Books: Jane Eyre

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"Perhaps you would rather not sit any longer on my knee, Miss Eyre?"
was the next somewhat unexpected observation.

"Why not, Mr. Rochester?"

"The picture you have just drawn is suggestive of a rather too
overwhelming contrast. Your words have delineated very prettily
a graceful Apollo: he is present to your imagination, -- tall,
fair, blue-eyed, and with a Grecian profile. Your eyes dwell on a
Vulcan, -- a real blacksmith, brown, broad-shouldered: and blind
and lame into the bargain."

"I never thought of it, before; but you certainly are rather like
Vulcan, sir."

"Well, you can leave me, ma'am: but before you go" (and he retained
me by a firmer grasp than ever), "you will be pleased just to answer
me a question or two." He paused.

"What questions, Mr. Rochester?"

Then followed this cross-examination.

"St. John made you schoolmistress of Morton before he knew you were
his cousin?"

"Yes."

"You would often see him? He would visit the school sometimes?"

"Daily."

"He would approve of your plans, Jane? I know they would be clever,
for you are a talented creature!"

"He approved of them -- yes."

"He would discover many things in you he could not have expected
to find? Some of your accomplishments are not ordinary."

"I don't know about that."

"You had a little cottage near the school, you say: did he ever
come there to see you?"

"Now and then?"

"Of an evening?"

"Once or twice."

A pause.

"How long did you reside with him and his sisters after the cousinship
was discovered?"

"Five months."

"Did Rivers spend much time with the ladies of his family?"

"Yes; the back parlour was both his study and ours: he sat near
the window, and we by the table."

"Did he study much?"

"A good deal."

"What?"

"Hindostanee."

"And what did you do meantime?"

"I learnt German, at first."

"Did he teach you?"

"He did not understand German."

"Did he teach you nothing?"

"A little Hindostanee."

"Rivers taught you Hindostanee?"

"Yes, sir."

"And his sisters also?"

"No."

"Only you?"

"Only me."

"Did you ask to learn?"

"No."

"He wished to teach you?"

"Yes."

A second pause.

"Why did he wish it? Of what use could Hindostanee be to you?"

"He intended me to go with him to India."

"Ah! here I reach the root of the matter. He wanted you to marry
him?"

"He asked me to marry him."

"That is a fiction -- an impudent invention to vex me."

"I beg your pardon, it is the literal truth: he asked me more than
once, and was as stiff about urging his point as ever you could
be."

"Miss Eyre, I repeat it, you can leave me. How often am I to say
the same thing? Why do you remain pertinaciously perched on my
knee, when I have given you notice to quit?"

"Because I am comfortable there."

"No, Jane, you are not comfortable there, because your heart is not
with me: it is with this cousin -- this St. John. Oh, till this
moment, I thought my little Jane was all mine! I had a belief she
loved me even when she left me: that was an atom of sweet in much
bitter. Long as we have been parted, hot tears as I have wept over
our separation, I never thought that while I was mourning her, she
was loving another! But it is useless grieving. Jane, leave me:
go and marry Rivers."

"Shake me off, then, sir, -- push me away, for I'll not leave you
of my own accord."

"Jane, I ever like your tone of voice: it still renews hope, it
sounds so truthful. When I hear it, it carries me back a year. I
forget that you have formed a new tie. But I am not a fool -- go -- "

"Where must I go, sir?"

"Your own way -- with the husband you have chosen."

"Who is that?"

"You know -- this St. John Rivers."

"He is not my husband, nor ever will be. He does not love me: I
do not love him. He loves (as he CAN love, and that is not as you
love) a beautiful young lady called Rosamond. He wanted to marry
me only because he thought I should make a suitable missionary's
wife, which she would not have done. He is good and great, but
severe; and, for me, cold as an iceberg. He is not like you, sir:
I am not happy at his side, nor near him, nor with him. He has no
indulgence for me -- no fondness. He sees nothing attractive in
me; not even youth -- only a few useful mental points. -- Then I
must leave you, sir, to go to him?"

I shuddered involuntarily, and clung instinctively closer to my
blind but beloved master. He smiled.

"What, Jane! Is this true? Is such really the state of matters
between you and Rivers?"

"Absolutely, sir! Oh, you need not be jealous! I wanted to tease
you a little to make you less sad: I thought anger would be better
than grief. But if you wish me to love you, could you but see how
much I DO love you, you would be proud and content. All my heart
is yours, sir: it belongs to you; and with you it would remain,
were fate to exile the rest of me from your presence for ever."

Again, as he kissed me, painful thoughts darkened his aspect. "My
scarred vision! My crippled strength!" he murmured regretfully.

I caressed, in order to soothe him. I knew of what he was thinking,
and wanted to speak for him, but dared not. As he turned aside
his face a minute, I saw a tear slide from under the sealed eyelid,
and trickle down the manly cheek. My heart swelled.

"I am no better than the old lightning-struck chestnut-tree in
Thornfield orchard," he remarked ere long. "And what right would
that ruin have to bid a budding woodbine cover its decay with
freshness?"

"You are no ruin, sir -- no lightning-struck tree: you are green
and vigorous. Plants will grow about your roots, whether you ask
them or 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 them so safe a prop."

Again he smiled: I gave him comfort.

"You speak of friends, Jane?" he asked.

"Yes, of friends," I answered rather hesitatingly: for I knew
I meant more than friends, but could not tell what other word to
employ. He helped me.

"Ah! Jane. But I want a wife."

"Do you, sir?"

"Yes: is it news to you?"

"Of course: you said nothing about it before."

"Is it unwelcome news?"

"That depends on circumstances, sir -- on your choice."

"Which you shall make for me, 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 marry
me?"

"Yes, sir."

"A poor blind man, whom you will have to lead about by the hand?"

"Yes, sir."

"A crippled man, twenty years older than you, whom you will have
to wait on?"

"Yes, sir."

"Truly, Jane?"

"Most truly, sir."

"Oh! my darling! God bless you and reward you!"

"Mr. Rochester, if ever I did a good deed in my life -- if ever I
thought a good thought -- if ever I prayed a sincere and blameless
prayer -- if ever I wished a righteous wish, -- I am rewarded now.
To be your wife is, for me, to be as happy as I can be on earth."

"Because you delight in sacrifice."

"Sacrifice! What do I sacrifice? Famine for food, expectation
for content. To be privileged to put my arms round what I value
-- to press my lips to what I love -- to repose on what I trust:
is that to make a sacrifice? If so, then certainly I delight in
sacrifice."

"And to bear with my infirmities, Jane: to overlook my deficiencies."

"Which are none, sir, to me. I love you better now, when I can really
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: henceforth, I
feel I shall hate it no more. I did not like to put my hand into
a hireling's, but it is pleasant to feel it circled by Jane's little
fingers. I preferred utter loneliness to the constant attendance
of servants; but Jane's soft ministry will be a perpetual joy.
Jane suits me: do I suit her?"

"To the finest fibre of my nature, sir."

"The case being so, we have nothing in the world to wait for: we
must be married instantly."

He looked and spoke with eagerness: his old impetuosity was rising.

"We must become one flesh without any delay, Jane: there is but
the licence to get -- then we marry."

"Mr. Rochester, I have just discovered the sun is far declined from
its meridian, and Pilot is actually gone home to his dinner. Let
me look at your watch."

"Fasten it into your girdle, Janet, and keep it henceforward: I
have no use for it."

"It is nearly four o'clock in the afternoon, sir. Don't you feel
hungry?"

"The third day from this must be our wedding-day, Jane. Never mind
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 moment
fastened round my bronze scrag under my cravat? I have worn it
since the day I lost my only treasure, as a memento of her."

"We will go home through the wood: that will be the shadiest way."

He pursued his own thoughts without heeding me.

"Jane! you think me, I daresay, an irreligious dog: but my heart
swells with gratitude to the beneficent God of this earth just
now. He sees not as man sees, but far clearer: judges not as man
judges, but far more wisely. I did wrong: I would have sullied
my innocent flower -- breathed guilt on its purity: the Omnipotent
snatched it from me. I, in my stiff-necked rebellion, almost cursed
the dispensation: instead of bending to the decree, I defied it.
Divine justice pursued its course; disasters came thick on me: I
was forced to pass through the valley of the shadow of death. HIS
chastisements are mighty; and one smote me which has humbled me for
ever. You know I was proud of my strength: but what is it now,
when I must give it over to foreign guidance, as a child does its
weakness? Of late, Jane -- only -- only of late -- I began to see
and acknowledge the hand of God in my doom. I began to experience
remorse, repentance; the wish for reconcilement to my Maker. I
began sometimes to pray: very brief prayers they were, but very
sincere.

"Some days since: nay, I can number them -- four; it was last Monday
night, a singular mood came over me: one in which grief replaced
frenzy -- sorrow, sullenness. I had long had the impression that
since I could nowhere find you, you must be dead. Late that night
-- perhaps it might be between eleven and twelve o'clock -- ere I
retired to my dreary rest, I supplicated God, that, if it seemed
good to Him, I might soon be taken from this life, and admitted to
that world to come, where there was still hope of rejoining Jane.

"I was in my own room, and sitting by the window, which was open:
it soothed me to feel the balmy night-air; though I could see no
stars and only by a vague, luminous haze, knew the presence of a
moon. I longed for thee, Janet! Oh, I longed for thee both with
soul and flesh! I asked of God, at once in anguish and humility,
if I had not been long enough desolate, afflicted, tormented; and
might not soon taste bliss and peace once more. That I merited all
I endured, I acknowledged -- that I could scarcely endure more,
I pleaded; and the alpha and omega of my heart's wishes broke
involuntarily from my lips in the words -- 'Jane! Jane! Jane!'"

"Did you speak these words aloud?"

"I did, Jane. If any listener had heard me, he would have thought
me mad: I pronounced them with such frantic energy."

"And it was last Monday night, somewhere near midnight?"

"Yes; but the time is of no consequence: what followed is the
strange point. You will think me superstitious, -- some superstition
I have in my blood, and always had: nevertheless, this is true --
true at least it is that I heard what I now relate.

"As I exclaimed 'Jane! Jane! Jane!' a voice -- I cannot tell
whence the voice came, but I know whose voice it was -- replied,
'I am coming: wait for me;' and a moment after, went whispering
on the wind the words -- 'Where are you?'

"I'll tell you, if I can, the idea, the picture these words opened
to my mind: 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?' seemed spoken
amongst mountains; for I heard a hill-sent echo repeat the words.
Cooler and fresher at the moment the gale seemed to visit my brow:
I could have deemed that in some wild, lone scene, I and Jane were
meeting. In spirit, I believe we must have met. You no doubt
were, at that hour, in unconscious sleep, Jane: perhaps your soul
wandered from its cell to comfort mine; for those were your accents
-- as certain as I live -- they were yours!"

Reader, it was on Monday night -- near midnight -- that I too had
received the mysterious summons: those were the very words by
which I replied to it. I listened to Mr. Rochester's narrative,
but made no disclosure in return. The coincidence struck me as too
awful and inexplicable to be communicated or discussed. If I told
anything, my tale would be such as must necessarily make a profound
impression on the mind of my hearer: and that mind, yet from its
sufferings too prone to gloom, needed not the deeper shade of the
supernatural. I kept these things then, and pondered them in my
heart.

"You cannot now wonder," continued my master, "that when you rose
upon me so unexpectedly last night, I had difficulty in believing
you any other than a mere voice and vision, something that would melt
to silence and annihilation, as the midnight whisper and mountain
echo had melted before. Now, I thank God! I know it to be otherwise.
Yes, I thank God!"

He put me off his knee, rose, and reverently lifting his hat from
his brow, and bending his sightless eyes to the earth, he stood in
mute devotion. Only the last words of the worship were audible.

"I thank my Maker, that, in the midst of judgment, he has remembered
mercy. I humbly entreat my Redeemer to give me strength to lead
henceforth a purer life than I have done hitherto!"

Then he stretched his hand out to be led. I took that dear hand,
held it a moment to my lips, then let it pass round my shoulder:
being so much lower of stature than he, I served both for his prop
and guide. We entered the wood, and wended homeward.

CHAPTER XXXVIII -- CONCLUSION

Reader, I married him. A quiet wedding we had: he and I, the parson
and clerk, were alone present. When we got back from church, I went
into the kitchen of the manor-house, where Mary was cooking
the dinner and John cleaning the knives, and I said -

"Mary, I have been married to Mr. Rochester this morning." The
housekeeper and her husband were both of that decent phlegmatic
order of people, to whom one may at any time safely communicate
a remarkable piece of news without incurring the danger of having
one's ears pierced by some shrill ejaculation, and subsequently
stunned by a torrent of wordy wonderment. Mary did look up, and
she did stare at me: the ladle with which she was basting a pair
of chickens roasting at the fire, did for some three minutes hang
suspended in air; and for the same space of time John's knives
also had rest from the polishing process: but Mary, bending
again over the roast, said only -

"Have you, Miss? Well, for sure!"

A short time after she pursued -- "I seed you go out with the
master, but I didn't know you were gone to church to be wed;" and
she basted away. John, when I turned to him, was grinning from
ear to ear.

"I telled Mary how it would be," he said: "I knew what Mr. Edward"
(John was an old servant, and had known his master when he was
the cadet of the house, therefore, he often gave him his Christian
name) -- "I knew what Mr. Edward would do; and I was certain he would
not wait long neither: and he's done right, for aught I know. I
wish you joy, Miss!" and he politely pulled his forelock.

"Thank you, John. Mr. Rochester told me to give you and Mary
this." I put into his hand a five-pound note. Without waiting to
hear more, I left the kitchen. In passing the door of
that sanctum some time after, I caught the words -

"She'll happen do better for him nor ony o't' grand ladies." And
again, "If she ben't one o' th' handsomest, she's noan faal and
varry good-natured; and i' his een she's fair beautiful, onybody
may see that."

I wrote to Moor House and to Cambridge immediately, to say what I
had done: fully explaining also why I had thus acted. Diana and
Mary approved the step unreservedly. Diana announced that she
would just give me time to get over the honeymoon, and then she
would come and see me.

"She had better not wait till then, Jane," said Mr. Rochester, when
I read her letter to him; "if she does, she will be too late, for
our honeymoon will shine our life long: its beams will only fade
over your grave or mine."

How St. John received the news, I don't know: he never answered
the letter in which I communicated it: yet six months after he
wrote to me, without, however, mentioning Mr. Rochester's name or
alluding to my marriage. His letter was then calm, and, though very
serious, kind. He has maintained a regular, though not frequent,
correspondence ever since: he hopes I am happy, and trusts I am not
of those who live without God in the world, and only mind earthly
things.

You have not quite forgotten little Adele, have you, reader? I
had not; I soon asked and obtained leave of Mr. Rochester, to go
and see her at the school where he had placed her. Her frantic
joy at beholding me again moved me much. She looked pale and thin:
she said she was not happy. I found the rules of the establishment
were too strict, its course of study too severe for a child of her
age: I took her home with me. I meant to become her governess
once more, but I soon found this impracticable; my time and cares
were now required by another -- my husband needed them all. So I
sought out a school conducted on a more indulgent system, and near
enough to permit of my visiting her often, and bringing her home
sometimes. I took care she should never want for anything that
could contribute to her comfort: she soon settled in her new abode,
became very happy there, and made fair progress in her studies.
As she grew up, a sound English education corrected in a great
measure her French defects; and when she left school, I found in
her a pleasing and obliging companion: docile, good-tempered, and
well-principled. By her grateful attention to me and mine, she
has long since well repaid any little kindness I ever had it in my
power to offer her.

My tale draws to its close: one word respecting my experience of
married life, and one brief glance at the fortunes of those whose
names have most frequently recurred in this narrative, and I have
done.

I have now been married ten years. I know what it is to live
entirely for and with what I love best on earth. I hold myself
supremely blest -- blest beyond what language can express; because
I am my husband's life as fully is he is mine. No woman was ever
nearer to her mate than I am: ever more absolutely bone of his
bone and flesh of his flesh. I know no weariness of my Edward's
society: he knows none of mine, any more than we each do of the
pulsation of the heart that beats in our separate bosoms; consequently,
we are ever together. To be together is for us to be at once as
free as in solitude, as gay as in company. We talk, I believe,
all day long: to talk to each other is but a more animated and an
audible thinking. All my confidence is bestowed on him, all his
confidence is devoted to me; we are precisely suited in character
-- perfect concord is the result.

Mr. Rochester continued blind the first two years of our union;
perhaps it was that circumstance that drew us so very near -- that
knit us so very close: for I was then his vision, as I am still
his right hand. Literally, I was (what he often called me) the
apple of his eye. He saw nature -- he saw books through me; and
never did I weary of gazing for his behalf, and of putting into
words the effect of field, tree, town, river, cloud, sunbeam -- of
the landscape before us; of the weather round us -- and impressing
by sound on his ear what light could no longer stamp on his eye.
Never did I weary of reading to him; never did I weary of conducting
him where he wished to go: of doing for him what he wished to be
done. And there was a pleasure in my services, most full, most
exquisite, even though sad -- because he claimed these services
without painful shame or damping humiliation. He loved me so truly,
that he knew no reluctance in profiting by my attendance: he felt
I loved him so fondly, that to yield that attendance was to indulge
my sweetest wishes.

One morning at the end of the two years, as I was writing a letter
to his dictation, he came and bent over me, and said -- "Jane, have
you a glittering ornament round your neck?"

I had a gold watch-chain: I answered "Yes."

"And have you a pale blue dress on?"

I had. He informed me then, that for some time he had fancied the
obscurity clouding one eye was becoming less dense; and that now
he was sure of it.

He and I went up to London. He had the advice of an eminent oculist;
and he eventually recovered the sight of that one eye. He cannot
now see very distinctly: he cannot read or write much; but he can
find his way without being led by the hand: the sky is no longer
a blank to him -- the earth no longer a void. When his first-born
was put into his arms, he could see that the boy had inherited his
own eyes, as they once were -- large, brilliant, and black. On
that occasion, he again, with a full heart, acknowledged that God
had tempered judgment with mercy.

My Edward and I, then, are happy: and the more so, because those
we most love are happy likewise. Diana and Mary Rivers are both
married: alternately, once every year, they come to see us, and
we go to see them. Diana's husband is a captain in the navy, a
gallant officer and a good man. Mary's is a clergyman, a college
friend of her brother's, and, from his attainments and principles,
worthy of the connection. Both Captain Fitzjames and Mr. Wharton
love their wives, and are loved by them.

As to St. John Rivers, he left England: he went to India. He
entered on the path he had marked for himself; he pursues it still.
A more resolute, indefatigable pioneer never wrought amidst rocks
and dangers. Firm, faithful, and devoted, full of energy, and
zeal, and truth, he labours for his race; he clears their painful
way to improvement; he hews down like a giant the prejudices of creed
and caste that encumber it. He may be stern; he may be exacting;
he may be ambitious yet; but his is the sternness of the warrior
Greatheart, who guards his pilgrim convoy from the onslaught of
Apollyon. His is the exaction of the apostle, who speaks but for
Christ, when he says -- "Whosoever will come after me, let him deny
himself, and take up his cross and follow me." His is the ambition
of the high master-spirit, which aims to fill a place in the first
rank of those who are redeemed from the earth -- who stand without
fault before the throne of God, who share the last mighty victories
of the Lamb, who are called, and chosen, and faithful.

St. John is unmarried: he never will marry now. Himself has
hitherto sufficed to the toil, and the toil draws near its close:
his glorious sun hastens to its setting. The last letter I received
from him drew from my eyes human tears, and yet filled my heart
with divine joy: he anticipated his sure reward, his incorruptible
crown. I know that a stranger's hand will write to me next, to say
that the good and faithful servant has been called at length into
the joy of his Lord. And why weep for this? No fear of death
will darken St. John's last hour: his mind will be unclouded, his
heart will be undaunted, his hope will be sure, his faith
steadfast. His own words are a pledge of this -

"My Master," he says, "has forewarned me. Daily He announces more
distinctly, -- 'Surely I come quickly!' and hourly I more eagerly
respond, -- 'Amen; even so come, Lord Jesus!'"