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  • CHAPTER XXI

  • Presentiments are strange things! and so are sympathies; and so are signs; and the

  • three combined make one mystery to which humanity has not yet found the key.

  • I never laughed at presentiments in my life, because I have had strange ones of my

  • own.

  • Sympathies, I believe, exist (for instance, between far-distant, long-absent, wholly

  • estranged relatives asserting, notwithstanding their alienation, the unity

  • of the source to which each traces his

  • origin) whose workings baffle mortal comprehension.

  • And signs, for aught we know, may be but the sympathies of Nature with man.

  • When I was a little girl, only six years old, I one night heard Bessie Leaven say to

  • Martha Abbot that she had been dreaming about a little child; and that to dream of

  • children was a sure sign of trouble, either to one's self or one's kin.

  • The saying might have worn out of my memory, had not a circumstance immediately

  • followed which served indelibly to fix it there.

  • The next day Bessie was sent for home to the deathbed of her little sister.

  • Of late I had often recalled this saying and this incident; for during the past week

  • scarcely a night had gone over my couch that had not brought with it a dream of an

  • infant, which I sometimes hushed in my

  • arms, sometimes dandled on my knee, sometimes watched playing with daisies on a

  • lawn, or again, dabbling its hands in running water.

  • It was a wailing child this night, and a laughing one the next: now it nestled close

  • to me, and now it ran from me; but whatever mood the apparition evinced, whatever

  • aspect it wore, it failed not for seven

  • successive nights to meet me the moment I entered the land of slumber.

  • I did not like this iteration of one idea-- this strange recurrence of one image, and I

  • grew nervous as bedtime approached and the hour of the vision drew near.

  • It was from companionship with this baby- phantom I had been roused on that moonlight

  • night when I heard the cry; and it was on the afternoon of the day following I was

  • summoned downstairs by a message that some one wanted me in Mrs. Fairfax's room.

  • On repairing thither, I found a man waiting for me, having the appearance of a

  • gentleman's servant: he was dressed in deep mourning, and the hat he held in his hand

  • was surrounded with a crape band.

  • "I daresay you hardly remember me, Miss," he said, rising as I entered; "but my name

  • is Leaven: I lived coachman with Mrs. Reed when you were at Gateshead, eight or nine

  • years since, and I live there still."

  • "Oh, Robert! how do you do? I remember you very well: you used to give

  • me a ride sometimes on Miss Georgiana's bay pony.

  • And how is Bessie?

  • You are married to Bessie?" "Yes, Miss: my wife is very hearty, thank

  • you; she brought me another little one about two months since--we have three now--

  • and both mother and child are thriving."

  • "And are the family well at the house, Robert?"

  • "I am sorry I can't give you better news of them, Miss: they are very badly at present-

  • -in great trouble."

  • "I hope no one is dead," I said, glancing at his black dress.

  • He too looked down at the crape round his hat and replied--

  • "Mr. John died yesterday was a week, at his chambers in London."

  • "Mr. John?" "Yes."

  • "And how does his mother bear it?"

  • "Why, you see, Miss Eyre, it is not a common mishap: his life has been very wild:

  • these last three years he gave himself up to strange ways, and his death was

  • shocking."

  • "I heard from Bessie he was not doing well."

  • "Doing well!

  • He could not do worse: he ruined his health and his estate amongst the worst men and

  • the worst women.

  • He got into debt and into jail: his mother helped him out twice, but as soon as he was

  • free he returned to his old companions and habits.

  • His head was not strong: the knaves he lived amongst fooled him beyond anything I

  • ever heard.

  • He came down to Gateshead about three weeks ago and wanted missis to give up all to

  • him.

  • Missis refused: her means have long been much reduced by his extravagance; so he

  • went back again, and the next news was that he was dead.

  • How he died, God knows!--they say he killed himself."

  • I was silent: the things were frightful. Robert Leaven resumed--

  • "Missis had been out of health herself for some time: she had got very stout, but was

  • not strong with it; and the loss of money and fear of poverty were quite breaking her

  • down.

  • The information about Mr. John's death and the manner of it came too suddenly: it

  • brought on a stroke.

  • She was three days without speaking; but last Tuesday she seemed rather better: she

  • appeared as if she wanted to say something, and kept making signs to my wife and

  • mumbling.

  • It was only yesterday morning, however, that Bessie understood she was pronouncing

  • your name; and at last she made out the words, 'Bring Jane--fetch Jane Eyre: I want

  • to speak to her.'

  • Bessie is not sure whether she is in her right mind, or means anything by the words;

  • but she told Miss Reed and Miss Georgiana, and advised them to send for you.

  • The young ladies put it off at first; but their mother grew so restless, and said,

  • 'Jane, Jane,' so many times, that at last they consented.

  • I left Gateshead yesterday: and if you can get ready, Miss, I should like to take you

  • back with me early to-morrow morning." "Yes, Robert, I shall be ready: it seems to

  • me that I ought to go."

  • "I think so too, Miss. Bessie said she was sure you would not

  • refuse: but I suppose you will have to ask leave before you can get off?"

  • "Yes; and I will do it now;" and having directed him to the servants' hall, and

  • recommended him to the care of John's wife, and the attentions of John himself, I went

  • in search of Mr. Rochester.

  • He was not in any of the lower rooms; he was not in the yard, the stables, or the

  • grounds.

  • I asked Mrs. Fairfax if she had seen him;-- yes: she believed he was playing billiards

  • with Miss Ingram.

  • To the billiard- room I hastened: the click of balls and the hum of voices resounded

  • thence; Mr. Rochester, Miss Ingram, the two Misses Eshton, and their admirers, were all

  • busied in the game.

  • It required some courage to disturb so interesting a party; my errand, however,

  • was one I could not defer, so I approached the master where he stood at Miss Ingram's

  • side.

  • She turned as I drew near, and looked at me haughtily: her eyes seemed to demand, "What

  • can the creeping creature want now?" and when I said, in a low voice, "Mr.

  • Rochester," she made a movement as if tempted to order me away.

  • I remember her appearance at the moment--it was very graceful and very striking: she

  • wore a morning robe of sky-blue crape; a gauzy azure scarf was twisted in her hair.

  • She had been all animation with the game, and irritated pride did not lower the

  • expression of her haughty lineaments.

  • "Does that person want you?" she inquired of Mr. Rochester; and Mr. Rochester turned

  • to see who the "person" was.

  • He made a curious grimace--one of his strange and equivocal demonstrations--threw

  • down his cue and followed me from the room.

  • "Well, Jane?" he said, as he rested his back against the schoolroom door, which he

  • had shut. "If you please, sir, I want leave of

  • absence for a week or two."

  • "What to do?--where to go?" "To see a sick lady who has sent for me."

  • "What sick lady?--where does she live?" "At Gateshead; in ---shire."

  • "-shire?

  • That is a hundred miles off! Who may she be that sends for people to see

  • her that distance?" "Her name is Reed, sir--Mrs. Reed."

  • "Reed of Gateshead?

  • There was a Reed of Gateshead, a magistrate."

  • "It is his widow, sir." "And what have you to do with her?

  • How do you know her?"

  • "Mr. Reed was my uncle--my mother's brother."

  • "The deuce he was! You never told me that before: you always

  • said you had no relations."

  • "None that would own me, sir. Mr. Reed is dead, and his wife cast me

  • off." "Why?"

  • "Because I was poor, and burdensome, and she disliked me."

  • "But Reed left children?--you must have cousins?

  • Sir George Lynn was talking of a Reed of Gateshead yesterday, who, he said, was one

  • of the veriest rascals on town; and Ingram was mentioning a Georgiana Reed of the same

  • place, who was much admired for her beauty a season or two ago in London."

  • "John Reed is dead, too, sir: he ruined himself and half-ruined his family, and is

  • supposed to have committed suicide.

  • The news so shocked his mother that it brought on an apoplectic attack."

  • "And what good can you do her? Nonsense, Jane!

  • I would never think of running a hundred miles to see an old lady who will, perhaps,

  • be dead before you reach her: besides, you say she cast you off."

  • "Yes, sir, but that is long ago; and when her circumstances were very different: I

  • could not be easy to neglect her wishes now."

  • "How long will you stay?"

  • "As short a time as possible, sir." "Promise me only to stay a week--"

  • "I had better not pass my word: I might be obliged to break it."

  • "At all events you will come back: you will not be induced under any pretext to

  • take up a permanent residence with her?" "Oh, no!

  • I shall certainly return if all be well."

  • "And who goes with you? You don't travel a hundred miles alone."

  • "No, sir, she has sent her coachman." "A person to be trusted?"

  • "Yes, sir, he has lived ten years in the family."

  • Mr. Rochester meditated. "When do you wish to go?"

  • "Early to-morrow morning, sir."

  • "Well, you must have some money; you can't travel without money, and I daresay you

  • have not much: I have given you no salary yet.

  • How much have you in the world, Jane?" he asked, smiling.

  • I drew out my purse; a meagre thing it was. "Five shillings, sir."

  • He took the purse, poured the hoard into his palm, and chuckled over it as if its

  • scantiness amused him.

  • Soon he produced his pocket-book: "Here," said he, offering me a note; it was fifty

  • pounds, and he owed me but fifteen. I told him I had no change.

  • "I don't want change; you know that.

  • Take your wages." I declined accepting more than was my due.

  • He scowled at first; then, as if recollecting something, he said--

  • "Right, right!

  • Better not give you all now: you would, perhaps, stay away three months if you had

  • fifty pounds. There are ten; is it not plenty?"

  • "Yes, sir, but now you owe me five."

  • "Come back for it, then; I am your banker for forty pounds."

  • "Mr. Rochester, I may as well mention another matter of business to you while I

  • have the opportunity."

  • "Matter of business? I am curious to hear it."

  • "You have as good as informed me, sir, that you are going shortly to be married?"

  • "Yes; what then?"

  • "In that case, sir, Adele ought to go to school: I am sure you will perceive the

  • necessity of it."

  • "To get her out of my bride's way, who might otherwise walk over her rather too

  • emphatically? There's sense in the suggestion; not a

  • doubt of it.

  • Adele, as you say, must go to school; and you, of course, must march straight to--the

  • devil?" "I hope not, sir; but I must seek another

  • situation somewhere."

  • "In course!" he exclaimed, with a twang of voice and a distortion of features equally

  • fantastic and ludicrous. He looked at me some minutes.

  • "And old Madam Reed, or the Misses, her daughters, will be solicited by you to seek

  • a place, I suppose?"

  • "No, sir; I am not on such terms with my relatives as would justify me in asking

  • favours of them--but I shall advertise." "You shall walk up the pyramids of Egypt!"

  • he growled.

  • "At your peril you advertise! I wish I had only offered you a sovereign

  • instead of ten pounds. Give me back nine pounds, Jane; I've a use

  • for it."

  • "And so have I, sir," I returned, putting my hands and my purse behind me.

  • "I could not spare the money on any account."

  • "Little niggard!" said he, "refusing me a pecuniary request!

  • Give me five pounds, Jane." "Not five shillings, sir; nor five pence."

  • "Just let me look at the cash."

  • "No, sir; you are not to be trusted." "Jane!"

  • "Sir?" "Promise me one thing."

  • "I'll promise you anything, sir, that I think I am likely to perform."

  • "Not to advertise: and to trust this quest of a situation to me.

  • I'll find you one in time."

  • "I shall be glad so to do, sir, if you, in your turn, will promise that I and Adele

  • shall be both safe out of the house before your bride enters it."

  • "Very well! very well!

  • I'll pledge my word on it. You go to-morrow, then?"

  • "Yes, sir; early." "Shall you come down to the drawing-room

  • after dinner?"

  • "No, sir, I must prepare for the journey." "Then you and I must bid good-bye for a

  • little while?" "I suppose so, sir."

  • "And how do people perform that ceremony of parting, Jane?

  • Teach me; I'm not quite up to it." "They say, Farewell, or any other form they

  • prefer."

  • "Then say it." "Farewell, Mr. Rochester, for the present."

  • "What must I say?" "The same, if you like, sir."

  • "Farewell, Miss Eyre, for the present; is that all?"

  • "Yes?" "It seems stingy, to my notions, and dry,

  • and unfriendly.

  • I should like something else: a little addition to the rite.

  • If one shook hands, for instance; but no-- that would not content me either.

  • So you'll do no more than say Farewell, Jane?"

  • "It is enough, sir: as much good-will may be conveyed in one hearty word as in many."

  • "Very likely; but it is blank and cool-- 'Farewell.'"

  • "How long is he going to stand with his back against that door?"

  • I asked myself; "I want to commence my packing."

  • The dinner-bell rang, and suddenly away he bolted, without another syllable: I saw him

  • no more during the day, and was off before he had risen in the morning.

  • I reached the lodge at Gateshead about five o'clock in the afternoon of the first of

  • May: I stepped in there before going up to the hall.

  • It was very clean and neat: the ornamental windows were hung with little white

  • curtains; the floor was spotless; the grate and fire-irons were burnished bright, and

  • the fire burnt clear.

  • Bessie sat on the hearth, nursing her last- born, and Robert and his sister played

  • quietly in a corner. "Bless you!--I knew you would come!"

  • exclaimed Mrs. Leaven, as I entered.

  • "Yes, Bessie," said I, after I had kissed her; "and I trust I am not too late.

  • How is Mrs. Reed?--Alive still, I hope." "Yes, she is alive; and more sensible and

  • collected than she was.

  • The doctor says she may linger a week or two yet; but he hardly thinks she will

  • finally recover." "Has she mentioned me lately?"

  • "She was talking of you only this morning, and wishing you would come, but she is

  • sleeping now, or was ten minutes ago, when I was up at the house.

  • She generally lies in a kind of lethargy all the afternoon, and wakes up about six

  • or seven. Will you rest yourself here an hour, Miss,

  • and then I will go up with you?"

  • Robert here entered, and Bessie laid her sleeping child in the cradle and went to

  • welcome him: afterwards she insisted on my taking off my bonnet and having some tea;

  • for she said I looked pale and tired.

  • I was glad to accept her hospitality; and I submitted to be relieved of my travelling

  • garb just as passively as I used to let her undress me when a child.

  • Old times crowded fast back on me as I watched her bustling about--setting out the

  • tea-tray with her best china, cutting bread and butter, toasting a tea-cake, and,

  • between whiles, giving little Robert or

  • Jane an occasional tap or push, just as she used to give me in former days.

  • Bessie had retained her quick temper as well as her light foot and good looks.

  • Tea ready, I was going to approach the table; but she desired me to sit still,

  • quite in her old peremptory tones.

  • I must be served at the fireside, she said; and she placed before me a little round

  • stand with my cup and a plate of toast, absolutely as she used to accommodate me

  • with some privately purloined dainty on a

  • nursery chair: and I smiled and obeyed her as in bygone days.

  • She wanted to know if I was happy at Thornfield Hall, and what sort of a person

  • the mistress was; and when I told her there was only a master, whether he was a nice

  • gentleman, and if I liked him.

  • I told her he was rather an ugly man, but quite a gentleman; and that he treated me

  • kindly, and I was content.

  • Then I went on to describe to her the gay company that had lately been staying at the

  • house; and to these details Bessie listened with interest: they were precisely of the

  • kind she relished.

  • In such conversation an hour was soon gone: Bessie restored to me my bonnet, &c., and,

  • accompanied by her, I quitted the lodge for the hall.

  • It was also accompanied by her that I had, nearly nine years ago, walked down the path

  • I was now ascending.

  • On a dark, misty, raw morning in January, I had left a hostile roof with a desperate

  • and embittered heart--a sense of outlawry and almost of reprobation--to seek the

  • chilly harbourage of Lowood: that bourne so far away and unexplored.

  • The same hostile roof now again rose before me: my prospects were doubtful yet; and I

  • had yet an aching heart.

  • I still felt as a wanderer on the face of the earth; but I experienced firmer trust

  • in myself and my own powers, and less withering dread of oppression.

  • The gaping wound of my wrongs, too, was now quite healed; and the flame of resentment

  • extinguished.

  • "You shall go into the breakfast-room first," said Bessie, as she preceded me

  • through the hall; "the young ladies will be there."

  • In another moment I was within that apartment.

  • There was every article of furniture looking just as it did on the morning I was

  • first introduced to Mr. Brocklehurst: the very rug he had stood upon still covered

  • the hearth.

  • Glancing at the bookcases, I thought I could distinguish the two volumes of

  • Bewick's British Birds occupying their old place on the third shelf, and Gulliver's

  • Travels and the Arabian Nights ranged just above.

  • The inanimate objects were not changed; but the living things had altered past

  • recognition.

  • Two young ladies appeared before me; one very tall, almost as tall as Miss Ingram--

  • very thin too, with a sallow face and severe mien.

  • There was something ascetic in her look, which was augmented by the extreme

  • plainness of a straight-skirted, black, stuff dress, a starched linen collar, hair

  • combed away from the temples, and the nun-

  • like ornament of a string of ebony beads and a crucifix.

  • This I felt sure was Eliza, though I could trace little resemblance to her former self

  • in that elongated and colourless visage.

  • The other was as certainly Georgiana: but not the Georgiana I remembered--the slim

  • and fairy-like girl of eleven.

  • This was a full-blown, very plump damsel, fair as waxwork, with handsome and regular

  • features, languishing blue eyes, and ringleted yellow hair.

  • The hue of her dress was black too; but its fashion was so different from her sister's-

  • -so much more flowing and becoming--it looked as stylish as the other's looked

  • puritanical.

  • In each of the sisters there was one trait of the mother--and only one; the thin and

  • pallid elder daughter had her parent's Cairngorm eye: the blooming and luxuriant

  • younger girl had her contour of jaw and

  • chin--perhaps a little softened, but still imparting an indescribable hardness to the

  • countenance otherwise so voluptuous and buxom.

  • Both ladies, as I advanced, rose to welcome me, and both addressed me by the name of

  • "Miss Eyre."

  • Eliza's greeting was delivered in a short, abrupt voice, without a smile; and then she

  • sat down again, fixed her eyes on the fire, and seemed to forget me.

  • Georgiana added to her "How d'ye do?" several commonplaces about my journey, the

  • weather, and so on, uttered in rather a drawling tone: and accompanied by sundry

  • side-glances that measured me from head to

  • foot--now traversing the folds of my drab merino pelisse, and now lingering on the

  • plain trimming of my cottage bonnet.

  • Young ladies have a remarkable way of letting you know that they think you a

  • "quiz" without actually saying the words.

  • A certain superciliousness of look, coolness of manner, nonchalance of tone,

  • express fully their sentiments on the point, without committing them by any

  • positive rudeness in word or deed.

  • A sneer, however, whether covert or open, had now no longer that power over me it

  • once possessed: as I sat between my cousins, I was surprised to find how easy I

  • felt under the total neglect of the one and

  • the semi- sarcastic attentions of the other--Eliza did not mortify, nor Georgiana

  • ruffle me.

  • The fact was, I had other things to think about; within the last few months feelings

  • had been stirred in me so much more potent than any they could raise--pains and

  • pleasures so much more acute and exquisite

  • had been excited than any it was in their power to inflict or bestow--that their airs

  • gave me no concern either for good or bad. "How is Mrs. Reed?"

  • I asked soon, looking calmly at Georgiana, who thought fit to bridle at the direct

  • address, as if it were an unexpected liberty.

  • "Mrs. Reed?

  • Ah! mama, you mean; she is extremely poorly: I doubt if you can see her to-

  • night."

  • "If," said I, "you would just step upstairs and tell her I am come, I should be much

  • obliged to you." Georgiana almost started, and she opened

  • her blue eyes wild and wide.

  • "I know she had a particular wish to see me," I added, "and I would not defer

  • attending to her desire longer than is absolutely necessary."

  • "Mama dislikes being disturbed in an evening," remarked Eliza.

  • I soon rose, quietly took off my bonnet and gloves, uninvited, and said I would just

  • step out to Bessie--who was, I dared say, in the kitchen--and ask her to ascertain

  • whether Mrs. Reed was disposed to receive me or not to- night.

  • I went, and having found Bessie and despatched her on my errand, I proceeded to

  • take further measures.

  • It had heretofore been my habit always to shrink from arrogance: received as I had

  • been to-day, I should, a year ago, have resolved to quit Gateshead the very next

  • morning; now, it was disclosed to me all at once that that would be a foolish plan.

  • I had taken a journey of a hundred miles to see my aunt, and I must stay with her till

  • she was better--or dead: as to her daughters' pride or folly, I must put it on

  • one side, make myself independent of it.

  • So I addressed the housekeeper; asked her to show me a room, told her I should

  • probably be a visitor here for a week or two, had my trunk conveyed to my chamber,

  • and followed it thither myself: I met Bessie on the landing.

  • "Missis is awake," said she; "I have told her you are here: come and let us see if

  • she will know you."

  • I did not need to be guided to the well- known room, to which I had so often been

  • summoned for chastisement or reprimand in former days.

  • I hastened before Bessie; I softly opened the door: a shaded light stood on the

  • table, for it was now getting dark.

  • There was the great four-post bed with amber hangings as of old; there the toilet-

  • table, the armchair, and the footstool, at which I had a hundred times been sentenced

  • to kneel, to ask pardon for offences by me uncommitted.

  • I looked into a certain corner near, half- expecting to see the slim outline of a once

  • dreaded switch which used to lurk there, waiting to leap out imp-like and lace my

  • quivering palm or shrinking neck.

  • I approached the bed; I opened the curtains and leant over the high-piled pillows.

  • Well did I remember Mrs. Reed's face, and I eagerly sought the familiar image.

  • It is a happy thing that time quells the longings of vengeance and hushes the

  • promptings of rage and aversion.

  • I had left this woman in bitterness and hate, and I came back to her now with no

  • other emotion than a sort of ruth for her great sufferings, and a strong yearning to

  • forget and forgive all injuries--to be reconciled and clasp hands in amity.

  • The well-known face was there: stern, relentless as ever--there was that peculiar

  • eye which nothing could melt, and the somewhat raised, imperious, despotic

  • eyebrow.

  • How often had it lowered on me menace and hate! and how the recollection of

  • childhood's terrors and sorrows revived as I traced its harsh line now!

  • And yet I stooped down and kissed her: she looked at me.

  • "Is this Jane Eyre?" she said. "Yes, Aunt Reed.

  • How are you, dear aunt?"

  • I had once vowed that I would never call her aunt again: I thought it no sin to

  • forget and break that vow now.

  • My fingers had fastened on her hand which lay outside the sheet: had she pressed mine

  • kindly, I should at that moment have experienced true pleasure.

  • But unimpressionable natures are not so soon softened, nor are natural antipathies

  • so readily eradicated.

  • Mrs. Reed took her hand away, and, turning her face rather from me, she remarked that

  • the night was warm.

  • Again she regarded me so icily, I felt at once that her opinion of me--her feeling

  • towards me--was unchanged and unchangeable.

  • I knew by her stony eye--opaque to tenderness, indissoluble to tears--that she

  • was resolved to consider me bad to the last; because to believe me good would give

  • her no generous pleasure: only a sense of mortification.

  • I felt pain, and then I felt ire; and then I felt a determination to subdue her--to be

  • her mistress in spite both of her nature and her will.

  • My tears had risen, just as in childhood: I ordered them back to their source.

  • I brought a chair to the bed-head: I sat down and leaned over the pillow.

  • "You sent for me," I said, "and I am here; and it is my intention to stay till I see

  • how you get on." "Oh, of course!

  • You have seen my daughters?"

  • "Yes." "Well, you may tell them I wish you to stay

  • till I can talk some things over with you I have on my mind: to-night it is too late,

  • and I have a difficulty in recalling them.

  • But there was something I wished to say-- let me see--"

  • The wandering look and changed utterance told what wreck had taken place in her once

  • vigorous frame.

  • Turning restlessly, she drew the bedclothes round her; my elbow, resting on a corner of

  • the quilt, fixed it down: she was at once irritated.

  • "Sit up!" said she; "don't annoy me with holding the clothes fast.

  • Are you Jane Eyre?" "I am Jane Eyre."

  • "I have had more trouble with that child than any one would believe.

  • Such a burden to be left on my hands--and so much annoyance as she caused me, daily

  • and hourly, with her incomprehensible disposition, and her sudden starts of

  • temper, and her continual, unnatural watchings of one's movements!

  • I declare she talked to me once like something mad, or like a fiend--no child

  • ever spoke or looked as she did; I was glad to get her away from the house.

  • What did they do with her at Lowood?

  • The fever broke out there, and many of the pupils died.

  • She, however, did not die: but I said she did--I wish she had died!"

  • "A strange wish, Mrs. Reed; why do you hate her so?"

  • "I had a dislike to her mother always; for she was my husband's only sister, and a

  • great favourite with him: he opposed the family's disowning her when she made her

  • low marriage; and when news came of her death, he wept like a simpleton.

  • He would send for the baby; though I entreated him rather to put it out to nurse

  • and pay for its maintenance.

  • I hated it the first time I set my eyes on it--a sickly, whining, pining thing!

  • It would wail in its cradle all night long- -not screaming heartily like any other

  • child, but whimpering and moaning.

  • Reed pitied it; and he used to nurse it and notice it as if it had been his own: more,

  • indeed, than he ever noticed his own at that age.

  • He would try to make my children friendly to the little beggar: the darlings could

  • not bear it, and he was angry with them when they showed their dislike.

  • In his last illness, he had it brought continually to his bedside; and but an hour

  • before he died, he bound me by vow to keep the creature.

  • I would as soon have been charged with a pauper brat out of a workhouse: but he was

  • weak, naturally weak.

  • John does not at all resemble his father, and I am glad of it: John is like me and

  • like my brothers--he is quite a Gibson. Oh, I wish he would cease tormenting me

  • with letters for money?

  • I have no more money to give him: we are getting poor.

  • I must send away half the servants and shut up part of the house; or let it off.

  • I can never submit to do that--yet how are we to get on?

  • Two-thirds of my income goes in paying the interest of mortgages.

  • John gambles dreadfully, and always loses-- poor boy!

  • He is beset by sharpers: John is sunk and degraded--his look is frightful--I feel

  • ashamed for him when I see him."

  • She was getting much excited. "I think I had better leave her now," said

  • I to Bessie, who stood on the other side of the bed.

  • "Perhaps you had, Miss: but she often talks in this way towards night--in the morning

  • she is calmer." I rose.

  • "Stop!" exclaimed Mrs. Reed, "there is another thing I wished to say.

  • He threatens me--he continually threatens me with his own death, or mine: and I dream

  • sometimes that I see him laid out with a great wound in his throat, or with a

  • swollen and blackened face.

  • I am come to a strange pass: I have heavy troubles.

  • What is to be done? How is the money to be had?"

  • Bessie now endeavoured to persuade her to take a sedative draught: she succeeded with

  • difficulty. Soon after, Mrs. Reed grew more composed,

  • and sank into a dozing state.

  • I then left her. More than ten days elapsed before I had

  • again any conversation with her.

  • She continued either delirious or lethargic; and the doctor forbade

  • everything which could painfully excite her.

  • Meantime, I got on as well as I could with Georgiana and Eliza.

  • They were very cold, indeed, at first.

  • Eliza would sit half the day sewing, reading, or writing, and scarcely utter a

  • word either to me or her sister.

  • Georgiana would chatter nonsense to her canary bird by the hour, and take no notice

  • of me.

  • But I was determined not to seem at a loss for occupation or amusement: I had brought

  • my drawing materials with me, and they served me for both.

  • Provided with a case of pencils, and some sheets of paper, I used to take a seat

  • apart from them, near the window, and busy myself in sketching fancy vignettes,

  • representing any scene that happened

  • momentarily to shape itself in the ever- shifting kaleidoscope of imagination: a

  • glimpse of sea between two rocks; the rising moon, and a ship crossing its disk;

  • a group of reeds and water-flags, and a

  • naiad's head, crowned with lotus- flowers, rising out of them; an elf sitting in a

  • hedge-sparrow's nest, under a wreath of hawthorn-bloom.

  • One morning I fell to sketching a face: what sort of a face it was to be, I did not

  • care or know. I took a soft black pencil, gave it a broad

  • point, and worked away.

  • Soon I had traced on the paper a broad and prominent forehead and a square lower

  • outline of visage: that contour gave me pleasure; my fingers proceeded actively to

  • fill it with features.

  • Strongly-marked horizontal eyebrows must be traced under that brow; then followed,

  • naturally, a well-defined nose, with a straight ridge and full nostrils; then a

  • flexible-looking mouth, by no means narrow;

  • then a firm chin, with a decided cleft down the middle of it: of course, some black

  • whiskers were wanted, and some jetty hair, tufted on the temples, and waved above the

  • forehead.

  • Now for the eyes: I had left them to the last, because they required the most

  • careful working.

  • I drew them large; I shaped them well: the eyelashes I traced long and sombre; the

  • irids lustrous and large.

  • "Good! but not quite the thing," I thought, as I surveyed the effect: "they want more

  • force and spirit;" and I wrought the shades blacker, that the lights might flash more

  • brilliantly--a happy touch or two secured success.

  • There, I had a friend's face under my gaze; and what did it signify that those young

  • ladies turned their backs on me?

  • I looked at it; I smiled at the speaking likeness: I was absorbed and content.

  • "Is that a portrait of some one you know?" asked Eliza, who had approached me

  • unnoticed.

  • I responded that it was merely a fancy head, and hurried it beneath the other

  • sheets. Of course, I lied: it was, in fact, a very

  • faithful representation of Mr. Rochester.

  • But what was that to her, or to any one but myself?

  • Georgiana also advanced to look. The other drawings pleased her much, but

  • she called that "an ugly man."

  • They both seemed surprised at my skill. I offered to sketch their portraits; and

  • each, in turn, sat for a pencil outline. Then Georgiana produced her album.

  • I promised to contribute a water-colour drawing: this put her at once into good

  • humour. She proposed a walk in the grounds.

  • Before we had been out two hours, we were deep in a confidential conversation: she

  • had favoured me with a description of the brilliant winter she had spent in London

  • two seasons ago--of the admiration she had

  • there excited--the attention she had received; and I even got hints of the

  • titled conquest she had made.

  • In the course of the afternoon and evening these hints were enlarged on: various soft

  • conversations were reported, and sentimental scenes represented; and, in

  • short, a volume of a novel of fashionable

  • life was that day improvised by her for my benefit.

  • The communications were renewed from day to day: they always ran on the same theme--

  • herself, her loves, and woes.

  • It was strange she never once adverted either to her mother's illness, or her

  • brother's death, or the present gloomy state of the family prospects.

  • Her mind seemed wholly taken up with reminiscences of past gaiety, and

  • aspirations after dissipations to come. She passed about five minutes each day in

  • her mother's sick-room, and no more.

  • Eliza still spoke little: she had evidently no time to talk.

  • I never saw a busier person than she seemed to be; yet it was difficult to say what she

  • did: or rather, to discover any result of her diligence.

  • She had an alarm to call her up early.

  • I know not how she occupied herself before breakfast, but after that meal she divided

  • her time into regular portions, and each hour had its allotted task.

  • Three times a day she studied a little book, which I found, on inspection, was a

  • Common Prayer Book.

  • I asked her once what was the great attraction of that volume, and she said,

  • "the Rubric."

  • Three hours she gave to stitching, with gold thread, the border of a square crimson

  • cloth, almost large enough for a carpet.

  • In answer to my inquiries after the use of this article, she informed me it was a

  • covering for the altar of a new church lately erected near Gateshead.

  • Two hours she devoted to her diary; two to working by herself in the kitchen-garden;

  • and one to the regulation of her accounts. She seemed to want no company; no

  • conversation.

  • I believe she was happy in her way: this routine sufficed for her; and nothing

  • annoyed her so much as the occurrence of any incident which forced her to vary its

  • clockwork regularity.

  • She told me one evening, when more disposed to be communicative than usual, that John's

  • conduct, and the threatened ruin of the family, had been a source of profound

  • affliction to her: but she had now, she

  • said, settled her mind, and formed her resolution.

  • Her own fortune she had taken care to secure; and when her mother died--and it

  • was wholly improbable, she tranquilly remarked, that she should either recover or

  • linger long--she would execute a long-

  • cherished project: seek a retirement where punctual habits would be permanently

  • secured from disturbance, and place safe barriers between herself and a frivolous

  • world.

  • I asked if Georgiana would accompany her. "Of course not.

  • Georgiana and she had nothing in common: they never had had.

  • She would not be burdened with her society for any consideration.

  • Georgiana should take her own course; and she, Eliza, would take hers."

  • Georgiana, when not unburdening her heart to me, spent most of her time in lying on

  • the sofa, fretting about the dulness of the house, and wishing over and over again that

  • her aunt Gibson would send her an invitation up to town.

  • "It would be so much better," she said, "if she could only get out of the way for a

  • month or two, till all was over."

  • I did not ask what she meant by "all being over," but I suppose she referred to the

  • expected decease of her mother and the gloomy sequel of funeral rites.

  • Eliza generally took no more notice of her sister's indolence and complaints than if

  • no such murmuring, lounging object had been before her.

  • One day, however, as she put away her account-book and unfolded her embroidery,

  • she suddenly took her up thus--

  • "Georgiana, a more vain and absurd animal than you was certainly never allowed to

  • cumber the earth. You had no right to be born, for you make

  • no use of life.

  • Instead of living for, in, and with yourself, as a reasonable being ought, you

  • seek only to fasten your feebleness on some other person's strength: if no one can be

  • found willing to burden her or himself with

  • such a fat, weak, puffy, useless thing, you cry out that you are ill-treated,

  • neglected, miserable.

  • Then, too, existence for you must be a scene of continual change and excitement,

  • or else the world is a dungeon: you must be admired, you must be courted, you must be

  • flattered--you must have music, dancing, and society--or you languish, you die away.

  • Have you no sense to devise a system which will make you independent of all efforts,

  • and all wills, but your own?

  • Take one day; share it into sections; to each section apportion its task: leave no

  • stray unemployed quarters of an hour, ten minutes, five minutes--include all; do each

  • piece of business in its turn with method, with rigid regularity.

  • The day will close almost before you are aware it has begun; and you are indebted to

  • no one for helping you to get rid of one vacant moment: you have had to seek no

  • one's company, conversation, sympathy,

  • forbearance; you have lived, in short, as an independent being ought to do.

  • Take this advice: the first and last I shall offer you; then you will not want me

  • or any one else, happen what may.

  • Neglect it--go on as heretofore, craving, whining, and idling--and suffer the results

  • of your idiocy, however bad and insuperable they may be.

  • I tell you this plainly; and listen: for though I shall no more repeat what I am now

  • about to say, I shall steadily act on it.

  • After my mother's death, I wash my hands of you: from the day her coffin is carried to

  • the vault in Gateshead Church, you and I will be as separate as if we had never

  • known each other.

  • You need not think that because we chanced to be born of the same parents, I shall

  • suffer you to fasten me down by even the feeblest claim: I can tell you this--if the

  • whole human race, ourselves excepted, were

  • swept away, and we two stood alone on the earth, I would leave you in the old world,

  • and betake myself to the new." She closed her lips.

  • "You might have spared yourself the trouble of delivering that tirade," answered

  • Georgiana.

  • "Everybody knows you are the most selfish, heartless creature in existence: and I

  • know your spiteful hatred towards me: I have had a specimen of it before in the

  • trick you played me about Lord Edwin Vere:

  • you could not bear me to be raised above you, to have a title, to be received into

  • circles where you dare not show your face, and so you acted the spy and informer, and

  • ruined my prospects for ever."

  • Georgiana took out her handkerchief and blew her nose for an hour afterwards; Eliza

  • sat cold, impassable, and assiduously industrious.

  • True, generous feeling is made small account of by some, but here were two

  • natures rendered, the one intolerably acrid, the other despicably savourless for

  • the want of it.

  • Feeling without judgment is a washy draught indeed; but judgment untempered by feeling

  • is too bitter and husky a morsel for human deglutition.

  • It was a wet and windy afternoon: Georgiana had fallen asleep on the sofa over the

  • perusal of a novel; Eliza was gone to attend a saint's-day service at the new

  • church--for in matters of religion she was

  • a rigid formalist: no weather ever prevented the punctual discharge of what

  • she considered her devotional duties; fair or foul, she went to church thrice every

  • Sunday, and as often on week-days as there were prayers.

  • I bethought myself to go upstairs and see how the dying woman sped, who lay there

  • almost unheeded: the very servants paid her but a remittent attention: the hired nurse,

  • being little looked after, would slip out of the room whenever she could.

  • Bessie was faithful; but she had her own family to mind, and could only come

  • occasionally to the hall.

  • I found the sick-room unwatched, as I had expected: no nurse was there; the patient

  • lay still, and seemingly lethargic; her livid face sunk in the pillows: the fire

  • was dying in the grate.

  • I renewed the fuel, re-arranged the bedclothes, gazed awhile on her who could

  • not now gaze on me, and then I moved away to the window.

  • The rain beat strongly against the panes, the wind blew tempestuously: "One lies

  • there," I thought, "who will soon be beyond the war of earthly elements.

  • Whither will that spirit--now struggling to quit its material tenement--flit when at

  • length released?"

  • In pondering the great mystery, I thought of Helen Burns, recalled her dying words--

  • her faith--her doctrine of the equality of disembodied souls.

  • I was still listening in thought to her well-remembered tones--still picturing her

  • pale and spiritual aspect, her wasted face and sublime gaze, as she lay on her placid

  • deathbed, and whispered her longing to be

  • restored to her divine Father's bosom--when a feeble voice murmured from the couch

  • behind: "Who is that?" I knew Mrs. Reed had not spoken for days:

  • was she reviving?

  • I went up to her. "It is I, Aunt Reed."

  • "Who--I?" was her answer. "Who are you?" looking at me with surprise

  • and a sort of alarm, but still not wildly.

  • "You are quite a stranger to me--where is Bessie?"

  • "She is at the lodge, aunt." "Aunt," she repeated.

  • "Who calls me aunt?

  • You are not one of the Gibsons; and yet I know you--that face, and the eyes and

  • forehead, are quiet familiar to me: you are like--why, you are like Jane Eyre!"

  • I said nothing: I was afraid of occasioning some shock by declaring my identity.

  • "Yet," said she, "I am afraid it is a mistake: my thoughts deceive me.

  • I wished to see Jane Eyre, and I fancy a likeness where none exists: besides, in

  • eight years she must be so changed."

  • I now gently assured her that I was the person she supposed and desired me to be:

  • and seeing that I was understood, and that her senses were quite collected, I

  • explained how Bessie had sent her husband to fetch me from Thornfield.

  • "I am very ill, I know," she said ere long. "I was trying to turn myself a few minutes

  • since, and find I cannot move a limb.

  • It is as well I should ease my mind before I die: what we think little of in health,

  • burdens us at such an hour as the present is to me.

  • Is the nurse here? or is there no one in the room but you?"

  • I assured her we were alone. "Well, I have twice done you a wrong which

  • I regret now.

  • One was in breaking the promise which I gave my husband to bring you up as my own

  • child; the other--" she stopped.

  • "After all, it is of no great importance, perhaps," she murmured to herself: "and

  • then I may get better; and to humble myself so to her is painful."

  • She made an effort to alter her position, but failed: her face changed; she seemed to

  • experience some inward sensation--the precursor, perhaps, of the last pang.

  • "Well, I must get it over.

  • Eternity is before me: I had better tell her.--Go to my dressing-case, open it, and

  • take out a letter you will see there." I obeyed her directions.

  • "Read the letter," she said.

  • It was short, and thus conceived:-- "Madam,--Will you have the goodness to send

  • me the address of my niece, Jane Eyre, and to tell me how she is?

  • It is my intention to write shortly and desire her to come to me at Madeira.

  • Providence has blessed my endeavours to secure a competency; and as I am unmarried

  • and childless, I wish to adopt her during my life, and bequeath her at my death

  • whatever I may have to leave.--I am, Madam, &c., &c.,

  • "JOHN EYRE, Madeira." It was dated three years back.

  • "Why did I never hear of this?"

  • I asked. "Because I disliked you too fixedly and

  • thoroughly ever to lend a hand in lifting you to prosperity.

  • I could not forget your conduct to me, Jane--the fury with which you once turned

  • on me; the tone in which you declared you abhorred me the worst of anybody in the

  • world; the unchildlike look and voice with

  • which you affirmed that the very thought of me made you sick, and asserted that I had

  • treated you with miserable cruelty.

  • I could not forget my own sensations when you thus started up and poured out the

  • venom of your mind: I felt fear as if an animal that I had struck or pushed had

  • looked up at me with human eyes and cursed me in a man's voice.--Bring me some water!

  • Oh, make haste!"

  • "Dear Mrs. Reed," said I, as I offered her the draught she required, "think no more of

  • all this, let it pass away from your mind.

  • Forgive me for my passionate language: I was a child then; eight, nine years have

  • passed since that day."

  • She heeded nothing of what I said; but when she had tasted the water and drawn breath,

  • she went on thus--

  • "I tell you I could not forget it; and I took my revenge: for you to be adopted by

  • your uncle, and placed in a state of ease and comfort, was what I could not endure.

  • I wrote to him; I said I was sorry for his disappointment, but Jane Eyre was dead: she

  • had died of typhus fever at Lowood.

  • Now act as you please: write and contradict my assertion--expose my falsehood as soon

  • as you like.

  • You were born, I think, to be my torment: my last hour is racked by the recollection

  • of a deed which, but for you, I should never have been tempted to commit."

  • "If you could but be persuaded to think no more of it, aunt, and to regard me with

  • kindness and forgiveness"

  • "You have a very bad disposition," said she, "and one to this day I feel it

  • impossible to understand: how for nine years you could be patient and quiescent

  • under any treatment, and in the tenth break

  • out all fire and violence, I can never comprehend."

  • "My disposition is not so bad as you think: I am passionate, but not vindictive.

  • Many a time, as a little child, I should have been glad to love you if you would

  • have let me; and I long earnestly to be reconciled to you now: kiss me, aunt."

  • I approached my cheek to her lips: she would not touch it.

  • She said I oppressed her by leaning over the bed, and again demanded water.

  • As I laid her down--for I raised her and supported her on my arm while she drank--I

  • covered her ice-cold and clammy hand with mine: the feeble fingers shrank from my

  • touch--the glazing eyes shunned my gaze.

  • "Love me, then, or hate me, as you will," I said at last, "you have my full and free

  • forgiveness: ask now for God's, and be at peace."

  • Poor, suffering woman! it was too late for her to make now the effort to change her

  • habitual frame of mind: living, she had ever hated me--dying, she must hate me

  • still.

  • The nurse now entered, and Bessie followed. I yet lingered half-an-hour longer, hoping

  • to see some sign of amity: but she gave none.

  • She was fast relapsing into stupor; nor did her mind again rally: at twelve o'clock

  • that night she died. I was not present to close her eyes, nor

  • were either of her daughters.

  • They came to tell us the next morning that all was over.

  • She was by that time laid out.

  • Eliza and I went to look at her: Georgiana, who had burst out into loud weeping, said

  • she dared not go.

  • There was stretched Sarah Reed's once robust and active frame, rigid and still:

  • her eye of flint was covered with its cold lid; her brow and strong traits wore yet

  • the impress of her inexorable soul.

  • A strange and solemn object was that corpse to me.

  • I gazed on it with gloom and pain: nothing soft, nothing sweet, nothing pitying, or

  • hopeful, or subduing did it inspire; only a grating anguish for her woes--not my

  • loss--and a sombre tearless dismay at the fearfulness of death in such a form.

  • Eliza surveyed her parent calmly. After a silence of some minutes she

  • observed--

  • "With her constitution she should have lived to a good old age: her life was

  • shortened by trouble."

  • And then a spasm constricted her mouth for an instant: as it passed away she turned

  • and left the room, and so did I. Neither of us had dropt a tear.

  • >

  • CHAPTER XXII

  • Mr. Rochester had given me but one week's leave of absence: yet a month elapsed

  • before I quitted Gateshead.

  • I wished to leave immediately after the funeral, but Georgiana entreated me to stay

  • till she could get off to London, whither she was now at last invited by her uncle,

  • Mr. Gibson, who had come down to direct his

  • sister's interment and settle the family affairs.

  • Georgiana said she dreaded being left alone with Eliza; from her she got neither

  • sympathy in her dejection, support in her fears, nor aid in her preparations; so I

  • bore with her feeble-minded wailings and

  • selfish lamentations as well as I could, and did my best in sewing for her and

  • packing her dresses.

  • It is true, that while I worked, she would idle; and I thought to myself, "If you and

  • I were destined to live always together, cousin, we would commence matters on a

  • different footing.

  • I should not settle tamely down into being the forbearing party; I should assign you

  • your share of labour, and compel you to accomplish it, or else it should be left

  • undone: I should insist, also, on your

  • keeping some of those drawling, half- insincere complaints hushed in your own

  • breast.

  • It is only because our connection happens to be very transitory, and comes at a

  • peculiarly mournful season, that I consent thus to render it so patient and compliant

  • on my part."

  • At last I saw Georgiana off; but now it was Eliza's turn to request me to stay another

  • week.

  • Her plans required all her time and attention, she said; she was about to

  • depart for some unknown bourne; and all day long she stayed in her own room, her door

  • bolted within, filling trunks, emptying

  • drawers, burning papers, and holding no communication with any one.

  • She wished me to look after the house, to see callers, and answer notes of

  • condolence.

  • One morning she told me I was at liberty. "And," she added, "I am obliged to you for

  • your valuable services and discreet conduct!

  • There is some difference between living with such an one as you and with Georgiana:

  • you perform your own part in life and burden no one.

  • To-morrow," she continued, "I set out for the Continent.

  • I shall take up my abode in a religious house near Lisle--a nunnery you would call

  • it; there I shall be quiet and unmolested.

  • I shall devote myself for a time to the examination of the Roman Catholic dogmas,

  • and to a careful study of the workings of their system: if I find it to be, as I half

  • suspect it is, the one best calculated to

  • ensure the doing of all things decently and in order, I shall embrace the tenets of

  • Rome and probably take the veil."

  • I neither expressed surprise at this resolution nor attempted to dissuade her

  • from it. "The vocation will fit you to a hair," I

  • thought: "much good may it do you!"

  • When we parted, she said: "Good-bye, cousin Jane Eyre; I wish you well: you have some

  • sense."

  • I then returned: "You are not without sense, cousin Eliza; but what you have, I

  • suppose, in another year will be walled up alive in a French convent.

  • However, it is not my business, and so it suits you, I don't much care."

  • "You are in the right," said she; and with these words we each went our separate way.

  • As I shall not have occasion to refer either to her or her sister again, I may as

  • well mention here, that Georgiana made an advantageous match with a wealthy worn-out

  • man of fashion, and that Eliza actually

  • took the veil, and is at this day superior of the convent where she passed the period

  • of her novitiate, and which she endowed with her fortune.

  • How people feel when they are returning home from an absence, long or short, I did

  • not know: I had never experienced the sensation.

  • I had known what it was to come back to Gateshead when a child after a long walk,

  • to be scolded for looking cold or gloomy; and later, what it was to come back from

  • church to Lowood, to long for a plenteous

  • meal and a good fire, and to be unable to get either.

  • Neither of these returnings was very pleasant or desirable: no magnet drew me to

  • a given point, increasing in its strength of attraction the nearer I came.

  • The return to Thornfield was yet to be tried.

  • My journey seemed tedious--very tedious: fifty miles one day, a night spent at an

  • inn; fifty miles the next day.

  • During the first twelve hours I thought of Mrs. Reed in her last moments; I saw her

  • disfigured and discoloured face, and heard her strangely altered voice.

  • I mused on the funeral day, the coffin, the hearse, the black train of tenants and

  • servants--few was the number of relatives-- the gaping vault, the silent church, the

  • solemn service.

  • Then I thought of Eliza and Georgiana; I beheld one the cynosure of a ball-room, the

  • other the inmate of a convent cell; and I dwelt on and analysed their separate

  • peculiarities of person and character.

  • The evening arrival at the great town of-- scattered these thoughts; night gave them

  • quite another turn: laid down on my traveller's bed, I left reminiscence for

  • anticipation.

  • I was going back to Thornfield: but how long was I to stay there?

  • Not long; of that I was sure.

  • I had heard from Mrs. Fairfax in the interim of my absence: the party at the

  • hall was dispersed; Mr. Rochester had left for London three weeks ago, but he was then

  • expected to return in a fortnight.

  • Mrs. Fairfax surmised that he was gone to make arrangements for his wedding, as he

  • had talked of purchasing a new carriage: she said the idea of his marrying Miss

  • Ingram still seemed strange to her; but

  • from what everybody said, and from what she had herself seen, she could no longer doubt

  • that the event would shortly take place. "You would be strangely incredulous if you

  • did doubt it," was my mental comment.

  • "I don't doubt it." The question followed, "Where was I to go?"

  • I dreamt of Miss Ingram all the night: in a vivid morning dream I saw her closing the

  • gates of Thornfield against me and pointing me out another road; and Mr. Rochester

  • looked on with his arms folded--smiling

  • sardonically, as it seemed, at both her and me.

  • I had not notified to Mrs. Fairfax the exact day of my return; for I did not wish

  • either car or carriage to meet me at Millcote.

  • I proposed to walk the distance quietly by myself; and very quietly, after leaving my

  • box in the ostler's care, did I slip away from the George Inn, about six o'clock of a

  • June evening, and take the old road to

  • Thornfield: a road which lay chiefly through fields, and was now little

  • frequented.

  • It was not a bright or splendid summer evening, though fair and soft: the

  • haymakers were at work all along the road; and the sky, though far from cloudless, was

  • such as promised well for the future: its

  • blue--where blue was visible--was mild and settled, and its cloud strata high and

  • thin.

  • The west, too, was warm: no watery gleam chilled it--it seemed as if there was a

  • fire lit, an altar burning behind its screen of marbled vapour, and out of

  • apertures shone a golden redness.

  • I felt glad as the road shortened before me: so glad that I stopped once to ask

  • myself what that joy meant: and to remind reason that it was not to my home I was

  • going, or to a permanent resting-place, or

  • to a place where fond friends looked out for me and waited my arrival.

  • "Mrs. Fairfax will smile you a calm welcome, to be sure," said I; "and little

  • Adele will clap her hands and jump to see you: but you know very well you are

  • thinking of another than they, and that he is not thinking of you."

  • But what is so headstrong as youth? What so blind as inexperience?

  • These affirmed that it was pleasure enough to have the privilege of again looking on

  • Mr. Rochester, whether he looked on me or not; and they added--"Hasten! hasten! be

  • with him while you may: but a few more days

  • or weeks, at most, and you are parted from him for ever!"

  • And then I strangled a new-born agony--a deformed thing which I could not persuade

  • myself to own and rear--and ran on.

  • They are making hay, too, in Thornfield meadows: or rather, the labourers are just

  • quitting their work, and returning home with their rakes on their shoulders, now,

  • at the hour I arrive.

  • I have but a field or two to traverse, and then I shall cross the road and reach the

  • gates. How full the hedges are of roses!

  • But I have no time to gather any; I want to be at the house.

  • I passed a tall briar, shooting leafy and flowery branches across the path; I see the

  • narrow stile with stone steps; and I see-- Mr. Rochester sitting there, a book and a

  • pencil in his hand; he is writing.

  • Well, he is not a ghost; yet every nerve I have is unstrung: for a moment I am beyond

  • my own mastery. What does it mean?

  • I did not think I should tremble in this way when I saw him, or lose my voice or the

  • power of motion in his presence. I will go back as soon as I can stir: I

  • need not make an absolute fool of myself.

  • I know another way to the house. It does not signify if I knew twenty ways;

  • for he has seen me. "Hillo!" he cries; and he puts up his book

  • and his pencil.

  • "There you are! Come on, if you please."

  • I suppose I do come on; though in what fashion I know not; being scarcely

  • cognisant of my movements, and solicitous only to appear calm; and, above all, to

  • control the working muscles of my face--

  • which I feel rebel insolently against my will, and struggle to express what I had

  • resolved to conceal. But I have a veil--it is down: I may make

  • shift yet to behave with decent composure.

  • "And this is Jane Eyre? Are you coming from Millcote, and on foot?

  • Yes--just one of your tricks: not to send for a carriage, and come clattering over

  • street and road like a common mortal, but to steal into the vicinage of your home

  • along with twilight, just as if you were a dream or a shade.

  • What the deuce have you done with yourself this last month?"

  • "I have been with my aunt, sir, who is dead."

  • "A true Janian reply! Good angels be my guard!

  • She comes from the other world--from the abode of people who are dead; and tells me

  • so when she meets me alone here in the gloaming!

  • If I dared, I'd touch you, to see if you are substance or shadow, you elf!--but I'd

  • as soon offer to take hold of a blue ignis fatuus light in a marsh.

  • Truant! truant!" he added, when he had paused an instant.

  • "Absent from me a whole month, and forgetting me quite, I'll be sworn!"

  • I knew there would be pleasure in meeting my master again, even though broken by the

  • fear that he was so soon to cease to be my master, and by the knowledge that I was

  • nothing to him: but there was ever in Mr.

  • Rochester (so at least I thought) such a wealth of the power of communicating

  • happiness, that to taste but of the crumbs he scattered to stray and stranger birds

  • like me, was to feast genially.

  • His last words were balm: they seemed to imply that it imported something to him

  • whether I forgot him or not. And he had spoken of Thornfield as my home-

  • -would that it were my home!

  • He did not leave the stile, and I hardly liked to ask to go by.

  • I inquired soon if he had not been to London.

  • "Yes; I suppose you found that out by second-sight."

  • "Mrs. Fairfax told me in a letter." "And did she inform you what I went to do?"

  • "Oh, yes, sir!

  • Everybody knew your errand."

  • "You must see the carriage, Jane, and tell me if you don't think it will suit Mrs.

  • Rochester exactly; and whether she won't look like Queen Boadicea, leaning back

  • against those purple cushions.

  • I wish, Jane, I were a trifle better adapted to match with her externally.

  • Tell me now, fairy as you are--can't you give me a charm, or a philter, or something

  • of that sort, to make me a handsome man?"

  • "It would be past the power of magic, sir;" and, in thought, I added, "A loving eye is

  • all the charm needed: to such you are handsome enough; or rather your sternness

  • has a power beyond beauty."

  • Mr. Rochester had sometimes read my unspoken thoughts with an acumen to me

  • incomprehensible: in the present instance he took no notice of my abrupt vocal

  • response; but he smiled at me with a

  • certain smile he had of his own, and which he used but on rare occasions.

  • He seemed to think it too good for common purposes: it was the real sunshine of

  • feeling--he shed it over me now.

  • "Pass, Janet," said he, making room for me to cross the stile: "go up home, and stay

  • your weary little wandering feet at a friend's threshold."

  • All I had now to do was to obey him in silence: no need for me to colloquise

  • further. I got over the stile without a word, and

  • meant to leave him calmly.

  • An impulse held me fast--a force turned me round.

  • I said--or something in me said for me, and in spite of me--

  • "Thank you, Mr. Rochester, for your great kindness.

  • I am strangely glad to get back again to you: and wherever you are is my home--my

  • only home."

  • I walked on so fast that even he could hardly have overtaken me had he tried.

  • Little Adele was half wild with delight when she saw me.

  • Mrs. Fairfax received me with her usual plain friendliness.

  • Leah smiled, and even Sophie bid me "bon soir" with glee.

  • This was very pleasant; there is no happiness like that of being loved by your

  • fellow-creatures, and feeling that your presence is an addition to their comfort.

  • I that evening shut my eyes resolutely against the future: I stopped my cars

  • against the voice that kept warning me of near separation and coming grief.

  • When tea was over and Mrs. Fairfax had taken her knitting, and I had assumed a low

  • seat near her, and Adele, kneeling on the carpet, had nestled close up to me, and a

  • sense of mutual affection seemed to

  • surround us with a ring of golden peace, I uttered a silent prayer that we might not

  • be parted far or soon; but when, as we thus sat, Mr. Rochester entered, unannounced,

  • and looking at us, seemed to take pleasure

  • in the spectacle of a group so amicable-- when he said he supposed the old lady was

  • all right now that she had got her adopted daughter back again, and added that he saw

  • Adele was "prete a croquer sa petite maman

  • Anglaise"--I half ventured to hope that he would, even after his marriage, keep us

  • together somewhere under the shelter of his protection, and not quite exiled from the

  • sunshine of his presence.

  • A fortnight of dubious calm succeeded my return to Thornfield Hall.

  • Nothing was said of the master's marriage, and I saw no preparation going on for such

  • an event.

  • Almost every day I asked Mrs. Fairfax if she had yet heard anything decided: her

  • answer was always in the negative.

  • Once she said she had actually put the question to Mr. Rochester as to when he was

  • going to bring his bride home; but he had answered her only by a joke and one of his

  • queer looks, and she could not tell what to make of him.

  • One thing specially surprised me, and that was, there were no journeyings backward and

  • forward, no visits to Ingram Park: to be sure it was twenty miles off, on the

  • borders of another county; but what was that distance to an ardent lover?

  • To so practised and indefatigable a horseman as Mr. Rochester, it would be but

  • a morning's ride.

  • I began to cherish hopes I had no right to conceive: that the match was broken off;

  • that rumour had been mistaken; that one or both parties had changed their minds.

  • I used to look at my master's face to see if it were sad or fierce; but I could not

  • remember the time when it had been so uniformly clear of clouds or evil feelings.

  • If, in the moments I and my pupil spent with him, I lacked spirits and sank into

  • inevitable dejection, he became even gay.

  • Never had he called me more frequently to his presence; never been kinder to me when

  • there--and, alas! never had I loved him so well.

  • >

  • CHAPTER XXIII

  • A splendid Midsummer shone over England: skies so pure, suns so radiant as were then

  • seen in long succession, seldom favour even singly, our wave- girt land.

  • It was as if a band of Italian days had come from the South, like a flock of

  • glorious passenger birds, and lighted to rest them on the cliffs of Albion.

  • The hay was all got in; the fields round Thornfield were green and shorn; the roads

  • white and baked; the trees were in their dark prime; hedge and wood, full-leaved and

  • deeply tinted, contrasted well with the sunny hue of the cleared meadows between.

  • On Midsummer-eve, Adele, weary with gathering wild strawberries in Hay Lane

  • half the day, had gone to bed with the sun.

  • I watched her drop asleep, and when I left her, I sought the garden.

  • It was now the sweetest hour of the twenty- four:--"Day its fervid fires had wasted,"

  • and dew fell cool on panting plain and scorched summit.

  • Where the sun had gone down in simple state--pure of the pomp of clouds--spread a

  • solemn purple, burning with the light of red jewel and furnace flame at one point,

  • on one hill-peak, and extending high and

  • wide, soft and still softer, over half heaven.

  • The east had its own charm or fine deep blue, and its own modest gem, a casino and

  • solitary star: soon it would boast the moon; but she was yet beneath the horizon.

  • I walked a while on the pavement; but a subtle, well-known scent--that of a cigar--

  • stole from some window; I saw the library casement open a handbreadth; I knew I might

  • be watched thence; so I went apart into the orchard.

  • No nook in the grounds more sheltered and more Eden-like; it was full of trees, it

  • bloomed with flowers: a very high wall shut it out from the court, on one side; on the

  • other, a beech avenue screened it from the lawn.

  • At the bottom was a sunk fence; its sole separation from lonely fields: a winding

  • walk, bordered with laurels and terminating in a giant horse-chestnut, circled at the

  • base by a seat, led down to the fence.

  • Here one could wander unseen.

  • While such honey-dew fell, such silence reigned, such gloaming gathered, I felt as

  • if I could haunt such shade for ever; but in threading the flower and fruit parterres

  • at the upper part of the enclosure, enticed

  • there by the light the now rising moon cast on this more open quarter, my step is

  • stayed--not by sound, not by sight, but once more by a warning fragrance.

  • Sweet-briar and southernwood, jasmine, pink, and rose have long been yielding

  • their evening sacrifice of incense: this new scent is neither of shrub nor flower;

  • it is--I know it well--it is Mr. Rochester's cigar.

  • I look round and I listen. I see trees laden with ripening fruit.

  • I hear a nightingale warbling in a wood half a mile off; no moving form is visible,

  • no coming step audible; but that perfume increases: I must flee.

  • I make for the wicket leading to the shrubbery, and I see Mr. Rochester

  • entering.

  • I step aside into the ivy recess; he will not stay long: he will soon return whence

  • he came, and if I sit still he will never see me.

  • But no--eventide is as pleasant to him as to me, and this antique garden as

  • attractive; and he strolls on, now lifting the gooseberry-tree branches to look at the

  • fruit, large as plums, with which they are

  • laden; now taking a ripe cherry from the wall; now stooping towards a knot of

  • flowers, either to inhale their fragrance or to admire the dew-beads on their petals.

  • A great moth goes humming by me; it alights on a plant at Mr. Rochester's foot: he sees

  • it, and bends to examine it.

  • "Now, he has his back towards me," thought I, "and he is occupied too; perhaps, if I

  • walk softly, I can slip away unnoticed."

  • I trode on an edging of turf that the crackle of the pebbly gravel might not

  • betray me: he was standing among the beds at a yard or two distant from where I had

  • to pass; the moth apparently engaged him.

  • "I shall get by very well," I meditated. As I crossed his shadow, thrown long over

  • the garden by the moon, not yet risen high, he said quietly, without turning--

  • "Jane, come and look at this fellow."

  • I had made no noise: he had not eyes behind--could his shadow feel?

  • I started at first, and then I approached him.

  • "Look at his wings," said he, "he reminds me rather of a West Indian insect; one does

  • not often see so large and gay a night- rover in England; there! he is flown."

  • The moth roamed away.

  • I was sheepishly retreating also; but Mr. Rochester followed me, and when we reached

  • the wicket, he said--

  • "Turn back: on so lovely a night it is a shame to sit in the house; and surely no

  • one can wish to go to bed while sunset is thus at meeting with moonrise."

  • It is one of my faults, that though my tongue is sometimes prompt enough at an

  • answer, there are times when it sadly fails me in framing an excuse; and always the

  • lapse occurs at some crisis, when a facile

  • word or plausible pretext is specially wanted to get me out of painful

  • embarrassment.

  • I did not like to walk at this hour alone with Mr. Rochester in the shadowy orchard;

  • but I could not find a reason to allege for leaving him.

  • I followed with lagging step, and thoughts busily bent on discovering a means of

  • extrication; but he himself looked so composed and so grave also, I became

  • ashamed of feeling any confusion: the evil-

  • -if evil existent or prospective there was- -seemed to lie with me only; his mind was

  • unconscious and quiet.

  • "Jane," he recommenced, as we entered the laurel walk, and slowly strayed down in the

  • direction of the sunk fence and the horse- chestnut, "Thornfield is a pleasant place

  • in summer, is it not?"

  • "Yes, sir." "You must have become in some degree

  • attached to the house,--you, who have an eye for natural beauties, and a good deal

  • of the organ of Adhesiveness?"

  • "I am attached to it, indeed." "And though I don't comprehend how it is, I

  • perceive you have acquired a degree of regard for that foolish little child Adele,

  • too; and even for simple dame Fairfax?"

  • "Yes, sir; in different ways, I have an affection for both."

  • "And would be sorry to part with them?" "Yes."

  • "Pity!" he said, and sighed and paused.

  • "It is always the way of events in this life," he continued presently: "no sooner

  • have you got settled in a pleasant resting- place, than a voice calls out to you to

  • rise and move on, for the hour of repose is expired."

  • "Must I move on, sir?" I asked.

  • "Must I leave Thornfield?"

  • "I believe you must, Jane. I am sorry, Janet, but I believe indeed you

  • must." This was a blow: but I did not let it

  • prostrate me.

  • "Well, sir, I shall be ready when the order to march comes."

  • "It is come now--I must give it to-night." "Then you are going to be married, sir?"

  • "Ex-act-ly--pre-cise-ly: with your usual acuteness, you have hit the nail straight

  • on the head." "Soon, sir?"

  • "Very soon, my--that is, Miss Eyre: and you'll remember, Jane, the first time I, or

  • Rumour, plainly intimated to you that it was my intention to put my old bachelor's

  • neck into the sacred noose, to enter into

  • the holy estate of matrimony--to take Miss Ingram to my bosom, in short (she's an

  • extensive armful: but that's not to the point--one can't have too much of such a

  • very excellent thing as my beautiful

  • Blanche): well, as I was saying--listen to me, Jane!

  • You're not turning your head to look after more moths, are you?

  • That was only a lady-clock, child, 'flying away home.'

  • I wish to remind you that it was you who first said to me, with that discretion I

  • respect in you--with that foresight, prudence, and humility which befit your

  • responsible and dependent position--that in

  • case I married Miss Ingram, both you and little Adele had better trot forthwith.

  • I pass over the sort of slur conveyed in this suggestion on the character of my

  • beloved; indeed, when you are far away, Janet, I'll try to forget it: I shall

  • notice only its wisdom; which is such that I have made it my law of action.

  • Adele must go to school; and you, Miss Eyre, must get a new situation."

  • "Yes, sir, I will advertise immediately: and meantime, I suppose--" I was going to

  • say, "I suppose I may stay here, till I find another shelter to betake myself to:"

  • but I stopped, feeling it would not do to

  • risk a long sentence, for my voice was not quite under command.

  • "In about a month I hope to be a bridegroom," continued Mr. Rochester; "and

  • in the interim, I shall myself look out for employment and an asylum for you."

  • "Thank you, sir; I am sorry to give--"

  • "Oh, no need to apologise!

  • I consider that when a dependent does her duty as well as you have done yours, she

  • has a sort of claim upon her employer for any little assistance he can conveniently

  • render her; indeed I have already, through

  • my future mother-in-law, heard of a place that I think will suit: it is to undertake

  • the education of the five daughters of Mrs. Dionysius O'Gall of Bitternutt Lodge,

  • Connaught, Ireland.

  • You'll like Ireland, I think: they're such warm-hearted people there, they say."

  • "It is a long way off, sir." "No matter--a girl of your sense will not

  • object to the voyage or the distance."

  • "Not the voyage, but the distance: and then the sea is a barrier--"

  • "From what, Jane?" "From England and from Thornfield: and--"

  • "Well?"

  • "From you, sir." I said this almost involuntarily, and, with

  • as little sanction of free will, my tears gushed out.

  • I did not cry so as to be heard, however; I avoided sobbing.

  • The thought of Mrs. O'Gall and Bitternutt Lodge struck cold to my heart; and colder

  • the thought of all the brine and foam, destined, as it seemed, to rush between me

  • and the master at whose side I now walked,

  • and coldest the remembrance of the wider ocean--wealth, caste, custom intervened

  • between me and what I naturally and inevitably loved.

  • "It is a long way," I again said.

  • "It is, to be sure; and when you get to Bitternutt Lodge, Connaught, Ireland, I

  • shall never see you again, Jane: that's morally certain.

  • I never go over to Ireland, not having myself much of a fancy for the country.

  • We have been good friends, Jane; have we not?"

  • "Yes, sir."

  • "And when friends are on the eve of separation, they like to spend the little

  • time that remains to them close to each other.

  • Come! we'll talk over the voyage and the parting quietly half-an-hour or so, while

  • the stars enter into their shining life up in heaven yonder: here is the chestnut

  • tree: here is the bench at its old roots.

  • Come, we will sit there in peace to-night, though we should never more be destined to

  • sit there together." He seated me and himself.

  • "It is a long way to Ireland, Janet, and I am sorry to send my little friend on such

  • weary travels: but if I can't do better, how is it to be helped?

  • Are you anything akin to me, do you think, Jane?"

  • I could risk no sort of answer by this time: my heart was still.

  • "Because," he said, "I sometimes have a queer feeling with regard to you--

  • especially when you are near me, as now: it is as if I had a string somewhere under my

  • left ribs, tightly and inextricably knotted

  • to a similar string situated in the corresponding quarter of your little frame.

  • And if that boisterous Channel, and two hundred miles or so of land come broad

  • between us, I am afraid that cord of communion will be snapt; and then I've a

  • nervous notion I should take to bleeding inwardly.

  • As for you,--you'd forget me." "That I never should, sir: you know--"

  • Impossible to proceed.

  • "Jane, do you hear that nightingale singing in the wood?

  • Listen!"

  • In listening, I sobbed convulsively; for I could repress what I endured no longer; I

  • was obliged to yield, and I was shaken from head to foot with acute distress.

  • When I did speak, it was only to express an impetuous wish that I had never been born,

  • or never come to Thornfield. "Because you are sorry to leave it?"

  • The vehemence of emotion, stirred by grief and love within me, was claiming mastery,

  • and struggling for full sway, and asserting a right to predominate, to overcome, to

  • live, rise, and reign at last: yes,--and to speak.

  • "I grieve to leave Thornfield: I love Thornfield:--I love it, because I have

  • lived in it a full and delightful life,-- momentarily at least.

  • I have not been trampled on.

  • I have not been petrified. I have not been buried with inferior minds,

  • and excluded from every glimpse of communion with what is bright and energetic

  • and high.

  • I have talked, face to face, with what I reverence, with what I delight in,--with an

  • original, a vigorous, an expanded mind.

  • I have known you, Mr. Rochester; and it strikes me with terror and anguish to feel

  • I absolutely must be torn from you for ever.

  • I see the necessity of departure; and it is like looking on the necessity of death."

  • "Where do you see the necessity?" he asked suddenly.

  • "Where?

  • You, sir, have placed it before me." "In what shape?"

  • "In the shape of Miss Ingram; a noble and beautiful woman,--your bride."

  • "My bride!

  • What bride? I have no bride!"

  • "But you will have." "Yes;--I will!--I will!"

  • He set his teeth.

  • "Then I must go:--you have said it yourself."

  • "No: you must stay! I swear it--and the oath shall be kept."

  • "I tell you I must go!"

  • I retorted, roused to something like passion.

  • "Do you think I can stay to become nothing to you?

  • Do you think I am an automaton?--a machine without feelings? and can bear to have my

  • morsel of bread snatched from my lips, and my drop of living water dashed from my cup?

  • Do you think, because I am poor, obscure, plain, and little, I am soulless and

  • heartless? You think wrong!--I have as much soul as

  • you,--and full as much heart!

  • And if God had gifted me with some beauty and much wealth, I should have made it as

  • hard for you to leave me, as it is now for me to leave you.

  • I am not talking to you now through the medium of custom, conventionalities, nor

  • even of mortal flesh;--it is my spirit that addresses your spirit; just as if both had

  • passed through the grave, and we stood at God's feet, equal,--as we are!"

  • "As we are!" repeated Mr. Rochester--"so," he added, enclosing me in his arms.

  • Gathering me to his breast, pressing his lips on my lips: "so, Jane!"

  • "Yes, so, sir," I rejoined: "and yet not so; for you are a married man--or as good

  • as a married man, and wed to one inferior to you--to one with whom you have no

  • sympathy--whom I do not believe you truly

  • love; for I have seen and heard you sneer at her.

  • I would scorn such a union: therefore I am better than you--let me go!"

  • "Where, Jane?

  • To Ireland?" "Yes--to Ireland.

  • I have spoken my mind, and can go anywhere now."

  • "Jane, be still; don't struggle so, like a wild frantic bird that is rending its own

  • plumage in its desperation."

  • "I am no bird; and no net ensnares me; I am a free human being with an independent

  • will, which I now exert to leave you." Another effort set me at liberty, and I

  • stood erect before him.

  • "And your will shall decide your destiny," he said: "I offer you my hand, my heart,

  • and a share of all my possessions." "You play a farce, which I merely laugh

  • at."

  • "I ask you to pass through life at my side- -to be my second self, and best earthly

  • companion." "For that fate you have already made your

  • choice, and must abide by it."

  • "Jane, be still a few moments: you are over-excited: I will be still too."

  • A waft of wind came sweeping down the laurel-walk, and trembled through the

  • boughs of the chestnut: it wandered away-- away--to an indefinite distance--it died.

  • The nightingale's song was then the only voice of the hour: in listening to it, I

  • again wept. Mr. Rochester sat quiet, looking at me

  • gently and seriously.

  • Some time passed before he spoke; he at last said--

  • "Come to my side, Jane, and let us explain and understand one another."

  • "I will never again come to your side: I am torn away now, and cannot return."

  • "But, Jane, I summon you as my wife: it is you only I intend to marry."

  • I was silent: I thought he mocked me.

  • "Come, Jane--come hither." "Your bride stands between us."

  • He rose, and with a stride reached me.

  • "My bride is here," he said, again drawing me to him, "because my equal is here, and

  • my likeness. Jane, will you marry me?"

  • Still I did not answer, and still I writhed myself from his grasp: for I was still

  • incredulous. "Do you doubt me, Jane?"

  • "Entirely."

  • "You have no faith in me?" "Not a whit."

  • "Am I a liar in your eyes?" he asked passionately.

  • "Little sceptic, you shall be convinced.

  • What love have I for Miss Ingram? None: and that you know.

  • What love has she for me?

  • None: as I have taken pains to prove: I caused a rumour to reach her that my

  • fortune was not a third of what was supposed, and after that I presented myself

  • to see the result; it was coldness both from her and her mother.

  • I would not--I could not--marry Miss Ingram.

  • You--you strange, you almost unearthly thing!--I love as my own flesh.

  • You--poor and obscure, and small and plain as you are--I entreat to accept me as a

  • husband."

  • "What, me!"

  • I ejaculated, beginning in his earnestness- -and especially in his incivility--to

  • credit his sincerity: "me who have not a friend in the world but you--if you are my

  • friend: not a shilling but what you have given me?"

  • "You, Jane, I must have you for my own-- entirely my own.

  • Will you be mine?

  • Say yes, quickly." "Mr. Rochester, let me look at your face:

  • turn to the moonlight." "Why?"

  • "Because I want to read your countenance-- turn!"

  • "There! you will find it scarcely more legible than a crumpled, scratched page.

  • Read on: only make haste, for I suffer."

  • His face was very much agitated and very much flushed, and there were strong

  • workings in the features, and strange gleams in the eyes.

  • "Oh, Jane, you torture me!" he exclaimed.

  • "With that searching and yet faithful and generous look, you torture me!"

  • "How can I do that?

  • If you are true, and your offer real, my only feelings to you must be gratitude and

  • devotion--they cannot torture." "Gratitude!" he ejaculated; and added

  • wildly--"Jane accept me quickly.

  • Say, Edward--give me my name--Edward--I will marry you."

  • "Are you in earnest? Do you truly love me?

  • Do you sincerely wish me to be your wife?"

  • "I do; and if an oath is necessary to satisfy you, I swear it."

  • "Then, sir, I will marry you." "Edward--my little wife!"

  • "Dear Edward!"

  • "Come to me--come to me entirely now," said he; and added, in his deepest tone,

  • speaking in my ear as his cheek was laid on mine, "Make my happiness--I will make

  • yours."

  • "God pardon me!" he subjoined ere long; "and man meddle not with me: I have her,

  • and will hold her." "There is no one to meddle, sir.

  • I have no kindred to interfere."

  • "No--that is the best of it," he said.

  • And if I had loved him less I should have thought his accent and look of exultation

  • savage; but, sitting by him, roused from the nightmare of parting--called to the

  • paradise of union--I thought only of the

  • bliss given me to drink in so abundant a flow.

  • Again and again he said, "Are you happy, Jane?"

  • And again and again I answered, "Yes."

  • After which he murmured, "It will atone--it will atone.

  • Have I not found her friendless, and cold, and comfortless?

  • Will I not guard, and cherish, and solace her?

  • Is there not love in my heart, and constancy in my resolves?

  • It will expiate at God's tribunal.

  • I know my Maker sanctions what I do. For the world's judgment--I wash my hands

  • thereof. For man's opinion--I defy it."

  • But what had befallen the night?

  • The moon was not yet set, and we were all in shadow: I could scarcely see my master's

  • face, near as I was.

  • And what ailed the chestnut tree? it writhed and groaned; while wind roared in

  • the laurel walk, and came sweeping over us. "We must go in," said Mr. Rochester: "the

  • weather changes.

  • I could have sat with thee till morning, Jane."

  • "And so," thought I, "could I with you."

  • I should have said so, perhaps, but a livid, vivid spark leapt out of a cloud at

  • which I was looking, and there was a crack, a crash, and a close rattling peal; and I

  • thought only of hiding my dazzled eyes against Mr. Rochester's shoulder.

  • The rain rushed down.

  • He hurried me up the walk, through the grounds, and into the house; but we were

  • quite wet before we could pass the threshold.

  • He was taking off my shawl in the hall, and shaking the water out of my loosened hair,

  • when Mrs. Fairfax emerged from her room. I did not observe her at first, nor did Mr.

  • Rochester.

  • The lamp was lit. The clock was on the stroke of twelve.

  • "Hasten to take off your wet things," said he; "and before you go, good- night--good-

  • night, my darling!"

  • He kissed me repeatedly. When I looked up, on leaving his arms,

  • there stood the widow, pale, grave, and amazed.

  • I only smiled at her, and ran upstairs.

  • "Explanation will do for another time," thought I.

  • Still, when I reached my chamber, I felt a pang at the idea she should even

  • temporarily misconstrue what she had seen.

  • But joy soon effaced every other feeling; and loud as the wind blew, near and deep as

  • the thunder crashed, fierce and frequent as the lightning gleamed, cataract-like as the

  • rain fell during a storm of two hours'

  • duration, I experienced no fear and little awe.

  • Mr. Rochester came thrice to my door in the course of it, to ask if I was safe and

  • tranquil: and that was comfort, that was strength for anything.

  • Before I left my bed in the morning, little Adele came running in to tell me that the

  • great horse-chestnut at the bottom of the orchard had been struck by lightning in the

  • night, and half of it split away.

  • >

  • CHAPTER XXIV

  • As I rose and dressed, I thought over what had happened, and wondered if it were a

  • dream.

  • I could not be certain of the reality till I had seen Mr. Rochester again, and heard

  • him renew his words of love and promise.

  • While arranging my hair, I looked at my face in the glass, and felt it was no

  • longer plain: there was hope in its aspect and life in its colour; and my eyes seemed

  • as if they had beheld the fount of

  • fruition, and borrowed beams from the lustrous ripple.

  • I had often been unwilling to look at my master, because I feared he could not be

  • pleased at my look; but I was sure I might lift my face to his now, and not cool his

  • affection by its expression.

  • I took a plain but clean and light summer dress from my drawer and put it on: it

  • seemed no attire had ever so well become me, because none had I ever worn in so

  • blissful a mood.

  • I was not surprised, when I ran down into the hall, to see that a brilliant June

  • morning had succeeded to the tempest of the night; and to feel, through the open glass

  • door, the breathing of a fresh and fragrant breeze.

  • Nature must be gladsome when I was so happy.

  • A beggar-woman and her little boy--pale, ragged objects both--were coming up the

  • walk, and I ran down and gave them all the money I happened to have in my purse--some

  • three or four shillings: good or bad, they must partake of my jubilee.

  • The rooks cawed, and blither birds sang; but nothing was so merry or so musical as

  • my own rejoicing heart.

  • Mrs. Fairfax surprised me by looking out of the window with a sad countenance, and

  • saying gravely--"Miss Eyre, will you come to breakfast?"

  • During the meal she was quiet and cool: but I could not undeceive her then.

  • I must wait for my master to give explanations; and so must she.

  • I ate what I could, and then I hastened upstairs.

  • I met Adele leaving the schoolroom. "Where are you going?

  • It is time for lessons."

  • "Mr. Rochester has sent me away to the nursery."

  • "Where is he?"

  • "In there," pointing to the apartment she had left; and I went in, and there he

  • stood. "Come and bid me good-morning," said he.

  • I gladly advanced; and it was not merely a cold word now, or even a shake of the hand

  • that I received, but an embrace and a kiss. It seemed natural: it seemed genial to be

  • so well loved, so caressed by him.

  • "Jane, you look blooming, and smiling, and pretty," said he: "truly pretty this

  • morning. Is this my pale, little elf?

  • Is this my mustard- seed?

  • This little sunny-faced girl with the dimpled cheek and rosy lips; the satin-

  • smooth hazel hair, and the radiant hazel eyes?"

  • (I had green eyes, reader; but you must excuse the mistake: for him they were new-

  • dyed, I suppose.) "It is Jane Eyre, sir."

  • "Soon to be Jane Rochester," he added: "in four weeks, Janet; not a day more.

  • Do you hear that?" I did, and I could not quite comprehend it:

  • it made me giddy.

  • The feeling, the announcement sent through me, was something stronger than was

  • consistent with joy--something that smote and stunned.

  • It was, I think almost fear.

  • "You blushed, and now you are white, Jane: what is that for?"

  • "Because you gave me a new name--Jane Rochester; and it seems so strange."

  • "Yes, Mrs. Rochester," said he; "young Mrs. Rochester--Fairfax Rochester's girl-bride."

  • "It can never be, sir; it does not sound likely.

  • Human beings never enjoy complete happiness in this world.

  • I was not born for a different destiny to the rest of my species: to imagine such a

  • lot befalling me is a fairy tale--a day- dream."

  • "Which I can and will realise.

  • I shall begin to-day. This morning I wrote to my banker in London

  • to send me certain jewels he has in his keeping,--heirlooms for the ladies of

  • Thornfield.

  • In a day or two I hope to pour them into your lap: for every privilege, every

  • attention shall be yours that I would accord a peer's daughter, if about to marry

  • her."

  • "Oh, sir!--never rain jewels! I don't like to hear them spoken of.

  • Jewels for Jane Eyre sounds unnatural and strange: I would rather not have them."

  • "I will myself put the diamond chain round your neck, and the circlet on your

  • forehead,--which it will become: for nature, at least, has stamped her patent of

  • nobility on this brow, Jane; and I will

  • clasp the bracelets on these fine wrists, and load these fairy-like fingers with

  • rings."

  • "No, no, sir! think of other subjects, and speak of other things, and in another

  • strain. Don't address me as if I were a beauty; I

  • am your plain, Quakerish governess."

  • "You are a beauty in my eyes, and a beauty just after the desire of my heart,--

  • delicate and aerial." "Puny and insignificant, you mean.

  • You are dreaming, sir,--or you are sneering.

  • For God's sake don't be ironical!"

  • "I will make the world acknowledge you a beauty, too," he went on, while I really

  • became uneasy at the strain he had adopted, because I felt he was either deluding

  • himself or trying to delude me.

  • "I will attire my Jane in satin and lace, and she shall have roses in her hair; and I

  • will cover the head I love best with a priceless veil."

  • "And then you won't know me, sir; and I shall not be your Jane Eyre any longer, but

  • an ape in a harlequin's jacket--a jay in borrowed plumes.

  • I would as soon see you, Mr. Rochester, tricked out in stage-trappings, as myself

  • clad in a court-lady's robe; and I don't call you handsome, sir, though I love you

  • most dearly: far too dearly to flatter you.

  • Don't flatter me." He pursued his theme, however, without

  • noticing my deprecation.

  • "This very day I shall take you in the carriage to Millcote, and you must choose

  • some dresses for yourself. I told you we shall be married in four

  • weeks.

  • The wedding is to take place quietly, in the church down below yonder; and then I

  • shall waft you away at once to town.

  • After a brief stay there, I shall bear my treasure to regions nearer the sun: to

  • French vineyards and Italian plains; and she shall see whatever is famous in old

  • story and in modern record: she shall

  • taste, too, of the life of cities; and she shall learn to value herself by just

  • comparison with others." "Shall I travel?--and with you, sir?"

  • "You shall sojourn at Paris, Rome, and Naples: at Florence, Venice, and Vienna:

  • all the ground I have wandered over shall be re-trodden by you: wherever I stamped my

  • hoof, your sylph's foot shall step also.

  • Ten years since, I flew through Europe half mad; with disgust, hate, and rage as my

  • companions: now I shall revisit it healed and cleansed, with a very angel as my

  • comforter."

  • I laughed at him as he said this. "I am not an angel," I asserted; "and I

  • will not be one till I die: I will be myself.

  • Mr. Rochester, you must neither expect nor exact anything celestial of me--for you

  • will not get it, any more than I shall get it of you: which I do not at all

  • anticipate."

  • "What do you anticipate of me?"

  • "For a little while you will perhaps be as you are now,--a very little while; and then

  • you will turn cool; and then you will be capricious; and then you will be stern, and

  • I shall have much ado to please you: but

  • when you get well used to me, you will perhaps like me again,--like me, I say,

  • not love me. I suppose your love will effervesce in six

  • months, or less.

  • I have observed in books written by men, that period assigned as the farthest to

  • which a husband's ardour extends.

  • Yet, after all, as a friend and companion, I hope never to become quite distasteful to

  • my dear master." "Distasteful! and like you again!

  • I think I shall like you again, and yet again: and I will make you confess I do not

  • only like, but love you--with truth, fervour, constancy."

  • "Yet are you not capricious, sir?"

  • "To women who please me only by their faces, I am the very devil when I find out

  • they have neither souls nor hearts--when they open to me a perspective of flatness,

  • triviality, and perhaps imbecility,

  • coarseness, and ill-temper: but to the clear eye and eloquent tongue, to the soul

  • made of fire, and the character that bends but does not break--at once supple and

  • stable, tractable and consistent--I am ever tender and true."

  • "Had you ever experience of such a character, sir?

  • Did you ever love such an one?"

  • "I love it now." "But before me: if I, indeed, in any

  • respect come up to your difficult standard?"

  • "I never met your likeness.

  • Jane, you please me, and you master me--you seem to submit, and I like the sense of

  • pliancy you impart; and while I am twining the soft, silken skein round my finger, it

  • sends a thrill up my arm to my heart.

  • I am influenced--conquered; and the influence is sweeter than I can express;

  • and the conquest I undergo has a witchery beyond any triumph I can win.

  • Why do you smile, Jane?

  • What does that inexplicable, that uncanny turn of countenance mean?"

  • "I was thinking, sir (you will excuse the idea; it was involuntary), I was thinking

  • of Hercules and Samson with their charmers- -"

  • "You were, you little elfish--"

  • "Hush, sir! You don't talk very wisely just now; any

  • more than those gentlemen acted very wisely.

  • However, had they been married, they would no doubt by their severity as husbands have

  • made up for their softness as suitors; and so will you, I fear.

  • I wonder how you will answer me a year hence, should I ask a favour it does not

  • suit your convenience or pleasure to grant."

  • "Ask me something now, Jane,--the least thing: I desire to be entreated--"

  • "Indeed I will, sir; I have my petition all ready."

  • "Speak!

  • But if you look up and smile with that countenance, I shall swear concession

  • before I know to what, and that will make a fool of me."

  • "Not at all, sir; I ask only this: don't send for the jewels, and don't crown me

  • with roses: you might as well put a border of gold lace round that plain pocket

  • handkerchief you have there."

  • "I might as well 'gild refined gold.' I know it: your request is granted then--

  • for the time. I will remand the order I despatched to my

  • banker.

  • But you have not yet asked for anything; you have prayed a gift to be withdrawn: try

  • again."

  • "Well then, sir, have the goodness to gratify my curiosity, which is much piqued

  • on one point." He looked disturbed.

  • "What? what?" he said hastily.

  • "Curiosity is a dangerous petition: it is well I have not taken a vow to accord every

  • request--" "But there can be no danger in complying

  • with this, sir."

  • "Utter it, Jane: but I wish that instead of a mere inquiry into, perhaps, a secret, it

  • was a wish for half my estate." "Now, King Ahasuerus!

  • What do I want with half your estate?

  • Do you think I am a Jew-usurer, seeking good investment in land?

  • I would much rather have all your confidence.

  • You will not exclude me from your confidence if you admit me to your heart?"

  • "You are welcome to all my confidence that is worth having, Jane; but for God's sake,

  • don't desire a useless burden!

  • Don't long for poison--don't turn out a downright Eve on my hands!"

  • "Why not, sir?

  • You have just been telling me how much you liked to be conquered, and how pleasant

  • over-persuasion is to you.

  • Don't you think I had better take advantage of the confession, and begin and coax and

  • entreat--even cry and be sulky if necessary--for the sake of a mere essay of

  • my power?"

  • "I dare you to any such experiment. Encroach, presume, and the game is up."

  • "Is it, sir? You soon give in.

  • How stern you look now!

  • Your eyebrows have become as thick as my finger, and your forehead resembles what,

  • in some very astonishing poetry, I once saw styled, 'a blue-piled thunderloft.'

  • That will be your married look, sir, I suppose?"

  • "If that will be your married look, I, as a Christian, will soon give up the notion

  • of consorting with a mere sprite or salamander.

  • But what had you to ask, thing,--out with it?"

  • "There, you are less than civil now; and I like rudeness a great deal better than

  • flattery.

  • I had rather be a thing than an angel. This is what I have to ask,--Why did you

  • take such pains to make me believe you wished to marry Miss Ingram?"

  • "Is that all?

  • Thank God it is no worse!" And now he unknit his black brows; looked

  • down, smiling at me, and stroked my hair, as if well pleased at seeing a danger

  • averted.

  • "I think I may confess," he continued, "even although I should make you a little

  • indignant, Jane--and I have seen what a fire-spirit you can be when you are

  • indignant.

  • You glowed in the cool moonlight last night, when you mutinied against fate, and

  • claimed your rank as my equal. Janet, by-the-bye, it was you who made me

  • the offer."

  • "Of course I did. But to the point if you please, sir--Miss

  • Ingram?"

  • "Well, I feigned courtship of Miss Ingram, because I wished to render you as madly in

  • love with me as I was with you; and I knew jealousy would be the best ally I could

  • call in for the furtherance of that end."

  • "Excellent! Now you are small--not one whit bigger than

  • the end of my little finger. It was a burning shame and a scandalous

  • disgrace to act in that way.

  • Did you think nothing of Miss Ingram's feelings, sir?"

  • "Her feelings are concentrated in one-- pride; and that needs humbling.

  • Were you jealous, Jane?"

  • "Never mind, Mr. Rochester: it is in no way interesting to you to know that.

  • Answer me truly once more. Do you think Miss Ingram will not suffer

  • from your dishonest coquetry?

  • Won't she feel forsaken and deserted?" "Impossible!--when I told you how she, on

  • the contrary, deserted me: the idea of my insolvency cooled, or rather extinguished,

  • her flame in a moment."

  • "You have a curious, designing mind, Mr. Rochester.

  • I am afraid your principles on some points are eccentric."

  • "My principles were never trained, Jane: they may have grown a little awry for want

  • of attention."

  • "Once again, seriously; may I enjoy the great good that has been vouchsafed to me,

  • without fearing that any one else is suffering the bitter pain I myself felt a

  • while ago?"

  • "That you may, my good little girl: there is not another being in the world has the

  • same pure love for me as yourself--for I lay that pleasant unction to my soul, Jane,

  • a belief in your affection."

  • I turned my lips to the hand that lay on my shoulder.

  • I loved him very much--more than I could trust myself to say--more than words had

  • power to express.

  • "Ask something more," he said presently; "it is my delight to be entreated, and to

  • yield." I was again ready with my request.

  • "Communicate your intentions to Mrs. Fairfax, sir: she saw me with you last

  • night in the hall, and she was shocked. Give her some explanation before I see her

  • again.

  • It pains me to be misjudged by so good a woman."

  • "Go to your room, and put on your bonnet," he replied.

  • "I mean you to accompany me to Millcote this morning; and while you prepare for the

  • drive, I will enlighten the old lady's understanding.

  • Did she think, Janet, you had given the world for love, and considered it well

  • lost?" "I believe she thought I had forgotten my

  • station, and yours, sir."

  • "Station! station!--your station is in my heart, and on the necks of those who would

  • insult you, now or hereafter.--Go."

  • I was soon dressed; and when I heard Mr. Rochester quit Mrs. Fairfax's parlour, I

  • hurried down to it.

  • The old lady, had been reading her morning portion of Scripture--the Lesson for the

  • day; her Bible lay open before her, and her spectacles were upon it.

  • Her occupation, suspended by Mr. Rochester's announcement, seemed now

  • forgotten: her eyes, fixed on the blank wall opposite, expressed the surprise of a

  • quiet mind stirred by unwonted tidings.

  • Seeing me, she roused herself: she made a sort of effort to smile, and framed a few

  • words of congratulation; but the smile expired, and the sentence was abandoned

  • unfinished.

  • She put up her spectacles, shut the Bible, and pushed her chair back from the table.

  • "I feel so astonished," she began, "I hardly know what to say to you, Miss Eyre.

  • I have surely not been dreaming, have I?

  • Sometimes I half fall asleep when I am sitting alone and fancy things that have

  • never happened.

  • It has seemed to me more than once when I have been in a doze, that my dear husband,

  • who died fifteen years since, has come in and sat down beside me; and that I have

  • even heard him call me by my name, Alice, as he used to do.

  • Now, can you tell me whether it is actually true that Mr. Rochester has asked you to

  • marry him?

  • Don't laugh at me. But I really thought he came in here five

  • minutes ago, and said that in a month you would be his wife."

  • "He has said the same thing to me," I replied.

  • "He has! Do you believe him?

  • Have you accepted him?"

  • "Yes." She looked at me bewildered.

  • "I could never have thought it.

  • He is a proud man: all the Rochesters were proud: and his father, at least, liked

  • money. He, too, has always been called careful.

  • He means to marry you?"

  • "He tells me so." She surveyed my whole person: in her eyes I

  • read that they had there found no charm powerful enough to solve the enigma.

  • "It passes me!" she continued; "but no doubt, it is true since you say so.

  • How it will answer, I cannot tell: I really don't know.

  • Equality of position and fortune is often advisable in such cases; and there are

  • twenty years of difference in your ages. He might almost be your father."

  • "No, indeed, Mrs. Fairfax!" exclaimed I, nettled; "he is nothing like my father!

  • No one, who saw us together, would suppose it for an instant.

  • Mr. Rochester looks as young, and is as young, as some men at five-and- twenty."

  • "Is it really for love he is going to marry you?" she asked.

  • I was so hurt by her coldness and scepticism, that the tears rose to my eyes.

  • "I am sorry to grieve you," pursued the widow; "but you are so young, and so little

  • acquainted with men, I wished to put you on your guard.

  • It is an old saying that 'all is not gold that glitters;' and in this case I do fear

  • there will be something found to be different to what either you or I expect."

  • "Why?--am I a monster?"

  • I said: "is it impossible that Mr. Rochester should have a sincere affection

  • for me?"

  • "No: you are very well; and much improved of late; and Mr. Rochester, I daresay, is

  • fond of you. I have always noticed that you were a sort

  • of pet of his.

  • There are times when, for your sake, I have been a little uneasy at his marked

  • preference, and have wished to put you on your guard: but I did not like to suggest

  • even the possibility of wrong.

  • I knew such an idea would shock, perhaps offend you; and you were so discreet, and

  • so thoroughly modest and sensible, I hoped you might be trusted to protect yourself.

  • Last night I cannot tell you what I suffered when I sought all over the house,

  • and could find you nowhere, nor the master either; and then, at twelve o'clock, saw

  • you come in with him."

  • "Well, never mind that now," I interrupted impatiently; "it is enough that all was

  • right."

  • "I hope all will be right in the end," she said: "but believe me, you cannot be too

  • careful. Try and keep Mr. Rochester at a distance:

  • distrust yourself as well as him.

  • Gentlemen in his station are not accustomed to marry their governesses."

  • I was growing truly irritated: happily, Adele ran in.

  • "Let me go,--let me go to Millcote too!" she cried.

  • "Mr. Rochester won't: though there is so much room in the new carriage.

  • Beg him to let me go mademoiselle."

  • "That I will, Adele;" and I hastened away with her, glad to quit my gloomy monitress.

  • The carriage was ready: they were bringing it round to the front, and my master was

  • pacing the pavement, Pilot following him backwards and forwards.

  • "Adele may accompany us, may she not, sir?"

  • "I told her no. I'll have no brats!--I'll have only you."

  • "Do let her go, Mr. Rochester, if you please: it would be better."

  • "Not it: she will be a restraint."

  • He was quite peremptory, both in look and voice.

  • The chill of Mrs. Fairfax's warnings, and the damp of her doubts were upon me:

  • something of unsubstantiality and uncertainty had beset my hopes.

  • I half lost the sense of power over him.

  • I was about mechanically to obey him, without further remonstrance; but as he

  • helped me into the carriage, he looked at my face.

  • "What is the matter?" he asked; "all the sunshine is gone.

  • Do you really wish the bairn to go? Will it annoy you if she is left behind?"

  • "I would far rather she went, sir."

  • "Then off for your bonnet, and back like a flash of lightning!" cried he to Adele.

  • She obeyed him with what speed she might.

  • "After all, a single morning's interruption will not matter much," said he, "when I

  • mean shortly to claim you--your thoughts, conversation, and company--for life."

  • Adele, when lifted in, commenced kissing me, by way of expressing her gratitude for

  • my intercession: she was instantly stowed away into a corner on the other side of

  • him.

  • She then peeped round to where I sat; so stern a neighbour was too restrictive to

  • him, in his present fractious mood, she dared whisper no observations, nor ask of

  • him any information.

  • "Let her come to me," I entreated: "she will, perhaps, trouble you, sir: there is

  • plenty of room on this side." He handed her over as if she had been a

  • lapdog.

  • "I'll send her to school yet," he said, but now he was smiling.

  • Adele heard him, and asked if she was to go to school "sans mademoiselle?"

  • "Yes," he replied, "absolutely sans mademoiselle; for I am to take mademoiselle

  • to the moon, and there I shall seek a cave in one of the white valleys among the

  • volcano-tops, and mademoiselle shall live with me there, and only me."

  • "She will have nothing to eat: you will starve her," observed Adele.

  • "I shall gather manna for her morning and night: the plains and hillsides in the moon

  • are bleached with manna, Adele." "She will want to warm herself: what will

  • she do for a fire?"

  • "Fire rises out of the lunar mountains: when she is cold, I'll carry her up to a

  • peak, and lay her down on the edge of a crater."

  • "Oh, qu' elle y sera mal--peu comfortable!

  • And her clothes, they will wear out: how can she get new ones?"

  • Mr. Rochester professed to be puzzled. "Hem!" said he.

  • "What would you do, Adele?

  • Cudgel your brains for an expedient. How would a white or a pink cloud answer

  • for a gown, do you think? And one could cut a pretty enough scarf out

  • of a rainbow."

  • "She is far better as she is," concluded Adele, after musing some time: "besides,

  • she would get tired of living with only you in the moon.

  • If I were mademoiselle, I would never consent to go with you."

  • "She has consented: she has pledged her word."

  • "But you can't get her there; there is no road to the moon: it is all air; and

  • neither you nor she can fly." "Adele, look at that field."

  • We were now outside Thornfield gates, and bowling lightly along the smooth road to

  • Millcote, where the dust was well laid by the thunderstorm, and, where the low hedges

  • and lofty timber trees on each side glistened green and rain-refreshed.

  • "In that field, Adele, I was walking late one evening about a fortnight since--the

  • evening of the day you helped me to make hay in the orchard meadows; and, as I was

  • tired with raking swaths, I sat down to

  • rest me on a stile; and there I took out a little book and a pencil, and began to

  • write about a misfortune that befell me long ago, and a wish I had for happy days

  • to come: I was writing away very fast,

  • though daylight was fading from the leaf, when something came up the path and stopped

  • two yards off me. I looked at it.

  • It was a little thing with a veil of gossamer on its head.

  • I beckoned it to come near me; it stood soon at my knee.

  • I never spoke to it, and it never spoke to me, in words; but I read its eyes, and it

  • read mine; and our speechless colloquy was to this effect--

  • "It was a fairy, and come from Elf-land, it said; and its errand was to make me happy:

  • I must go with it out of the common world to a lonely place--such as the moon, for

  • instance--and it nodded its head towards

  • her horn, rising over Hay-hill: it told me of the alabaster cave and silver vale where

  • we might live.

  • I said I should like to go; but reminded it, as you did me, that I had no wings to

  • fly. "'Oh,' returned the fairy, 'that does not

  • signify!

  • Here is a talisman will remove all difficulties;' and she held out a pretty

  • gold ring.

  • 'Put it,' she said, 'on the fourth finger of my left hand, and I am yours, and you

  • are mine; and we shall leave earth, and make our own heaven yonder.'

  • She nodded again at the moon.

  • The ring, Adele, is in my breeches-pocket, under the disguise of a sovereign: but I

  • mean soon to change it to a ring again." "But what has mademoiselle to do with it?

  • I don't care for the fairy: you said it was mademoiselle you would take to the moon?"

  • "Mademoiselle is a fairy," he said, whispering mysteriously.

  • Whereupon I told her not to mind his badinage; and she, on her part, evinced a

  • fund of genuine French scepticism: denominating Mr. Rochester "un vrai

  • menteur," and assuring him that she made no

  • account whatever of his "contes de fee," and that "du reste, il n'y avait pas de

  • fees, et quand meme il y en avait:" she was sure they would never appear to him, nor

  • ever give him rings, or offer to live with him in the moon.

  • The hour spent at Millcote was a somewhat harassing one to me.

  • Mr. Rochester obliged me to go to a certain silk warehouse: there I was ordered to

  • choose half-a-dozen dresses.

  • I hated the business, I begged leave to defer it: no--it should be gone through

  • with now.

  • By dint of entreaties expressed in energetic whispers, I reduced the half-

  • dozen to two: these however, he vowed he would select himself.

  • With anxiety I watched his eye rove over the gay stores: he fixed on a rich silk of

  • the most brilliant amethyst dye, and a superb pink satin.

  • I told him in a new series of whispers, that he might as well buy me a gold gown

  • and a silver bonnet at once: I should certainly never venture to wear his choice.

  • With infinite difficulty, for he was stubborn as a stone, I persuaded him to

  • make an exchange in favour of a sober black satin and pearl-grey silk.

  • "It might pass for the present," he said; "but he would yet see me glittering like a

  • parterre."

  • Glad was I to get him out of the silk warehouse, and then out of a jewellers

  • shop: the more he bought me, the more my cheek burned with a sense of annoyance and

  • degradation.

  • As we re-entered the carriage, and I sat back feverish and fagged, I remembered

  • what, in the hurry of events, dark and bright, I had wholly forgotten--the letter

  • of my uncle, John Eyre, to Mrs. Reed: his

  • intention to adopt me and make me his legatee.

  • "It would, indeed, be a relief," I thought, "if I had ever so small an independency; I

  • never can bear being dressed like a doll by Mr. Rochester, or sitting like a second

  • Danae with the golden shower falling daily round me.

  • I will write to Madeira the moment I get home, and tell my uncle John I am going to

  • be married, and to whom: if I had but a prospect of one day bringing Mr. Rochester

  • an accession of fortune, I could better endure to be kept by him now."

  • And somewhat relieved by this idea (which I failed not to execute that day), I ventured

  • once more to meet my master's and lover's eye, which most pertinaciously sought mine,

  • though I averted both face and gaze.

  • He smiled; and I thought his smile was such as a sultan might, in a blissful and fond

  • moment, bestow on a slave his gold and gems had enriched: I crushed his hand, which was

  • ever hunting mine, vigorously, and thrust

  • it back to him red with the passionate pressure.

  • "You need not look in that way," I said; "if you do, I'll wear nothing but my old

  • Lowood frocks to the end of the chapter.

  • I'll be married in this lilac gingham: you may make a dressing-gown for yourself out

  • of the pearl-grey silk, and an infinite series of waistcoats out of the black

  • satin."

  • He chuckled; he rubbed his hands. "Oh, it is rich to see and hear her?" he

  • exclaimed. "Is she original?

  • Is she piquant?

  • I would not exchange this one little English girl for the Grand Turk's whole

  • seraglio, gazelle- eyes, houri forms, and all!"

  • The Eastern allusion bit me again.

  • "I'll not stand you an inch in the stead of a seraglio," I said; "so don't consider me

  • an equivalent for one.

  • If you have a fancy for anything in that line, away with you, sir, to the bazaars of

  • Stamboul without delay, and lay out in extensive slave- purchases some of that

  • spare cash you seem at a loss to spend satisfactorily here."

  • "And what will you do, Janet, while I am bargaining for so many tons of flesh and

  • such an assortment of black eyes?"

  • "I'll be preparing myself to go out as a missionary to preach liberty to them that

  • are enslaved--your harem inmates amongst the rest.

  • I'll get admitted there, and I'll stir up mutiny; and you, three-tailed bashaw as you

  • are, sir, shall in a trice find yourself fettered amongst our hands: nor will I, for

  • one, consent to cut your bonds till you

  • have signed a charter, the most liberal that despot ever yet conferred."

  • "I would consent to be at your mercy, Jane."

  • "I would have no mercy, Mr. Rochester, if you supplicated for it with an eye like

  • that.

  • While you looked so, I should be certain that whatever charter you might grant under

  • coercion, your first act, when released, would be to violate its conditions."

  • "Why, Jane, what would you have?

  • I fear you will compel me to go through a private marriage ceremony, besides that

  • performed at the altar. You will stipulate, I see, for peculiar

  • terms--what will they be?"

  • "I only want an easy mind, sir; not crushed by crowded obligations.

  • Do you remember what you said of Celine Varens?--of the diamonds, the cashmeres you

  • gave her?

  • I will not be your English Celine Varens. I shall continue to act as Adele's

  • governess; by that I shall earn my board and lodging, and thirty pounds a year

  • besides.

  • I'll furnish my own wardrobe out of that money, and you shall give me nothing but--"

  • "Well, but what?" "Your regard; and if I give you mine in

  • return, that debt will be quit."

  • "Well, for cool native impudence and pure innate pride, you haven't your equal," said

  • he. We were now approaching Thornfield.

  • "Will it please you to dine with me to- day?" he asked, as we re-entered the gates.

  • "No, thank you, sir." "And what for, 'no, thank you?' if one may

  • inquire."

  • "I never have dined with you, sir: and I see no reason why I should now: till--"

  • "Till what? You delight in half-phrases."

  • "Till I can't help it."

  • "Do you suppose I eat like an ogre or a ghoul, that you dread being the companion

  • of my repast?"

  • "I have formed no supposition on the subject, sir; but I want to go on as usual

  • for another month." "You will give up your governessing slavery

  • at once."

  • "Indeed, begging your pardon, sir, I shall not.

  • I shall just go on with it as usual.

  • I shall keep out of your way all day, as I have been accustomed to do: you may send

  • for me in the evening, when you feel disposed to see me, and I'll come then; but

  • at no other time."

  • "I want a smoke, Jane, or a pinch of snuff, to comfort me under all this, 'pour me

  • donner une contenance,' as Adele would say; and unfortunately I have neither my cigar-

  • case, nor my snuff-box.

  • But listen--whisper.

  • It is your time now, little tyrant, but it will be mine presently; and when once I

  • have fairly seized you, to have and to hold, I'll just--figuratively speaking--

  • attach you to a chain like this" (touching his watch-guard).

  • "Yes, bonny wee thing, I'll wear you in my bosom, lest my jewel I should tyne."

  • He said this as he helped me to alight from the carriage, and while he afterwards

  • lifted out Adele, I entered the house, and made good my retreat upstairs.

  • He duly summoned me to his presence in the evening.

  • I had prepared an occupation for him; for I was determined not to spend the whole time

  • in a tete-a-tete conversation.

  • I remembered his fine voice; I knew he liked to sing--good singers generally do.

  • I was no vocalist myself, and, in his fastidious judgment, no musician, either;

  • but I delighted in listening when the performance was good.

  • No sooner had twilight, that hour of romance, began to lower her blue and starry

  • banner over the lattice, than I rose, opened the piano, and entreated him, for

  • the love of heaven, to give me a song.

  • He said I was a capricious witch, and that he would rather sing another time; but I

  • averred that no time was like the present. "Did I like his voice?" he asked.

  • "Very much."

  • I was not fond of pampering that susceptible vanity of his; but for once,

  • and from motives of expediency, I would e'en soothe and stimulate it.

  • "Then, Jane, you must play the accompaniment."

  • "Very well, sir, I will try." I did try, but was presently swept off the

  • stool and denominated "a little bungler."

  • Being pushed unceremoniously to one side-- which was precisely what I wished--he

  • usurped my place, and proceeded to accompany himself: for he could play as

  • well as sing.

  • I hied me to the window-recess. And while I sat there and looked out on the

  • still trees and dim lawn, to a sweet air was sung in mellow tones the following

  • strain:--

  • "The truest love that ever heart Felt at its kindled core,

  • Did through each vein, in quickened start, The tide of being pour.

  • Her coming was my hope each day, Her parting was my pain;

  • The chance that did her steps delay Was ice in every vein.

  • I dreamed it would be nameless bliss, As I loved, loved to be;

  • And to this object did I press As blind as eagerly.

  • But wide as pathless was the space That lay our lives between,

  • And dangerous as the foamy race Of ocean-surges green.

  • And haunted as a robber-path Through wilderness or wood;

  • For Might and Right, and Woe and Wrath, Between our spirits stood.

  • I dangers dared; I hindrance scorned; I omens did defy:

  • Whatever menaced, harassed, warned, I passed impetuous by.

  • On sped my rainbow, fast as light; I flew as in a dream;

  • For glorious rose upon my sight That child of Shower and Gleam.

  • Still bright on clouds of suffering dim Shines that soft, solemn joy;

  • Nor care I now, how dense and grim Disasters gather nigh.

  • I care not in this moment sweet, Though all I have rushed o'er

  • Should come on pinion, strong and fleet, Proclaiming vengeance sore:

  • Though haughty Hate should strike me down, Right, bar approach to me,

  • And grinding Might, with furious frown, Swear endless enmity.

  • My love has placed her little hand With noble faith in mine,

  • And vowed that wedlock's sacred band Our nature shall entwine.

  • My love has sworn, with sealing kiss, With me to live--to die;

  • I have at last my nameless bliss. As I love--loved am I!"

  • He rose and came towards me, and I saw his face all kindled, and his full falcon-eye

  • flashing, and tenderness and passion in every lineament.

  • I quailed momentarily--then I rallied.

  • Soft scene, daring demonstration, I would not have; and I stood in peril of both: a

  • weapon of defence must be prepared--I whetted my tongue: as he reached me, I

  • asked with asperity, "whom he was going to marry now?"

  • "That was a strange question to be put by his darling Jane."

  • "Indeed!

  • I considered it a very natural and necessary one: he had talked of his future

  • wife dying with him. What did he mean by such a pagan idea?

  • I had no intention of dying with him--he might depend on that."

  • "Oh, all he longed, all he prayed for, was that I might live with him!

  • Death was not for such as I."

  • "Indeed it was: I had as good a right to die when my time came as he had: but I

  • should bide that time, and not be hurried away in a suttee."

  • "Would I forgive him for the selfish idea, and prove my pardon by a reconciling kiss?"

  • "No: I would rather be excused."

  • Here I heard myself apostrophised as a "hard little thing;" and it was added, "any

  • other woman would have been melted to marrow at hearing such stanzas crooned in

  • her praise."

  • I assured him I was naturally hard--very flinty, and that he would often find me so;

  • and that, moreover, I was determined to show him divers rugged points in my

  • character before the ensuing four weeks

  • elapsed: he should know fully what sort of a bargain he had made, while there was yet

  • time to rescind it. "Would I be quiet and talk rationally?"

  • "I would be quiet if he liked, and as to talking rationally, I flattered myself I

  • was doing that now." He fretted, pished, and pshawed.

  • "Very good," I thought; "you may fume and fidget as you please: but this is the best

  • plan to pursue with you, I am certain.

  • I like you more than I can say; but I'll not sink into a bathos of sentiment: and

  • with this needle of repartee I'll keep you from the edge of the gulf too; and,

  • moreover, maintain by its pungent aid that

  • distance between you and myself most conducive to our real mutual advantage."

  • From less to more, I worked him up to considerable irritation; then, after he had

  • retired, in dudgeon, quite to the other end of the room, I got up, and saying, "I wish

  • you good-night, sir," in my natural and

  • wonted respectful manner, I slipped out by the side-door and got away.

  • The system thus entered on, I pursued during the whole season of probation; and

  • with the best success.

  • He was kept, to be sure, rather cross and crusty; but on the whole I could see he was

  • excellently entertained, and that a lamb- like submission and turtle-dove

  • sensibility, while fostering his despotism

  • more, would have pleased his judgment, satisfied his common-sense, and even suited

  • his taste less.

  • In other people's presence I was, as formerly, deferential and quiet; any other

  • line of conduct being uncalled for: it was only in the evening conferences I thus

  • thwarted and afflicted him.

  • He continued to send for me punctually the moment the clock struck seven; though when

  • I appeared before him now, he had no such honeyed terms as "love" and "darling" on

  • his lips: the best words at my service were

  • "provoking puppet," "malicious elf," "sprite," "changeling," &c.

  • For caresses, too, I now got grimaces; for a pressure of the hand, a pinch on the arm;

  • for a kiss on the cheek, a severe tweak of the ear.

  • It was all right: at present I decidedly preferred these fierce favours to anything

  • more tender.

  • Mrs. Fairfax, I saw, approved me: her anxiety on my account vanished; therefore I

  • was certain I did well.

  • Meantime, Mr. Rochester affirmed I was wearing him to skin and bone, and

  • threatened awful vengeance for my present conduct at some period fast coming.

  • I laughed in my sleeve at his menaces.

  • "I can keep you in reasonable check now," I reflected; "and I don't doubt to be able to

  • do it hereafter: if one expedient loses its virtue, another must be devised."

  • Yet after all my task was not an easy one; often I would rather have pleased than

  • teased him.

  • My future husband was becoming to me my whole world; and more than the world:

  • almost my hope of heaven.

  • He stood between me and every thought of religion, as an eclipse intervenes between

  • man and the broad sun. I could not, in those days, see God for His

  • creature: of whom I had made an idol.

  • >

CHAPTER XXI

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第5部--《簡-愛》有聲讀物，夏洛蒂-勃朗特著 (第21-24章) (Part 5 - Jane Eyre Audiobook by Charlotte Bronte (Chs 21-24))

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