, save that they eagerly awaited news of you. However, now I am here I find you alone in an empty house and about to abandon it on foot. With your permission I will ask questions, and if you find them unpleasant I rely on you to check me.’
I was busying myself with making tea, lifting the boiling kettle from its trivet, pouring the water into the teapot. My eyes were on those activities, not on my cousin’s, as I replied, ‘I cannot pretend all is well here.’ But I could not go on. Tears filled my eyes. I put the lid on the teapot and, head averted, somewhat to conceal them, returned to my chair.
‘Jane, Jane,’ he murmured, ‘do not distress yourself. I am here – you know I will do all in my power to help you. How is Jonathan? And Mr. Rochester?’
‘Jonathan is at Ferndean, staying with the clergyman there, Mr. Weatherfield, and Edward – Edward is well.’
‘He is away on business, I presume. Now, tell me, when I caught you leaving your house with your valise, where were you going?’ And I explained the servants had all gone off, owing to the village’s hostility, and that I had intended to go to Mr. Todd and beg the use of his carriage to take me to London. That was what I told St. John and no more. I believe he suspected that this was not the whole tale, but he did not press me further, only spoke of his experiences abroad, of the deserts and plains of India, of the mountains, of the people and his work to convert them.
Mrs Rochester Page 14
