Jane Eyre (37 page)

“Does that person want you?” she enquired of Mr Rochester and Mr Rochester turned to see who the “person” was. He made a curious grimace—one of his strange and equivocal demonstrations—threw down his cue and followed me from the room.

“Well, Jane?” he said, as he rested his back against the schoolroom door, which he had shut.

“If you please, sir, I want leave of absence for a week or two.”

“What to do?—where to go?”

“To see a sick lady who has sent for me.”

“What sick lady?—Where does she live?”

“At Gateshead.”

“That is a hundred miles off! Who may she be that sends for people to see her that distance?”

“Her name is Reed, sir—Mrs Reed.”

“Reed of Gateshead? There was a Reed of Gateshead, a magistrate.”

“It is his widow, sir.”

“And what have you to do with her? How do you know her?”

“Mr Reed was my uncle—my mother’s brother.”

“The deuce he was! You never told me that before, you always said you had no relations.”

“None that would own me, sir. Mr Reed is dead, and his wife cast me off.”

“Why?”

“Because I was poor, and burdensome, and she disliked me.”

“But Reed left children?—you must have cousins? Sir George Lynn was talking of a Reed of Gateshead yesterday, who, he said, was one of the veriest rascals on town and Ingram was mentioning a Georgiana Reed of the same place, who was much admired for her beauty a season or two ago in London.”

“John Reed is dead, too, 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.”

“And what good can you do her? Nonsense, Jane! I would never think of running a hundred miles to see an old lady who will, perhaps, be dead before you reach her, besides, you say she cast you off.”

“Yes, sir, but that is long ago and when her circumstances were very different, I could not be easy to neglect her wishes now.”

“How long will you stay?”

“As short a time as possible, sir.”

“Promise me only to stay a week—”

“I had better not pass my word, I might be obliged to break it.”

“At all events you
will
come back, you will not be induced under any pretext to take up a permanent residence with her?”

“Oh, no! I shall certainly return if all be well.”

“And who goes with you? You don’t travel a hundred miles alone.”

“No, sir, she has sent her coachman.”

“A person to be trusted?”

“Yes, sir, he has lived ten years in the family.”

Mr Rochester meditated. “When do you wish to go?”

“Early tomorrow morning, sir.”

“Well, you must have some money; you can’t travel without money, and I daresay you have not much, I have given you no salary yet. How much have you in the world, Jane?” he asked, smiling.

I drew out my purse; a meagre thing it was. “Five shillings, sir.” He took the purse, poured the hoard into his palm, and chuckled over it as if its scantiness amused him. Soon he produced his pocket-book, “Here,” said he, offering me a note. It was fifty pounds, and he owed me but fifteen. I told him I had no change.

“I don’t want change; you know that. Take your wages.”

I declined accepting more than was my due. He scowled at first; then, as if recollecting something, he said—

“Right, right! Better not give you all now, you would, perhaps, stay away three months if you had fifty pounds. There are ten. Is it not plenty?”

“Yes, sir, but now you owe me five.”

“Come back for it, then. I am your banker for forty pounds.”

“Mr Rochester, I may as well mention another matter of business to you while I have the opportunity.”

“Matter of business? 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, Adèle 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. Adèle, as you say, must go to school and you, of course, must march straight to—the devil?”

“I hope not, sir, but 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.

“And old Madam Reed, or the Misses, her daughters, will be solicited by you to seek a place, I suppose?”

“No, sir. I am not on such terms with my relatives as would justify me in asking favours of them—but I shall advertise.”

“You shall walk up the pyramids of Egypt!” he growled. “At your peril you advertise! I wish I had only offered you a sovereign instead of ten pounds. Give me back nine pounds, Jane. I’ve a use for it.”

“And so have I, sir,” I returned, putting my hands and my purse behind me. “I could not spare the money on any account.”

“Little niggard!” said he, “refusing me a pecuniary request! Give me five pounds, Jane.”

“Not five shillings, sir; nor five pence.”

“Just let me look at the cash.”

“No, sir; you are not to be trusted.”

“Jane!”

 I did so enjoy the verbal sparring with such a worthy opponent. “Sir?”

“Promise me one thing.”

“I’ll promise you anything, sir, that I think I am likely to perform.”

“Not to advertise, and to trust this quest of a situation to me. I’ll find you one in time. I cannot just let you go, Jane, after what we shared. And well you know it.”

“I shall be glad so to do, sir, if you, in your turn, will promise that I and Adèle shall be both safe out of the house before your bride enters it.”

“Very well! very well! I’ll pledge my word on it. You go tomorrow, then?”

“Yes, sir; early.”

“Shall you come down to the drawing room after dinner?”

“No, sir, I must prepare for the journey.”

“Then you and I must bid good-bye for a little while?”

“I suppose so, sir.”

“And how do people perform that ceremony of parting, Jane? Teach me. I’m not quite up to it.”

“They say, Farewell, or any other form they prefer.”

“Then say it.”

“Farewell, Mr Rochester, for the present.”

“What must I say?”

“The same, if you like, sir.”

“Farewell, Miss Eyre, for the present. Is that all?”

“Yes?”

“It seems stingy, to my notions, and dry, and unfriendly. I should like something else, a little addition to the rite. If one shook hands, for instance, but no—that would not content me either. So you’ll do no more than say Farewell, Jane?”

“It is enough, sir, as much good-will may be conveyed in one hearty word as in many.”

“Very likely, but it is blank and cool—‘Farewell.’”

“How long is he going to stand with his back against that door?” I asked myself, hoping he would never move, fearing he would never move. “I want to commence my packing.”

 “Come here, miss. This instant.”

 How I recognised that tone, already, along with the fact he called me miss. He did it to establish his dominance, not that there was such a need.

 I went to him. I had no other choice.

 “How is your bottom, Jane?”

 “Sore, sir.”

 “And your quim?”

 How could I explain it? “Moist from time to time.”

 “When you have specific thoughts?”

 “Yes, sir.”

 “About what?”

 “About the way you punished my bare bottom, sir.”

 “Anything else?”

 “The two orgasms, Mr Rochester.”

 “I shall not give you another.”

 “No?”

 “Simply something to remember me by.”

 I frowned.

He cocked his right thigh forward. “Straddle my leg, Miss Eyre.”

 “Sir!” I looked about.

 “Do it quickly.”

 I followed his instructions, reaching up to wrap my hands around his neck.

“Give me a kiss,” he ordered.

 I might have refused, but there was entreaty in his tone. If I refused it would only be because it made the parting so much more difficult!

He took my mouth; he kissed me deeply, claiming me, plundering my depths like he had my womanly parts so recently.

 I began to move myself against his leg as he had intended.

 Even through the clothing, I felt the pressure of his muscles against my clitoris. I gave myself over. The feelings built in me, an orgasm lay just out of reach.

 I moved faster and faster with urgent need. He ended the kiss and set me from him. “I shall miss you, Miss Eyre. I shall long for your return. I ache to possess you, and I hope that this makes you think of me, too, during the long nights. When you explore yourself, Jane, remember my hand.”

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. But he’d served his purpose. I thought of little but him and the longing in me.

 I reached the lodge at Gateshead about five o’clock in the afternoon of the first of May, I stepped in there before going up to the hall. It was very clean and neat, the ornamental windows were hung with little white curtains; the floor was spotless; the grate and fire-irons were burnished bright, and the fire burnt clear. Bessie sat on the hearth, nursing her last-born, and Robert and his sister played quietly in a corner.

“Bless you!—I knew you would come!” exclaimed Mrs Leaven, as I entered.

“Yes, Bessie,” said I, after I had kissed her. “and I trust I am not too late. How is Mrs Reed?—Alive still, I hope.”

“Yes, she is alive and more sensible and collected than she was. The doctor says she may linger a week or two yet, but he hardly thinks she will finally recover.”

“Has she mentioned me lately?”

“She was talking of you only this morning, and wishing you would come, but she is sleeping now, or was ten minutes ago, when I was up at the house. She generally lies in a kind of lethargy all the afternoon, and wakes up about six or seven. Will you rest yourself here an hour, Miss, and then I will go up with you?”

Robert here entered, and Bessie laid her sleeping child in the cradle and went to welcome him, afterwards she insisted on my taking off my bonnet and having some tea; for she said I looked pale and tired. I was glad to accept her hospitality and I submitted to be relieved of my travelling garb just as passively as I used to let her undress me when a child.

Old times crowded fast back on me as I watched her bustling about—setting out the tea-tray with her best china, cutting bread and butter, toasting a tea-cake, and, between whiles, giving little Robert or Jane an occasional tap or push, just as she used to give me in former days. Bessie had retained her quick temper as well as her light foot and good looks.

Tea ready, I was going to approach the table, but she desired me to sit still, quite in her old peremptory tones. I must be served at the fireside, she said and she placed before me a little round stand with my cup and a plate of toast, absolutely as she used to accommodate me with some privately purloined dainty on a nursery chair, and I smiled and obeyed her as in bygone days.

She wanted to know if I was happy at Thornfield Hall, and what sort of a person the mistress was and when I told her there was only a master, whether he was a nice gentleman, and if I liked him. I told her he was rather an ugly man, but quite a gentleman and that he treated me kindly, and I was content. I kept to myself the ardour the master had risen within me, the relentless passion that churned with forever denial. Reining in my desire, I took hold of myself and I went on to describe to her the gay company that had lately been staying at the house and to these details Bessie listened with interest, they were precisely of the kind she relished.

In such conversation an hour was soon gone, Bessie restored to me my bonnet, etcetera, and, accompanied by her, 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—a sense of outlawry and almost of reprobation—to seek the chilly harbourage of Lowood, that bourne so far away and unexplored. The same hostile roof now again rose before me, my prospects were doubtful yet and I had yet an aching heart. I still felt as a wanderer on the face of the earth, but I experienced firmer trust in myself and my own powers, and less withering dread of oppression. The gaping wound of my wrongs, too, 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 it did on the morning I was first introduced to Mr Brocklehurst, the very rug he had stood upon still covered the hearth. Glancing at the bookcases, I thought I could distinguish the two volumes of Bewick’s British Birds occupying their old place on the third shelf, and Gulliver’s Travels and the Arabian Nights ranged just above. The inanimate objects were not changed, but the living things had altered past recognition.

Two young ladies appeared before me; one very tall, almost as tall as Miss Ingram—very thin too, with a sallow face and severe mien. There was something ascetic in her look, which was augmented by the extreme plainness of a straight-skirted, black, stuff dress, a starched linen collar, hair combed away from the temples, and the nun-like ornament of a string of ebony beads and a crucifix. 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 as 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 so different from her sister’s—so much more flowing and becoming—it looked as stylish as the other’s looked puritanical.