Джейн Эйр / Jane Eyre

A muffled man’s voice shouted: “Help! Help! Help!” There was a scuffling noise, and the man cried, “Rochester! Rochester! for God’s sake, come!”

Someone ran, or rushed, along the gallery. Upstairs something fell; and there was silence.

I had put on some clothes, though horror shook me. I left my room. I was not alone. The hallway was filling up with confused guests in night-gowns, all talking at once: “What has happened?”; “Fetch a candle!”; “Where the devil is Rochester?”

“I’m here.” Mr. Rochester came from the attic staircase, a candle in his hand. “Don’t panic, all of you: I’m coming. A servant has had a nightmare, that is all. She is an excitable, nervous person. Please, go to bed now.”

I went back into my room, but not to sleep. I waited, fully dressed, by my window, looking out over the silvery moonlit fields and trees. What I was waiting for, I did not know. But, soon enough, the call came.

A hand tapped gently at my door, and Mr. Rochester’s voice whispered: “Are you up?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And dressed?”

“Yes.”

“Come out, then, quietly.”

I obeyed.

“Follow me, try to make no noise.”

My slippers were thin: I could walk in them as softly as a cat. He led me up the attic stairs, along the dark passageway and through a door. Inside, I saw a large bed, its curtains pulled shut. A tapestry on the wall had been drawn back to reveal another, smaller door, which was open. From beyond it, I heard, at close hand, that gurgling, snarling laugh, ending in the long, low “Ha!” that had so often terrified me before.

So Grace Poole was there. This must be where she slept.

Mr. Rochester went into the second room, and I heard him speaking in a low voice. He returned, closing the door firmly. Then he led me around the bed, and pulled the curtain aside to reveal Mr. Mason, fully dressed and lying back awkwardly, his face pale and in pain. One of his shirt sleeves, and the bedlinen around it, was soaked in blood.

“Don’t worry, Richard, the wound is not serious,” Rochester told Mr. Mason. “I will fetch a surgeon, and Jane here will look after you while I am gone. Jane, I want you to sponge the blood, and give Mr. Mason water if he feels faint. But you are not to speak to him – and Richard, you are not to speak to her. I will be back soon.”

The night seemed endless! Hour after hour I mopped the blood and wrung out the sponge, and cooled the poor man’s brow, all the time in a state of terror that Grace Poole, that mysterious murderess, would break out of her little room and attack me. We both obeyed Mr. Rochester and spoke not a word to each other; but when at last he came back, with the doctor at his side, their conversation told me more about what had happened.

“This is not just a knife wound,” said the doctor. “There are tooth marks here.”

“She bit me,” Mason gasped. “When Rochester got the knife off her, she attacked me like a tigress…”

“I did warn you,” said Mr. Rochester. “Now, man, hurry up with that bandaging,” he told the doctor. He sent me to fetch Mr. Mason a clean shirt, and within half an hour, the doctor was gone, and the visitor had been bundled into a carriage and whisked away, before the sun or the servants rose.

After helping Mason into his carriage, Mr. Rochester and I stood alone in front of the house.

“Come and walk with me, Jane,” he said. We wandered along a walkway in the garden, bordered with flowers. He picked a rose and gave it to me.

“Again, I must say thank you, Jane,” he said. “You have had a difficult night. Were you afraid?”

“I was afraid Grace Poole would get out and attack me, sir,” I admitted. “It seems to me it is not safe while she is here. I do not understand why you don’t send her away.”

“Don’t worry about her,” he said. “I can take care of the situation. Jane…” he said, and took my hand again, squeezing it tightly. “What cold fingers. Jane, when will we be together like this again?”

“I will come whenever you need me, sir.”

“For instance, the night before I am married! I am sure I shall not be able to sleep. Will you promise to sit up with me to bear me company? To you I can talk of my lovely one: for now you have seen her and know her.”

“Yes, sir.”

“She’s a rare one, is she not, Jane?”

“Yes, sir.”

Suddenly he saw two of the visitors, and we were forced to part.

Chapter 22

That same afternoon, I had a visitor. He was dressed in black, with a black band around his hat – the sign of mourning.

“‘I might hardly remember me, Miss,” he said, rising as I entered; “but my name is Leaven: I was a coachman when you were at Gateshead. I still live there.”

“Oh, Robert! how do you do? I remember you very well! And how is Bessie? You are married to Bessie?’”

“Yes, Miss: my wife is very well, thank you – she brought me another child about two months ago. We have three now.”

“And are the family well at the house?”