Volume I Chapter XV
The Fire: Mr. Rochester's POV
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Just a little something I wrote as a school project a few years ago. Let me know what you think! I tried to keep up the gothic style of phrasing and grammar.
Grey clouds, hanging like fancy drapery overhead, were not a novelty in my life; rain had a permanent place in the forecast of my world—especially at Thornfield Hall, in the presence of—. The scene before me was no different, and yet, it seemed foreign to me. However that could be I did not yet know, but different it was and different it would be.
Of late, the home had seemed warmer—and I knew it was because of her presence. Jane Eyre had a way of lighting up my old life, of giving me a hope for a love that would free me from—
And there she was. The sun was behind her, and for a moment it blocked my view of her. I would not tolerate a lack of her, (for I knew I must be dreaming, and if that were so, I would give into my desires and so strive to satisfy them to the extent that dreams can satisfy the desires of a man) so I moved but a step forward and she was there, in my sight again—her hand on my arm. It burned with the fire of her touch. It burned—bright, hot, flaming—it burned me; and yet I could not bring myself to despise the burn, nor move away from it. Steady I stayed in the heat as it threatened to consume me.
She spoke not a word this whole time. Then, suddenly her voice came to my mind, but her lips did not move.
"Wake! wake!" she cried. It made no sense. Why-ever would I voluntarily choose to wake from such a pleasant state of being as this; of such a fantasy utopia and new reality and dreams coming true? I was then shaken with such force as to arrest me from my pleasant slumber.
I awoke to a haze, and it was so unclear that I was not certain that I had awoken at all. Jane was there, standing over me, eyes wide in terror. Had I done something to frighten her? Was there danger nearby? No, I must still be in the land of sleep. It could only be there that I would see Jane standing over me in the foggy mist; only in the land of sleep that Jane would be so near me at all.
A sudden wet cold overtook the burning sensation, both clearing the haze and startling me awake. Now, I felt almost angry. Who had taken the sensation of Jane's hand from me?
I then realized that I was drenched in water whilst I was still in my bed.
"Is there a flood?" I asked, sure I was speaking to a dream figure.
"No, sir," she answered in a calm voice that belied her actions,—a sound that was purely Jane, "but there has been a fire: get up, do, you are quenched now; I will fetch you a candle."
"In the name of all the elves in Christendom, is that Jane Eyre?" I could not believe it. Jane was really here. What could she be doing here? Surely I would remember if we had—
No! my status as a gentleman did not allow me to think of her in such a manner. There must be some other explanation to this startling twist of reality. Jane Eyre! In my bedroom! In Heaven's name, there had better be a rational explanation to the madness of my little fairy.
"What have you done with me, witch, sorceress? Who is in the room besides you? Have you plotted to drown me?" I demanded.
"I will fetch you a candle, sir; and in Heaven's name, get up. Somebody has plotted something: you cannot too soon find out who and what it is."
Well, on that I must say we heartily agreed. I should have known that it was not Jane—my little fairy would never harm me. I rose from my bed, suddenly conscious of my apparel.
"There—I am up now; but at your peril you fetch a candle yet: wait two minutes till I get into some dry garments," I said with more dignity than I felt, "if any dry there be—yes, here is my dressing gown," I mumbled to myself. Jane stood there still. "Now run!"
She scurried out of sight, but she was back not seconds after I'd finished donning appropriate garments. With her, she brought a candle that shone light on the destruction of my chamber. The bed where I had lain only moments ago was scorched black. The carpet was drenched in the water Jane had saved me with.
But saved me from what?
"What is it? and who did it?"
"I could not sleep," she confessed. "My mind was greatly occupied." At this she looked down, but she pressed on in her story before I could question her. "It seemed that someone—I know this sounds strange, like the imaginings of a silly school girl but it is true—touched my chamber door. As if fingers were groping along the dark gallery. At first I put it down to nothing, but then I heard the demonic laugh…." She looked up at me now. When her eyes met mine, I could hardly breathe.
She broke the contact and continued on with her story, but I scarcely heard her. Bits and pieces made it through my thoughts: she had crept up the steps, smelled the fire, seen me lying there, and saved me. It was all I needed to know of her part in this to believe her.
I knew who had done it; there was no doubt that the monster was at fault, just as she always had been. No, what troubled me then and there was Jane. How much did she know? How much had she seen?
"Shall I call Mrs. Fairfax?" she asked. An odd conclusion to come to, I thought.
"Mrs. Fairfax? No:—what the duce would you call her for? What can she do? Let her sleep." The very last thing I needed was to bring the sniveling, dimwitted old lady into this mess.
"Then I will fetch Leah and wake John and his wife."
Did the woman really not understand? Jane was always so intelligent: she watched people—observed them until she knew them better than they knew themselves. But tonight, she seemed to have left that quality in her chambers—perhaps that would be in my favor tonight.
"Not at all: just be still." She stilled immediately, though she could not suppress a slight shiver. It had not occurred to me that she would be wet and cold as I had been. "You have a shawl on: if you are not warm enough, you may take my cloak yonder; wrap it about you, and sit down in the arm-chair: there,—I will put it on. Now place your feet on the stool, to keep them out of the wet." She did as I asked. It was suddenly very apparent to me that we could not stay this way all night. I needed to figure out what had gone wrong.
"I am going to leave you a few minutes. I shall take the candle. Remain where you are till I return: be as still as a mouse. I must pay a visit to the third story. Don't move, remember, or call any one."
She said nothing, and I was soon gone. I did not mean to leave her in my wet chamber as long as I did—truly, if I'd found Grace Poole earlier, if she'd not failed on her charge, if her charge were not a monster, if only I could have been wrong.
But, alas, it took me close to a half hour to find Grace Poole, unconscious on the floor of her chambers; another half hour was spent waking her and hearing her understanding of the events that had led to the escape of the monster; the next hour we hunted her.
After a great deal of effort, the monster was again locked in her prison, and I returned to Jane. I made no effort to hide my mood.
"I have found it all out. It is as I thought." I said. I set my candle on the wash-stand and folded my arms across my chest to stop my heart from aching as it always did when Jane looked at me like she was.
"How, sir?"
I could not form a reply to her; the trust in her eyes, the light I detected there—it did not belong around so dangerous a place as Thornfield Hall; it did not belong in the dark heart of Thornfield Hall's master.
"I forget whether you said you saw anything when you opened your chamber door."
"No, sir, only the candlestick on the ground." Good. Then it would be easier to convince her of the lie I knew I must tell.
"But you heard an odd laugh? You have heard that laugh before I should think, or something like it."
"Yes sir:" said she, "there is a woman who sews here, called Grace Poole—she laughs in that way. She is a singular person."
How right and how wrong you are my dear Jane, thought I. Again she understood the person, but she was missing the events. I tried not to mourn this loss. For a moment I had allowed myself to hope that I might finally have a confidant. But I could not burden Jane's pure innocence with my imprisonment.
"Just so," said I, pouncing on Jane's assumptions. "Grace Poole:—you have guessed it. She is, as you say, singular,—very. Well, I shall reflect on the subject." She did not need further convincing.
"Meantime," I continued, "I am glad that you are the only person, besides myself, acquainted with the precise details of to-night's incident. You are no talking fool: say nothing about it. I will account for this state of affairs: and 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;—in two hours the servants will be up."
Yet I was not ready for her to leave so soon. She would not stand for such an answer; and I did not doubt that she would fight for what she thought she ought to know.
"Good night, then, sir," she said.
Go! She could not go!
"What! are you quitting me already: and in that way?"
"You said I must go, sir," she said simply.
"But not without taking leave; not without a word or two of acknowledgement and good will: not, in short, in that brief, dry fashion." I must think of some other ploy to keep her here. "Why, you have saved my life!—snatched me from a horrible and excruciating death!—and you walk past me as if we were mutual strangers! At least shake hands."
I held out my hand, and she gave me hers. The contact was just what I needed: it was not the stuff of fairy tales where my heart raced. It was instead the stuff of reality—my heart slowed to a calm pace, and my concerns seemed to evaporate in the morning air.
"You have saved my life: I have a pleasure in owing you an immense debt," I managed after a moment of silence. "I cannot say more. Nothing else that has being would have been tolerable to me in the character of creditor for such an obligation: but you; it is different;—I can feel your benefits no burden, Jane."
I paused then, as I could not tear my eyes away from her. I longed to profess my love for her, but I knew not of her feelings; I could not expose myself in such a way without absolute certainty. I drew a tight rein in on my emotions.
"Good-night, again, sir. There is no debt, benefit, burden, obligation, in the case," said she. Still, I could not yet allow her to leave me.
"I knew," I continued, "you would do me good in some way, at some time;—I saw it in your eyes when I first beheld you: their expression and smile did not—"I stopped, unable to say the words I'd been about to say; trying to think of something so say in their stead, "—did not strike delight to my very inmost heart so for nothing. People talk of natural sympathies; I have heard of good genii:—there are grains of truth in the wildest fable. My cherished preserver," said I to my Jane, "good-night!"
There was a strange feeling in the air.
"I am glad I happened to be awake," she said eventually. Then she was departing of my chamber.
"What! you will go?" I tightened my grip on her hand, desperate to keep her near to me.
"I am cold, sir." Yes, cold indeed. Likely she had tired of my society, tired of the events of the night, and wanted to quit me.
"Cold? Yes,—and standing in a pool! Go, then, Jane; go!" But I did not loosen my hold on her. We were at a stalemate for some time.
"I think I hear Mrs. Fairfax more, sir," said she. It startled me enough to let her hand drop.
"Well, leave me." And she was gone—before I could protest or grip her arm again.
She was gone, and the light went with her—the morning, the dampness, the blackened room. It was all more hopeless, wet, and devastated without her presence.
I would not go back to sleep; it would not be possible. I must chase her from my mind; I must exonerate all thoughts of her.
I walked from my chambers, my day beginning hours too early, and did just that—at least, I convinced myself that I had managed. In my heart, however, I knew there was a different tale unfolding. And in the innermost part of my heart—hidden even from my own consciousness—I was hoping that my tale would follow the new path.