Chapter 14 #2
I was the last to leave that evening, and Alice placed her hand on my arm as she walked me to the door and bade me farewell, brushing a finger across my shoulder as if to whisk away a piece of lint.
I could have kissed her, but instead, I tipped my hat and she smiled broadly at me and waved her hand in the doorway until I was through the gate.
It had been a perfect evening. Imagining Alice Phillips in my arms, the sweet scent of her lavender enveloping me, I walked to the High Street and then along it, passing a raucous inn and the dark and silent establishments of a poulterer and a baker.
Suddenly I became aware of a noisy shuffling behind me, as if I were being followed.
Yet, it was the High Street: other folks were no doubt on their way home at this time of night, and so I paid it no more attention, until a rough, gravelly voice called out, “Oy! You!”
I did not think he meant me, so I continued on.
“Oy!” he called again, louder. “You! Rochester, you!”
I turned and saw a large, dark form coming toward me, but the streetlamp was behind him and I could not make out his face. “You!” he called again, still advancing.
I thought to turn and run, and should have, but I felt young and strong and nearly invincible, and I held my ground. “Who are you?” I asked.
“You know me! You ’as cost me my job!”
Of course—I recognized his voice. “Rufus Shap,” I said as calmly as I dared. “I did not cost you your job. You did it to yourself; it was your own doing.”
“It was you,” he growled, and he was close enough that I could smell the ale on his breath. “Though you weren’t man enough to do it yourself, were you? And my cousin, as well,” he added. He was in my face then, his powerful hands suddenly grasping my jacket, and there was no chance of escape.
“I don’t even know your cousin,” I said, trying to back away.
“You know ’er,” he said angrily, shaking me with his huge hands. “You do.”
I still did not take his meaning.
“You are a coward among men.” His spittle sprayed over my face.
“You don’t even remember, do you?” he growled.
“She was nothing to you, she was. And you forced yourself on ’er, you did.
You, high and mighty, thinks you have a right to do whatever you want with a poor girl who works for you, you do.
” Alma. Before I could react he brought a practiced knee to my groin.
The pain seared through me and I remained standing only because his huge hands held me.
When his fist hit me hard in the head, he let me fall to the ground.
He must have kicked me and stomped on me, but by then I had lost all consciousness.
He left me there until some kind souls came by, and, drunk themselves, poured a jug of something over me to bring me back to awareness.
When I was able to tell them where I lived, they were good enough to stagger home with me and pound on the door until Mrs. Wilson’s maid came to the door in her night-robe, her mobcap askew, and let me in.
I poured whatever coins I had in my pocket into the men’s palms and thanked them profusely, as they, at the same time, explained as best they could to the maid, and then they fled, as if fearing they might be held responsible for my condition.
And what a condition it was: filthy clothes soaked in rum, in pain from head to toe, and contusions and bruises all over me.
At the commotion, Mrs. Wilson came downstairs, took one look, and helped the maid get me into the parlor before ordering water and offering me Mr. Wilson’s brandy, though I already stank to high heaven.
She directed the maid to bring a quilt and a pillow so that I could spend the night in the parlor, as it was clear to all of us that I could not negotiate the stairs.
But first she ordered me to take off my dirty clothing before I soiled her furnishings.
In the morning, I woke to Mrs. Wilson staring down at me. “Mr. Rochester,” she said (I was no longer her Eddie, it seemed), “would you be so kind as to tell me what happened last evening, when I thought you to be at tea at the home of Mr. and Mrs. Phillips?”
“I was there—” I attempted to rise, but the pain seared through my chest. “I was there, and I must have left about nine o’clock or after—”
She clucked at the tardiness of it.
“Yes, and I’m sorry about that, but it was such a pleasant evening, and the company was charming.
Miss Phillips sang and I accompanied her.
I was the last to leave, and to be honest, I was strolling home in a kind of lovesick daze, when I heard steps behind me, and then someone called out to me by name and I turned, and it was…
” Suddenly I realized that I needed not to mention Rufus Shap—not so much, I admit, to protect him as to protect myself in case someone should decide to hold him accountable.
“I didn’t know who it was,” I went on, “just…some ruffians. I don’t know why they picked on me.
” It is easy to lie to protect oneself, I realized.
“Perhaps someone who once worked at the mill—I don’t know,” I said.
“And—and, I don’t know what they had against me, or if it was just the drink, but without warning, they attacked me.
I lost consciousness until those other men who brought me home came along.
And I think they must have had a jug of rum that they poured over me to bring me back, for when I awoke, the smell was terribly strong. ”
She stared at me, shaking her head. “I don’t know what the world is coming to,” she said. “People used to know their places. Such a thing never happened to my John.”
“I have no doubt of it,” I said. “But Mr. Wilson was usually home with you, wasn’t he, not out courting pretty young women?”
“Not since I married him, you can be sure of that.”
“She is pretty—Miss Phillips—don’t you think?”
“And you, going to Jamaica, you suppose. What good can come of it?”
“Do you think she might go with me?”
“Heaven knows. But—”
“But what?”
“I should not have taken you to the balls,” she said with a sigh. “I did not think what would come of it; I just wanted to see you happy.”
“Don’t apologize; I’ve enjoyed it thoroughly,” I responded.
“Are you sure you want to go all that distance away?” she asked suddenly.
“My father has—”
“Your father!” she interrupted, surprising me, for she never interrupted anyone. “Your father! Do you have any idea what he will have you doing there, so far away?”
“No,” I admitted, “but I’m sure he has my best interests in mind.”
“Humph!” was all she said. And that was, as well, all that was said of the episode, except that the doctor was called, and after some poking and prodding, he affirmed a broken arm and probably broken ribs.
He bound up the arm and put plaster on my ribs and told me to stay home for a day or two.
We sent the message around to Mr. Landes and he notified David Wilson, and for a day Mrs. Wilson had another invalid in her house.
It was the next day before I remembered that I had planned to go to Epsom for the Derby in two days’ time.
Much as I wanted to go, I did not relish appearing in Carrot’s company and—worse, if it came to that—in Rowland’s, looking as if I had been on the losing end of a street brawl.
I had a discolored eye, a bandage on my arm, plaster on my ribs, and bruises all over me.
With much regret, I sent a short note to Carrot saying that I had been in an accident and was injured and could not manage a coach ride of that distance.
I could have kicked myself: If only I had fought back, I thought, though I knew I would have been no match for Rufus, who was much larger and stronger and no doubt used to street brawls.
The fact of my powerlessness against him disgusted me.
It was only after Derby Day that I received Carrot’s response:
Dear Jam,
I was annoyed with you at first; missing Derby Day for a second time seemed unimaginable to me, and for what seemed like a poor excuse.
And then I thought: perhaps Jam is much worse than he lets on.
I hope that is not the case: not an accident at the mill, I hope.
Not a missing limb or some such. Write soon, and let me know the truth of it, for my own peace of mind.
Your brother-in-arms,
Carrot
I held that letter in my hand, Carrot in my mind, torn by contrary feelings: shame at having overplayed my injuries, and relief and gratitude for his concern and affection.
We were indeed brothers-in-arms, and brothers in so many other ways.
We had grown up together in those four years at Black Hill—we had played at being soldiers and pirates and explorers; we had fought, argued, and shared a bed.
I responded immediately, downplaying my injuries a bit so that he did not think I was too badly hurt, and regretting most vociferously my not being at the Derby.
I even added that perhaps a visit to Lanham-Hall could be arranged if it were amenable to him.
It was a blatant hint for an invitation that, unfortunately, never came.
What did come, nearly the next day, was a letter from my father, addressed not to me, but to Mr. Landes:
My dear Landes—
It is high time for my son to be quit of Maysbeck Mill and his responsibilities there.
My plans require that he be with me at my residence in Liverpool by the tenth day of June.
I understand that a process for the selling of the mill is under way, and therefore I am sure that this will present no great difficulty to all involved.
I recognize that you have acted in the stead of Mr. John Wilson in many ways, and I am sure that it has been of benefit to my son. I hereby acknowledge that you and Mr. Wilson have satisfactorily fulfilled the arrangements that have been made in regard to him.
I remain,
George Howell Rochester, Esq.
Mr. Landes showed me the letter and watched closely as I read it, and I imagine he must have examined the expression on my face.
The tenth of June was less than a week away, not nearly enough time for me to do all that flooded into my mind: say my farewells to Miss Phillips and perhaps ask for her hand (for how could I do that at a distance, if I were to be sailing off to Jamaica soon?), and see Carrot once more, to say nothing of sorting through the belongings that I had accumulated in the past five years and deciding what I needed for the next phase of my life.
And, of course, I must say my farewells to Mr. and Mrs. Wilson and thank them for all that they had done for me, for they had, in all ways, stood in the stead of parents, and I was ever grateful to them for that.
As I was, indeed, to Mr. Landes himself, who had never contracted with my father to oversee my apprenticeship, but who had done so, nevertheless.
What could I ever say to thank him? For a moment I stood in silence, which Mr. Landes must have interpreted as reluctance.
“He is your father,” he said to me, “but you are capable of finding your own way now.”
I nodded, unsure what he was trying to say.
“Your life is yours. While I would never advise a young man to ignore his father, the time does come when a man must make his own decisions. If you do not want to go to Jamaica, you do not have to go.”
“I understand, sir,” I responded, “but to tell the truth, I have always had a great curiosity to see Jamaica. I think it would not disappoint me in the least if that is my future.”
“Well then,” he said, “I pray that you will be happy there.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said, and shook his hand.
“I shall not forget all you have done for me.” It seems now little enough to have said, and how different my life might have been if our conversation had not ended there.
However, that brief exchange did set me to thinking: Jamaica was indeed a very long way from England, and a very different place.
I would have to learn, I realized, what my own prospects were before I could approach Miss Phillips with a marriage proposal.
Still, I spent as much time with her in the next few days as I could manage, cementing—I hoped—our relationship.
I told her that I was to leave Maysbeck, and barely had the words left my lips when she gasped, her hand flying to her mouth.
“But you will be returning?” she asked.
“Not permanently, but I will return to see you, of course. Of course.”
“But where are you going? Is it so far away?”
“My father has many business interests. I do not yet know where I will be going, but, but…” I was stammering then, because I did not know how to go on.
“But…?” she whispered, anticipation spreading across her face. “But…?”
Gazing into her face, it was all I could do to refrain from asking for her hand right there on the spot, but how could I, when my future was so little known to me?
Instead, I stumbled around and said something completely meaningless, and she recovered her composure, but I lost mine, and I made my excuses shortly afterwards and left.
It was badly done, I knew, and yet I was not willing to ask for her hand when I was in no position to support a wife.
After that, I could not leave Maysbeck soon enough.
I did not see Miss Phillips again, but I did have conversations with Mrs. Wilson, who, knowing my inclinations, promised to keep an eye on Miss Phillips for me; I hugged her and we both wept, not knowing when we would see each other again.
I sat for hours with Mr. Wilson, who may or may not have known I was there, and on the ninth day of June, my luggage and I were on a stagecoach bound for Liverpool.