Mr.
Rochester had given me but one
week's leave of absence: yet
a month elapsed before I quitted
Gateshead. I wished to leave
immediately after the funeral,
but Georgiana entreated me to
stay till she could get off to
London, whither she was now at
last invited by her uncle, Mr.
Gibson, who had come down to
direct his sister's interment
and settle the family affairs.
Georgiana said she dreaded being
left alone with Eliza; from her
she got neither sympathy in her
dejection, support in her fears,
nor aid in her preparations;
so I bore with her feeble-minded
wailings and selfish lamentations
as well as I could, and did my
best in sewing for her and packing
her dresses. It is true, that
while I worked, she would idle;
and I thought to myself, "If
you and I were destined to live
always together, cousin, we would
commence matters on a different
footing. I should not settle
tamely down into being the forbearing
party; I should assign you your
share of labour, and compel you
to accomplish it, or else it
should be left undone: I should
insist, also, on your keeping
some of those drawling, half-insincere
complaints hushed in your own
breast. It is only because our
connection happens to be very
transitory, and comes at a peculiarly
mournful season, that I consent
thus to render it so patient
and
compliant on my part."
At last I saw Georgiana off;
but now it was Eliza's turn to
request me to stay another week.
Her plans required all her time
and attention, she said; she
was about to depart for some
unknown bourne; and all day long
she stayed in her own room, her
door bolted within, filling trunks,
emptying drawers, burning papers,
and holding no communication
with any one. She wished me to
look after the house, to see
callers, and answer notes of
condolence.
One
morning she
told me I was
at liberty. "And," she added, "I
am obliged to you for your valuable
services and discreet conduct!
There is some difference between
living with such an one as you
and with Georgiana: you perform
your own part in life and burden
no one. To-morrow," she continued, "I
set out for the Continent. I
shall take up my abode in a religious
house near Lisle--a nunnery you
would call it; there I shall
be quiet and unmolested. I shall
devote myself for a time to the
examination of the Roman Catholic
dogmas, and to a careful study
of the workings of their system:
if I find it to be, as I half
suspect it is, the one best calculated
to ensure the doing of all things
decently and in order, I shall
embrace the tenets of Rome and
probably take the veil."
I
neither expressed
surprise at
this resolution
nor attempted
to dissuade her from it. "The
vocation will fit you to a hair," I
thought: "much good may it do
you!"
When
we parted,
she said: "Good-bye,
cousin Jane Eyre; I wish you
well: you have some sense."
I
then returned: "You
are not without
sense, cousin
Eliza;
but what you have, I suppose,
in another year will be walled
up alive in a French convent.
However, it is not my business,
and so it suits you, I don't
much care."
"You are in the right," said
she; and with these words we
each went our separate way. As
I shall not have occasion to
refer either to her or her sister
again, I may as well mention
here, that Georgiana made an
advantageous match with a wealthy
worn-out man of fashion, and
that Eliza actually took the
veil, and is at this day superior
of the convent where she passed
the period of her novitiate,
and which she endowed with her
fortune.
How people feel when they are
returning home from an absence,
long or short, I did not know:
I had never experienced the sensation.
I had known what it was to come
back to Gateshead when a child
after a long walk, to be scolded
for looking cold or gloomy; and
later, what it was to come back
from church to Lowood, to long
for a plenteous meal and a good
fire, and to be unable to get
either. Neither of these returnings
was very pleasant or desirable:
no magnet drew me to a given
point, increasing in its strength
of attraction the nearer I came.
The return to Thornfield was
yet to be tried.
My journey seemed tedious--very
tedious: fifty miles one day,
a night spent at an inn; fifty
miles the next day. During the
first twelve hours I thought
of Mrs. Reed in her last moments;
I saw her disfigured and discoloured
face, and heard her strangely
altered voice. I mused on the
funeral day, the coffin, the
hearse, the black train of tenants
and servants--few was the number
of relatives--the gaping vault,
the silent church, the solemn
service. Then I thought of Eliza
and Georgiana; I beheld one the
cynosure of a ball-room, the
other the inmate of a convent
cell; and I dwelt on and analysed
their separate peculiarities
of person and character. The
evening arrival at the great
town of--scattered these thoughts;
night gave them quite another
turn: laid down on my traveller's
bed, I left reminiscence for
anticipation.
I
was going back
to Thornfield:
but how long was I to stay there?
Not long; of that I was sure.
I had heard from Mrs. Fairfax
in the interim of my absence:
the party at the hall was dispersed;
Mr. Rochester had left for London
three weeks ago, but he was then
expected to return in a fortnight.
Mrs. Fairfax surmised that he
was gone to make arrangements
for his wedding, as he had talked
of purchasing a new carriage:
she said the idea of his marrying
Miss Ingram still seemed strange
to her; but from what everybody
said, and from what she had herself
seen, she could no longer doubt
that the event would shortly
take place. "You would be strangely
incredulous if you did doubt
it," was my mental comment. "I
don't doubt it."
The
question followed, "Where
was I to go?" I dreamt of Miss
Ingram all the night: in a vivid
morning dream I saw her closing
the gates of Thornfield against
me and pointing me out another
road; and Mr. Rochester looked
on with his arms folded--smiling
sardonically, as it seemed, at
both her and me.
I had not notified to Mrs.
Fairfax the exact day of my return;
for I did not wish either car
or carriage to meet me at Millcote.
I proposed to walk the distance
quietly by myself; and very quietly,
after leaving my box in the ostler's
care, did I slip away from the
George Inn, about six o'clock
of a June evening, and take the
old road to Thornfield: a road
which lay chiefly through fields,
and was now little frequented.
It was not a bright or splendid
summer evening, though fair and
soft: the haymakers were at work
all along the road; and the sky,
though far from cloudless, was
such as promised well for the
future: its blue--where blue
was visible--was mild and settled,
and its cloud strata high and
thin. The west, too, was warm:
no watery gleam chilled it--it
seemed as if there was a fire
lit, an altar burning behind
its screen of marbled vapour,
and out of apertures shone a
golden redness.
I
felt glad as
the road shortened
before me: so glad that I stopped
once to ask myself what that
joy meant: and to remind reason
that it was not to my home I
was going, or to a permanent
resting-place, or to a place
where fond friends looked out
for me and waited my arrival. "Mrs.
Fairfax will smile you a calm
welcome, to be sure," said I; "and
little Adele will clap her hands
and jump to see you: but you
know very well you are thinking
of another than they, and that
he is not thinking of you."
But
what is so
headstrong
as youth? What
so blind as
inexperience?
These affirmed that it was pleasure
enough to have the privilege
of again looking on Mr. Rochester,
whether he looked on me or not;
and they added--"Hasten! hasten!
be with him while you may: but
a few more days or weeks, at
most, and you are parted from
him for ever!" And then I strangled
a new-born agony--a deformed
thing which I could not persuade
myself to own and rear--and ran
on.
They are making hay, too, in
Thornfield meadows: or rather,
the labourers are just quitting
their work, and returning home
with their rakes on their shoulders,
now, at the hour I arrive. I
have but a field or two to traverse,
and then I shall cross the road
and reach the gates. How full
the hedges are of roses! But
I have no time to gather any;
I want to be at the house. I
passed a tall briar, shooting
leafy and flowery branches across
the path; I see the narrow stile
with stone steps; and I see--Mr.
Rochester sitting there, a book
and a pencil in his hand; he
is writing.
Well, he is not a ghost; yet
every nerve I have is unstrung:
for a moment I am beyond my own
mastery. What does it mean? I
did not think I should tremble
in this way when I saw him, or
lose my voice or the power of
motion in his presence. I will
go back as soon as I can stir:
I need not make an absolute fool
of myself. I know another way
to the house. It does not signify
if I knew twenty ways; for he
has seen me.
"Hillo!" he cries; and he puts
up his book and his pencil. "There
you are! Come on, if you please."
I suppose I do come on; though
in what fashion I know not; being
scarcely cognisant of my movements,
and solicitous only to appear
calm; and, above all, to control
the working muscles of my face--
which I feel rebel insolently
against my will, and struggle
to express what I had resolved
to conceal. But I have a veil--it
is down: I may make shift yet
to behave with decent composure.
"And
this is Jane
Eyre? Are you
coming from
Millcote, and
on foot? Yes--just one of your
tricks: not to send for a carriage,
and come clattering over street
and road like a common mortal,
but to steal into the vicinage
of your home along with twilight,
just as if you were a dream or
a shade. What the deuce have
you done with yourself this last
month?"
"I
have been with
my aunt, sir,
who is dead."
"A true Janian reply! Good
angels be my guard! She comes
from the other world--from the
abode of people who are dead;
and tells me so when she meets
me alone here in the gloaming!
If I dared, I'd touch you, to
see if you are substance or shadow,
you elf!--but I'd as soon offer
to take hold of a blue ignis
fatuus light in a marsh. Truant!
truant!" he added, when he had
paused an instant. "Absent from
me a whole month, and forgetting
me quite, I'll be sworn!"
I knew there would be pleasure
in meeting my master again, even
though broken by the fear that
he was so soon to cease to be
my master, and by the knowledge
that I was nothing to him: but
there was ever in Mr. Rochester
(so at least I thought) such
a wealth of the power of communicating
happiness, that to taste but
of the crumbs he scattered to
stray and stranger birds like
me, was to feast genially. His
last words were balm: they seemed
to imply that it imported something
to him whether I forgot him or
not. And he had spoken of Thornfield
as my home--would that it were
my home!
He did not leave the stile,
and I hardly liked to ask to
go by. I inquired soon if he
had not been to London.
"Yes;
I suppose you
found that
out by second-sight."
"Mrs.
Fairfax told
me in a letter."
"And
did she inform
you what I
went to do?"
"Oh,
yes, sir! Everybody
knew your errand."
"You
must see the
carriage, Jane,
and tell me
if you don't
think it will suit Mrs. Rochester
exactly; and whether she won't
look like Queen Boadicea, leaning
back against those purple cushions.
I wish, Jane, I were a trifle
better adapted to match with
her externally. Tell me now,
fairy as you are--can't you give
me a charm, or a philter, or
something of that sort, to make
me a handsome man?"
"It would be past the power
of magic, sir;" and, in thought,
I added, "A loving eye is all
the charm needed: to such you
are handsome enough; or rather
your sternness has a power beyond
beauty."
Mr. Rochester had sometimes
read my unspoken thoughts with
an acumen to me incomprehensible:
in the present instance he took
no notice of my abrupt vocal
response; but he smiled at me
with a certain smile he had of
his own, and which he used but
on rare occasions. He seemed
to think it too good for common
purposes: it was the real sunshine
of feeling--he shed it over me
now.
"Pass, Janet," said he, making
room for me to cross the stile: "go
up home, and stay your weary
little wandering feet at a friend's
threshold."
All I had now to do was to
obey him in silence: no need
for me to colloquise further.
I got over the stile without
a word, and meant to leave him
calmly. An impulse held me fast--a
force turned me round. I said--or
something in me said for me,
and in spite of me -
"Thank
you, Mr. Rochester,
for your great kindness. I am
strangely glad to get back again
to you: and wherever you are
is my home--my only home."
I
walked on so
fast that even
he could hardly have overtaken
me had he tried. Little Adele
was half wild with delight when
she saw me. Mrs. Fairfax received
me with her usual plain friendliness.
Leah smiled, and even Sophie
bid me "bon soir" with glee.
This was very pleasant; there
is no happiness like that of
being loved by your fellow-creatures,
and feeling that your presence
is an addition to their comfort.
I
that evening
shut my eyes
resolutely against the future:
I stopped my cars against the
voice that kept warning me of
near separation and coming grief.
When tea was over and Mrs. Fairfax
had taken her knitting, and I
had assumed a low seat near her,
and Adele, kneeling on the carpet,
had nestled close up to me, and
a sense of mutual affection seemed
to surround us with a ring of
golden peace, I uttered a silent
prayer that we might not be parted
far or soon; but when, as we
thus sat, Mr. Rochester entered,
unannounced, and looking at us,
seemed to take pleasure in the
spectacle of a group so amicable--when
he said he supposed the old lady
was all right now that she had
got her adopted daughter back
again, and added that he saw
Adele was "prete e croquer sa
petite maman Anglaise"--I half
ventured to hope that he would,
even after his marriage, keep
us together somewhere under the
shelter of his protection, and
not quite exiled from the sunshine
of his presence.
A fortnight of dubious calm
succeeded my return to Thornfield
Hall. Nothing was said of the
master's marriage, and I saw
no preparation going on for such
an event. Almost every day I
asked Mrs. Fairfax if she had
yet heard anything decided: her
answer was always in the negative.
Once she said she had actually
put the question to Mr. Rochester
as to when he was going to bring
his bride home; but he had answered
her only by a joke and one of
his queer looks, and she could
not tell what to make of him.
One thing specially surprised
me, and that was, there were
no journeyings backward and forward,
no visits to Ingram Park: to
be sure it was twenty miles off,
on the borders of another county;
but what was that distance to
an ardent lover? To so practised
and indefatigable a horseman
as Mr. Rochester, it would be
but a morning's ride. I began
to cherish hopes I had no right
to conceive: that the match was
broken off; that rumour had been
mistaken; that one or both parties
had changed their minds. I used
to look at my master's face to
see if it were sad or fierce;
but I could not remember the
time when it had been so uniformly
clear of clouds or evil feelings.
If, in the moments I and my pupil
spent with him, I lacked spirits
and sank into inevitable dejection,
he became even gay. Never had
he called me more frequently
to his presence; never been kinder
to me when there--and, alas!
never had I loved him so well.
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