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 Adèle 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 aërial.”

“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.”
likelove
“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.”
likelove
“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, Janet,—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?”
your
“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?”
thing
“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, Adèle 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, Adèle;” 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.

“Adèle 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
Adèle.

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.”

Adèle, 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.

Adèle 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 Adèle.

“I shall gather manna for her morning and night: the plains and hillsides in
the moon are bleached with manna, Adèle.”

“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,
Adèle? 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 Adèle, 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.”

“Adèle, 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, Adèle, 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, Adèle, 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 fée,” and that “du
reste, il n’y avait pas de fées, et quand même 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 jeweller’s
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 Céline Varens?—of the diamonds, the cashmeres you
gave her? I will not be your English Céline Varens. I shall continue to act as
Adèle’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 Adèle 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 Adèle, 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
tête-à-tête 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.
tête-à-tête
“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.”
I
“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 XXV

The month of courtship had wasted: its very last hours were being numbered.
There was no putting off the day that advanced—the bridal day; and all
preparations for its arrival were complete. I, at least, had nothing
more to do: there were my trunks, packed, locked, corded, ranged in a row along
the wall of my little chamber; to-morrow, at this time, they would be far on
their road to London: and so should I (D.V.),—or rather, not I, but one Jane
Rochester, a person whom as yet I knew not. The cards of address alone remained
to nail on: they lay, four little squares, in the drawer. Mr. Rochester had
himself written the direction, “Mrs. Rochester, —— Hotel, London,” on each: I
could not persuade myself to affix them, or to have them affixed. Mrs.
Rochester! She did not exist: she would not be born till to-morrow, some time
after eight o’clock A.M.; and I would wait to be assured she had
come into the world alive before I assigned to her all that property. It was
enough that in yonder closet, opposite my dressing-table, garments said to be
hers had already displaced my black stuff Lowood frock and straw bonnet: for
not to me appertained that suit of wedding raiment; the pearl-coloured robe,
the vapoury veil pendent from the usurped portmanteau. I shut the closet to
conceal the strange, wraith-like apparel it contained; which, at this evening
hour—nine o’clock—gave out certainly a most ghostly shimmer through the shadow
of my apartment. “I will leave you by yourself, white dream,” I said. “I am
feverish: I hear the wind blowing: I will go out of doors and feel it.”

It was not only the hurry of preparation that made me feverish; not only the
anticipation of the great change—the new life which was to commence to-morrow:
both these circumstances had their share, doubtless, in producing that
restless, excited mood which hurried me forth at this late hour into the
darkening grounds: but a third cause influenced my mind more than they.

I had at heart a strange and anxious thought. Something had happened which I
could not comprehend; no one knew of or had seen the event but myself: it had
taken place the preceding night. Mr. Rochester that night was absent from home;
nor was he yet returned: business had called him to a small estate of two or
three farms he possessed thirty miles off—business it was requisite he should
settle in person, previous to his meditated departure from England. I waited
now his return; eager to disburthen my mind, and to seek of him the solution of
the enigma that perplexed me. Stay till he comes, reader; and, when I disclose
my secret to him, you shall share the confidence.

I sought the orchard, driven to its shelter by the wind, which all day had
blown strong and full from the south, without, however, bringing a speck of
rain. Instead of subsiding as night drew on, it seemed to augment its rush and
deepen its roar: the trees blew steadfastly one way, never writhing round, and
scarcely tossing back their boughs once in an hour; so continuous was the
strain bending their branchy heads northward—the clouds drifted from pole to
pole, fast following, mass on mass: no glimpse of blue sky had been visible
that July day.

It was not without a certain wild pleasure I ran before the wind, delivering my
trouble of mind to the measureless air-torrent thundering through space.
Descending the laurel walk, I faced the wreck of the chestnut-tree; it stood up
black and riven: the trunk, split down the centre, gasped ghastly. The cloven
halves were not broken from each other, for the firm base and strong roots kept
them unsundered below; though community of vitality was destroyed—the sap could
flow no more: their great boughs on each side were dead, and next winter’s
tempests would be sure to fell one or both to earth: as yet, however, they
might be said to form one tree—a ruin, but an entire ruin.

“You did right to hold fast to each other,” I said: as if the monster-splinters
were living things, and could hear me. “I think, scathed as you look, and
charred and scorched, there must be a little sense of life in you yet, rising
out of that adhesion at the faithful, honest roots: you will never have green
leaves more—never more see birds making nests and singing idyls in your boughs;
the time of pleasure and love is over with you: but you are not desolate: each
of you has a comrade to sympathise with him in his decay.” As I looked up at
them, the moon appeared momentarily in that part of the sky which filled their
fissure; her disk was blood-red and half overcast; she seemed to throw on me
one bewildered, dreary glance, and buried herself again instantly in the deep
drift of cloud. The wind fell, for a second, round Thornfield; but far away
over wood and water, poured a wild, melancholy wail: it was sad to listen to,
and I ran off again.

Here and there I strayed through the orchard, gathered up the apples with which
the grass round the tree roots was thickly strewn; then I employed myself in
dividing the ripe from the unripe; I carried them into the house and put them
away in the store-room. Then I repaired to the library to ascertain whether the
fire was lit, for, though summer, I knew on such a gloomy evening Mr. Rochester
would like to see a cheerful hearth when he came in: yes, the fire had been
kindled some time, and burnt well. I placed his arm-chair by the
chimney-corner: I wheeled the table near it: I let down the curtain, and had
the candles brought in ready for lighting. More restless than ever, when I had
completed these arrangements I could not sit still, nor even remain in the
house: a little time-piece in the room and the old clock in the hall
simultaneously struck ten.

“How late it grows!” I said. “I will run down to the gates: it is moonlight at
intervals; I can see a good way on the road. He may be coming now, and to meet
him will save some minutes of suspense.”

The wind roared high in the great trees which embowered the gates; but the road
as far as I could see, to the right hand and the left, was all still and
solitary: save for the shadows of clouds crossing it at intervals as the moon
looked out, it was but a long pale line, unvaried by one moving speck.

A puerile tear dimmed my eye while I looked—a tear of disappointment and
impatience; ashamed of it, I wiped it away. I lingered; the moon shut herself
wholly within her chamber, and drew close her curtain of dense cloud: the night
grew dark; rain came driving fast on the gale.

“I wish he would come! I wish he would come!” I exclaimed, seized with
hypochondriac foreboding. I had expected his arrival before tea; now it was
dark: what could keep him? Had an accident happened? The event of last night
again recurred to me. I interpreted it as a warning of disaster. I feared my
hopes were too bright to be realised; and I had enjoyed so much bliss lately
that I imagined my fortune had passed its meridian, and must now decline.

“Well, I cannot return to the house,” I thought; “I cannot sit by the fireside,
while he is abroad in inclement weather: better tire my limbs than strain my
heart; I will go forward and meet him.”

I set out; I walked fast, but not far: ere I had measured a quarter of a mile,
I heard the tramp of hoofs; a horseman came on, full gallop; a dog ran by his
side. Away with evil presentiment! It was he: here he was, mounted on Mesrour,
followed by Pilot. He saw me; for the moon had opened a blue field in the sky,
and rode in it watery bright: he took his hat off, and waved it round his head.
I now ran to meet him.

“There!” he exclaimed, as he stretched out his hand and bent from the saddle:
“You can’t do without me, that is evident. Step on my boot-toe; give me both
hands: mount!”

I obeyed: joy made me agile: I sprang up before him. A hearty kissing I got for
a welcome, and some boastful triumph, which I swallowed as well as I could. He
checked himself in his exultation to demand, “But is there anything the matter,
Janet, that you come to meet me at such an hour? Is there anything wrong?”

“No, but I thought you would never come. I could not bear to wait in the house
for you, especially with this rain and wind.”

“Rain and wind, indeed! Yes, you are dripping like a mermaid; pull my cloak
round you: but I think you are feverish, Jane: both your cheek and hand are
burning hot. I ask again, is there anything the matter?”

“Nothing now; I am neither afraid nor unhappy.”

“Then you have been both?”

“Rather: but I’ll tell you all about it by-and-by, sir; and I daresay you will
only laugh at me for my pains.”

“I’ll laugh at you heartily when to-morrow is past; till then I dare not: my
prize is not certain. This is you, who have been as slippery as an eel this
last month, and as thorny as a briar-rose? I could not lay a finger anywhere
but I was pricked; and now I seem to have gathered up a stray lamb in my arms.
You wandered out of the fold to seek your shepherd, did you, Jane?”

“I wanted you: but don’t boast. Here we are at Thornfield: now let me get
down.”

He landed me on the pavement. As John took his horse, and he followed me into
the hall, he told me to make haste and put something dry on, and then return to
him in the library; and he stopped me, as I made for the staircase, to extort a
promise that I would not be long: nor was I long; in five minutes I rejoined
him. I found him at supper.

“Take a seat and bear me company, Jane: please God, it is the last meal but one
you will eat at Thornfield Hall for a long time.”

I sat down near him, but told him I could not eat.

“Is it because you have the prospect of a journey before you, Jane? Is it the
thoughts of going to London that takes away your appetite?”

“I cannot see my prospects clearly to-night, sir; and I hardly know what
thoughts I have in my head. Everything in life seems unreal.”

“Except me: I am substantial enough—touch me.”

“You, sir, are the most phantom-like of all: you are a mere dream.”

He held out his hand, laughing. “Is that a dream?” said he, placing it close to
my eyes. He had a rounded, muscular, and vigorous hand, as well as a long,
strong arm.

“Yes; though I touch it, it is a dream,” said I, as I put it down from before
my face. “Sir, have you finished supper?”

“Yes, Jane.”

I rang the bell and ordered away the tray. When we were again alone, I stirred
the fire, and then took a low seat at my master’s knee.

“It is near midnight,” I said.

“Yes: but remember, Jane, you promised to wake with me the night before my
wedding.”

“I did; and I will keep my promise, for an hour or two at least: I have no wish
to go to bed.”

“Are all your arrangements complete?”

“All, sir.”

“And on my part likewise,” he returned, “I have settled everything; and we
shall leave Thornfield to-morrow, within half-an-hour after our return from
church.”

“Very well, sir.”

“With what an extraordinary smile you uttered that word—‘very well,’ Jane! What
a bright spot of colour you have on each cheek! and how strangely your eyes
glitter! Are you well?”

“I believe I am.”

“Believe! What is the matter? Tell me what you feel.”

“I could not, sir: no words could tell you what I feel. I wish this present
hour would never end: who knows with what fate the next may come charged?”

“This is hypochondria, Jane. You have been over-excited, or over-fatigued.”

“Do you, sir, feel calm and happy?”

“Calm?—no: but happy—to the heart’s core.”

I looked up at him to read the signs of bliss in his face: it was ardent and
flushed.

“Give me your confidence, Jane,” he said: “relieve your mind of any weight that
oppresses it, by imparting it to me. What do you fear?—that I shall not prove a
good husband?”

“It is the idea farthest from my thoughts.”

“Are you apprehensive of the new sphere you are about to enter?—of the new life
into which you are passing?”

“No.”

“You puzzle me, Jane: your look and tone of sorrowful audacity perplex and pain
me. I want an explanation.”

“Then, sir, listen. You were from home last night?”

“I was: I know that; and you hinted a while ago at something which had happened
in my absence:—nothing, probably, of consequence; but, in short, it has
disturbed you. Let me hear it. Mrs. Fairfax has said something, perhaps? or you
have overheard the servants talk?—your sensitive self-respect has been
wounded?”

“No, sir.” It struck twelve—I waited till the time-piece had concluded its
silver chime, and the clock its hoarse, vibrating stroke, and then I proceeded.

“All day yesterday I was very busy, and very happy in my ceaseless bustle; for
I am not, as you seem to think, troubled by any haunting fears about the new
sphere, et cetera: I think it a glorious thing to have the hope of living with
you, because I love you. No, sir, don’t caress me now—let me talk undisturbed.
Yesterday I trusted well in Providence, and believed that events were working
together for your good and mine: it was a fine day, if you recollect—the
calmness of the air and sky forbade apprehensions respecting your safety or
comfort on your journey. I walked a little while on the pavement after tea,
thinking of you; and I beheld you in imagination so near me, I scarcely missed
your actual presence. I thought of the life that lay before me—your
life, sir—an existence more expansive and stirring than my own: as much more so
as the depths of the sea to which the brook runs are than the shallows of its
own strait channel. I wondered why moralists call this world a dreary
wilderness: for me it blossomed like a rose. Just at sunset, the air turned
cold and the sky cloudy: I went in, Sophie called me upstairs to look at my
wedding-dress, which they had just brought; and under it in the box I found
your present—the veil which, in your princely extravagance, you sent for from
London: resolved, I suppose, since I would not have jewels, to cheat me into
accepting something as costly. I smiled as I unfolded it, and devised how I
would tease you about your aristocratic tastes, and your efforts to masque your
plebeian bride in the attributes of a peeress. I thought how I would carry down
to you the square of unembroidered blond I had myself prepared as a covering
for my low-born head, and ask if that was not good enough for a woman who could
bring her husband neither fortune, beauty, nor connections. I saw plainly how
you would look; and heard your impetuous republican answers, and your haughty
disavowal of any necessity on your part to augment your wealth, or elevate your
standing, by marrying either a purse or a coronet.”

“How well you read me, you witch!” interposed Mr. Rochester: “but what did you
find in the veil besides its embroidery? Did you find poison, or a dagger, that
you look so mournful now?”

“No, no, sir; besides the delicacy and richness of the fabric, I found nothing
save Fairfax Rochester’s pride; and that did not scare me, because I am used to
the sight of the demon. But, sir, as it grew dark, the wind rose: it blew
yesterday evening, not as it blows now—wild and high—but ‘with a sullen,
moaning sound’ far more eerie. I wished you were at home. I came into this
room, and the sight of the empty chair and fireless hearth chilled me. For some
time after I went to bed, I could not sleep—a sense of anxious excitement
distressed me. The gale still rising seemed to my ear to muffle a mournful
under-sound; whether in the house or abroad I could not at first tell, but it
recurred, doubtful yet doleful at every lull; at last I made out it must be
some dog howling at a distance. I was glad when it ceased. On sleeping, I
continued in dreams the idea of a dark and gusty night. I continued also the
wish to be with you, and experienced a strange, regretful consciousness of some
barrier dividing us. During all my first sleep, I was following the windings of
an unknown road; total obscurity environed me; rain pelted me; I was burdened
with the charge of a little child: a very small creature, too young and feeble
to walk, and which shivered in my cold arms, and wailed piteously in my ear. I
thought, sir, that you were on the road a long way before me; and I strained
every nerve to overtake you, and made effort on effort to utter your name and
entreat you to stop—but my movements were fettered, and my voice still died
away inarticulate; while you, I felt, withdrew farther and farther every
moment.”

“And these dreams weigh on your spirits now, Jane, when I am close to you?
Little nervous subject! Forget visionary woe, and think only of real happiness!
You say you love me, Janet: yes—I will not forget that; and you cannot deny it.
Those words did not die inarticulate on your lips. I heard them clear
and soft: a thought too solemn perhaps, but sweet as music—‘I think it is a
glorious thing to have the hope of living with you, Edward, because I love
you.’ Do you love me, Jane?—repeat it.”

“I do, sir—I do, with my whole heart.”

“Well,” he said, after some minutes’ silence, “it is strange; but that sentence
has penetrated my breast painfully. Why? I think because you said it with such
an earnest, religious energy, and because your upward gaze at me now is the
very sublime of faith, truth, and devotion: it is too much as if some spirit
were near me. Look wicked, Jane: as you know well how to look: coin one of your
wild, shy, provoking smiles; tell me you hate me—tease me, vex me; do anything
but move me: I would rather be incensed than saddened.”

“I will tease you and vex you to your heart’s content, when I have finished my
tale: but hear me to the end.”

“I thought, Jane, you had told me all. I thought I had found the source of your
melancholy in a dream.”

I shook my head. “What! is there more? But I will not believe it to be anything
important. I warn you of incredulity beforehand. Go on.”

The disquietude of his air, the somewhat apprehensive impatience of his manner,
surprised me: but I proceeded.

“I dreamt another dream, sir: that Thornfield Hall was a dreary ruin, the
retreat of bats and owls. I thought that of all the stately front nothing
remained but a shell-like wall, very high and very fragile-looking. I wandered,
on a moonlight night, through the grass-grown enclosure within: here I stumbled
over a marble hearth, and there over a fallen fragment of cornice. Wrapped up
in a shawl, I still carried the unknown little child: I might not lay it down
anywhere, however tired were my arms—however much its weight impeded my
progress, I must retain it. I heard the gallop of a horse at a distance on the
road; I was sure it was you; and you were departing for many years and for a
distant country. I climbed the thin wall with frantic perilous haste, eager to
catch one glimpse of you from the top: the stones rolled from under my feet,
the ivy branches I grasped gave way, the child clung round my neck in terror,
and almost strangled me; at last I gained the summit. I saw you like a speck on
a white track, lessening every moment. The blast blew so strong I could not
stand. I sat down on the narrow ledge; I hushed the scared infant in my lap:
you turned an angle of the road: I bent forward to take a last look; the wall
crumbled; I was shaken; the child rolled from my knee, I lost my balance, fell,
and woke.”

“Now, Jane, that is all.”

“All the preface, sir; the tale is yet to come. On waking, a gleam dazzled my
eyes; I thought—Oh, it is daylight! But I was mistaken; it was only
candlelight. Sophie, I supposed, had come in. There was a light in the
dressing-table, and the door of the closet, where, before going to bed, I had
hung my wedding-dress and veil, stood open; I heard a rustling there. I asked,
‘Sophie, what are you doing?’ No one answered; but a form emerged from the
closet; it took the light, held it aloft, and surveyed the garments pendent
from the portmanteau. ‘Sophie! Sophie!’ I again cried: and still it was silent.
I had risen up in bed, I bent forward: first surprise, then bewilderment, came
over me; and then my blood crept cold through my veins. Mr. Rochester, this was
not Sophie, it was not Leah, it was not Mrs. Fairfax: it was not—no, I was sure
of it, and am still—it was not even that strange woman, Grace Poole.”

“It must have been one of them,” interrupted my master.

“No, sir, I solemnly assure you to the contrary. The shape standing before me
had never crossed my eyes within the precincts of Thornfield Hall before; the
height, the contour were new to me.”

“Describe it, Jane.”

“It seemed, sir, a woman, tall and large, with thick and dark hair hanging long
down her back. I know not what dress she had on: it was white and straight; but
whether gown, sheet, or shroud, I cannot tell.”

“Did you see her face?”

“Not at first. But presently she took my veil from its place; she held it up,
gazed at it long, and then she threw it over her own head, and turned to the
mirror. At that moment I saw the reflection of the visage and features quite
distinctly in the dark oblong glass.”

“And how were they?”

“Fearful and ghastly to me—oh, sir, I never saw a face like it! It was a
discoloured face—it was a savage face. I wish I could forget the roll of the
red eyes and the fearful blackened inflation of the lineaments!”

“Ghosts are usually pale, Jane.”

“This, sir, was purple: the lips were swelled and dark; the brow furrowed: the
black eyebrows widely raised over the bloodshot eyes. Shall I tell you of what
it reminded me?”

“You may.”

“Of the foul German spectre—the Vampyre.”

“Ah!—what did it do?”

“Sir, it removed my veil from its gaunt head, rent it in two parts, and
flinging both on the floor, trampled on them.”

“Afterwards?”

“It drew aside the window-curtain and looked out; perhaps it saw dawn
approaching, for, taking the candle, it retreated to the door. Just at my
bedside, the figure stopped: the fiery eyes glared upon me—she thrust up her
candle close to my face, and extinguished it under my eyes. I was aware her
lurid visage flamed over mine, and I lost consciousness: for the second time in
my life—only the second time—I became insensible from terror.”

“Who was with you when you revived?”

“No one, sir, but the broad day. I rose, bathed my head and face in water,
drank a long draught; felt that though enfeebled I was not ill, and determined
that to none but you would I impart this vision. Now, sir, tell me who and what
that woman was?”

“The creature of an over-stimulated brain; that is certain. I must be careful
of you, my treasure: nerves like yours were not made for rough handling.”

“Sir, depend on it, my nerves were not in fault; the thing was real: the
transaction actually took place.”

“And your previous dreams, were they real too? Is Thornfield Hall a ruin? Am I
severed from you by insuperable obstacles? Am I leaving you without a
tear—without a kiss—without a word?”

“Not yet.”

“Am I about to do it? Why, the day is already commenced which is to bind us
indissolubly; and when we are once united, there shall be no recurrence of
these mental terrors: I guarantee that.”

“Mental terrors, sir! I wish I could believe them to be only such: I wish it
more now than ever; since even you cannot explain to me the mystery of that
awful visitant.”

“And since I cannot do it, Jane, it must have been unreal.”

“But, sir, when I said so to myself on rising this morning, and when I looked
round the room to gather courage and comfort from the cheerful aspect of each
familiar object in full daylight, there—on the carpet—I saw what gave the
distinct lie to my hypothesis,—the veil, torn from top to bottom in two
halves!”

I felt Mr. Rochester start and shudder; he hastily flung his arms round me.
“Thank God!” he exclaimed, “that if anything malignant did come near you last
night, it was only the veil that was harmed. Oh, to think what might have
happened!”

He drew his breath short, and strained me so close to him, I could scarcely
pant. After some minutes’ silence, he continued, cheerily—

“Now, Janet, I’ll explain to you all about it. It was half dream, half reality.
A woman did, I doubt not, enter your room: and that woman was—must have
been—Grace Poole. You call her a strange being yourself: from all you know, you
have reason so to call her—what did she do to me? what to Mason? In a state
between sleeping and waking, you noticed her entrance and her actions; but
feverish, almost delirious as you were, you ascribed to her a goblin appearance
different from her own: the long dishevelled hair, the swelled black face, the
exaggerated stature, were figments of imagination; results of nightmare: the
spiteful tearing of the veil was real: and it is like her. I see you would ask
why I keep such a woman in my house: when we have been married a year and a
day, I will tell you; but not now. Are you satisfied, Jane? Do you accept my
solution of the mystery?”

I reflected, and in truth it appeared to me the only possible one: satisfied I
was not, but to please him I endeavoured to appear so—relieved, I certainly did
feel; so I answered him with a contented smile. And now, as it was long past
one, I prepared to leave him.

“Does not Sophie sleep with Adèle in the nursery?” he asked, as I lit my
candle.

“Yes, sir.”

“And there is room enough in Adèle’s little bed for you. You must share it with
her to-night, Jane: it is no wonder that the incident you have related should
make you nervous, and I would rather you did not sleep alone: promise me to go
to the nursery.”

“I shall be very glad to do so, sir.”

“And fasten the door securely on the inside. Wake Sophie when you go upstairs,
under pretence of requesting her to rouse you in good time to-morrow; for you
must be dressed and have finished breakfast before eight. And now, no more
sombre thoughts: chase dull care away, Janet. Don’t you hear to what soft
whispers the wind has fallen? and there is no more beating of rain against the
window-panes: look here” (he lifted up the curtain)—“it is a lovely night!”

It was. Half heaven was pure and stainless: the clouds, now trooping before the
wind, which had shifted to the west, were filing off eastward in long, silvered
columns. The moon shone peacefully.

“Well,” said Mr. Rochester, gazing inquiringly into my eyes, “how is my Janet
now?”

“The night is serene, sir; and so am I.”

“And you will not dream of separation and sorrow to-night; but of happy love
and blissful union.”

This prediction was but half fulfilled: I did not indeed dream of sorrow, but
as little did I dream of joy; for I never slept at all. With little Adèle in my
arms, I watched the slumber of childhood—so tranquil, so passionless, so
innocent—and waited for the coming day: all my life was awake and astir in my
frame: and as soon as the sun rose I rose too. I remember Adèle clung to me as
I left her: I remember I kissed her as I loosened her little hands from my
neck; and I cried over her with strange emotion, and quitted her because I
feared my sobs would break her still sound repose. She seemed the emblem of my
past life; and he, I was now to array myself to meet, the dread, but adored,
type of my unknown future day.