I stayed as far away from Mr. Rochester as I could for the next few days and I never once raised my eyes to his. I was deeply hurt and pained by what he had said after such a pleasurable, joyful union and I did not want him to see my sorrow.
On one day when I was in the midst of teaching Adele, I was summoned downstairs by a message that some one wanted me in Mrs. Fairfax’s room. On repairing thither, I found a man waiting for me having the appearance of a gentleman’s servant. He was dressed in deep mourning and a hat that he held in his hand was surrounded with a crape band.
“I daresay you hardly remember me, Miss,” he said, rising as I entered. “My name is Leaven and I was the coachman with Mrs. Reed when you were at Gateshead.”
“Oh, Robert! How do you do? I remember you very well, how is Bessie? You are married to Bessie?”
“Yes, my wife is very hearty, thank you, Miss.”
“And are the family well at the house, Robert?”
“I am sorry I can’t give you better news of them, Miss, they are very badly at present and in great trouble. Mr. John died last week at his chambers in London.”
“Mr. John?”
“Yes.”
I thought of my old, cruel lover. I was neither greatly sad nor happy to hear this news, merely curious.
“How does his mother bear it?” I asked.
“Not well, although it is not such a surprise, Miss. He ruined his health and his estate amongst the worst men and the worst women. He got into debt and into jail, which his mother helped him out of twice, but as soon as he was free he returned to his old companions and habits. He came down to Gateshead about three weeks ago and wanted Missis to give up all to him. Missis refused, her means have long been much reduced by his extravagance, so he went back again and the next news was that he was dead. How he died, God knows! They say he killed himself.”
I was silent, contemplating these awful things.
Robert Leaven resumed, “Missis had been out of health herself for some time. The information about Mr. John’s death and the manner of it brought on a stroke. She was three days without speaking, but last Tuesday she seemed rather better. She appeared as if she wanted to say something and kept making signs to my wife and mumbling. It was only yesterday morning, however, that Bessie understood she was pronouncing your name and at last she made out the words, ‘Bring Jane, fetch Jane Eyre.’ I left Gateshead yesterday and if you can get ready, Miss, I should like to take you back with me early tomorrow morning.”
It was the perfect way to escape Mr. Rochester.
“Yes, Robert, I shall be ready. It seems to me that I ought to go.”
“I suppose you will have to ask leave before you can get off?”
“Yes and I will do it now.”
I directed him to the servants’ hall and went in search of Mr. Rochester for the first time since we had last laid together.
He was not in any of the lower rooms and he was not in the yard, the stables, or the grounds. I finally asked Mrs. Fairfax if she had seen him and she replied that she believed he was playing billiards with Miss Ingram. To the billiard-room I hastened, trying to quell the bitter feeling that surged through my breast. I entered to the click of balls and the hum of voices, seeing Mr. Rochester, Miss Ingram, the two Misses Eshton, and their admirers all busied in the game.
As I approached the master where he stood at Miss Ingram’s side, she turned and looked at me haughtily and her eyes seemed to demand, “What can the creeping creature want now?”
I said, in a low voice, “Mr. Rochester?”
He turned and made a curious grimace, threw down his cue and followed me from the room.
“Well, Jane?” he said, when we were in the corridor.
I wanted to slap away the haughty look on his face as he stared down at me and I was full of shame that I allowed myself to be used so by him.
“If you please, sir, I want leave of absence for a week or two,” I said in a harsh tone.
“What to do? Where to go?”
“To see a sick lady who has sent for me.”
“And what have you to do with her?”
“Mr. Reed was my uncle—my mother’s brother. John Reed, my cousin, is dead, sir. He ruined himself and half-ruined his family, and is supposed to have committed suicide. The news so shocked his mother that it brought on an apoplectic attack.”
“How long will you stay?”
“I do not know, sir.”
“Promise me only to stay a week.”
I was angered and confused by his desire to keep me here. I barely looked or spoke to him and if he was so wrapped in the clutches of Miss Ingram, I scarcely think he should notice my absence.
“I had better not pass my word, I might be obliged to break it,” I said tartly.
“At all events you will come back. You will not be induced under any pretext to take up a permanent residence with her?”
I could not see that it would be much to him if I did, but I said, “I shall return if all be well.”
Mr. Rochester meditated.
“When do you wish to go?”
“Early tomorrow morning, sir.”
He nodded and looked at the carpet.
“Mr. Rochester, I may as well mention another matter of business to you while I have the opportunity,” I added.
“I am curious to hear it.”
“You have as good as informed me, sir, that you are going shortly to be married?”
“Yes, what then?”
“In that case, sir, Adele ought to go to school. I am sure you will perceive the necessity of it.”
“To get her out of my bride’s way, who might otherwise walk over her rather too emphatically? There’s sense in the suggestion, not a doubt of it. Adele, as you say, must go to school and you, of course, must march straight to the devil?”
“I must seek another situation somewhere.”
“In course!” he exclaimed, with a twang of voice and a distortion of features equally fantastic and ludicrous. He looked at me some minutes. “Promise me one thing,” he said at last.
“What is that, sir?”
“Not to advertise. Trust this quest of a situation to me and I’ll find you one in time.”
I thought this curious. Perhaps he wished to keep me here as long as possible, bedding me until his wedding day when he would have another to satisfy his needs. This I would not do, but I would consent to let him find me another position, he owed me that much, at least,
“I shall do if you, in your turn, will promise that I and Adele shall be both safe out of the house before your bride enters it.”
“Very well! Very well! I’ll pledge my word on it,” he answered agitatedly, his dark eyes distant with thought. “You go tomorrow, then?” he asked.
“Yes, sir. Early.”
“Then you and I must bid good-bye for a little while?”
“Yes. Farewell, Mr. Rochester, for the present.”
His eyes twinkled mischievously. “Farewell, Miss Eyre . . . for the present.”
He looked as though he was about to say more but the dinner-bell rang, and suddenly away he bolted, without another syllable. I saw him no more during the day, and was off before he had risen in the morning.
I reached the lodge at Gateshead about five o’clock in the afternoon of the first of May. Accompanied by Bessie who met me, I quitted the lodge for the hall. It was also accompanied by her that I had, nearly nine years ago, walked down the path I was now ascending. On a dark, misty, raw morning in January, I had left a hostile roof with a desperate and embittered heart. The same hostile roof now again rose before me and my prospects were doubtful yet. I still felt as a wanderer on the face of the earth, but I experienced firmer trust in myself and my own powers. The gaping wound of my wrongs was now quite healed, and the flame of resentment extinguished.
“You shall go into the breakfast-room first,” said Bessie, as she preceded me through the hall, “the young ladies will be there.”
In another moment I was within that apartment. There was every article of furniture looking just as I remembered it. Glancing at the bookcases, I remembered my loved volume of portraits with my dark-eyed lover among their collection, which Mrs. Reed had cruelly torn out. I had my own dark-eyed lover now, but he was not as I had always imagined he would be.
Two young ladies appeared before me; one very tall, almost as tall as Miss Ingram and very thin too, with a sallow face. There was something ascetic in her look, which was augmented by the extreme plainness of a straight-skirted, black dress, a starched l inen collar and hair combed away from the temples. This I felt sure was Eliza, though I could trace little resemblance to her former self in that elongated and colourless visage.
The other was certainly Georgiana, but not the Georgiana I remembered—the slim and fairy-like girl of eleven. This was a full-blown, very plump damsel, fair as waxwork with handsome and regular features, languishing blue eyes and ringleted yellow hair. The hue of her dress was black too, but its fashion was much more flowing and becoming than her sister’s.
Both ladies, as I advanced, rose to welcome me and both addressed me by the name of “Miss Eyre.”
Eliza’s greeting was delivered in a short, abrupt voice, without a smile, and then she sat down again, fixed her eyes on the fire and seemed to forget me. Georgiana added, “How d’ye do?” and asked several commonplaces about my journey, but she seemed more interested in looking me over than listening to my answers.
As I sat between my cousins, I was surprised to find how easy I felt under the total neglect of the one and the semi-sarcastic attentions of the other. The fact was, I had other things to think about. Within the last few months feelings had been stirred in me so much more potent than any they could raise—pains and pleasures so much more acute and exquisite had been excited than any it was in their power to inflict or bestow. Their airs gave me no concern either for good or bad.
“How is Mrs. Reed?” I asked soon, looking calmly at Georgiana.
“She is extremely poorly. I doubt if you can see her tonight.”
No more was said and a sour silence fell. Deciding to attend to matters myself, I rose, quietly took off my bonnet and gloves uninvited, and said I would just step out to Bessie and ask her to ascertain whether Mrs. Reed was disposed to receive me tonight. Then I went and despatched Bessie on my errand.
She returned soon saying, “Missis is awake. I have told her you are here. Come and let us see if she will know you.”
I did not need to be guided to the well-known room to which I had so often been summoned for chastisement or reprimand in former days. I hastened before Bessie and softly opened the door.
Well did I remember Mrs. Reed’s face, and I eagerly sought the familiar image. It is a happy thing that time quells the longings of vengeance and hushes the promptings of rage and aversion. I had left this woman in bitterness and hate and I came back to her now with no other emotion than a yearning to forget and forgive all injuries.
“Is this Jane Eyre?” she said as I approached the four-poster bed.
“Yes, Aunt Reed. How are you, dear aunt?”
I had once vowed that I would never call her aunt again, but I thought it no sin to forget and break that vow now.
My fingers had fastened on her hand which lay outside the sheet, and had she pressed mine kindly, I should at that moment have experienced true pleasure. But Mrs. Reed took her hand away and turning her face rather from me, she remarked that the night was warm. Again she regarded me so icily, I felt at once that her feeling towards me was unchanged and unchangeable.
“You sent for me,” I said, taking a chair beside her pillow, “and I am here. It is my intention to stay till I see how you get on.”
“Oh, of course! You have seen my daughters?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you may tell them I wish you to stay till I can talk some things over with you. To-night it is too late and I have a difficulty in recalling them. But there was something I wished to say, let me see—”
The wandering look and changed utterance told what wreck had taken place in her once vigorous frame. Turning restlessly, she drew the bedclothes round her.
“Are you Jane Eyre?” she barked.
“I am Jane Eyre.”
“I have had more trouble with that child than any one would believe. Such a burden to be left on my hands. What did they do with her at Lowood? The fever broke out there and many of the pupils died. She did not, but I said she did— I wish she had died!”
“A strange wish, Mrs. Reed. Why do you hate her so?”
“I had a dislike to her mother always, for she was my husband’s only sister and a great favourite with him. When news came of her death, he wept like a simpleton. And that child, that Jane Eyre baby—he loved it more than his own!”
She was getting much excited.
“I think I had better leave her now,” said I to Bessie, who stood on the other side of the bed.
“Perhaps you had, Miss. She often talks in this way towards night, but in the morning she is calmer.”
I rose and left.
More than ten days elapsed before I had again any conversation with her. She continued either delirious or lethargic and the doctor forbade everything which could painfully excite her. Meantime, I got on as well as I could with Georgiana and Eliza. They were very cold, indeed. Eliza would sit half the day sewing, reading, or writing, and scarcely utter a word either to me or her sister. Georgiana would chatter nonsense to her canary bird by the hour, and take no notice of me. But I was determined not to seem at a loss for occupation or amusement, I had brought my drawing materials with me, and they served me for both.
Finally, one wet and windy afternoon when Georgiana had fallen asleep on the sofa and Eliza had gone to attend a saint’s-day service at the new church, I bethought myself to go upstairs and see how the dying woman sped.
I found the sick-room unwatched as I had expected, and the patient lay still and seemingly lethargic; her livid face sunk in the pillows. The fire was dying in the grate so I renewed the fuel, re-arranged the bedclothes, gazed awhile on her and then moved away to the window.
The rain beat strongly against the panes, the wind blew tempestuously and I sighed.
A feeble voice murmured, “Who is that?”
I knew Mrs. Reed had not spoken for days, was she reviving? I went up to her.
“It is I, Aunt Reed.”
“Who?” was her answer. “Who are you?” looking at me with surprise and a sort of alarm, but still not wildly. “You are quite a stranger to me—where is Bessie?”
“She is at the lodge, aunt.”
“Aunt?” she repeated. “Who calls me aunt? You are not one of the Gibsons and yet I know you—that face and the eyes and forehead are quiet familiar to me. You are like, why, you are like Jane Eyre!” I said nothing, I was afraid of occasioning some shock by declaring my identity.
“Yet,” said she, “I am afraid it is a mistake and my thoughts deceive me. I wished to see Jane Eyre and I fancy a likeness where none exists. Besides, in eight years she must be so changed.”
I now gently assured her that I was the person she supposed and desired me to be, and seeing that I was understood and that her senses were quite collected, I explained how Bessie had sent her husband to fetch me from Thornfield.
“I am very ill, I know,” she said ere long. “I was trying to turn myself a few minutes since, and find I cannot move a limb. Is the nurse here? Or is there no one in the room but you?” I assured her we were alone.
“I have twice done you a wrong which I regret now. One was in breaking the promise which I gave my husband to bring you up as my own child, the other—” she stopped. “After all, it is of no great importance, perhaps,” she murmured to herself, “and then I may get better; and to humble myself so to her is painful.”
She made an effort to alter her position, but failed. Her face changed and she seemed to experience some inward sensation—the precursor, perhaps, of the last pang.
“Well, I must get it over. Eternity is before me and I had better tell her. Go to my dressing-case, open it, and take out a letter you will see there.”
I obeyed her directions. “Read the letter,” she said.
It was short and thus conceived: “Madam, will you have the goodness to send me the address of my niece, Jane Eyre, and to tell me how she is? It is my intention to write shortly and desire her to come to me at Madeira. Providence has blessed my endeavours to secure a competency and as I am unmarried and childless, I wish to adopt her during my life, and bequeath her at my death whatever I may have to leave. —John Eyre.”
It was dated three years back. “Why did I never hear of this?” I asked. “Because I disliked you too fixedly and thoroughly ever to lend a hand in lifting you to prosperity. I wrote to him and I said I was sorry for his disappointment, but Jane Eyre was dead, she had died of typhus fever at Lowood. Now act as you please: write and contradict my assertion; expose my falsehood as soon as you like. You were born, I think, to be my torment and my last hour is racked by the recollection of a deed which, but for you, I should never have been tempted to commit.”
“If you could but be persuaded to think no more of it, Aunt, and to regard me with kindness and forgiveness? I long earnestly to be reconciled to you now: kiss me, Aunt.”
I approached my cheek to her lips, but she would not touch it. She said I oppressed her by leaning over the bed and again demanded water.
“Love me, then, or hate me, as you will,” I said at last. “You have my full and free forgiveness. Ask now for God’s and be at peace.”
Poor, suffering woman! It was too late for her to make now the effort to change her habitual frame of mind. Living she had ever hated me and dying she must hate me still.
The nurse now entered and Bessie followed. I yet lingered half-an-hour longer, hoping to see some sign of amity, but she gave none. At twelve o’clock that night she died.