only then the friend died。“ his face fell。 ”and after that… i seemed to lose interest。 didn’t read the end。 i couldn’t see how it fitted after that。“ he shrugged off his puzzlement。 ”have you read it？ what happened to her in the end？ is it relevant？“
‘she falls in love with her employer。 his wife—she’s mad； lives in the house but secretly—tries to burn the house down； and jane goes away。 when she es back； the wife has died； and mr。 rochester is blind； and jane marries him。“
‘ah。“ his forehead wrinkled as he tried to puzzle it all out。 but he gave up。 ”no。 it doesn’t make sense； does it？ the beginning； perhaps。 the girl without the mother。 but after that… i wish someone could tell me what it means。 i wish there was someone who could just tell me the truth。“
he turned back to the torn…out page。 “probably it’s not the book that’s important at all。 perhaps it’s just this page。 perhaps it has some secret meaning。 look here—”
inside the back cover of his childhood recipe book were tightly packed columns and rows of numbers and letters written in a large； boyish hand。 “i used to think it was a code；” he explained。 “i tried to decipher it。 i tried the first letter of every word； the first of every line。 or the second。 then i tried replacing one letter for another。” he pointed to his various trials； eyes feverish； as though there was still a chance he might see something that had escaped him before。
i knew it was hopeless。
‘what about this？“ i picked up the next object and couldn’t help giving a shudder。 clearly it had been a feather once； but now it was a nasty； dirty…looking thing。 its oils dried up； the barbs had separated into stiff brown spikes along the cracked spine。
aurelius shrugged his shoulders and shook his head in helpless ignorance； and i dropped the feather with relief。
and then there was just one more thing。 “now this…” aurelius began； but he didn’t finish。 it was a scrap of paper； roughly torn； with a faded ink stain that might once have been a word。 i peered at it closely。
‘i think—“ aurelius stuttered； ”well； mrs。 love thought— we both agreed； in fact“—he looked at me in hope—”that it must be my name。“
he pointed。 “it got wet in the rain； but here； just here—” he led me ：o the window； gestured at me to hold the paper scrap up to the light。 ‘something like an a at the beginning。 and then an s。 just here； toward he end。 of course； it’s faded a bit； over the years； you have to look lard； but you can see it； can’t you？“
i stared at the stain。
‘can’t you？“
i made a vague motion with my head； neither nod nor shake。
‘you see！ it’s obvious when you know what you’re looking for； isn’t it？
i continued to look； but the phantom letters that he could see were invisible to my eye。
‘and that；“ he was saying； ”is how mrs。 love settled on aurelius。 though i might just as easily be alphonse； i suppose。“
he laughed at himself； sadly； uneasily； and turned away。 “the only other thing was the spoon。 but you’ve seen that。” he reached into his top pocket and took out the silver spoon i had seen at our first meeting； when we ate ginger cake while sitting on the giant cats flanking the steps of angelfield house。
‘and the bag itself；“ i wondered。 ”what kind of a bag is it？“
‘just a bag；“ he said vaguely。 he lifted it to his face and sniffed it delicately。 ”it used to smell of smoke； but not anymore。“ he passed it to me； and i bent my nose to it。 ”you see？ it’s faded now。“
aurelius opened the oven door and took out a tray of pale gold biscuits that he set to cool。 then he filled the kettle and prepared a tray。 cups and saucers； a sugar bowl； a milk jug and little plates。
‘you take this；“ he said； passing the tray to me。 he opened a door that showed a glimpse of a sitting room； old fy chairs and floral cushions。 ”make yourself at home。 i’ll bring the rest in a minute。“ he kept his back to me； head bowed as he washed his hands。 ”i’ll be with you when i’ve put these things away。“
i went into mrs。 love’s front room and sat in a chair by the fireplace； leaving him to stow his inheritance—his invaluable； indecipherable inheritance—safely away。
i left the house with something scratching at my mind。 was it something aurelius had said？ yes。 some echo or connection had vaguely appealed for my attention but had been swept away by the rest of his story。 it didn’t matter。 it would e back to me。
in the woods there is a clearing。 beneath it； the ground falls away steeply and is covered in patchy scrub before it levels out and there are trees again。 because of this； it provides an unexpected vantage point from which to view the house。 it was in this clearing that i stopped； on my way back from aurelius’s cottage。
the scene was bleak。 the house； or what remained of it； was ghostly。 a smudge of gray against a gray sky。 the upper stories on the left…hand side were all gone。 the ground floor remained； the door frame demarcated by its dark stone lintel and the steps that led up to it； but the door itself was gone。 it was not a day to be open to the elements； and i shivered for the half…dismantled house。 even the stone cats had abandoned it。 like the deer； they had taken themselves off out of the wet。 the right…hand side of the building was still largely intact； though to judge by the position of the crane it would be next to go。 was all that machinery really necessary？ i caught myself thinking。 for it looked as if the walls were simply dissolving in the rain； those stones still standing； pale and insubstantial as rice paper； seemed ready to melt away under my very eyes if i just stood there long enough。
my camera was slung around my neck。 i disentangled it from under my coat and raised it to my eyes。 was it possible to capture the evanescent appearance of the house through all this wetness？ i doubted it but was willing to try。
i was adjusting the long…distance lens when i caught a slight movement at the edge of the frame。 not my ghost。 the children were back。 they had seen something in the grass； were bending over it excitedly。 what was it？ a hedgehog？ a snake？ curious； i fine…tuned the focus to see more clearly。
one of the children reached into the long grass and lifted the discovery out of it。 it was a yellow builder’s hat。 with a delighted smile he pushed back his sou’wester—i could see it was the boy now—and placed the hat on his head。 stiff as a soldier he stood； chest out； head up； arms by his side； face intent with concentration to keep the too…large hat from slipping。
just as he struck his pose there came a small miracle。 a shaft of sun…light found its way through a gap in the cloud and fell upon the boy； illuminating him in his moment of glory。 i clicked the shutter and my photo was taken。 the boy in the hat； over his left shoulder a yellow keep out sign； and to his right； in the background； the house； a dismal smudge of gray。
the sun disappeared； and i took my eye off the children to wind the film and tuck my camera away in the dry。 when i looked back； the children were halfway down the drive。 his left hand in her right； they were whirling around and around as they approached the lodge gates； equal stride； equal weight； each one a perfect counterbalance to the other。 with the tails of their mackintoshes flaring behind them； feet barely skimming the ground； they looked as if they were about to lift into the air and fly。
jane eyre and the furnace
when i went back to yorkshire； i received no explanation for my banishment。 judith greeted me with a constrained smile。 the grayness of the daylight had crept under her skin； collected in shadows under her eyes。 she pulled the curtains back a few more inches in my sitting room； exposing a bit more window； but it made no difference to the gloom。 “blasted weather；” she exclaimed； and i thought she seemed at the end of her tether。
though it was only days； it felt like an eternity。 often night； but never quite day； the darkening effect of the heavy sky threw us all out of time。 miss winter arrived late to one of our morning meetings。 she； too； was pale…faced； i didn’t know whether it was the memory of recent pain that put the darkness in her eyes or something else。
‘i propose a more flexible timetable for our meetings；“ she said when she was settled in her circle of light。
‘of course。“ i knew of her bad nights from my interview with the doctor； could see when the medication she took to control her pain was wearing off or had not yet taken full effect。 and so we agreed that instead of presenting myself at nine every morning； i would wait instead for a tap at my door。
at first the tap came always between nine and ten。 then it drifted to later。 after the doctor altered her dosage； she took to asking for me early in the mornings； but our meetings were shorter； then we fell into a habit of meeting twice or three times a day； at random times。 sometimes she called me when she felt well and spoke at length； and in detail。 at other times she called me when she was in pain。 then it was not so much the pany she wanted as the anesthetic qualities of the storytelling itself。
the end of my nine o’clocks was another anchor in time gon