Chapter 25
But I went on living, and the only thing I could think to do was to keep on searching. When the folly of that had become obvious even to me, I buried myself in work. I made the rounds of all my cottagers, I helped in the harvest—to the amusement and dismay of the harvesters—and I invented reasons to see Everson. Around that time, odd things began to happen: noises on the grounds late at night, locks broken, the gardens trampled, even once a dead stoat hanging from a tree in the orchard. Ames believed someone was trying to break in, but John and Sam could catch no one. The servants became nervous, afraid to go out at night, and Mrs. Fairfax especially was deeply anxious. I was sure it was Gerald, his madness perhaps growing worse, trying to force his way back to his mother, into the house he considered his own, but there was nothing to prove since we were all unable to catch him. Eventually, Mrs. Fairfax could bear it no more and asked to be released from her duties. I was almost relieved when she did, for I had become uncomfortable in her presence: she had turned almost too kind, more mothering than I could bear at a time when I hated myself and who I had become—a liar and a bigamist. I settled a goodly sum on her and wished her well. She was all graciousness at the gift, and no little embarrassed, I imagine, but she deserved it, if for no other reason than she was my only living relative.
The same day she left, I removed the portrait of my mother from the drawing room and placed it and Jane’s drawings in a closet on the second floor, for I could not bear to see these reminders of all I had done, the misery I had caused and fallen into myself.
I went out with the harvesters as often as I could, hoping to work myself to the marrow, to drop into bed at night too weary to think, to rise in the morning and take to the fields again, to allow the pain of my blistered hands and my weary back to at least in part replace my other, worse, pain, and the sun on my face to burn off a small portion of my regret.
***
It was one of those nights late in that harvest season, two months or so after Jane had disappeared, and I had fallen into bed and into a weary and miserable sleep, with dreams that assaulted my mind with unease. I dreamed that Jane had died in some lonely, forsaken place; I dreamed that I was perishing on some faraway island, bereft of all I had ever known; I dreamed that the sea had overtaken me and I was drowning; that I had died but instead of peace I was greeted by the fires of hell, which were consuming me, and I could barely breathe.
I woke, but it seemed as if I were still in the dream, for I could smell the fires and feel their heat. I rose from my bed and lit a candle to reassure myself that I was still in my own chamber, and indeed I was, but I felt surrounded by a kind of fury that I could not shake. I walked to the door and opened it and was nearly thrown back by the smoke and the flames.Fire.Therewasfire. This was no dream.
The far end of the gallery—Jane’s room—was engulfed in flames. I looked up, and the fire seemed worse above me—for fire burns upward first—and I thought of John and Mary, and of Leah and Sam, and, the realization dawning, of Grace Poole and Bertha.Bertha. Fire.I ran to the servants’ stairs and took them two at a time. I roused John and Mary, who were already nearly overcome with smoke, and pulled them from their burning room, and then hastened to Leah’s and Sam’s rooms and brought them out as well, and sent them all downstairs toward safety. Then I dashed up the hidden staircase for Grace and Bertha. Grace, perhaps already dulled with drink, had almost succumbed, but Bertha was not in her room, and I had no time to think. I nearly dragged Grace downstairs with me, both of us leaning on each other, gasping for air, catching her when she stumbled. Half carrying Grace, I somehow shepherded her out of the inferno. Just as we reached safety, Leah cried out and pointed, and I saw Bertha on the roof, at the battlements, like a ghost in her white shift, her hair flying wildly about her head.
Once more, I ran. I cannot say what made me turn back to the house, to risk my life to save the woman who had spent fifteen years destroying it. Perhaps it was how little I valued my life without Jane. Perhaps it was that I had spent so many years protecting Bertha that I did not know how to stop. Either way, I am no hero, for I could not save her.
Standing on that shuddering rooftop, I called her name. She half turned and saw me. Calmly, despite the crackling flames that surrounded us both, she gave me a smile. I suppose I may have imagined it, but something in her eyes seemed clear, for once, as if for the first time in years, she knew what she was doing. She gave a cry and turned from me to the edge. I lunged for her, but was too late, and I could only watch as she disappeared from the roof like a great white bird taking flight. For a moment, in my delirium, and standing in the place where she had been, that freedom beckoned me as well.
I did not see her hit the pavement, but I heard the cries of horror from the people below. Mary screamed out, “Sir!” and I knew that if I did not move I would follow Bertha to my death.
I ran. Down the narrow, smoke-clouded steps to the third floor, through the flames that were already licking at the stairs to the second floor, down the gallery, where every room was now fully engulfed in fire, to the grand staircase, where suddenly I stopped. I knew I had no time for indecision, but there was one last thing I had to do. I ran back to the closet where I had hidden Jane’s drawings and my mother’s portrait. They kept slipping from my sweaty, trembling hands as I raced back to the staircase and dove, by force of will, through the flames that were swallowing my only route of escape.
But I was a moment too late. Partway down, without warning, the staircase simply collapsed. I tumbled through the flames, losing my grip on the portraits as the edifice crumbled around me, searing my flesh. I lost all consciousness.
***
I might never have expected to awake, but awake I did, with a fierce pain all across my body. I was bandaged, even my face, and in a strange bed not my own. I must have stirred, for immediately a hand was placed gently on my shoulder. “Mr. Rochester,” a woman’s voice said.
I tried to speak but made no sound. There were only soft murmurs in the room and the sound of a door opening and closing quietly, and a snuffling sound that I recognized immediately. Beneath my bandages I must have smiled. And then I fell again into a fog.
When I awoke again, I recognized Carter’s voice. “Well, Rochester, you seem to have come through it.”
“Fire,” I said, surprised at the weakness of my voice.
“Fires of hell, I should say.” His voice was more jolly than usual; I suppose he thought he must cheer me up.
“How long—?”
“Two days. Two and a half. You have some nasty wounds.”
“I was burned in the face?”
“Not so much, actually. Mostly on your forehead. Will give you a kind of distinction, I imagine, when it has healed.”
“But my eyes are covered.”
“Ahh…yes,” he said.
I said nothing at first, but clearly he was waiting for me to speak. “My eyes?”
“You have lost one. The banister fell on top of you, damaging it beyond repair. The other…we shall see about that.”
Blind,I thought.Blind!I took a breath. “And what else?”
“Burns elsewhere. But not too serious.”
“Is that all?”
