Chapter 11 #2
He nodded wryly. “You are young; you imagine outcomes that cannot happen. The mill workers know Wilson’s situation; they know he has little chance to recover.
And, indeed, they do have a second sense.
They have to, for there is nothing for them to fall back on if the mill closes.
They are not like us—they have no education: most cannot even read.
They have no savings, no property, and their friends and relatives are as bad off as they are.
There is nothing for them but the poorhouse—or starvation.
They live on the edge of hell and they know it.
Before they left their country cottages, they at least had the gleanings after a harvest, or the chance of trapping a rabbit or two.
Here, in a town or in the city, they have nothing.
You can thank God you are not in their shoes. ”
But I had remained caught on what he had said at the outset. “Might the mill really close?”
“It is one possibility,” was all he said. I had foolishly imagined that the mill would be sold as easily as selling a mince pie, but now I saw that that might not be the case. He said no more, and we walked on in silence.
Some days after that, again late in the day, Mr. Landes came to the mill to say he had received a letter from my father, who made some additional requirements in light of my changed situation.
My father had also made clear that by next summer at the latest, I must leave Maysbeck, for he had other plans for me.
“Was that all he wrote?” I asked, eager for fuller news.
“Unfortunately, yes,” he responded. “Even I know by now how firm and terse your father can be.” He paused, then said, “Rochester, I know you are anxious about your future. Suppose you went to Liverpool and visited your father. Suppose, in the companionship of shared pints at an inn, you got him to talking. Perhaps he would tell you more.”
“I can’t leave the mill,” I said, impatient that he would even imagine such a thing.
“You could, for a few days. Jeremy Hardback is a good man, and I could spend part of the day here, as well.”
“I couldn’t ask that of you.”
He leveled his eyes at me. “You have borne a great deal more in the last year than one should have expected of someone your age,” he said finally. “I know Wilson thinks highly of you. He would second this, I am sure.”
I shook my head. I envisioned the companionless silence my father and I would surely share over those pints, and I knew that I felt closer to Mr. Landes—and especially closer to Mr. Wilson, even in his infirmity—and more able to talk honestly to him, than I could ever hope to feel toward my own father.
I was ashamed to admit it, even to myself, but I had no particular interest in spending any more time than necessary with him.
“It’s kind of you to offer, but I know it would do no good.
My father is set in his ways. He tells me nothing, deals with others rather than with me if he has the least opportunity. It would be a waste of time.”
A frown creased his forehead. “You truly have no idea what he has in mind for you? And you don’t consider it prudent to visit him to ask?”
“It would make no difference. He has never let me know what he has in mind until it is about to come to fruition.”
“And you are content with that? Rochester, you have shown great maturity in recent months. Surely you have a right to know what lies ahead for you.” He took his hat from the rack and put his hand on the door latch, then turned back to me.
“Still, it would be good for you to get away for a time—even a short time—from what are really quite heavy responsibilities for someone of your age. If not to your father in Liverpool, might there be anywhere else you would like to go?”
I paused before responding. Thornfield-Hall came into my mind.
But my father’s words came as well: Thornfield is not for you.
Thornfield is Rowland’s. I could count neither on Rowland’s being absent another time, nor on his welcome if he were home.
And yet—yes—the thought stole into my mind: there was another visit I longed to make.
I tried my best to hesitate, as if I needed to think, but I was suddenly so excited I could not have fooled him in the least. “Indeed,” I said, “there is a place—an old school friend who lives near Napier has been urging me to visit, and it has never seemed a possibility. I could be there and back in two or three days.”
“Two or three days? Surely that isn’t enough. You would barely get there before you had to turn back.”
Of course it wasn’t enough, not nearly enough. But it was better than nothing. “I think I can manage it,” I said.
“Well, then, arrange it,” he said. “But give me warning enough that I can work out a plan to oversee both mills.”
I wrote to Carrot that very evening and posted the letter as soon as I could. A few days afterwards, the response came, brief and direct: I was to come at my earliest convenience. If I could manage to get myself to the village of Napier, Carrot would send a conveyance for me.
I would see my oldest friend again, at last—I felt as if I were suddenly living in a dream.
Mrs. Wilson seemed full of trepidation over my leaving, but she still encouraged me to go.
Mr. Wilson simply nodded slowly and peered up at me as if he half feared that I should never return.
Probably too effusively, I made a point of saying that I would be gone only two days or at the most three, and I assured him as well that Mr. Landes would be stopping by the house each day to report on work at the mill.
I managed to talk a tailor into quickly putting together a pair of pantaloons, which he assured me were all the fashion, though they felt quite uncomfortable; but I could not bring myself to order a new waistcoat as well.
And there was no time to order a pair of the slim, stylish pumps that the cobbler had in his window.
There was no real rush, of course, but once it became possible for me to leave, I could hardly bear to wait.
Somehow, the prospect of being with Carrot again almost seemed like going home.