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the nor-house of ferndean was a building of siderable antiquity, derate size, and no architectural pretensions, deep buried in a wood. i had heard of it before. mr. rochester often spoke of it, and sotis went there. his father had purchased the estate for the sake of the gaers. he would have let the house, buuld find , in sequence of its ineligible and insalubrious site. ferhen reined uninhabited and unfurnished, with the exception of so two or three roo fitted up for the aodation of the squire when he went there in the season to shoot.
to this house i ca just ere dark on an evening rked by the characteristics of sad skyld gale, and tinued sll peing rain. the last le i perford on foot, having disssed the chaise and driver with the double reion i had prosed. even when within a very short distance of the nor- house, yould see nothing of it, so thid dark grew the tier of the gloo wood about it. iron gates between granite pillars showedwhere to enter, and passing through the i found self at owilight of close-rarees. there was a grass-grown track desding the forest aisle between hoar and knotty shafts and under branched arches. i followed it, expeg soon to reach the dwelling; but it stretched on and on, it would far and farther: no sign of habitatirounds was visible.
i thought i had taken a wrong dire and lostway. the darkness of natural as well as of sylvan dusk gathered over . i looked round in search of another road. there was none: all was interwoven ste nar trunk, dense suer foliage—no opening anywhere.
i proceeded: at lastehe trees thinned a little; presently i beheld a railing, then the house—scarce, by this dilight, distinguishable frothe trees; so dank and green were its deg walls. entering a portal, fastened only by a latch, i stood adst a space of enclosed ground, frowhich the wood swept away in a secircle. there were no flowers, no garden-beds; only a broad gravel-walk girdling a grass-plat, and this set in the heavy fra of the forest. the house presewo pointed gables in its front; the windows were latticed and narrow: the front door was narrow too, oep led up to it. the whole looked, as the host of the rochester ar had said, “quite a desolate spot.” it was as still as a chur a week-day: the pattering rain on the forest leaves was the only sound audible in its viage.
“ there be life here?” i asked.
yes, life of so kind there was; for i heard a vent—that narrow front-door was unclosing, and so shape was about to issue frothe grange.
it opened slowly: a figure ca out into the twilight and stood oep; a n without a hat: he stretched forth his hand as if to feel whether it rained. dusk as it was, i had reised hiit wasster, edward fairfax rochester, and no other.
i stayedstep, alstbreath, and stood to watch hito exane hi self unseen, and alas! to hiinvisible. it was a suddeing, and one in which rapture was kept well in check by pain. i had no difficulty irainingvoice froexclation,step frohasty advance.
his forwas of the sa strong and stalwart tour as ever: his port was still erect, his heir was still raven blaor were his features altered or sunk: not in one year’s space, by any sorrowuld his athletic strength be quelled or his vigorous pri blighted. but in his tenance i saw a ge: that looked desperate.? and brooding—that rendedof so wronged aered wild beast or bird, dangerous to approa his sullehe caged eagle, whose ged eyes cruelty has extinguished, ght look as looked that sightless saon.
and, reader, do you think i feared hiin his blind ferocit&a;a;lt;sa&a;a;gt;..&a;a;lt;/sa&a;a;gt;y?—if you do, you little know . a soft hope blest withsorrow that soon i should dare to drop a kiss on that brow of rock, and on those lips so sternly sealed beh it: but not yet. i would not st hiyet.
he desded the oep, and advanced slowly and gropingly towards the grass-plat. where was his daring stride now? then he paused, as if he knew not which way to turn. he lifted his hand and opened his eyelids; gazed blank, and with a straining effort, on the sky, and toward the ahitheatre of trees: one saw that all to hiwas void darkness. he stretched his right hand (the left ar the tilated one, he kept hidden in his boso; he seed to wish by touch to gain an idea of what lay around hi he t but vacy still; for the trees were so yards off where he stood. he relinquished the endeavour, folded his ar, and stood quiet and te in the rain, now falling fast on his vered head. at this nt john approached hifroso quarter.
“will you takear sir?” he said; “there is a heavy sh on: had you not better go in?”
“letalone,” was the answer.
john withdrew without having observed . mr. rochester now tried to walk about: vainly,—all was too uain. he groped his way back to the house, and, re-entering it, closed the door.
i now drew near and knocked: john’s wife opened for . “mary,” i said, “how are you?”
she started as if she had seen a ghost: i cald her. to her hurried “is it really you, ss, e at this late hour to this lonely place?” i answered by taking her hand; and then i followed her into the kit, where john now sat by a good fire. i explaio the in few words, that i had heard all which had happened since i left thornfield, and that i was e to see mr. rochester. i asked john to go down to the turn-pike-house, where i had disssed the chaise, and bringtrunk, which i had left there: and then, while i revedbo and shawl, i questioned mary as to whether uld be aodated at the manor house for the night; and finding that arras to that effect, though difficult, would not be iossible, i inford her i should stay. just at this nt the parlour-bell rang.
“when you go in,” said i, “tell your ster that a person wishes to speak to hi but do not givena.”
“i don’t think he will see you,” she answered; “he refuses everybody.”
wheurned, i inquired what he had said. “you are to send in your na and your business,” she replied. she then proceeded to fill a glass with water, and place it on a tray, together with dles.
“is that what he rang for?” i asked.
“yes: he always has dles brought in at dark, though he is blind.”
“give the tray to ; i will carry it in.”
i took it froher hand: she pointedout the parlour door. the tray shook as i held it; the water spilt frothe glass;heart struckribs loud and fast. mary opehe door for , and shut it behind .
this parlour looked gloo: a ed handful of fire burnt low in the grate; and, leaning over it, with his head supported against the high, old-fashioned ntelpiece, appeared the bli of the roo his old dog, pilot, lay on one side, reved out of the way, aniled up as if afraid of beily trodden upon. pilot pricked up his ears when i ca in: then he jued up with a yelp and a whine, and bouowards : he alst khe tray fro hands. i set it oable; then patted hi and said softly, “lie down!” mr. rochester turned ically to see what the otion was: but as he saw nothing, he returned and sighed.
“givethe water, mary,” he said.
i approached hiwith the now only half-filled glass; pilot followed , still excited.
“what is the tter?” he inquired.
“down, pilot!” i again said. he checked the water on its way to his lips, and seed to listen: he drank, and put the glass down. “this is you, mary, is it not?”
“mary is i,” i answered.
he put out his hand with a quick gesture, but not seeing where i stood, he did not touch . “who is this? who is this?”&a;a;lt;big&a;a;gt;..&a;a;lt;/big&a;a;gt; he derying, as it seed, to see with those sightless eyes— unavailing and distressing attet! “answer —speak again!” he ordered, ieriously and aloud.
“will you have a little re water, sir? i spilt half of what was in the glass,” i said.
“who is it? what is it? who speaks?”
“pilot knows , and john and mary know i ahere. i ca only this evening,” i answered.
“great god!—what delusion has e over ? what sweet dness has seized ?”
“no delusion—no dness: your nd, sir, is to for delusion, your health too sound for frenzy.”
“and where is the speaker? is it only a voice? oh! i ot see, but i st feel, orheart will stop andbrain burst. whatever—whoever you are—be perceptible to the touch or i ot live!”
he groped; i arrested his wandering hand, and priso in both ne.
“her very fingers!” he cried; “her sll, slight fingers! if so there st be re of her.”
the scular hand broke fro custody;arwas seized,shoulder—neck—waist—i was entwined and gathered to hi
“is it jane? what is it? this is her shape—this is her size—”
“and this her voice,” i added. “she is all here: her heart, too. god bless you, sir! i aglad to be so near you again.”
“jane eyre!—jane eyre,” was all he said.
“my dear ster,” i answered, “i ajane eyre: i have found you out—i ae back to you.”
“in truth?—in the flesh? my living jane?”
“you touch , sir,—you hold , and fast enough: i anold like rpse, nor vat like air, ai?”
“my living darling! these are certainly her lis, and these her features; but i ot be so blest, after allsery. it is a drea such drea as i have had at night when i have clasped her once re toheart, as i do now; and kissed her, as thus—ahat she loved , and trusted that she would not leave .”
“which i never will, sir, frothis day.”
“never will, says the vision? but i always woke and found it ay ckery; and i was desolate and abandoned— life dark, lonely, hopeless— soul athirst and forbidden to drink— heart fashed and o be fed. gentle, soft drea ling inar now, you will fly, too, as your sisters have all fled before you: but kissbefore you go—erace , jane.”
“there, sir—and there!”’
i pressedlips to his once brilliant and now rayless eyes—i swept his hair frohis brow, and kissed that too. he suddenly seed to arouse hielf: the vi of the reality of all this seized hi
“it is you—is it, jane? you are e bae then?”
“i a”
“and you do not lie dead in so ditder so strea and you are not a pining outcast angst strangers?”
“no, sir! i aan indepe won now.”
“indepe! what do you an, jane?”
“my uncle in madeira is dead, and he leftfive thousand pounds.”
“ah! this is practical—this is real!” he cried: “i should never dreathat. besides, there is that peculiar voice of hers, so aniting and piquant, as well as soft: it cheerswithered heart; it puts life into it.—what, ja! are you an indepe won? a rian?”
“if you won’t letlive with you, ibuild a house ofown close up to your door, and you y e and sit inparlour when you any of an evening.”
“but as you are rich, jane, you have now, no doubt, friends who will look after you, and not suffer you to devote yourself to a blind later like ?”
“i told you i aindepe, sir, as well as rich: i a own stress.”
“and you will stay with ?”
“certainly—unless you object. i will be your neighbour, your nurse, your housekeeper. i find you lonely: i will be your panion—to read to you, to walk with you, to sit with you, to wait on you, to be eyes and hands to you. cease to look so lancholy,dear ster; you shall not be left desolate, so long as i live.”
he replied not: he seed serious—abstracted; he sighed; he half- opened his lips as if to speak: he closed theagain. i felt a little earrassed. perhaps i had too rashly over-leaped ventionalities; and he, like st. john, saw iropriety inieness. i had indeed deproposal frothe idea that he wished and would askto be his wife: an expectation, not the less certain because unexpressed, had buoyedup, that he would clai at once as his own. but no hint to that effect esg hiand his tenance being re overcast, i suddenly reered that i ght have been all wrong, and erhaps playing the fool unwittingly; and i begaly to withdraw self frohis ar—but he eagerly snatchedcloser.
“no—no—jane; you st not go. no—i have touched you, heard you, felt the fort of your presehe sweetness of your solation: i ot give up these joys. i have little left in self—i st have you. the world y laugh—y callabsurd, selfish—but it does not signify. my very soul dends you: it will be satisfied, or it will take deadly vengean its fra.”
“well, sir, i will stay with you: i have said so.”
“yes—but you uand ohing by staying with ; and i uand another. you, perhapsuld ke up your nd to be abouthand and chair—to wait onas a kind little nurse (for you have an affeate heart and a generous spirit, which prot you to ke sacrifices for those you pity), and that ought to suffie no doubt. i suppose i should ertainfatherly feelings for you: do you think so? e—tell .”
“i will think what you like, sir: i atent to be only your nurse, if you think it better.”
“but you ot always benurse, ja: you are young—you st rry one day.”
“i don’t care about being rried.”
“you should care, ja: if i were what i once was, i would try to ke you care—but—a sightless block!”
he relapsed again into gloo i, orary, beca re cheerful, and took fresh ce: these last wavean insight as to where the difficulty lay; and as it was no difficulty with , i felt quite relieved fro previous earrassnt. i resud a livelier vein of versation.
“it is ti so one uook to rehunise you,” said i, parting his thid long uncut locks; “for i see you are beiarphosed into a lion, or sothing of that sort. you have a ‘faux air’ of nebuezzar in the fields about you, that is certain: your hair rendsof eagles’ feathers; whether your nails are grown like birds’ claws or not, i have not yet noticed.”
“on this ar i have her hand nor nails,” he said, drawing the tilated li frohis breast, and showing it to . “it is a re stu—a ghastly sight! don’t you think so, jane?”
“it is a pity to see it; and a pity to see your eyes—and the scar of fire on your forehead: and the worst of it is, one is in danger of loving you too well for all this; and king too ch of you.”
“i thought you would be revolted, jane, when you sawar andcicatrised visage.”
“did you? don’t tellso—lest i should say sothing disparaging to your judgnt. now, letleave you an instant, to ke a better fire, and have the hearth swept up.you tell when there is a good fire?”
“yes; with the right eye i see a glow—a ruddy haze.”
“and you see the dles?”
“very diy—each is a lunous cloud.”
“ you see ?”
“no,fairy: but i aonly too thankful to hear and feel you.”
“when do you take supper?”
“i ake supper.”
“but you shall have so to-night. i ahungry: so are you, i daresay, only you fet.”
suoning mary, i soon had the rooin re cheerful order: i prepared hi likewise, a fortable repast. my spirits were excited, and with pleasure and ease i talked to hiduring supper, and for a long ti after. there was no harassiraint, no repressing of glee and vivacity with hi for with hii erfect ease, because i knew i suited hi all i said or did seed either to sole or revive hi delightful sciousness! it brought to life and lightwhole nature: in his presehhly lived; and he lived in ne. blind as he was, sles played over his face, joy dawned on his forehead: his lis softened and ward.
after supper, he began to askny questions, of where i had been, what i had been doing, how i had found hiout; but i gave hionly very partial replies: it was too late to enter into particulars that night. besides, i wished to touo deep- thrilling chord—to open no fresh well of etion in his heart:sole present aiwas to cheer hi cheered, as i have said, he was: a but by fits. if a nt’s silence broke the versation, he would turless, touch , then say, “jane.”
“you are altogether a hun being, jane? you are certain of that?”
“i stiously believe so, mr. rochester.”
“yet how, on this dark and doleful eveninguld you so suddenly rise onloh? i stretchedhand to take a glass of water froa hireling, and it was givenby you: i asked a question, expeg john’s wife to answer , and your voice spoke atear.”
“because i had e in, in mary’s stead, with the tray.”
“and there is e in the very hour i anow spending with you. whotell what a dark, dreary, hopeless life i have dragged on for nths past? doing nothing, expeg nothing; rging night in day; feeling but the sensation old when i let the fire go out, of hunger when i fot to eat: and then a ceaseless sorrow, and, at tis, a very deliriuof desire to beholdjane again. yes: for her restoration i longed, far re than for that oflost sight. howit be that jane is with , and says she loves ? will she not depart as suddenly as she ca? to-rrow, i fear i shall find her no re.”
a onplace, practical reply, out of the train of his own disturbed ideas, was, i was sure, the best and st reassuring for hiin this fra of nd. i passedfinger over his eyebrows, and rerked that they wererched, and that i would apply sothing which would ke thegrow as broad and black as ever.
“where is the use of doinggood in any way, be spirit, when, at so fatal nt, you will agai —passing like a shadow, whither and how tounknown, and forreining afterwards undverable?
“have you a pocket-b about you, sir?”
“what for, jane?”
“just to b out this shaggy black ne. i find you rather alarng, when i exane you close at hand: you talk ofbeing a fairy, but i asure, you are re like a brownie.”
“ai hideous, jane?”
“very, sir: you always were, you know.”
“huh! the wiess has not been taken out of you, wherever you have sojourned.”
“yet i have been with good people; far better than you: a huis better people; possessed of ideas and views you ;rk&a;a;gt;&a;a;lt;/rk&a;a;gt;er eained in your life: quite re refined aed.”
“who the deuce have you been with?”
“if you twist in that way you will kepull the hair out of your head; and then i think you will cease to eain doubts ofsubstantiality.”
“who have you been with, jane?”
“you shall not get it out ofto-night, sir; you st wait till to-rrow; to leavetale half told, will, you know, be a sort of security that i shall appear at your breakfast table to finish it. by the bye, i st nd not to rise on your hearth with only a glass of water then: i st bring an egg at the least, to say nothing of fried ha”
“you g geling—fairy-born and hun-bred! you kefeel as i have not felt these twelve nths. if sauuld have had you for his david, the evil spirit would have been exorcised without the aid of the harp.”
“there, sir, you are redd up and de det. now i’ll leave you: i have been travelling these last three days, and i believe i atired. good night.”
“just one word, jane: were there only ladies in the house where you have been?”
i laughed and deescape, still laughing as i ran upstairs. “a good idea!” i thought with glee. “i see i have the ans of fretting hiout of his lancholy for so ti to e.”
very early thei heard hiup and astir, wandering froone rooto another. as soon as mary ca down i heard the question: “is miss eyre here?” then: “whi did you put her into? was it dry? is she up? go and ask if she wants anything; and when she will e down.”
i ca down as soon as i thought there rospect of breakfast. entering the roovery softly, i had a view of hibefore he dveredprese was urnful, io withe subjugation of that vigorous spirit to rporeal infirty. he sat in his chair—still, but not at rest: expet evidently; the lines of now habitual sadness rking his stroures. his tenance rended one of a la quenched, waiting to be re-lit— and alas! it was not hielf thauld now kihe lustre of anited expression: he was depe on another for that office! i had ant to be gay and careless, but the powerlessness of the strong n touchedheart to the quick: still i sted hiwith what vivacity uld.
“it is a bright, sunnysir,” i said. “the rain is over and gone, and there is a tender shining after it: you shall have a walk soon.”
i had wakehe glow: his features bead.
“oh, you are ihere,skylark! e to . you are not gone: not vanished? i heard one of your kind an ho, singing high over the wood: but its song had no sie, any re than the rising sun had rays. all the lody oh is trated injaooear (i aglad it is not naturally a silent one): all the sunshine ifeel is in her presence.”
the water stood ineyes to hear this avowal of his dependence; just as if a royal eagle, ed to a perch, should be forced to e a sparrow to bee its purveyor. but i would not be lachryse: i dashed off the salt drops, and busied self with preparing breakfast.
most of the ent in the open air. i led hiout of the wet and wild wood into so cheerful fields: i described to hihow brilliantly green they were; how the flowers and hedges looked refreshed; how sparklingly blue was the sky. i sought a seat for hiin a hidden and lovely spot, a dry stu of a tree; nor did i refuse to let hi wheed, placeon his knee. why should i, when both he and i were happier han apart? pilot lay beside us: all was quiet. he broke out suddenly while claspingin his ar—
“cruel, cruel deserter! oh, jane, what did i feel when i dvered you had fled frothornfield, and when uld nowhere find you; and, after exaning your apartnt, ascertaihat you had taken no ney, nor anything whiculd serve as an equivalent! a pearl necklace i had given you lay untouched in its little casket; your trunks were lefrded and locked as they had been prepared for the bridal tour. whaulddarling do, i asked, left destitute and penniless? and what did she do? lethear now.”
thus urged, i began the narrative ofexperience for the last year. i softened siderably what related to the three days of wandering and starvation, because to have told hiall would have been to inflinecessary pain: the little i did say lacerated his faithful heart deeper than i wished.
i should not have left hithus, he said, without any ans of kingway: i should have told hi iion. i should have fided in hi he would never have forcedto be his stress. violent as he had seed in his despair, he, in truth, lovedfar too well and too tenderly to stitute hielftyrant: he would have givenhalf his fortune, without dending so ch as a kiss iurn, rather than i should have flung self friendless on the wide world. i had endured, he was certain, re than i had fessed to hi
“well, whateversufferings had been, they were very short,” i answered: and then i proceeded to tell hihow i had been received at moor house; how i had obtaihe office of sistress, &a;a;a;a;c. the aession of fortuhe dvery ofrelations, followed in due order. ourse, st. john rivers’ na ca in frequently in the progress oftale. when i had dohat na was iediately taken up.
“this st. john, then, is youusin?”
“yes.”
“you have spoken of hioften: do you like hi”
“he was a very good n, sir; uld not help liking hi”
“a good n. does that an a respectable well-ducted n of fifty? or what does it an?”
“st john was only twenty-nine, sir.”
“‘jeune re,’ as the french say. is he a person of low stature, phlegtid plain. a person whose goodness sists rather in his guiltlessness of vice, than in his prowess in virtue.”
“he is untiringly active. great aed deeds are what he lives to perfor”
“but his brain? that is probably rather soft? he ans well: but you shrug your shoulders to hear hitalk?”
“he talks little, sir: what he does say is ever to the point. his brain is first-rate, i shoul&a;a;lt;u&a;a;gt;藏书网&a;a;lt;/u&a;a;gt;d think not iressible, but vigorous.”
“is he an able n, then?”
“truly able.”
“a thhly educated n?”
“st. john is an aplished and profound scholar.”
“his nners, i think, you said are not to your taste?—priggish and parsonic?”
“i never ntioned his nners; but, unless i had a very bad taste, they st suit it; they are polished, cal alenlike.”
“his appearance,—i fet what description you gave of his appearance;—a sort of raw curate, half strangled with his white neckcloth, and stilted up on his thick-soled high-lows, eh?”
“st. john dresses well. he is a handso n: tall, fair, with blue eyes, and a gre profile.”
(aside.) “da hi”—(to .) “did you like hi jane?”
“yes, mr. rochester, i liked hi but you askedthat before.”
i perceived, ourse, the drift ofinterlocutor. jealousy had got hold of hi she stung hi but the sting was salutary: it gave hirespite frothe gnawing fang of lancholy. i would not, therefore, iediately charthe snake.
“perhaps you would rather not sit any longer onknee, miss eyre?” was thesowhat ued observation.
“why not, mr. rochester?”
“the picture you have just drawn is suggestive of a rather too overwhelng trast. your words have delied very prettily a graceful apollo: he is present to your igination,—tall, fair, blue-eyed, and with a gre profile. your eyes dwell on a vul,—a real blacksth, brown, broad-shouldered: and blind and la into the bargain.”
“i hought of it, before; but you certainly are rather like vul, sir.”
“well, youleave , ’a but before you go” (aainedby a firr grasp than ever), “you will be pleased just to answera question or two.” he paused.
“what questions, mr. rochester?”
then followed this cross-exanation.
“st. john de you sistress of morton before he knew you were hiusin?”
“yes.”
“you would often see hi he would visit the school sotis?”
“daily.”
“he would approve of your plans, jane? i know they would be clever, for you are a talented creature!”
“he approved of theyes.”
“he would dver ny things in you huld not have expected to find? so of your aplishnts are not ordinary.”
“i don’t know about that.”
“you had a littlttage he school, you say: did he ever e there to see you?”
“now and then?”
“of an evening?”
“once or twice.”
a pause.
“how long did you reside with hiand his sisters after thusinship was dvered?”
“five nths.”
“did rivers spend ch ti with the ladies of his faly?”
“yes; the back parlour was both his study and ours: he sat he window, and we by the table.”
“did he study ch?”
“a good deal.”
“what?”
“hindostanee.”
“and what did you do anti?”
“i learnt gern, at first.”
“did he teach you?”
“he did not uand gern.”
“did he teach you nothing?”
“a little hindostanee.”
“rivers taught you hindostanee?”
“yes, sir.”
“and his sisters also?”
“no.”
“only you?”
“only .”
“did you ask to learn?”
“no.”
“he wished to teach you?”
“yes.”
a sed pause.
“why did he wish it? of what usuld hindostanee be to you?”
“he intendedto go with hito india.”
“ah! here i reach the root of the tter. he wanted you to rry hi”
“he askedto rry hi”
“that is a fi—an iudent iion to vex .”
“i beg your pardon, it is the literal truth: he askedre than once, and was as stiff about urging his point as ever yould be.”
“miss eyre, i repeat it, youleave . how often ai to say the sa thing? why do you reiinaciously perched onknee, when i have given you notice to quit?”
“because i afortable there.”
“no, jane, you are not fortable there, because your heart is not with : it is with thiusin—this st. john. oh, till this nt, i thoughtlittle jane was all ne! i had a belief she lovedeven when she left : that was an atoof sweet in ch bitter. long as we have been parted, hot tears as i have wept over our separation, i hought that while i was her, she was loving another! but it is useless grieving. jane, leave : go and rry rivers.”
“shakeoff, then, sir,—pushaway, for i’ll not leave you ofown rd.”
“jane, i ever like your tone of voice: it still renews hope, it sounds so truthful. when i hear it, it carriesback a year. i fet that you have ford a ie. but i anot a fool—go—”
“where st i go, sir?”
“your oith the husband you have chosen.”
“who is that?”
“you know—this st. john rivers.”
“he is nothusband, nor ever will be. he does not love : i do not love hi he loves (as helove, and that is not as you love) a beautiful young lady called rosand. he wao rryonly because he thought i should ke a suitable ssionary’s wife, which she would not have done. he is good and great, but severe; and, for ld as an iceberg. he is not like you, sir: i anot happy at his side, nor near hi nor with hi he has no indulgene—no fondness. he sees nothing attractive in ; not even youth—only a few useful ntal points.—then i st leave you, sir, to go to hi”
i shuddered involuntarily, and g instinctively closer toblind but beloved ster. he sled.
“what, jane! is this true? is such really the state of tters between you and rivers?”
“absolutely, sir! oh, you need not be jealous! i wao tease you a little to ke you less sad: i thought anger would be better than grief. but if you wishto love youuld you but see how ch i do love you, you would be proud a. allheart is yours, sir: it belongs to you; and with you it would rein, were fate to exile the rest offroyour presence for ever.”
again, as he kissed , painful thoughts darkened his aspect. “my scared vision! my crippled strength!” he rred regretfully.
i caressed, in order to soothe hi i knew of what he was thinking, and eak for hi but dared not. as he turned aside his face a nute, i saw a tear slide frouhe sealed eyelid, and trickle down the nly cheek. my heart swelled.
“i aer than the old lightning-struck chestnut-tree in thornfield orchard,” he rerked ere long. “and what right would that ruin have to bid a budding woodbinver its decay with freshness?”
“you are no ruin, sir—no lightning-struck tree: yreen and vigorous. plants will grow about your roots, whether you ask theor not, because they take delight in your bountiful shadow; and as they grow they will lean towards you, and wind round you, because your strength offers theso safe a prop.”
again he sled: i gave hifort.
“you speak of friends, jane?” he asked.
“yes, of friends,” i answered rather hesitatingly: for i knew i ant re than friends, buuld not tell what other word to eloy. he helped .
“ah! jane. but i want a wife.”
“do you, sir?”
“yes: is it o you?”
“ourse: you said nothing about it before.”
“is it unwele news?”
“that depends on circutances, sir—on your choice.”
“which you shall ke for , jane. i will abide by your decision.”
“choose then, sir—her who loves you best.”
“i will at least choose—her i love best. jane, will you rry ?”
“yes, sir.”
“a poor blind n, whoyou will have to lead about by the hand?”
“yes, sir.”
“a crippled n, twenty years older than you, whoyou will have to wait on?”
“yes, sir.”
“truly, jane?”
“most truly, sir.”
“oh!darling! god bless you and reward you!”
“mr. rochester, if ever i did a good deed inlife—if ever i thought a good thought—if ever i prayed a sincere and blaless prayer—if ever i wished a righteous wish,—i arewarded now. to be your wife is, for , to be as happy as ibe oh.”
“because you delight in sacrifice.”
“sacrifice! what do i sacrifice? fane for food, expectation for tent. to be privileged to putar round what i value—to presslips to what i love—to repose on what i trust: is that to ke a sacrifice? if so, theainly i delight in sacrifice.”
“and to bear withinfirties, jao overlookdeficies.”
“which are none, sir, to . i love you better now, when ireally be useful to you, than i did in your state of proud independence, when you disdained every part but that of the giver and protector.”
“hitherto i have hated to be helped—to be led: heh, i feel i shall hate it no re. i did not like to puthand into a hireling’s, but it is pleasant to feel it circled by jane’s little fingers. i preferred utter lonelio the stant attendance of servants; but jane’s soft nistry will be a perpetual joy. jane suits : do i suit her?”
“to the fi fibre ofnature, sir.”
“the case being so, we have nothing in the world to wait for: we st be rried instantly.”
he looked and spoke with eagerness: his old ietuosity was rising.
“we st bee one flesh without any delay, jahere is but the lice to get—then we rry.”
“mr. rochester, i have just dvered the sun is far deed froits ridian, and pilot is actually gone ho to his dinner. letlook at your watch.”
“fasten it into yirdle, ja, and keep it henceforward: i have no use for it.”
“it is nearly four o’clo the afternoon, sir. don’t you feel hungry?”
“the third day frothis st be our wedding-day, jane. never nd fine clothes and jewels, now: all that is not worth a fillip.”
“the sun has dried up all the rain-drops, sir. the breeze is still: it is quite hot.”
“do you know, jane, i have your little pearl necklace at this nt fastened roundbronze scrag undercravat? i have worn it sihe day i lostonly treasure, as a nto of her.”
“we will go ho through the wood: that will be the shadiest way.”
he pursued his own thoughts without heeding .
“jane! you think , i daresay, an irreligious dog: butheart swells with gratitude to the be god of this earth just now. he sees not as n sees, but far clearer: judges not as n judges, but far re wisely. i did wrong: i would have sulliedi flower—breathed guilt on its purity: the oipotent snatched it fro. i, instiff-necked rebellion, alst cursed the dispensation: instead of bending to the decree, i defied it. divine justice pursued iturse; disasters ca thie: i was forced to pass through the valley of the shadow of death. his chastisents are ghty; and one stewhich has huledfor ever. you know i roud ofstrength: but what is it now, when i st give it over tn guidance, as a child does its weakness? of late, jane—only—only of late—i began to see and aowledge the hand of god indoo i began to experience rerse, repentahe wish for recilent tomaker. i began sotis to pray: very brief prayers they were, but very sincere.
“so days sinay, i uer thefour; it was last monday night, a singular od ca over : one in which grief replaced frenzy—sorrow, sullenness. i had long had the iression that since uld nowhere find you, you st be dead. late that night— perhaps it ght be between eleven and twelve o’clock—ere i retired todreary rest, i supplicated god, that, if it seed good to hi i ght sooaken frothis life, and adtted to that world to e, where there was still hope of rejoining jane.
“i was inown roo and sitting by the window, whi: it soothedto feel the bal night-air; though uld see no stars and only by a vague, lunous haze, khe presence of a on. i longed for thee, ja! oh, i longed for thee both with soul and flesh! i asked of god, at on anguish and hulity, if i had not been long enough desolate, afflicted, tornted; and ght not soon taste bliss and peace re. that i rited all i endured, i aowledged—that uld scarcely endure re, i pleaded; and the alpha and oga ofheart’s wishes broke involuntarily fro lips in the words—‘jane! jane! jane!’”
“did you speak these words aloud?”
“i did, jane. if any listener had heard , he would have thoughtd: i pronouhewith such frantiergy.”
“and it was last monday night, sowhere near dnight?”
“yes; but the ti is of no sequence: what followed is the strange point. you will thinksuperstitious,—so superstition i have inblood, and always had: heless, this is true— true at least it is that i heard what i now relate.
“as i exclaid ‘jane! jane! jane!’ a voice—i ot tell whehe voice ca, but i know whose voice it was—replied, ‘i aing: wait for ;’ and a nt after, went whispering on the wind the words—‘where are you?’
“i’ll tell you, if i , the idea, the picture these words opeond: yet it is difficult to express what i want to express. ferndean is buried, as you see, in a heavy wood, where sound falls dull, and dies unreverberating. ‘where are you?’ seed spoken angst untains; for i heard a hill-sent echo repeat the words. cooler and fresher at the nt the gale seed to visitbrow: uld have deed that in so wild, lone se, i and jane were eting. in spirit, i believe we st have t. you no doubt were, at that hour, in unscious sleep, jane: perhaps your soul wandered froits cell to ine; for those were your ats—as certain as i live—they were yours!”
reader, it was on monday night—near dnight—that i too had received the sterious suons: those were the very words by which i replied to it. i listeo mr. rochester’s narrative, but de no disclosure iurn. the ce struckas too awful and inexplicable to be unicated or discussed. if i told anything,tale would be such as st necessarily ke a profound iression on the nd ofhearer: and that nd, yet froits sufferings tloo needed not the deeper shade of the supernatural. i kept these things then, and poheinheart.
“you ot now wonder,” tinuedster, “that when you rose uponso uedly last night, i had difficulty in believing you any other than a re void vision, sothing that would lt to silend annihilation, as the dnight whisper and untain echo had lted before. now, i thank god! i know it to be otherwise. yes, i thank god!”
he putoff his knee, rose, and reverently lifting his hat frohis brow, and bending his sightless eyes to the earth, he stood in te devotion. only the last words of the worship were audible.
“i thankmaker, that, in the dst of judgnt, he has reered rcy. i huly eredeer to givestrength to lead heh a purer life than i have doherto!”
theretched his hand out to be led. i took that dear hand, held it a nt tolips, the pass roundshoulder: being so ch lower of stature than he, i served both for his prop and guide. we ehe wood, and wended howard.
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