Autumn fell into winter, and one day the bandages were removed from my eyes. I imagine that it could have happened sooner, but I think Carter was attempting to be kind, to delay the reality that my sight was gone for the rest of my life. I discovered that I could see faint light with my one good eye, and the occasional shape, but that was the extent of my vision. Carter had been wise, I suppose, for even though I should have been used to the idea, when the bandages came off I was so overwhelmed with misery that I begged Carter’s housekeeper, Priscilla, to hasten me back to my room and shut me in, alone.
Carter came in sometime later. “There is many a blind beggar who would give both his legs to be in your position,” he chided me.
I lashed out. “Would he give his hand as well?”
“You have money. You have a house at Ferndean, if you choose to live there until you find something more suitable. You have a friend in me. Everson, too, stands by you, as you know.”
“You will not allow me to wallow in self-pity? Even for a day?”
“Not even,” he said, almost laughing, and I heard the echo of Jane’s voice, for she would not have allowed it either. “You have much to be grateful for,” he added.
“And much to regret.”
Carter didn’t respond, and I lay there, knowing what he was doing, but refusing to be jarred from my self-pity. And then a thought of Jane came to me, and what she would say, and I sighed, and rose from the bed and sat on its edge, and he and I began to discuss what was in store for me. I asked him to send for Ames, and for Everson, and then I began, in earnest, to prepare for what was to be the rest of my life.
***
I moved to Ferndean Manor, hidden away in its wood of oak and pine. I imagined bluebells and wild garlic in abundance in the spring, though I had been there with Bertha and Molly and poor little Tiso in that long-off June, and I did not recall anything blooming. It was too shaded for sun to stream into the windows, except for winter, when the oaks were leafless. I would never see the sun anyway, but I would be able to feel it, once the trees had lost their leaves. Carter disapproved of the place, for he said it would be too damp and cold, even in the summer, but I rather liked it, for it gave me good reason to avoid company, and I felt it brought me closer to God.
Ames was able to find places for Sam and Leah and the scullery maid and the stableboys. John and Mary came with me, the only people I needed, for she cooked and cleaned house and John did the heavier chores. And, of course, Pilot stayed with me, that faithful friend.
I kept Mesrour, too, for a time. Though I could not ride, I loved to stroke his neck and feel the power and warmth of his presence. But he deserved a rider who let him race, and I was no longer that man. With a heavy heart, I sold him. I had the rest of my life to live with my regrets. Mesrour, and Jane, deserved better lives.
That winter I sat as close to the fire as my chair would allow, and I began to doze away my days. At night my thoughts ran wild, not unlike poor Bertha’s used to do. Often I wondered what, exactly, had been the agreement between my father and Jonas Mason. Given time to think, I imagine that Jonas may have noticed, even back when she was only twelve or fourteen, the early signs of Bertha’s illness. He would have wanted her kept safe, and that would take either a husband or money, and Richard Mason could not have been depended upon. A husband—a dependable husband—would have seemed a good solution, and perhaps that was what he had seen in Rowland. But Rowland, despite having brought Bertha into maternity, wanted nothing to do with her, or Jamaica, for that matter. And perhaps my father, recognizing an opportunity to bring a much larger plantation into the family, offered his younger son as a replacement. It was not the first time he had maneuvered to do such a thing. Of course, there was that long wait for me to come of age and to have an education, but my father would have considered the investment worthwhile, never guessing that he would die young and Rowland even younger. From time to time, I wondered what would have become of me if I had refused to go to Jamaica, but I shall never know that, and, as Carrot was fond of saying:You have to play the cards you were dealt.
Carter came often and tried to cheer me in his own way. Sometimes he read to me, though I was like as not to fall asleep as he did so. It was not that I had suddenly become an old man—I was still in my thirties—but the loss of my eyesight brought a lack of stimulation that I had not yet adjusted to. I could not escape the irony of my confinement there, in the same place where I had once tried to house my lunatic wife. I, too, was strong in body yet unable to care for myself, destined to live out a dreary life, trapped inside my own head.
But my friends would not leave me to my sadness. With warmer weather, John began rousing me for walks around the grounds. There was no orchard, which I had loved so much at Thornfield, but John would guide me to bend down and touch snowdrops, and anemones, and finally reach up and feel the hazel catkins. The earth was coming to life and, as much as possible, I was too. Memories came with spring as well: last year’s hopeful days, my fireside banter with Jane, our walks in the orchard, the sound of her laugh. That life was gone: Thornfield-Hall a ruin, Bertha and Gerald dead, I a broken man. And Jane: pray God she was safe.
***
The day was cloudy, as despondent as my mood. For how many years, I wondered, would I be moldering away in these woods? That was my feeling all that day, a grief that knew no bounds. Even in the evening it did not lift, and I took myself to my room early, but could not sleep. That was just as well, for my nightmares had been worsening: I was vividly haunted by a lifetime of sin and regret. There were so many people, irretrievable now, who had been lost and wronged. Not just Bertha and Gerald, and Jane herself, but Touch and Carrot and Alma and little Tiso and Mr. Wilson and so many others who had suffered, whom I wish I might have saved. Sitting beside my opened window, feeling the air on my face, I imagined the moonlight, and Jane somewhere, laying herself down from a busy day. “Jane!” I called out suddenly. “Jane! Jane!” And then, more quietly, “Oh God, Jane.”
I expected no answer—of course I did not. But, in my mind I thought I heard a voice: “I am coming,” it seemed to say, “wait for me.” And a moment later, as if the wind in the pines itself was speaking: “Where are you?” The sound of it echoed as if across the fells, though there were none near.
“Here,” I said aloud. “Just here.”
But there was no response, though I sat at the window for nearly an hour more. It was as if it had happened in a dream: Jane’s spirit and mine calling across some wild and lonely distance. I wanted to believe that it was a sign that God was setting me free.
The next morning I arose as usual to the birdsongs, and again the next day and the next, but nothing in my life had changed. It seemed that God had not, after all, heard my prayer, or perhaps he had more misery in store for me.
But on the fourth day, as darkness was starting to fall, I felt an urge to step outside on my own. Down the one step to the grass, cautiously. A step out. And then another, my arms outstretched for balance and because I knew there were trees even that close. As the first drops of rain descended I thought I heard a footstep, or a voice. “Who’s there?” I whispered, but no one responded. A woodland sprite, perhaps, waiting for me. If only it were real. The only sound I could hear was the wind in the trees, but I stood there anyway, for I felt a kind of comforting presence that I had not felt since coming to Ferndean.
Just then I heard John’s voice coming from my side. “Will you take my arm, sir?” he said. “There’s a heavy shower coming on: had you not better go in?”
“Let me alone,” I said impatiently, for I felt as if there were something just out of reach, and for a few moments I tried to walk toward it, as if I could find it and hold it in my hand, but it was useless, and finally I turned and made my way back into the house, feeling worse than I had before.
I had only just returned to my chair when Mary came in. I thought at first she was bringing my tea, but instead she said, “Sir, there is someone asking to speak with you. What shall I tell them?”
I was annoyed. It had been a difficult few days, and was growing worse. Besides, Mary knew I did not see strangers. “Who is it at this time of night?”
“I—I did not ask a name, sir.”
“Well, if he cannot give his name and his business, I certainly have no desire to see him. And bring me a glass of water. Please.”
She hurried away, her shoes scuffing against the floor.
When she returned, she had no more than entered the room before I heard Pilot scramble up from beside me with a soft yelp and leap upon her, splashing the water. She whispered a quiet order. The commotion was so unlike Pilot—or Mary—that I turned toward the noise, straining. Thisdamnable body!
