Jane Slayre (22 page)

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through Paris, so I sat down in her boudoir to await her, when I bethought myself to open the window and step out onto the balcony. I sat down and took out a cigar." he patted down his jacket and withdrew one from his pocket. "I will take one now, if you will excuse me?"

I excused him. He lit it, placed it to his lips, and breathed a trail of havana incense on the cold and sunless air.

"An elegant carriage drawn by a beautiful pair of English horses pulled up. I knew it as the one I had given Celine. The carriage stopped, as I had expected, at the hotel door. My flame alighted, though muffled in a cloak--an unnecessary encumbrance on so warm a June evening. Bending over the balcony, I was about to murmur
Mon ange
--in a tone, of course, which should be audible to the ear of love alone--when a figure jumped from the carriage after her, cloaked also, with a hat pulled down low on his head.

"You never felt jealousy, did you, Miss Slayre? Of course not. Your soul sleeps. The shock is yet to be given which shall waken it." he ground his teeth and was silent. He paused a moment, and something at the house seemed to catch his attention. He walked towards it, then turned back. "I beg your pardon. I thought I saw something. I did see. It was my destiny daring me to be happy here in this house. But it is of no consequence."

I stared off towards Thornfield. I didn't know about destiny, but something up in the battlements, a dark figure was just departing. I wanted to say that it was probably just Grace Poole, but he seemed ready to get back to his story, and I did not wish to stop him before he had got it all out. I urged him back to it. "Did you leave the balcony, sir," I asked, "when Mademoiselle Varens entered?"

"Oh, I had nearly forgotten Celine! I probably shouldn't be telling you all this. It's not a proper story for a man to tell his young lady governess, is it?"

"Perhaps not, but do go on. I must know the end now that you've started."

He smiled. "I thought so. All right. I remained on the balcony. I

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drew the curtain over the door, leaving an opening just wide enough through which I could take observations. I watched. Both removed their cloaks, and there was 'the Varens,' shining in satin and jewels, my gifts of course, and there was her companion in an officer's uniform. I knew him for a young roué of a
vicomte
--a brainless and vicious youth whom I had sometimes met in society. On recognising him, the fang of the snake Jealousy was instantly broken, because at the same moment my love for Celine sank under the weight of realisation. A woman who could betray me for such a rival was not worth contending for; she deserved only scorn. Less, however, than I, who had been her dupe."

"Oh, thank goodness," I said aloud, then wished I could withdraw it. "Not that you were betrayed. I mean thank goodness that she didn't leave a permanent wound."

"You concern yourself with my wounds?" His brow arched.

I couldn't answer for it. "Please, continue."

"They began to talk. A card of mine lay on the table. This brought my name under discussion. Neither of them possessed energy or wit to belabour me soundly, but they insulted me as coarsely as they could in their little way, especially Celine, who even waxed rather brilliant on my personal defects. Now it had been her custom to launch out into fervent admiration of what she called my
beauté mâle,
wherein she differed diametrically from you, who told me point-blank, at the second interview, that you did not think me handsome. The contrast struck me at the time and--"

Adele came running up. "Monsieur, John has just been to say that your agent has called and wishes to see you."

"Very well." he dismissed her. "Ah! I must abridge. Opening the window, I walked in upon them. I liberated Celine from my protection, gave her notice to vacate her hotel, offered her a purse for immediate exigencies, and disregarded her protestations and convulsions. I made an appointment with the
vicomte
for a meeting at the Bois de Boulogne. Next morning I had the pleasure of encountering him, left a bullet in one of his arms, and then thought

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I had done with the whole crew. But unluckily the Varens, six months before, had given me this
fillette,
Adele, who, she affirmed, was my daughter. Perhaps she may be, though I see no proofs of such grim paternity written in her countenance. Pilot is more like me than she.

"Some years after I had broken with the mother, she abandoned her child and ran away to Italy with a musician or singer. I acknowledged no natural claim on Adele's part to be supported by me, nor do I now acknowledge any, for I am not her father. Still, hearing that she was quite destitute, I took the poor thing out of Paris and transplanted it here, to grow up clean in the wholesome soil of an English country garden. Mrs. Fairfax found you to train it, but now you know that it is the illegitimate offspring of a French opera-girl. You will perhaps think differently of your post and protégée. You will be coming to me someday with notice that you have found another place and I will need to look for a new governess. Eh?"

"Certainly not. Adele is not answerable for either her mother's faults or yours. How could I possibly prefer the spoiled pet of a wealthy family, who would hate her governess as a nuisance, to a lonely little orphan who leans towards her as a friend?"

"Oh, that is the light in which you view it! Well, I must go in now." he started to go in and turned back. "And you, too. It darkens. There's a full moon tonight. Er, the weather will not be fine. I wish you indoors before dark."

Did he think us in danger from the weather? It seemed fine enough to me. At any rate, we were close to the house. In defiance, perhaps, I stayed out a few minutes longer with Adele and Pilot. We ran a race and played a game of battledore and shuttlecock. I sought in her a likeness to Mr. Rochester, but found none. No trait, no turn of expression, announced relationship. It was a pity. If she could but have been proved to resemble him, he would have thought more of her.

As I was about to suggest another game of shuttlecock, that queer feeling came over me.

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"Adele, take Pilot and go straight inside. I'm going to tidy up out here."

She looked at me quizzically, but knew not to question my orders. She shrugged, took hold of Pilot's collar, and allowed him to lead her inside.

I reached into my pocket, palming a stake, and walked a circle, looking carefully around the gardens and down the path. The closer I got to the house, the more the feeling faded. Perhaps I could follow Adele and leave well enough alone. But I couldn't ignore the warning instinct that evil lurked too close for comfort. I turned quickly at the sound of movement in the trees behind the path. Certain something was there, I leaned down to pretend to pick up a shuttlecock. It wouldn't do to let it know I was aware of it.

I straightened up, moved down the path closer to the trees, and hummed a little tune. Whatever it was seemed to respond to my show of nonchalance, for it moved again in the bushes, drawing nearer to me. No doubt it planned to spring on me at any second, and I steeled myself for it. Finally, I heard it coming quickly. I was ready.

I turned before it struck, crouching slightly for agility as Miss Temple had taught me. It made a move to leap on me and missed, flying over my head. I gave a little laugh.

"Laugh at me, will you?" It stood and straightened its lawn shirt and torn breeches.

I crossed my arms, as if waiting for him to ready himself for combat. Ginger-haired and ruddy, he looked not a thing like John Reed, but brought that boy to mind by his apparent fear of being ridiculed. By appearance, he was barely twenty years old. By how badly he'd misjudged his pounce on supposed prey, I guessed he hadn't been a vampyre long. A day was too long, as far as I was concerned.

"I'll give you a moment to compose yourself and rethink your foolish attack," I said. "If you mean to repent, tell me now and I'll set you free."

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"Set me free?" He looked around as if astounded by my audacity and slowly closed the distance between us. "Me? I think you're the one in a spot."

"Oh, I'm quite certain I have just the thing for you." He smiled. "Ah. Are you--are you one of us? Good thing then. Could you, ah--could you give me some advice on hunting, then? I seem to be having a little trouble actually catching anything but rabbits, and that only once. I might starve if I go another day. And now I'm--"

"Dust." I brushed my hands clean after driving the stake home. No wonder he feared ridicule. I couldn't stand hearing him go on and on for another minute. "Now you're dust."

I stepped over his dirty shirt and breeches and made my way indoors.

Not until after I had withdrawn to my own chamber for the night did I steadily review Mr. Rochester's tale. Why had he confided in me? I could not tell, but I was glad he did. His confidence seemed a tribute to my discretion. His deportment had now for some weeks been more uniform towards me than at the first. I never seemed in his way. When he met me unexpectedly, the encounter seemed welcome. He had always a word and sometimes a smile for me. When summoned by formal invitation to his presence, I was honoured by a cordiality of reception that made me feel I really possessed the power to amuse him, and that these evening conferences were sought as much for his pleasure as for my benefit.

So happy, so gratified, did I become with this new interest added to life that I ceased to pine after some mysterious and intangible destiny. I liked to take long walks and recall our previous conversations or the expressions on his face, the sparkling of his eyes as he spoke. Sometimes, my walking turned into running and I wasn't even aware until I nearly collapsed, breathless after miles. My bodily health improved. I gathered flesh and strength.

And should Mr. Rochester ask me now if I thought him hand-some?

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Oh, reader, my answer would be changed! His face was the object I best liked to see. His presence in a room was more cheering than the brightest fire. Yet I had not forgotten his faults. Indeed, I could not, for he brought them frequently before me. He was proud, sardonic, and harsh to inferiority of every description. He was moody, too, unaccountably so. But I believed that his faults had their source in some cruel cross of fate, and I was more impressed than troubled by them. I believed he was naturally a man of better tendencies, higher principles, and purer tastes than such as circumstances had developed, education instilled, or destiny encouraged.

Though I had now extinguished my candle and was lying in bed, I could not sleep for thinking of his look when he paused in the avenue and told how his destiny had dared him to be happy at Thornfield.

Why shouldn't he be? Besides the occasional vampyre on the grounds, what could alienate him from the house? I hoped he did not plan to leave it again soon. Mrs. Fairfax said he seldom stayed here longer than a fortnight at a time and he had now been resident eight weeks. If he went, I did not know how I would bear it.

I hardly know if I had slept or not after my musing, but I startled awake on hearing a vague murmur, peculiar and sinister, that seemed to come from directly above me. I wished I had kept my candle burning. The night was dark. A cloud must have passed over the full moon, as one had surely darkened my spirits. I rose and sat up in bed, listening. The sound was hushed.

I tried again to sleep, but my heart beat anxiously. My inward tranquillity was broken. The clock, far down in the hall, struck two. Just then it seemed my chamber door was touched, as if fingers had swept the panels in groping a way along the dark gallery outside.

"Who's there?"

Nothing answered. A chill ran through me.

It must be Pilot, I told myself. Pilot usually slept in the kitchen,

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but he had been known to get out and make his way up to Mr. Rochester's chamber. The idea did not calm me. I knew better. Something was out there. Something unnatural.

I heard the laugh again, as if to confirm my suspicions. Demonic and deep, it seemed to be uttered right through the keyhole of my chamber door. The head of my bed was near the door, and I could almost fancy something stood, or rather crouched, there at my bedside. Something wicked. Something terrible. I rose, looked around, and saw nothing.

The laugh sounded again, and this time I knew it came from right behind my door. I put my hand up to the wood in time to feel it reverberate in response. I checked my impulse to call out again. I knew stealth was required.

It gurgled and moaned, and I heard it hulk, limp, or drag off to the third-story staircase. A door had recently been made for those stairs, and I heard it open and shut, then silence.

Grace Poole? I wondered. She seemed the logical culprit. Mundane as she appeared, I suspected yet again that something was wrong with her. Possessed with a devil, perhaps? Or what kind of creature was she? More important, was she dangerous? I did not even take a candle. I hurried on my frock and shawl in the dark, rummaged in my drawer for where I had left my weapons, slid a dagger into my sleeve, slipped a stake in my pocket, and left the room. What I would do if I found her, I had no idea. She must be stopped, but I had to be mindful of the rules of the house.

In the hall, a candle burned just outside my door, as if she'd had the courtesy to light my way. The air was dim, but not from the light. It was more--smoke? I smelled the burning, and I looked and saw the smoke coming out from a door left ajar, Mr. Rochester's door. I didn't even think. I ran inside. Tongues of flame darted around the bed. The curtains were on fire. In the midst of blaze and vapour, Mr. Rochester lay stretched motionless in deep sleep.

"Wake! Wake!" I cried. I shook him, but he only murmured and turned. The smoke had stupefied him. I rushed to his basin and