Chapter 5 - Encounters
Another day began, and fresh torment started with it. Day by day, I was awakened by John opening the heavy drapes, letting in a vague light that couldn't wake me, but the noise of John's heavy steps, the sound of the curtains sliding on the rail, and his "Good morning, Mister Edward" became my daily alarm. It had grown irritating to the point of exhaustion. Yet, I was short on staff, and John and his wife were the only ones who could—and would—tolerate my moroseness, ill temper, and overall lack of will to live.
Pilot began whining and panting. I could hear his paws pacing back and forth, jumping and begging John to take him out to do his business. Normally, this was a mundane task I would do, but even Pilot now knew I was as useless as a wooden plank.
"I've prepared your bath, sir. If you let me, I'll accompany you to the tub," said John while patting Pilot on the head to calm him.
"Thank you, John. Just guide me, and I'll take it from there. Pilot has more urgent business needing your attention."
John chuckled and guided me to the tub. I let my nightshirt fall and entered the hot water. I could feel the pores in my body opening from the steam. As I began rubbing soap on my skin, for the first time in many months, my mind was blank. No ghosts from the past, no dread of the present, and no anxiety for the future. Nothing. I stayed in the tub long enough for John and Mary to rush up the stairs and burst through the door, fearing I had drowned.
When Mary saw me relaxed in the tub, naked, she gave a little shriek of embarrassment and hurriedly left the room. John, meanwhile, said, "Mr. Edward, you're going to catch a cold if you don't get out soon; the water's turning cold." All the commotion snapped me out of my trance, and once again, I felt reality creeping back, making me weary. John helped me out of the tub, handed me clothes, and started preparing the shaving foam. As I finished dressing—with much assistance—I felt a sudden, unjustified flash of anger toward John. Today, in particular, I didn't want to be taken care of like a child. He had just helped me get dressed and was about to shave me and comb my hair like some creature.
"John, get out now," I said, the words coming out cold and rude. John knew better than to contradict me, so he quietly put down what he was doing and left the room without a word. I stood before a large mirror, but it was of no use; all I saw was a shadow. My wandering hand searched for my cane to help me leave the bathroom and go wherever my limited mobility permitted.
It was the middle of the afternoon. I could hear the rain outside, and tired of being locked inside—like Bertha once was—I decided to venture out, cane in hand, to see how far I could get. I had already made it halfway down the road from the entrance of Ferndean estate to the house before; today, I wanted to go all the way. But as I opened the door, the rain was relentless, and the cold air was something I didn't need. I stretched out my good hand to feel the cool drops on my palm while I kept my stump hidden against my chest. The cold and nasty weather made that awful, mutilated limb ache more than usual.
I tried to look up, but all I saw was a gray void that was supposed to be the sky. I sighed and walked back into the house. I clumsily found my way to the parlor, where John had already lit the fire for me and set up my chair in front of it to warm myself. Pilot lay on the floor, and I nearly tripped over his tail. He whimpered as I almost lost my balance.
"Agh! Damn it, Pilot! How many times must I say, get out of the way!" I growled. He whimpered again.
"Sorry, old boy," I said, patting my leg to call him over for a pet. He eagerly put his front paws in my lap and licked my hand, making me smile. It was sad that the only living creature I had close contact with was my dog. Pilot resumed his nap on the floor, this time closer to me and the fire.
With this, my treacherous mind began to imagine awful scenarios: What will I do when Pilot dies? He will inevitably leave me. He's a large dog and already five years old. How many more years does he have left? With him gone, and me unable to ride Mesrour anymore, who will be my companion?
How pathetic… As much as I love Pilot, my last atom of happiness now depends on a dog. No longer on Jane. I had almost given up hope of seeing her again. Well, at least talking to her. Seeing her was impossible anyway, even if by some miracle she were to walk in and say she was back. Jane is the sweetest, most perfect memory of my life, a memory I will hold and treasure forever. But by now, I felt like a fool for ever being optimistic that she would be found and I would hear, smell, or touch her again.
"A visitor came to see you, sir," said Mary, breaking the spell of the dark cloud that had settled in my brain. Her voice was shaky, perhaps still embarrassed from seeing me in the tub that morning.
"What visitor?" I inquired.
"They would not say, sir… They wish to see you at once, though," she nervously replied.
"Wishes to see… Bah! Ask that unwelcome visitor to state their name, business, and the nature of the call, and send them on their way. I won't see anybody, least of all someone who doesn't have the decency to introduce themselves." I scorned visitors. After my accident, people came to wish me a swift recovery, but I could hear their whispers about how I was better off dead and their words of pity. I resolved never to endure being a freak on display for peasants and noisy people again.
"Mary, fetch me a pitcher of water and my candles, if you please," I said, stretching my back and sinking once more into my armchair, resuming my fatalistic thoughts about Pilot and my loneliness.
As I was sinking deeper into these thoughts, I heard small, light footsteps entering the parlor. They didn't sound like Mary's or John's, but it made no difference. I heard Pilot let out a loud yawn, then get up, panting and whining. I could sense his excitement at whoever had entered the room.
"Down, Pilot," I heard a very soft whisper from "Mary," though I was now almost certain it wasn't her.
"Is it you, Mary?" I asked.
"Mary is in the kitchen," came the reply, from a voice far too familiar. An electric charge shot through my spine as soon as I heard that voice. Was I losing my mind? I had heard that voice three nights ago in a frantic state. Now, I was calm, yet I heard it again. Am I going insane like Bertha? What a bitter irony!
"Who is this?"
"Pilot knows me, and so do John and Mary."
"Good God," I said aloud. "What sweet madness has come over me?" I was half excited, half terrified.
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It was Jane. By God, she had returned, just as she left, from out of thin air. Somehow, she had found me, and now she was standing right in front of me in this lonely night, in this wretched place. At first, I couldn't comprehend what was happening, and I truly believed it was merely the delusions of a lonely heart, a scarred mind, and a famished soul.
She spoke to me calmly, assuring me she was real, that she was flesh and bone, while my melancholy rebuked her affirmations at every turn.
It wasn't until she mentioned she had inherited a vast fortune from her uncle in Madeira that I realized my mind wasn't creative enough to invent that kind of detail.
She sat on my lap and talked about becoming my nurse, my companion—she even jested about being my governess. This sank me further into sadness. My visions had always claimed that she loved me, that we would be together again. And here we were, together, yes—but not in the way I had longed for. I realized she must be appalled to see my disfigured face, my grotesque stump where once there was a hand. Though I couldn't see her reaction to my current state, nor did I hear any disdain or distress in her voice, I could only imagine she would never consider being anything more than a friend to this wretched creature.
She began combing my hair and tracing the scar on my face. She joked about me being horrendous, but that I had always been so. Her tone, light and teasing, lifted my heart slightly, for there was no cruelty or fear in it. I let her play with my shaggy mane as she recounted where she had been and with whom. Anxiety began to gnaw at me. She spoke of grand people—people of great accomplishments, far better than me, or the paltry company I had provided for her, which consisted of Mrs. Fairfax and Adèle. Had she come just to bid me farewell once more?
"Who the devil have you been with?" The words slipped from my mouth more harshly than I intended, but desperation clawed at me, demanding more information, lest it drive me wild.
She claimed tiredness and retired to her chambers. When I asked if she had been in the company of only ladies, she chuckled. I knew then something was wrong. My helplessness prevented me from keeping her in my presence, and I was forced to retire to my chamber, wondering if this was all a product of the hallucinations of a madman.
I slept very little that night. I lay in bed, wide awake. Whenever sleep began to claim me, my body would jerk violently, as if to stop me from slipping into oblivion, for fear I would wake and find Jane gone—a phantom of my imagination.
When I heard the birds chirping, I knew dawn was approaching. I couldn't wait for John to come help me dress. Now that Jane was under the same roof again, I had to preserve what little dignity I had left. I stumbled to the bathroom to splash cold water on my face, trying to make myself look decent. It was futile; my deformities overshadowed any effort. Nonetheless, I combed my tangled hair, a task that took much longer than anticipated. I washed and dressed myself, feeling every seam, every button, to ensure my clothes were in order. The last thing I wanted was to appear ridiculous. If I had failed in my attempt, I would ask John to help me fix it.
I felt my way to my bed, grabbed my cane leaning against the night table, and made my way to the door. As I exited, I heard John climbing the stairs, Pilot panting at his side. Pilot's tail wagged, hitting my leg repeatedly, as John asked where I was going so early and insisted on helping me down the stairs lest I break my neck. Ordinarily, I would have dismissed such warnings, but with Jane here, my life had meaning again.
"Is she here?" I asked.
"Why yes, sir," John replied. Relief washed over me. I hadn't dreamt it. Jane was real, and John had seen her too.
"In what room did you put her?"
"In the room next to the kitchen, the squire's room."
"That room is awfully small and coarse!" I protested. John said nothing in response.
"Is she up yet?"
"Nobody's up yet, sir, just us."
"Take me to the parlor and start the fire, John. I'll wait for her there. Tell Mary to ask Miss Eyre when she'll be up and inform me at once."
"Yes, Mr. Edward," John replied.
Once John had led me to the parlor and left me sitting in the big armchair, my hands became restless. My fingers fidgeted with my cravat as I strained to hear any sound that would announce her presence. An hour and a half passed. The birds sang louder, and I could hear the bustle of morning in the kitchen—pots and pans clattering, footsteps, cabinets opening and closing. Then, at last, I heard her...
My mind wasn't lost; it was firm and sane. She was here, she had come to see me, and by God, I would keep her with me.
Jane took me for a long stroll through the woods surrounding Ferndean. She described everything she saw—the clouds, the birds, the butterflies, the green grass. Her words painted pictures in my mind, and I smiled broadly at every vivid image she conjured.
When we paused to rest on an old stump, I asked her to tell me everything about what had happened after she left me. She spoke of some wandering, and it pierced my heart to know that my selfishness and irrational behavior had driven her into the cruel world with nothing. I pressed for more details, but she quickly moved on to tell me about the family she had discovered—cousins found in the most peculiar way—and how she had shared her inheritance with them. Unlike most women I knew, Jane cared little for money. Many in her position would have hoarded such a fortune, but not her.
When she spoke of her cousin St. John, I heard nothing else. Who was this man? Why did she speak of him so often? After much coaxing, she revealed that this tall, handsome, accomplished clergyman had asked her to marry him. My hopes burned like a fire, quickly extinguished. How could I compete with a whole man like him? I told her to leave me. The pain of separation, though deep, would be easier to bear knowing she was alive, well, and in the care of someone capable. That was balm enough for my soul, even if I could never recover from this blow.
"I do not love him. He does not love me. If only you knew how much I love you, you'd be proud," she said. Her words were a lifeline. Hearing her say those words saved me in more ways than I could explain. She lifted my spirit, gave me courage, and at last, I asked her the question I had been holding in my heart since she returned.
"Marry me, Jane." And she accepted.
I could wait no longer. With all my love, devotion, longing, and passion, I kissed her, ardently, and she reciprocated with equal, if not greater, intensity. If I died right then, I would have been content, for I had touched heaven.
A few days later, we were married in a quiet and private ceremony, this time with no impediments, no secrets, nor schemes to part us ever again.
My tale nears its end. Jane and I have formed a family. She soon gave me a son, and in His mercy, God restored my sight. I can now see my Jane again, and my son in her arms. I understand now that everything I went through—every trial, every punishment—was necessary to cleanse my soul and make me worthy of her love. Jane, my love, my life.
THE END
