Jane Slayre (28 page)

200

ease. A voice calling for Rochester meant that he was not in the middle of the fray.

Chamber doors opened. Someone ran, or rushed, along the gallery. Another step stamped on the flooring above and something fell. Then there was silence, more eerie than the noise.

I rushed into some clothes and armed myself with a few stakes in various pockets, full ready to take any action needed on this night. I stepped out to find the doors of curious tenants opening, closing, exclamations of bewilderment, and terrified murmurs. The gallery filled. Gentlemen and ladies alike had quitted their beds.

"Oh! What is it?"--"Who is hurt?"--"What has happened?"--"Fetch a light!"--"Is it fire?"--"Are there robbers?"--"Where shall we run?" was demanded confusedly on all hands. But for the moonlight they would have been in complete darkness.

"Now calm, all," I said. "I'm sure it's nothing. Back to bed." No one could be sure it was I who had spoken, for they did not often hear my voice, but there was some agreement. A few did start back.

"Where the devil is Rochester?" cried Colonel Dent. "I cannot find him in his bed."

"Here! here!" was shouted in return. "Be composed, all of you. I'm coming."

The door at the end of the gallery opened, and Mr. Rochester advanced with a candle. He had just descended from the upper story. Miss Ingram ran to him directly and seized his arm, nearly toppling the candle.

"What awful event has taken place?" said she. "Let us know the worst at once!"

Mr. Rochester's black eyes darted sparks more heated than the candle's flame. Calming himself by an apparent effort, he added, "A servant has had a nightmare. That is all. She's an excitable, nervous person. She construed her dream into an apparition, or something of that sort, no doubt, and has taken a fit with fright. Now, then, I must see you all back into your rooms, for until the house is settled, she cannot be looked after. Gentlemen, have the goodness

201

to set the ladies the example. Miss Ingram, I am sure you will not fail in evincing superiority to idle terrors."

I did not return to my room to sit idly waiting for Mr. Rochester to come to me. I stayed while others went and finally approached him. "Am I wanted?"

"Have you a sponge in your room?" he asked in a whisper. "And volatile salts?"

"Yes to both."

"Fetch them, please, and follow me."

My slippers were thin. I could walk the matted floor as softly as a cat. I followed as he glided up the gallery and up the stairs and stopped in the dark, low corridor of the fateful third story. He paused outside a great black door with keys in his hand and turned to me.

"You don't turn sick at the sight of blood?"

"Not at all." What did he think? I'd just attacked him in his own library and confessed to be looking for a vampyre amongst his houseguests.

"Just give me your hand," he said. "It will not do to risk a fainting fit. Warm and steady now."

I didn't argue that I had no need for his support. I welcomed the chance for contact and I put my fingers into his. He turned the key and opened the door.

I saw a room I remembered to have seen before, the day Mrs. Fairfax showed me over the house. It was hung with tapestry, but the tapestry was now looped up in one part, revealing a door, which had then been concealed. The door was open. A light shone out of the room. I heard thence a snarling sound.

"Wait a minute," said Mr. Rochester, putting down his candle, and he went forward to the inner apartment. A shout of laughter greeted his entrance, noisy at first, and terminating in Grace Poole's own goblin
ha! ha!
She then was there. He made some sort of arrangement without speaking, though I heard a low voice address him. He came out and closed the door behind him.

202

"Here, Jane." He motioned me to the back of the room. I walked around to the other side of a large bed, which with its drawn curtains concealed a considerable portion of the chamber. An easy chair was near the bed. A man sat in it, dressed with the exception of his coat. He was still, his head back, his eyes closed. Mr. Rochester held the candle over him. I recognised the stranger, Mason. I saw, too, that his linen on one side, and one arm, were almost soaked in blood.

"Hold the candle," said Mr. Rochester, and I took it. He fetched a basin of water from the washstand. "Hold that," he said. I obeyed. He took the sponge, dipped it in, and moistened the corpselike face. Mr. Mason was not a zombie. I knew from the amount of blood and no sign of the green ooze. Mr. Rochester asked for my smelling bottle and applied it to the nostrils. Mr. Mason shortly opened his eyes and groaned. Mr. Rochester opened the shirt of the wounded man, whose arm and shoulder were bandaged. He sponged away blood, trickling fast down.

"Is there immediate danger?" murmured Mr. Mason.

"No--a mere scratch. Don't be so overcome, man. Bear up! I'll fetch a surgeon for you now and you'll be able to be removed by morning, I hope.

"Jane," Mr. Rochester said. "I must leave you in this room with this gentleman, for an hour, or perhaps two hours. You will sponge the blood as I do when it returns. If he feels faint, you will put the glass of water on that stand to his lips, and your salts to his nose. You will not speak to him on any pretext, and, Richard, it will be at the peril of your life if you speak to her. Open your lips, agitate yourself, and I'll not answer for the consequences."

Again the poor man groaned. He looked as if he dared not move. Fear, of death or of something else, appeared almost to paralyse him. Mr. Rochester put the bloody sponge into my hand, which I used as he had done.

"Remember, no conversation," he said, and then left.

203

I felt strange as the key grated in the lock and the sound of his retreating step ceased to be heard. Grace Poole was on the other side of the inner door, and what did she there? What had she done to Mr. Mason? I would have ignored Mr. Rochester's orders and queried Mr. Mason if I felt he was in any condition to speak, but I feared he had met his end or was about to. The "mere scratch" looked quite deep and caused a great loss of blood. I remembered what it was like to be shut up in a dark room bleeding, and I was glad to be there for Mr. Mason, glad to have a candle at my side.

Here then I was in the third story, fastened into one of its mystic cells, Grace Poole so close I could get up and go question her. I could see what vile form she'd transformed to, or what kind of spells she might hurl my way. I could decide if beheading or a stake to the heart would be a surer way to do her in. I could end Mr. Rochester's torments of the woman once and for all, but it wasn't my right to choose. If he kept her at Thornfield, he kept her for a reason. As long as that reason was not revealed to me, I could not take it upon myself to act.

Mr. Mason's wound needed constant attention, and he maintained eye contact, as if willing me to know that he still lived. He had survived some kind of terror at Grace Poole's hands. But what? What had he done? What had she done? How were they acquainted? They must have known each other, or why would he be on the third floor? Perhaps she was his wife? I wondered.

The candle expired just as I perceived streaks of grey light edging the window curtains. Dawn, and Mr. Rochester, approached. I could hear Pilot barking in the yard. In a few minutes more, the key turned in the lock and Mr. Rochester entered with Mr. Carter, the surgeon.

Mr. Rochester stripped off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. "Now, Carter, be on the alert. I give you but a half hour for dressing the wound, fastening the bandages, getting the patient downstairs and all."

204

"But is he fit to move, sir?" Carter looked doubtful.

"No doubt of it. It is nothing serious. He is nervous. His spirits must be kept up. Come, set to work."

CHAPTER 23

IF I HAD HOPED to be dismissed, I was mistaken. I didn't mind staying so much when Mr. Rochester was there, needing me. He drew back the thick curtain, drew up the blind, and let in all the daylight he could. I was surprised and cheered to see what rosy streaks were beginning to brighten the east. Then he approached Mason, whom the surgeon was already handling.

"Now, my good fellow, how are you?"

"She's done for me, I fear" was the faint reply. I took that as confirmation of Grace Poole's guilt in the matter.

"Not a whit! Courage! You've lost a little blood is all. Carter, assure him there's no danger."

"I can't do that conscientiously," said Carter, who had now undone the bandages. "Only I wish I could have got here sooner. He would not have bled so much--but how is this? The flesh on the shoulder is torn as well as cut. This wound was not done with a knife. There have been teeth here!"

"She bit me," Mr. Mason murmured. "She worried me like a tigress when Rochester got the knife from her."

Bit? I found new interest in the mutterings of our patient. It made me wish I'd had the nerve to thwart Mr. Rochester and grill Mason earlier. But I was here now, and no one made any effort to shuffle me out of the room.

205

"You should not have yielded," Mr. Rochester said on a sigh. "You should have grappled with her at once."

"But under such circumstances, what could one do? Oh, it was frightful!" Mr. Mason added, shuddering. "And I did not expect it. She looked so quiet at first."

"I warned you. I said, 'Be on your guard when you go near her.' Besides, you might have waited until tomorrow, as I'd asked. If you'd had me with you, it would have turned out quite differently. It was mere folly to attempt the interview tonight, and alone."

"I thought I could have done some good."

"You thought! You thought!" Mr. Rochester paced, running his hand through his hair. "You have suffered and are likely to suffer enough for not taking my advice. I'll say no more. Carter--hurry! The sun will soon rise, and I must have him off."

"Directly, sir. The shoulder is just bandaged. I must look to this other wound in the arm. She has had her teeth here, too, I think."

"She sucked the blood. She said she'd drain my heart," said Mason.

"Come, be silent, Richard, and never mind her gibberish. Don't repeat it."

"I wish I could forget it."

"You will when you are out of the country. When you get back to Spanish Town, you may think of her as dead and buried--or rather, you need not think of her at all."

"Impossible to forget this night!"

"It is not impossible. Have some energy, man. You thought you were as dead as a herring two hours since, and you are all alive and talking now. Carter has done with you or nearly so. I'll make you decent in a trice. Jane"--Mr. Rochester turned to me for the first time since his reentrance--"take this key. Go down into my bedroom and walk straight forward into my dressing room. Open the top drawer of the wardrobe and take out a clean shirt and necker-chief. Bring them here, and be nimble."

206

Nimble I was, finding the articles named and returning with them.

"Now," he said, "go to the other side of the bed while I order his toilet, but don't leave the room. You may be wanted again."

I retired as directed.

"Was anybody stirring below when you went down, Jane?" inquired Mr. Rochester presently.

"No, sir. All was very still."

"There, Richard. You shall make your escape before any are the wiser for it. And it will be better, both for your sake, and for that of the poor creature in yonder."

Poor creature, he called her? After the damage she'd wrought? The danger she obviously presented?

Mr. Rochester went on, "I have striven long to avoid exposure, and I should not like it to come at last. Here, Carter, help him on with his waistcoat. Where did you leave your furred cloak? You can't travel a mile without that, I know, in this damned cold climate. In your room? Jane, run down to Mr. Mason's room, the one next to mine, and fetch a cloak you will see there."

Again I ran and again returned, bearing an immense mantle lined and edged with fur.

207

I did so. He measured twelve drops of a crimson liquid and presented it to Mason.

"Drink, Richard. It will give you the heart you lack, for an hour or so."

"But will it hurt me? Is it inflammatory?"

"Trust me, man. You don't want to risk any ill effects, if you know what I mean. Drink!"

Ill effects? Whatever could he mean? What sort of elixir was this?

Mr. Mason obeyed because it was evidently useless to resist. He was dressed now. He still looked pale, but he was no longer gory and sullied. Mr. Rochester let him sit three minutes after he had swallowed the liquid, then took his arm.

"Now I am sure you can get on your feet. Try."

The patient rose.

"Carter, take him under the other shoulder. Be of good cheer, Richard. That's it!"

"I do feel better," remarked Mr. Mason.

"I am sure you do. Now, Jane, trip on before us away to the back stairs. Unbolt the side-passage door, and tell the driver of the post chaise you will see in the yard--or just outside, for I told him not to drive his rattling wheels over the pavement--to be ready, we are coming. And, Jane, if anyone is about, come to the foot of the stairs and hem."

By this time, it was half past five, and the sun was on the point of rising. Still, the kitchen was dark and silent. The servants would not be up for another little while. I followed Mr. Rochester's requests to the letter, though I had to go out into the yard to get the driver's attention. I did not mind. It was setting up to be a beautiful morning and I welcomed the fresh air and the twittering of the birds in the orchard trees.

The gentlemen now appeared. Mason, supported by Mr. Rochester and the surgeon, seemed to walk with tolerable ease. They assisted him into the chaise. Carter followed.

"Take care of him," said Mr. Rochester to the latter. "Follow the