Mr. Rochester did, on a future occasion, explain it. It was one afternoon when he chanced to meet me and Adele in the grounds, and while she played with Pilot and her shuttlecock, he asked me to walk up and down a long beech avenue within sight of her. Again, our intercourse since the last conversation and this had been cold and silent. I did not know if Mr. Rochester purposely treated me thus as a punishment for my previous wanton behavior or if he was naturally inconsistent. My hopes of ever laying with him again as we once had in a ditch under the filmy moon were rapidly decreasing and the prospect made me dull and gloomy. I simply could not figure him out.
As we walked that afternoon he told me that Adele was the daughter of a French opera-dancer, Celine Varens, towards whom he had once cherished what he called a “grande passion.” This passion Celine had professed to return with even superior ardour.
“And, Miss Eyre, so much in love was I that I installed her in an hotel, gave her a complete establishment of servants, a carriage and diamonds &c. In short, I began the process of ruining myself in the received style, like any other spoony. However, happening to call one evening when Celine did not expect me, I found her out, but as it was a warm night and I was tired with strolling through Paris, I sat down in her boudoir and waited.” I did not know why he was telling me this, but I listened quietly. Perhaps he wished me to be aware of my pupil’s background, but I felt that such detail did not warrant this reason. There was something more. I found myself wondering if maybe Mr. Rochester was at the same time giving me an account of his own character.
“While in a boudoir, I heard a carriage outside the open window and I recognised the sound of the ‘voiture’ I had given Celine,” he carried on. “She was returning and of course, my heart thumped with impatience to see her. I went to the window and leant out, watching the carriage stop at the hotel door. I knew her instantly by her little foot, seen peeping from the skirt of her dress, as she skipped from the carriage-step. Bending out of the window further, I was about to murmur “Mon ange” in a tone which should be audible to the ear of love alone, when a figure jumped from the carriage after her. It was cloaked, but a spurred heel was heard which rung on the pavement and a hatted head now passed under the arched porte cochere of the hotel. It was a man . . . You never felt jealousy, did you, Miss Eyre? Of course not, I need not ask you, because you never felt love.”
This was not true. Upon his mentioning the beautiful Celine, I had indeed felt a crude stab of jealousy that made my knees weak, but I had not wished to show it. It was clear that I was nothing to Mr. Rochester, merely an encounter on the causeway that he had hoped never to run into again. I would then have been lost in a torrent of my own dark lament had I not noticed the sinister change in the man before me.
He ground his teeth and was silent, then he arrested his step and struck his boot against the hard ground. Some hated thought seemed to have him in its grip and to hold him so tightly that he could not advance. Lifting his eye to the battlements of Thornfield, he cast over them a glare such as I never saw before or since. Pain, shame, ire, impatience, disgust, and detestation seemed momentarily to hold a quivering conflict in the large pupil dilating under his ebon eyebrow. Wild was the wrestle which should be paramount, but another feeling rose and triumphed, something hard and cynical.
Adele here ran before him with her shuttlecock. “Away!” he cried harshly, “keep at a distance or go in to Sophie!”
Adele and I both jumped, but she soon scuttled away whereas I remained.
Continuing then to pursue his walk in silence, I ventured to recall him to the point whence he had abruptly diverged. I was curious as to the change in his mood and the rest of the story.
“Did you leave the boudoir, sir?” I asked, returning to his tale.
I almost expected a rebuff” for this hardly well-timed question, but on the contrary, waking out of his scowling abstraction, he turned his eyes towards me and the shade seemed to clear off his brow. “Oh, I had forgotten Celine! Well, to resume. When I saw my charmer thus come in accompanied by a cavalier, I seemed to hear a hiss and the green snake of jealousy rose within me. I remained in the boudoir waiting for them and hid behind a curtain, leaving only an opening through which I could take observations. The couple entered and there was ‘the Varens,’ shining in satin and jewels—my gifts of course—and there was her companion in an officer’s uniform. I knew him for a young roue of a vicomte, a brainless and vicious youth whom I had sometimes met in society and had never thought of hating because I despised him so absolutely. On recognising him, the fang of the snake Jealousy was instantly broken because at the same moment, my love for Celine sank under an extinguisher. A woman who could betray me for such a rival was not worth contending for and she deserved only scorn.”
Adele here came running up again.
“Monsieur, John has just been to say that your agent has called and wishes to see you.”
“Ah,” said Mr. Rochester, turning to me. “In that case, I must quickly abridge and be off—throwing back the curtain, I revealed myself and liberated Celine from my protection. I gave her notice to vacate her hotel, offered her a purse for immediate exigencies, disregarded screams, hysterics, prayers, protestations, convulsions and made an appointment with the vicomte for a meeting at the Bois de Boulogne. Next morning I had the pleasure of encountering him, left a bullet in one of his poor arms and then thought I had done with the whole crew. But unluckily the Varens, six months before, had given me this filette Adele, who she affirmed was my daughter and perhaps she may be, though I see no proofs of such grim paternity written in her countenance. Pilot is more like me than she. Some years after I had broken with the mother, she abandoned her child and ran away to Italy with a musician or singer. I acknowledged no natural claim on Adele’s part to be supported by me, but hearing that she was quite destitute, I e’en took the poor thing out of the slime and mud of Paris and transplanted it here. Mrs. Fairfax found you to train it, but now you know that it is the illegitimate offspring of a French opera-girl, you will perhaps think differently of your post and protégée?”
“No, Adele is not answerable for either her mother’s faults or yours. I shall cling closer to her than before.”
He looked long and hard at me for a moment, staring deep into my eyes so that something stirred in the pit of my stomach.
“Oh,” he simply said. “I must go in now and you too, it darkens.”
I did not understand Mr. Rochester or his behavior towards me and that night, I tossed and turned in a fitful sleep. Half of me felt that I should leave and be free of this control he had over me; the need to make him happy and the constant hope that he would take me in his arms once more. I did not like the thought of being a slave to him, nor being a slave to anyone, but I knew that I could not go. I had found something here that I had been searching for a long time and I could not leave yet.
“Mrs. Fairfax said he seldom stayed here longer than a fortnight at a time, and he has now been resident eight weeks,” I said to myself in the darkness. “Could I dare hope that he stays for interest in me?” The thought seemed unlikely given the spontaneous attention he delivered. Rather I seemed an interesting pet like Pilot, but I could not help but hope I at least had something to do with his extended stay.
I hardly know whether I slept or not after this musing, at any rate, I started wide awake on hearing a vague murmur, which sounded just above me. I wished I had kept my candle burning since the night was drearily dark and my spirits were depressed. I rose and sat up in bed, listening. The sound was hushed.
I tried again to sleep, but my heart beat anxiously and my inward tranquillity was broken. The clock far down in the hall struck two. Just then, it seemed my chamber-door was touched as if fingers had swept the panels in groping a way along the dark gallery outside.
I said, “Who is there?”
Nothing answered and I was chilled with fear.
I lay down. Silence composes the nerves and as an unbroken hush now reigned again through the whole house, I began to feel the return of slumber. But it was not fated that I should sleep that night. A dream had scarcely approached my ear when it fled affrighted, scared by a marrow-freezing incident enough.
This was a demoniac laugh—low, suppressed and deep— uttered, as it seemed, at the very keyhole of my chamber door. The head of my bed was near the door, and I thought at first the goblin-laugher stood at my bedside, or rather, crouched by my pillow. I rose, looked round, and could see nothing but as I still gazed, the unnatural sound was reiterated and I knew it came from behind the panels. My first impulse was to rise and fasten the bolt, my next, again to cry out, “Who is there?”
Something gurgled and moaned. Ere long, steps retreated up the gallery towards the third-storey staircase and a door opened and closed.
“Was that Grace Poole? Is she possessed with a devil?” thought I.
Impossible now to remain longer by myself, I knew that I must go to Mrs. Fairfax. I hurried on my frock and a shawl and withdrew the bolt, opening the door with a trembling hand. There was a candle burning just outside, and I was surprised at this circumstance, but still more was I amazed to perceive the air quite dim as if filled with smoke. I suddenly became further aware of a strong smell of burning.
Something creaked—it was a door ajar and that door was Mr. Rochester’s and more still, the smoke rushed in a cloud from thence. I thought no more of Mrs. Fairfax, I thought no more of Grace Poole, or the laugh, I thought only of him and in an instant, I was within the chamber. As I entered I saw tongues of flame darted round the bed, the curtains immersed in fire. In the midst of blaze and vapour, Mr. Rochester lay stretched motionless, in deep sleep.
“Wake! wake!” I cried. I shook him, but he only murmured and turned since the smoke had stupefied him. Not a moment could be lost and I rushed to his basin and ewer which were both filled with water. I heaved them up, deluged the bed and its occupant, flew back to my own room, brought my own water-jug, baptized the couch afresh, and succeeded in extinguishing the flames which were devouring it.
The hiss of the quenched element and the splash of the shower-bath I had liberally bestowed, finally roused Mr. Rochester. Though it was now dark, I knew he was awake because I heard him fulminating strange anathemas at finding himself lying in a pool of water. “Is there a flood?” he cried.
“No, sir,” I answered, “but there has been a fire. Get up and I will fetch you a candle.”
“Is that Jane Eyre?” he demanded. “What have you done with me, witch, sorceress? Who is in the room besides you? Have you plotted to drown me?”
“I will fetch you a candle, sir and, in Heaven’s name, get up. Somebody has plotted something and you cannot too soon find out who and what it is.”
I brought the candle which still remained in the gallery and he took it from my hand. Holding it up, he surveyed the bed, all blackened and scorched, the sheets drenched and the carpet round swimming in water.
The sight was shocking, but there was a closer sight which still shocked and thrilled me more. I could now see Mr. Rochester plainly, bathed in the golden light from the candle and he looked like a brooding angel; his features softened by the buttery glow and his dark eyes glinting. The water had drenched his nightshirt and it stuck to the deep contours in his chest, sculpting his broad shoulders and lean torso. A tremor of heat shuddered through me and I longed to touch the muscled bumps of his stomach and rake my fingernails down his strong, curved spine.
He turned to look at me and I started slightly, my cheeks flushing pink.
“What is it? And who did it?” he asked.
I briefly related to him what had transpired: the strange laugh I had heard in the gallery, the step ascending to the third storey, the smoke, the smell of fire which had conducted me to his room and in what state I had found matters there.
He listened very gravely, his face, as I went on, expressed more concern than astonishment and he did not immediately speak when I had concluded.
“Shall I call Mrs. Fairfax?” I asked.
“Mrs. Fairfax? Not at all. Just be still. If you are not warm enough, you may take my cloak yonder, wrap it about you and sit down in the arm-chair.”
He passed the cloak to me and I flushed, remembering the last time I had seen him wearing it, when we were lying together in the ditch on the causeway. Despite the seriousness of this situation, I thought I noticed a flash of a smile across his face, but it was fleeting and he was once again sombre.
“I am going to leave you a few minutes and I shall take the candle,” he said. “Remain where you are till I return and be as still as a mouse. I must pay a visit to the second storey. Don’t move or call any one.”
He went and I watched the light withdraw. He passed up the gallery very softly, unclosed the staircase door with as little noise as possible, shut it after him and the last ray vanished. I was left in total darkness. I listened for some noise, but heard nothing.
A very long time elapsed and I grew weary. I wrapped his thick cloak around me and breathed deeply his rich scent of leather and sweat. I closed my eyes and imagined we were back together on the causeway as I had often done since. I felt a tingling stirring within me, but I tried to ignore it. I was on the point of risking Mr. Rochester’s displeasure by disobeying his orders, when the light once more gleamed dimly on the gallery wall, and I heard his unshod feet tread the matting.
He re-entered, pale and very gloomy. “I have found it all out,” said he, setting his candle down on the washstand. “It is as I thought.”
“How, sir?”
He made no reply, but stood with his arms folded, looking on the ground. At the end of a few minutes he inquired in rather a peculiar tone, “I forget whether you said you saw anything when you opened your chamber door?”
“No, sir, only the candlestick on the ground.”
“But you heard an odd laugh? You have heard that laugh before, I should think, or something like it?”
“Yes, sir. There is a woman who sews here called Grace Poole and she laughs in that way. She is a singular person.”
“Just so. Grace Poole—you have guessed it. I am glad that you are the only person, besides myself, acquainted with the precise details of tonight’s incident. You are no talking fool so say nothing about it. Now return to your own room. I shall do very well on the sofa in the library for the rest of the night. It is near four and in two hours the servants will be up.”
I at once felt dejected and full of sorrow. I could not bear for us to be so close like this but still master and servant and nothing more.
“Good-night, then, sir,” said I quietly, making to go.
He seemed surprised. “What!” he exclaimed. “Are you quitting me already, and in that way?”
“You said I might go, sir.”
“You have saved my life, Jane. I have a pleasure in owing you so immense a debt. I cannot say more.”
My heart quickened in my chest and my breath fluttered from my mouth in gasps. Fixing his dark eyes upon me, he took a step closer and the hairs on the back of my neck tingled.
“Sir . . .” I whispered, but found that I could not go on.
He reached out a hand gently, taking hold of my waist and never breaking his gaze, he pulled me in to him so that I was crushed deliciously against his damp chest. The wet material soaked through my nightgown and felt cold against my bare breasts. My nipples hardened and I pressed myself against him feeling his heart beat and the warmth of his body against mine. I deliberately skimmed my tongue across my bottom lip, wishing he would kiss it and I was rewarded when his eyes widened and glinted wickedly.
Suddenly, his grip tightened on my waist and he wrenched me towards him, clamping his lips to mine. Then delicately he pushed his tongue into my mouth and moved it in soft circles, leaving a scalding heat of desire wherever he touched. I sucked hard on his tongue and heard him grunt in a pleasurable laugh, he returned the gesture by pinning me firmly against his hip so that I could feel his long, hard erection across my belly.
I ran my hands down his nightshirt, noticing the enticing undulations of muscles across his stomach and crept my fingers further, past the soft humps of his hip bones to his bulging erection. His eyes closed briefly and I felt his whole body stiffen with anticipation. Gently I ran my fingers up and down it, feeling its smooth, hard texture.
Abruptly he took his hands away from my waist and closed them over mine. “Like this,” he whispered huskily, closing my hands into a firm grip and moving them up and down.
He moaned quietly as I carried on and moved his hands back to my waist and then up into my hair. I had never done anything like this before and the thought that I was giving him such pleasure sent scorching waves of desire rippling through my body. He began kissing me in rhythm to my hands tugging him, and pulling gently on my hair. This was unlike anything I had ever done with John Reed or Jack and I felt completely in control.
I suddenly pulled back from his kisses and he glanced at me in shock. Tilting my head slightly, I kissed his neck passionately and began working my way down his body. I left a hot trail of kisses across his torso and down between his legs where I paused, and slowly knelt on the wooden floor of his room at his feet.
He looked down at me, breathing heavily, his great chest heaving and his dark eyes full of yearning. With slow deliberation, I leant forward and placed my lips around him tentatively, running my tongue over the tip of him. His mouth dropped open slightly and his breathing increased.
Gently I sucked and he was soft and hard all at once. His hips flexed into my mouth and I pulled him in deeper. He let out a low groan as I pulled out, twirled my tongue against the tip and then sucked him quickly back into my mouth. My hands grasped his thighs as I pulled him into me deeper and deeper, loving the sensation of his fingers grasping my hair in ecstasy. I sucked harder and harder, feeling him writhing and glanced up at him; his eyes were blisteringly hot into mine, filled with hungry need.
I pulled the tip of his erection to the back of my throat and felt him convulse with pleasure. He grunted and slammed his hips against my mouth as warm, salty liquid oozed down my throat. After a second, I swallowed and he sighed.
I moved away from him and stood up, pleased that his brow was damp with sweat and his eyes were glazed with pleasure.
“Jane . . .” he whispered, “lie down on the bed.”
I shook my head. “Another time,” I heard myself say and I felt myself grin. “Soon,” I added, before bobbing him a curtsey and leaving the room.