Books: Jane Eyre

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"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 though 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 Adele in the nursery?" he asked, as
I lit my candle.

"Yes, sir."

"And there is room enough in Adele'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 Adele 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 Adele 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.

CHAPTER XXVI

Sophie came at seven to dress me: she was very long indeed in
accomplishing her task; so long that Mr. Rochester, grown, I suppose,
impatient of my delay, sent up to ask why I did not come. She was
just fastening my veil (the plain square of blond after all) to
my hair with a brooch; I hurried from under her hands as soon as
I could.

"Stop!" she cried in French. "Look at yourself in the mirror:
you have not taken one peep."

So I turned at the door: I saw a robed and veiled figure, so
unlike my usual self that it seemed almost the image of a stranger.
"Jane!" called a voice, and I hastened down. I was received at
the foot of the stairs by Mr. Rochester.

"Lingerer!" he said, "my brain is on fire with impatience, and
you tarry so long!"

He took me into the dining-room, surveyed me keenly all over,
pronounced me "fair as a lily, and not only the pride of his life,
but the desire of his eyes," and then telling me he would give me
but ten minutes to eat some breakfast, he rang the bell. One of
his lately hired servants, a footman, answered it.

"Is John getting the carriage ready?"

"Yes, sir."

"Is the luggage brought down?"

"They are bringing it down, sir."

"Go you to the church: see if Mr. Wood (the clergyman) and the
clerk are there: return and tell me."

The church, as the reader knows, was but just beyond the gates;
the footman soon returned.

"Mr. Wood is in the vestry, sir, putting on his surplice."

"And the carriage?"

"The horses are harnessing."

"We shall not want it to go to church; but it must be ready the
moment we return: all the boxes and luggage arranged and strapped
on, and the coachman in his seat."

"Yes, sir."

"Jane, are you ready?"

I rose. There were no groomsmen, no bridesmaids, no relatives to
wait for or marshal: none but Mr. Rochester and I. Mrs. Fairfax
stood in the hall as we passed. I would fain have spoken to her,
but my hand was held by a grasp of iron: I was hurried along by a
stride I could hardly follow; and to look at Mr. Rochester's face
was to feel that not a second of delay would be tolerated for any
purpose. I wonder what other bridegroom ever looked as he did --
so bent up to a purpose, so grimly resolute: or who, under such
steadfast brows, ever revealed such flaming and flashing eyes.

I know not whether the day was fair or foul; in descending the drive,
I gazed neither on sky nor earth: my heart was with my eyes; and
both seemed migrated into Mr. Rochester's frame. I wanted to see
the invisible thing on which, as we went along, he appeared to
fasten a glance fierce and fell. I wanted to feel the thoughts
whose force he seemed breasting and resisting.

At the churchyard wicket he stopped: he discovered I was quite out
of breath. "Am I cruel in my love?" he said. "Delay an instant:
lean on me, Jane."

And now I can recall the picture of the grey old house of God
rising calm before me, of a rook wheeling round the steeple, of a
ruddy morning sky beyond. I remember something, too, of the green
grave-mounds; and I have not forgotten, either, two figures of
strangers straying amongst the low hillocks and reading the mementoes
graven on the few mossy head-stones. I noticed them, because,
as they saw us, they passed round to the back of the church; and
I doubted not they were going to enter by the side-aisle door and
witness the ceremony. By Mr. Rochester they were not observed; he
was earnestly looking at my face from which the blood had, I daresay,
momentarily fled: for I felt my forehead dewy, and my cheeks and
lips cold. When I rallied, which I soon did, he walked gently with
me up the path to the porch.

We entered the quiet and humble temple; the priest waited in his
white surplice at the lowly altar, the clerk beside him. All was
still: two shadows only moved in a remote corner. My conjecture
had been correct: the strangers had slipped in before us, and they
now stood by the vault of the Rochesters, their backs towards us,
viewing through the rails the old time-stained marble tomb, where
a kneeling angel guarded the remains of Damer de Rochester, slain
at Marston Moor in the time of the civil wars, and of Elizabeth,
his wife.

Our place was taken at the communion rails. Hearing a cautious
step behind me, I glanced over my shoulder: one of the strangers
-- a gentleman, evidently -- was advancing up the chancel. The
service began. The explanation of the intent of matrimony was gone
through; and then the clergyman came a step further forward, and,
bending slightly towards Mr. Rochester, went on.

"I require and charge you both (as ye will answer at the dreadful
day of judgment, when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed),
that if either of you know any impediment why ye may not lawfully
be joined together in matrimony, ye do now confess it; for be ye
well assured that so many as are coupled together otherwise than
God's Word doth allow, are not joined together by God, neither is
their matrimony lawful."

He paused, as the custom is. When is the pause after that sentence
ever broken by reply? Not, perhaps, once in a hundred years. And
the clergyman, who had not lifted his eyes from his book, and had
held his breath but for a moment, was proceeding: his hand was
already stretched towards Mr. Rochester, as his lips unclosed to
ask, "Wilt thou have this woman for thy wedded wife?" --
when a distinct and near voice said -

"The marriage cannot go on: I declare the existence of an impediment."

The clergyman looked up at the speaker and stood mute; the clerk
did the same; Mr. Rochester moved slightly, as if an earthquake had
rolled under his feet: taking a firmer footing, and not turning
his head or eyes, he said, "Proceed."

Profound silence fell when he had uttered that word, with
deep but low intonation. Presently Mr. Wood said -

"I cannot proceed without some investigation into what has been
asserted, and evidence of its truth or falsehood."

"The ceremony is quite broken off," subjoined the voice behind
us. "I am in a condition to prove my allegation: an insuperable
impediment to this marriage exists."

Mr. Rochester heard, but heeded not: he stood stubborn and rigid,
making no movement but to possess himself of my hand. What a hot
and strong grasp he had! and how like quarried marble was his
pale, firm, massive front at this moment! How his eye shone, still
watchful, and yet wild beneath!

Mr. Wood seemed at a loss. "What is the nature of the impediment?"
he asked. "Perhaps it may be got over -- explained away?"

"Hardly," was the answer. "I have called it insuperable, and I
speak advisedly."

The speaker came forward and leaned on the rails. He continued,
uttering each word distinctly, calmly, steadily, but not loudly -

"It simply consists in the existence of a previous marriage. Mr.
Rochester has a wife now living."

My nerves vibrated to those low-spoken words as they had never
vibrated to thunder -- my blood felt their subtle violence as it
had never felt frost or fire; but I was collected, and in no danger
of swooning. I looked at Mr. Rochester: I made him look at me.
His whole face was colourless rock: his eye was both spark and
flint. He disavowed nothing: he seemed as if he would defy all
things. Without speaking, without smiling, without seeming to
recognise in me a human being, he only twined my waist with his
arm and riveted me to his side.

"Who are you?" he asked of the intruder.

"My name is Briggs, a solicitor of -- Street, London."

"And you would thrust on me a wife?"

"I would remind you of your lady's existence, sir, which the law
recognises, if you do not."

"Favour me with an account of her -- with her name, her parentage,
her place of abode."

"Certainly." Mr. Briggs calmly took a paper from his pocket, and
read out in a sort of official, nasal voice:-

"'I affirm and can prove that on the 20th of October A.D. -- (a
date of fifteen years back), Edward Fairfax Rochester, of Thornfield
Hall, in the county of -, and of Ferndean Manor, in -shire, England,
was married to my sister, Bertha Antoinetta Mason, daughter of
Jonas Mason, merchant, and of Antoinetta his wife, a Creole, at --
church, Spanish Town, Jamaica. The record of the marriage will be
found in the register of that church -- a copy of it is now in my
possession. Signed, Richard Mason.'"

"That -- if a genuine document -- may prove I have been married,
but it does not prove that the woman mentioned therein as my wife
is still living."

"She was living three months ago," returned the lawyer.

"How do you know?"

"I have a witness to the fact, whose testimony even you, sir, will
scarcely controvert."

"Produce him -- or go to hell."

"I will produce him first -- he is on the spot. Mr. Mason, have
the goodness to step forward."