It was dark; dark was all there was now. Edward was a stubborn man, as he had been acclaimed to be by many, and even in blindness the dark itself did not bother him. It had been over half a year since his wife Bertha's suicide, when he had lost his fortunes, his sight, and the use of his left hand, but it was not this that imprisoned his mind. Truth be told, while he deeply pitied the circumstances of her death, it was hard put to him to feel anything but relief; perhaps, deep down, she had been aware of her condition and had ended it by the only means she knew. He had spared her from the madhouse; that had been his only duty as husband that he could fulfill without regret. Far from her insanity, her natural vices and being bound by his oath had been his heaviest burden, and that she herself had, wittingly or no, alleviated for him. Yet it was not thoughts of her that kept him in constant melancholy; it was the love of her he had driven away in deceit that had left him empty.
Jane.
It still pained him to think even of her name. Many nights he'd lain awake, tossing and turning, frantic with fear over what might have become of her. No money, no family, and nothing to her name, she had disappeared as suddenly as she had entered his life. He had thought at first that his worst fault with her had been being too much enthralled with passion for her. Now, he knew his other faults: pride, arrogance, bitterness over the state of his condition. It was not only to defy the laws of Britain he had attempted to become a bigamist; it was in direct spite for God for landing him in such a state.
The clock on the wall chimed a quarter to midnight. He was too restless to sleep; he no longer knew the regular hours for it. Getting up, he groped his way to the window, struggled to open it, then sat on the sill. The brightness of the moon was the only light that penetrated the blind darkness that he now lived in. He was not completely blind; in fact, one of the physicians he went to told him that one of his eyes did not suffer as much damage as the other and, if aided by miraculous power, might heal. He dismissed the idea as nothing more than the man's own invention of a cause for hope; he had nothing to hope for anymore.
It was early spring, the air carrying the dewy scent of the first woodland flowers. He drank in deeply, yet despised it all the same; he hated everything and anything that reminded him of beauty, of tenderness, of feminine likeness… of her.
And here he was, too, as he had been often before. Edward could never really see him; he was only ever a vague, shadowy outline nearby. He had no idea what the man looked like, from the colour of his hair to what sort of clothes he wore. Yet a man it was, as much as Edward could distinguish, some years between twenty and forty, perhaps, and neither of too little or too great a stature. Edward sometimes wondered whether dreams and lurid visions were slowly bleeding into waking life, but he cared so little about any of it now that he never bothered to question the man's presence. He didn't always speak to him; sometimes he would just sit and stare at him for hours, until Edward felt that his gaze would bore a hole into his heart. He knew who it was, of course, but he had initially pictured him to look so differently; he had seen paintings enough in his travels of Europe, but they always made him look so somber and remorseful. Though he couldn't see him well, he always knew what the man's expressions were; the eyes were bright and intense, yet calm and reasoning, his face gentle and rather careworn, but good natured and ready to smile. It wasn't his discernable expressions that made his presence weigh so heavily on Edward whenever he was near; it was more than that, and harder to explain. The man seemed to have a different sort of presence, as if he were almost more real than reality itself; the intensity of him, especially in his silences, was enough to drive anyone else mad. Edward thought that this could have been madness after all, but he had a strong impression that it was not. Madness came from within; whatever ethereal apparition this was gave him the sense of something above himself, above the material world and all in it. He would have called it supernatural, but for the fact that it felt more natural than anything he had ever felt before; as if it was him, and not the man, who were the unnaturalness of it.
Tonight, the man spoke: "Well?"
"Well, what?" Edward grunted.
The man came up, putting a hand on his shoulder; such a motherly touch, for one whose very presence felt large enough to take the room to bits if he'd wanted. "Well, how are things?"
"You ask 'how,'" Edward snorted, crossing his arms and leaning on the sill. "You ought to know."
The man knelt down beside him, his hand still on Edward's shoulder. "I want to hear it from you."
Edward's working hand clenched into a fist. "My life is virtually destroyed; all I love is gone; I have nothing left, and you still ask me 'how' things are? Sir, have I not already implored you a thousand times over to let this misery come to an end? What future purpose would my suffering serve, unless as a warning to the wise?"
He sensed more than saw the pain etched across the man's face. It almost physically hurt to see it there; one would have expected the world to stop and weep at the sight of it. "I take no joy in your suffering," he said. "I feel it as my own."
"Do you, sir?" Edward glanced sideways at him, as much as he was able.
The man's gaze remained steadily fixed on him. "I do."
Edward turned grumpily away. "Then I need put no words to my griefs."
The flicker of a smile danced over the man's face; it gave Edward the impression of a nurse talking to a very small child, which did nothing to abate his annoyance at it. "It is not for my benefit," said the man gently. "It will ease your heart."
"I cannot," Edward muttered. His meaning was, If I try, I'll break.
The man understood; there seemed no thought that could enter Edward's mind that he didn't somehow know. "Some breaks bring healing."
"There is nothing in this world that can heal this!" snapped Edward, waving his maimed left hand at his face. "There is no healing of that sort that I want. There is nothing left in this world that I want." He slumped back down, resting his chin on the sill and glaring sulkily out at the haze of moonlight. "I desire nothing now but my eternal rest."
Though he did not see it, Edward knew the man had raised an eyebrow. "Nothing but that?" he inquired, his skepticism very clear. "Nothing at all?"
At his words, all the emotions Edward had desperately been trying to push down came surging high. He felt them lump up in his throat, the pressure strangling him. He tried to swallow it, and only managed to choke out, "One."
A light wind sprang up, sending the spring odors dancing before him, its tender fingers caressing his cheek. It was so like another spring day, long ago; only a year, yet so distant from it; when he had first returned to Thornfield to discover what seemed one of the fairy folk living there.
The man surprised him by putting his arms about him. "Say it," he said gently. "What do you want?"
Edward felt torn, longing to stay in that embrace, yet also shrinking from it. Absolute agony seized his whole being; it was as if his heart were being wrung out. A spasm of grief shot through him, so fiercely it hurt. Immediately her face was before him, as clear and bright as day, every detail still carved into his memory as if he'd seen her only yesterday.
"I want Jane," he gasped, finally burying his face in his arms and unleashing the storm, weeping as had never done before, nor would ever have permitted himself to do before now had he known it were in him. All the misery, anguish, and torment he had ever suffered in life now seemed to double over on him, and all the while the man held him as a mother comforting a child. He did not know how long this had lasted before he finally found himself sobbing, "Jane! Jane! Jane!"
And suddenly there came, as over a great distance, an answering call: "I am coming! Wait for me!"
Edward's head shot up. His heart was racing, yet the whole world seemed to stand still; the very air quivered with anticipation. Surely, it could not have been what he thought he had just heard; in his grief-stricken frenzy, he must have imagined it. But lo, the call (he knew that voice too well) came again, more faintly: "Where are you?" and along with it came a wind carrying a sharp freshness of mountain air.
Edward started to his feet, staring about him, though he saw nothing but the watery haze of the moon. Now he was sure he was going delusional. "What–"
Though his back was now turned, Edward sensed the man smile, felt its weight upon him; it virtually gave off its own radiance. "Wait for her," he whispered, then disappeared into the night.