‘Well,’ he said, ‘I do take this kind. I never expected anything of the sort. I meant to –’
‘We know you did. But we like it best this way,’ said Jane; ‘and now we’re going to have some tea, and you’ll have a cup with us and tell us some more about the herb book.’
It was not a merry tea-party, because Mr Simmons was not yet wholly at his ease with his new friends, but it was a pleasant one, and when it was over Lucilla volunteered to show their guest round the garden.
‘I don’t know,’ he said, ‘as I like anything better than what I do a bit of garden.’
Jane, left alone, put as much order as she could into the room, and was just beginning to think that the others were a long time gone when a shadow darkened the doorway. She looked up, expecting Mr Simmons and Lucilla. But it was not Lucilla and Mr Simmons. It was the ‘kind-faced viper’, as Jane had called him. It was the young man who had carried her down when her foot was hurt and had got wine and a carriage for her, had promised secrecy and had then betrayed her trust.
‘Good afternoon,’ he said. ‘I hope your foot is quite well again.’ Just like that – as though nothing had happened and he and she were the best of friends.
There was a very small silence. Jane, very white and with thunder on her brow, stood looking at him. Then she spoke.
‘I wish you to understand,’ she said, ‘that we wish to have nothing more whatever to do with you. We decline the honour of your acquaintance,’ she insisted, so that there should be no doubt about the matter. And her pointed chin went up as she said it.
He stood looking at her, overwhelmed.
‘Oh, I say!’ were the only words he found ready for use.
And before either of them could speak again Lucilla and Simmons were standing beside him on the mossy path, and the young man and Simmons were shaking hands with violence, and Simmons was saying, ‘Oh, sir, to think of meeting you like this, sir! Oh, miss – oh, young ladies! What a day to be sure! This gentleman’s my boss, that I was all through the war with – Suez and Aden and Jeddah and all. You’ll excuse me, miss, but may I ask him in for a few minutes while the other young lady sees if she can’t find him a few flowers? There’s a one or two here and there in the garden. These young ladies as keeps the shop is friends of mine, sir, and I know I may take the liberty to ask you in.’
‘May I come in?’ the young man gravely asked Jane.
And Jane said, with as little ice in her voice as she could manage, because of Simmons glowing in the joy of re-union, ‘Certainly, come in by all means.’
So here they were!
CHAPTER VIII
When you have just declined the honour of a gentleman’s acquaintance and have reason to believe that your declination will be accepted as closing the incident, it is more than disconcerting to have a great strong, thick spoke put in your wheel by an enthusiastic friend who recognises in your rejected fellow-creature his adored hero, and, planting that hero then and there on one of your chairs, stands looking from one of you to the other with a face beaming with joy at the happy coincidence.
‘And if the other young lady can’t find you enough flowers, sir,’ said Simmons, ‘I’ll let you ’ave my own bouquet – if the lady will excuse me. It isn’t the honour or the kindness I shall be giving away, miss,’ he added acutely, ‘only the beautiful flowers.’
And with a flourish he produced his pink and green and white bouquet, thrusting the written paper proudly under the nose of the newcomer.
‘I couldn’t think of it,’ said the young man strongly; ‘if I may be excused, I will follow the lady into the garden and explain what it is that I really want.’
‘But …’ said Jane.
‘Quite so. I understand perfectly,’ said the young man. ‘Forgive me if I seem to hurry, won’t you? I don’t want your friend to take unnecessary trouble.’
Jane and Simmons were now left. And instantly Jane had a sudden and piercing conviction that Simmons must be got rid of. It seemed to her that almost everything depended on Simmons’ not being there when Lucilla and the stranger should return. With that innocent-serpent wisdom which is the amazing hall-mark of the girl we all kneel to, she said in a voice that would have melted a Judge Jeffreys:
‘Mr Simmons.’
He answered alertly. ‘Yes, miss?’
‘I wonder if you would … it’s getting late and we’ve such a lot to get home. Would you take the bath-chair up to Hope Cottage, with these jampots, and then bring it back? Oh no, you won’t miss your friend – your boss, you said, didn’t you? I’ll keep him till you come back.’
‘Why, of course,’ said Simmons, with ready acquiescence. ‘I’ll load up and set sail this instant minute.’
He did. And the moment he was out of sight Jane limped out through the glass door and round by the Portugal laurels to the cedar lawn. It seemed to be extraordinarily important that this strange young man should not have an opportunity of beguiling Lucilla with, no doubt, untrustworthy excuses.
‘Lucy would believe anything,’ she told herself, as she stumped quickly along the weedy path towards the distant beacon of Lucilla’s brilliant pinafore. When she reached that bright object its wearer was leaning undecidedly against the sundial, and the young man, whose back was towards the approaching Jane, was actually stamping his foot and saying:
‘But what on earth was I to do? What else could I have done?’
‘What did you do?’ Jane found herself saying, almost in his ear.
He executed a volte face of unusual celerity.
‘Oh!’ he said.
‘Yes,’ said Jane.
‘He says,’ said Lucilla, very superfluously, ‘that he couldn’t have done anything else.’
‘What – did – you – do?’ Jane repeated very slowly, and distinctly. ‘After you had broken your promise and betrayed us to Mr Rochester, what was there left for you to do?’
‘Oh, thank you very much!’ said the young man unexpectedly. ‘That’s very kind and candid of you. Now we can get on. There’s nothing like straightforwardness. Your friend wouldn’t say anything except that you were disappointed in me.’
‘I wasn’t,’ said Jane. ‘I didn’t expect anything but disappointment.’
‘I have Irish blood in me, too,’ he said, and for an instant the conversation lapsed. Then the young man began to speak, very quickly:
‘I didn’t betray you. At least, not more than I was obliged to do.’
‘Obliged!’ said Jane.
‘Yes – obliged,’ said he; ‘and do sit down. The steps of the sundial are quite dry, and your ankle …’
‘Thank you,’ said Jane; ‘my ankle is my own affair.’
‘Quite so,’ he said, ‘but … Well – what happened was this. After you’d gone away in the cab I went back to the house to – to tidy up – the pail and the towels and candles and so on, and before I’d done a single thing the owner of the house came in. There was the pail, there was the towel, the bottle of port with its neck knocked off. There was I, holding a perfectly unexplainable handkerchief and an absolutely speaking pink scarf. And he had seen the carriage drive away from the door! What was I to do? Short of pretending to be dumb and deaf, what could I do?’
There was certainly something in that, Lucilla’s anxious glance at her friend seemed to plead. And Jane acknowledged that there certainly was by suddenly sitting down on the steps of the sundial and saying, ‘Well?’
‘Well,’ repeated the young man, much encouraged, ‘I told him the exact truth. If anything inexact would have been of the slightest use I would gladly have perjured myself for you. But I couldn’t make up a better story than the truth,’ he urged shamelessly. ‘I told him everything – or almost. But when he asked me who you were, I told him I didn’t know. And when he wanted to know where you lived, I didn’t know that either.’
‘But he did know; he came to see us.’
‘He didn’t know from me. There is only one livery stable here. Of course he went and asked t
he cabman. Now, honestly, if you’d been in my place, what else could you have done?’
‘Nothing,’ said Jane handsomely. ‘I’m sorry. But it did look black, didn’t it?’
‘Black as night,’ said the young man; ‘and yet, as you see, it wasn’t, really. Will you allow me to forgive your terrible and unjust suspicions, and in return will you forgive what I really, you know, couldn’t possibly help?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Lucilla, but Jane said: ‘Yes – but I should like to know what you were doing in the house at all, and why you had the keys and knew where the wine was, and the towels and everything.’
‘Oh,’ said he, ‘didn’t I tell you? I’m his nephew – Mr James Rochester’s, I mean. He sent me down because he suspected his charwoman of being drawn from her duties by beer. And he was quite right. I’m staying at his house while he’s away. And now, I won’t insist on forgiving you if you don’t like it. But you will forgive me, won’t you?’
‘Let’s wipe it all off the slate,’ said Jane briskly. ‘I’m awfully glad you haven’t turned out a traitor. I do hate people not to turn out as – respectable as you thought they were going to be, don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ said he, ‘but they very seldom do. If you expect people to be decent they almost always are. Will you let me give you my arm?’
Jane let him give her his arm and they went back to the garden room, Lucilla following with five daffodils, two tulips, a hyacinth, and a handful of forget-me-nots.
‘Where’s Mr Simmons?’ she said as they neared the house.
‘I sent him home with the jampots,’ said Jane, and was intensely annoyed to feel a slow, hot flush spread over face and neck, and even to her very ears. However, if you are a little lame it is an excuse for stooping, and she kept her face turned downwards.
Mr Simmons and the bath-chair reappeared almost at once, and the garden house was locked up, its Persian shutters adjusted and padlocked and the iron gates secured. Mr Simmons and his ‘boss’ made an appointment for another meeting, and it was John Rochester who wheeled the bath-chair to Hope Cottage, at whose gate Lucilla said:
‘What about another tea? At least, have you had yours?’
Mr Rochester hadn’t. So he came in, and there was tea, and old china, and Queen Anne spoons, and thin bread-and-butter – but everything was stiff and lacking in charm.
‘There had been too much forgiving, and too lately, for any of us to be really comfortable,’ said Jane when he had gone. ‘What on earth made you ask the man in, Lucy?’
‘I thought you’d like me to,’ said Lucilla, with quite monumental tactlessness.
‘You never made a greater mistake,’ said Jane; ‘my one wish was to be rid of him and try not to remember the perfectly awful things I said to him when he first turned up.’
‘What did you say?’ Lucilla asked, with a perhaps justifiable curiosity.
‘I quite forget,’ said Jane briskly. ‘However, I’m glad it’s all straightened out. I hate muddles.’ She stretched herself luxuriously on the narrow Empire couch. ‘What a day it’s been! The best day of my life, Lucy!’
‘It has been nice,’ said Lucilla, still thickly entangled in an unwonted tactlessness; ‘it is nice to have things straightened out with nice people.’
‘Oh – that!’ said Jane slightingly. ‘I meant because we’d made so much money! Look here, Luce, you fetch the papier-mâché tray out of the dining-room – the one with the mother-of-pearl roses on it – and we’ll pour out all the money on it, and count it, and gloat over it; and then we’ll make three lovely satin bags to keep it in – one for copper and one for silver and one for gold.’
‘You mean notes,’ said Lucilla, and went to fetch the tray.
Meanwhile Mr John Rochester went on his way with a good deal to think about. He felt, emotionally, rather battered: forgiving and being forgiven is exhausting work. Also he had to write to his mother – not the ordinary duty-letter, all affection and petites nouvelles, but a serious answer, too long delayed, to a serious letter of hers.
When he reached the small brick-built house where every room save those where folk slept was covered from ceiling to floor with bookshelves and pigeon-holes, he sat down at a large littered writing-table and pulled out a letter, it was a long one, several sheets of pale blue linenish-looking paper. Among many words he read:
‘Your dear father once told me that he had never been in love in his life. Of course he told me differently when he proposed, or I should never have accepted him. But I am sure what he said later was true. You are so like him, dear Jack, in face and voice and everything, I think, as I have so often told you, that you are very likely like him in this too. But it is quite possible to be happily married without being what is called in love. You are twenty-eight, dear, and if you had been the sort of boy who falls in love you would have done it before now, don’t you think? It’s no use waiting for what will most likely never happen. I assure you, if one of the two parties loved the other, marriage is quite easy and pleasant. And your whole future depends on your having money to pursue your experiments and inventions and things. Now, dearest, do let me warn you not to build any hopes on your great-uncle James. He let your father think he was going to do something for him, and then he never did. He is very eccentric, and you never know. He is always running about – now to Italy, now to India or China. Though he is an old man, he might marry a Contadina or a Ranee or a Geisha at any moment and have troops of children. Now, darling, remember what I’ve always told you about Hilda Antrobus. She has simply heaps of money – not tied up at all. Her solicitor is a great friend of your Uncle Philip and told him this in confidence. She has not changed at all in all these years. She has practically owned to me that she would accept you – at least, of course, not in so many words, but she has owned to me as plainly as a modest girl can that she likes you. She has refused dozens of offers. She simply won’t look at anyone else. Now, my own treasure, I am asking her for the twenty-seventh, and I want you to come too. I am sure when you see her again you will think she has greatly improved in looks. And she has a really lovable nature, so noble and unselfish. The man who gets her will be very lucky. It isn’t as if you were likely to fall in love, my precious treasure; and esteem and respect and affection are really better for getting married on than this wild love we hear so much about. Especially when joined to a handsome income, so that no sordid worries can interfere with your happiness. Write to me at once and tell me that for once you’ll be guided by my advice. I don’t want you to promise anything. Just come and meet her. That’s all I ask.
‘Your affectionate mother,
‘Estelle Rochester.’
John Rochester read the letter twice before he took up his pen. But, once started, that pen travelled smoothly over several pages of his uncle’s special hand-made paper with the little coat-of-arms in the corner. The pen dealt with the weather, with the writer’s health, with Uncle James’s health, with Uncle James’s journey to Spain, with the object of that journey; and so to the obligation which the writer was under to occupy Uncle James’s house till Uncle James’s return. On the last page, which was the sixth, the pen was driven to say:
‘I have thought over all you say about my future. I am not so very sure that you are right about my being so like my father. And perhaps he was not exactly like what you always say of him. Perhaps he said what you say when he was in a temper. People do say the oddest things at such times, don’t they?
‘Please remember me most kindly to Miss Antrobus. I am so sorry that I shall not have the pleasure of meeting her again this spring, but I have promised my uncle to guard his books and curios as with my life, so, of course, I am planted here till he returns. I trust Miss Antrobus will have a very pleasant visit – but of course she will, with you, best of mothers.
‘You have often talked to me of Cedar Court. I went all over it the other day. It is a most delightful place, just as you said, and my visit was full of interest. The furniture, the garden – everything –
quite different from anything I have ever seen before. I hope to go there again and again. These old houses well repay repeated visits. With fondest love, I am, dear mother, your loving son,
‘John.’
CHAPTER IX
‘And six is seventy-nine,’ observed Lucilla; ‘seventy-nine pence – how many shillings, and what pence?’
Jane told her, and waited patiently till the agony of the shillings column had given place to the easy sparseness of the pounds. It was Saturday night, and they were ‘making up the books’.
‘I make it three pounds seventeen and fivepence,’ Lucilla announced at last. ‘See what you make it.’ Jane made it four pounds two and a penny. So then they added it all up again, the two of them together, and the total was four pounds three shillings and fourpence.
‘This is too much!’ said Jane desperately.
‘Yes,’ said Lucilla, ‘much too much!’
‘I mean it’s too silly. Here we’ve been a thousand years at school, and you took an arithmetic prize when you were nine …’
(‘ “Sundays at Encombe,” ’ put in Lucilla).
‘… And yet we can’t add up six little sums of pounds, shillings, and pence and then add the totals together and get them right.’
‘We don’t know that we haven’t got them right. One of the answers may be right for anything we know. It’s so different doing it with real money,’ said Lucilla, fingering the little piles of coin on the table of the garden room, where, with two candles in brass candlesticks to light them, they were seeking to find some relation between the coins – so easily counted – and the figures referring to these same coins which all through the week they had laboriously pencilled in an exercise-book.
‘I think it’s the garden distracts us,’ said Jane, looking towards the open window, beyond which lay lawn and cedars bathed in moonlight and soft spring air.
‘Let’s shut the shutters or else take everything home,’ Lucilla suggested. ‘It’s awfully late, and I’m very, very hungry.’