The cry died and was not renewed. Indeed, whatever being uttered that fearful shriek could not soon repeat it; not the widest-winged condor on the Andes could, twice in succession, send out such a yell from the cloud shrouding his eyrie.
It came out of the third storey. And overhead--yes, in the room just above my chamber, I heard a deadly struggle, and a half-smothered voice shout, "Help! help!"
A chamber door opened; someone rushed along the gallery. Another step stamped on the floor above, and something fell. Then there was silence.
The sleepers were all aroused and gathered in the gallery, which but for the moonlight would have been in complete darkness. The door at the end of the gallery opened, and Mr. Rochester advanced with a candle. He had just descended from the upper storey.
"All"s right!" he cried. "A servant has had a nightmare, that is all, and has taken a fit with fright. Now I must see you all back to your rooms." And so by dint of coaxing and commanding he contrived to get them back to their dormitories.
I retreated unnoticed and dressed myself carefully to be ready for emergencies. About an hour pa.s.sed, and then a cautious hand tapped low at my door.
"Are you up and dressed?"
"Yes."
"Then come out quietly."
Mr. Rochester stood in the gallery holding a light.
"Bring a sponge and some volatile salts," said he.
I did so, and followed him.
"You don"t turn sick at the sight of blood?"
"I think not; I have never been tried yet."
We entered a room with an inner apartment, from whence came a snarling, s.n.a.t.c.hing sound. Mr. Rochester went forward into this apartment, and a shout of laughter greeted his entrance. Grace Poole, then, was there.
When he came out he closed the door behind him.
"Here, Jane!" he said.
I walked round to the other side of the large bed in the outer room, and there, in an easy-chair, his head leaned back, I recognised the pale and seemingly lifeless face of the stranger, Mason. His linen on one side and one arm was almost soaked in blood.
Mr. Rochester took the sponge, dipped it in water, moistened the corpse-like face, and applied my smelling-bottle to the nostrils.
Mr. Mason unclosed his eyes and murmured: "Is there immediate danger?"
"Pooh!--a mere scratch! I"ll fetch a surgeon now, and you"ll be able to be removed by the morning."
"Jane," he continued, "you"ll sponge the blood when it returns, and put your salts to his nose; and you"ll not speak to him on any pretext--and, Richard, it will be at the peril of your life if you speak to her."
Two hours later the surgeon came and removed the injured man.
In the morning I heard Rochester in the yard, saying to some of the visitors, "Mason got the start of you all this morning; he was gone before sunrise. I rose to see him off."
_III.--The Shadowy Walk_
A splendid midsummer shone over England. In the sweetest hour of the twenty-four, after the sun had gone down in simple state, and dew fell cool on the panting plain, I had walked into the orchard, to the giant horse-chestnut, near the sunk fence that separates the Hall grounds from the lonely fields, when there came to me the warning fragrance of Mr.
Rochester"s cigar. I was about to retreat when he intercepted me, and said: "Turn back, Jane; on so lovely a night it is a shame to sit in the house." I did not like to walk alone with my master at this hour in the shadowy orchard, but could find no reason for leaving him.
"Jane," he recommenced, as we slowly strayed down in the direction of the horse-chestnut, "Thornfield is a pleasant place in summer, is it not?"
"Yes, sir."
"And you must have become in some degree attached to it?"
"I am attached to it, indeed."
"Pity!" he said, and paused.
"Must I move on, sir?" I asked.
"I believe you must, Jane."
This was a blow, but I did not let it prostrate me.
"Then you are going to be married, sir?"
"In about a month I hope to be a bridegroom. We have been good friends, Jane, have we not?"
"Yes, sir."
"Here is the chestnut-tree; come, we will sit here in peace to-night."
He seated me and himself.
"Jane, do you hear the nightingale singing in the wood? Listen!"
In listening, I sobbed convulsively, for I could repress what I endured no longer, and when I did speak, it was only to express an impetuous wish that I had never been born, or never come to Thornfield.
"Because you are sorry to leave it?"
The vehemence of emotion was claiming mastery, and struggling for full sway--to overcome, to live, rise, and reign at last; yes--and to speak.
"I grieve to leave Thornfield. I love Thornfield, because I have lived in it a full and delightful life. I have not been trampled on; I have not been petrified. I have talked face to face with what I delight in--an original, a vigorous and expanded mind. I have known you, Mr.
Rochester. I see the necessity of departure, but it is like looking on the necessity of death."
"Where do you see the necessity?" he asked suddenly.
"Do you think I can stay to become nothing to you?" I retorted, roused to something like pa.s.sion. "Do you think, because I am poor, obscure, plain, and little, I am soulless and heartless? You think wrong! I have as much soul as you--and full as much heart! I am not talking to you now through the medium of custom, conventionalities, nor even mortal flesh.
It is my spirit that addresses your spirit, just as if both had pa.s.sed through the grave, and we stood at G.o.d"s feet, equal--as we are!"
"As we are!" repeated Mr. Rochester, gathering me to his heart and pressing his lips on my lips. "So, Jane!"
"Yes, so, sir!" I replied. "I have spoken my mind, and can go anywhere now. Let me go!"