Джейн Эйр / Jane Eyre

“Yes, well it was talked of for years, though no one knew who she was. But, just a year ago, there was a scandal, for it turned out she was his wife! He’d fallen for another lady – his governess, they said – I never saw her myself, but the servants said they’d never seen him so in love. He wanted to marry her, you see, and he never told her he had a wife. Well, they got as far as the church, but then it all came out, and the wedding was called off.”

“But the fire,” I interrupted. “Did Mr. Rochester’s wife have something to do with it?”

“You’ve got it in one, Miss – it was her that started it. You see, they had a servant to watch her – Grace Poole, her name was – and a good job she did too, except for one thing: she liked a drink. She usually fell asleep after drinking late at night, and the madwoman stole the keys from her pocket, and wandered through the house, causing mischief.

“Well, after all the fuss, the governess ran off, and Mr. Rochester almost went insane looking for her, but he couldn’t find her. So he sent the little girl to school, and shut himself up in Thornfield. And then the fire happened. Mrs. Rochester got out again, took a candle, and set light to one of the beds – I heard it was the one in the governess’s room, as if she were taking her revenge. But of course the girl was long gone by then.”

“So Rochester was at home when the fire started?”

“Oh yes, and they say he was as brave as a lion – he pulled all the servants from their beds and carried them outside, and then he went back in for his wife. But she had run up on the roof – we could see her dancing in the flames – and he tried to catch her to bring her back safe, but she leaped from the top, and fell down and died. It was dreadful, Miss.”

“How awful,” I said. “And… did anyone else die?”

“No, but it might have been as well if they had.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean Mr. Rochester, Miss – for he suffered cruelly. Well, he had to escape, but as he was coming down the staircase, it gave way, and he fell in the fire. His face was burned, and he’s blind as a bat to this day. Some say it’s his punishment for keeping that wife of his a secret [25], but I say, if it is, it’s a harsh one. He tried to do his best for her.”

“And what happened to him? Where did he go?”

“Why, he is gone to live at Ferndean, his other house, twenty miles off. And they say he lives a life of misery, now he has lost his sight, and his wife, and his lady-love too. He only has old John and Mary to care for him, for he sent all the other servants away.”

“Do you have a carriage for hire?” I asked.

“Of course, Miss, it’s outside.”

“I know it’s late,” I said, “but I will pay you double if you can find someone to drive me to Ferndean now, and take me there before sunset.”

Chapter 34

I had heard of the house of Ferndean before. Mr. Rochester often spoke about it, and sometimes went there. Ferndean was in a forest, and after the coachman left me at the gates, I walked up a grassy track for half a mile before I saw the house. It was smaller than Thornfield, and plain and simple. It looked empty.

There were no flowers, no garden-beds, only a broad gravel walk. The house was as still as a church on a week-day.

“Can there be life here?” I asked.

Yes, there was, for I heard a movement. The door opened and a figure came out. It was dusk but I recognised him – it was my master, Edward Fairfax Rochester. I stood there to watch him, myself invisible to him. He lifted his hand and opened his eyelids, but one saw that all was darkness to him. At this moment John approached him and offered help. “Leave me alone,” was the answer. Mr. Rochester tried to walk about vainly, all was too uncertain.

I came up to the house and knocked. John’s wife Mary opened the door. She started as if she had seen a ghost.

“Miss Eyre! Is it really you?”

I explained that I had heard about the fire, and come to visit Mr. Rochester.

“When you go in, tell your master that a person wishes to speak to him, but do not give my name,” I continued.

“I don’t think he will see you, he refuses everyone.”

When Mary returned she said: “You are to send in your name and business.” She then filled a glass with water and placed it on a tray together with candles.

“Is that what he asked for?” I asked.

“Yes, he always asks for candles at dark, though he is blind.”

“Give the tray to me. I will carry it in.”

Mr. Rochester was sitting in an armchair, facing away from me. Straight away, Pilot got up from the hearth and came to me, wagging his tail.

“Down, Pilot – what is it?” My heart melted to hear his voice again, as rich and deep as ever.

He turned around – an automatic gesture, for he could not see. But I could see him. His face was scarred, his eyes half-closed. My heart leapt in my chest, and my hands shook as I put the tray down.

“That is you, isn’t it, Mary?”

“Mary is in the kitchen,” I said.

He jumped. “Who is that? What is it? Who speaks?”