One evening I attended a tea given by Miss Alice Phillips. Over the preceding weeks, I had come to appreciate Alice more and more: she had a lovely singing voice and an intelligent mind. It was a pleasant event, six or eight of us gathered in her cozy parlor on a soft May evening. The curls of Alice’s red-gold hair framed a sweet and lively face, and as I played the piano and watched her sing, I wondered what she would think of Jamaica, if she had the daring to cross the sea for a new life with me.
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.”