Photoplay (Jul - Dec 1943)

THE CAST iward Rochester Orson Welles me Eyre Joan Fontaine dele Varens Margaret O'Brien V. Mason John Abbott ancne Ingram Hillary Brooke r. Rivers John Sutton race Poole Ethel Griffies I were waiting for the shuddering :y of torture that rang through the [all. I ran to the gallery. Suddenly the oor to the Old Wing swung open r>d there was Mr. Rochester, calmly xplaining that one of the maids had ad a nightmare, quietly sending his xcited guests back to their rooms. A few minutes later there was a light ip on my door. I went to iiim and at is gesture followed him down the hall ) the Old Wing. Then,' at the door, he topped. "Jane," he said, "what you see lay shock you, but I beg you, no mat;r what the appearance, you must rust me." I nodded wordlessly. He pushed open le door, and we went in. T WAS a large, square room, with walls of cold stone. At one side was bed with its curtains drawn and near le bed, half hidden by a torn and dirty ipestry, a small door. Without pausing, Mr. Rochester led le to the bed and drew aside one f the curtains. For one second the reath left my body — then, mindful f my promise, I fought and regained ontrol of myself. A man lay across the bed, unconcious and scarcely breathing. One of is sleeves was soaked with blood. It 'as the Mr. Mason who had come to 'hornfield a few hours before. My employer gave me no time to fonder. He thrust the candle into my and and quickly fetched water and a ponge. Ripping away the sodden shirt, e washed the man's wounded arm lean. Then he said: "Jane, I shall ave to leave you in this room with this entleman while I fetch a surgeon. You 'ill sponge the blood as I do now. If e comes to, you will not speak to him n any account! Do you understand?" "Yes, sir," I whispered. "Whatever happens, do not move om here. Whatever happens, do not pen a door, either door." He gave me the sponge and hurried > the door by which we had entered. e went out and I heard the key grate i the lock. For a moment, in a daze, I bathed Ir. Mason's wound, a jagged, ugly •ar in the flesh, as if by doing so could keep at bay the fear that lurked the dark corners of that vast room. ut hardly had Mr. Rochester's steps ied away when from behind the other door there burst a sound of such indescribable horror that if he had not bade me so sternly not to move I should have screamed and fled. It was a snarling noise, like the ravening of an untamed mongrel dog, and yet there was something human in it too. It rose to a peak of hatred and despair and then mingled with it there was the sound of a violent struggle and a sharp twang, like a snapped rope. An instant later the little door was shaken and battered. It strained ^nd quivered on its hinges under the assault of something — some embodiment of elemental fury. At any second it seemed as if the frail lock must give way and the door crash open. But still I sat, applying the sponge with trembling fingers to Mr. Mason's limp arm. I would not — could not — stir. "No matter what happens," he had said. Suddenly the commotion stopped and there was a heavy thud as if the creature had fallen, exhausted. After that, silence, utter and complete. |"\ AWN was filling in the narrow win^ dows of the room with gray when Mr. Rochester returned. With him he had a man who waved me aside and lifted Mr. Mason's head, passing a bottle of aromatic salts under his nostrils. I stood and watched, feeling battered and sore and terribly weary. After a moment Mr. Mason's eyes opened slowly. (Continued on page 93) 57