The month of
courtship had wasted: its very
last hours were
being numbered. There was no
putting off the day that advanced--the
bridal day; and all preparations for its arrival were complete. I,
at least, had nothing more to do: there were my trunks, packed,
locked, corded, ranged in a row along the wall of my little chamber;
to-morrow, at this time, they would be far on their road to London:
and so should I (D.V.),--or rather, not I, but one Jane Rochester, a
person whom as yet I knew not. The cards of address alone remained
to nail on: they lay, four little squares, in the drawer. Mr.
Rochester had himself written the direction, "Mrs. Rochester,--
Hotel, London," on each: I could not persuade myself to affix them, or to have
them affixed. Mrs. Rochester! She did not exist: she would not be born till to-morrow,
some time after eight o'clock a.m.; and I would wait to be assured she had come
into the world alive before I assigned to her all that property. It was enough
that in yonder closet, opposite my dressing-table, garments said to be hers had
already displaced my black stuff Lowood frock and straw bonnet: for not to me
appertained that suit of wedding raiment; the pearl-coloured robe, the vapoury
veil pendent from the usurped portmanteau. I shut the closet to conceal the strange,
wraith-like apparel it contained; which, at this evening hour--nine o'clock--
gave out certainly a most ghostly shimmer through the shadow of my
apartment. "I will leave you by yourself, white dream," I said. "I am feverish:
I hear the wind blowing: I will go out of doors and
feel it."
It was not only the hurry of
preparation that made me feverish;
not only the anticipation of
the great change--the new life
which was to commence to-morrow:
both these circumstances had
their share, doubtless, in producing
that restless, excited mood which
hurried me forth at this late
hour into the darkening grounds:
but a third cause influenced
my mind more than they.
I had at heart a strange and
anxious thought. Something had
happened which I could not comprehend;
no one knew of or had seen the
event but myself: it had taken
place the preceding night. Mr.
Rochester that night was absent
from home; nor was he yet returned:
business had called him to a
small estate of two or three
farms he possessed thirty miles
off--business it was requisite
he should settle in person, previous
to his meditated departure from
England. I waited now his return;
eager to disburthen my mind,
and to seek of him the solution
of the enigma that perplexed
me. Stay till he comes, reader;
and, when I disclose my secret
to him, you shall share the confidence.
I sought the orchard, driven
to its shelter by the wind, which
all day had blown strong and
full from the south, without,
however, bringing a speck of
rain. Instead of subsiding as
night drew on, it seemed to augment
its rush and deepen its roar:
the trees blew steadfastly one
way, never writhing round, and
scarcely tossing back their boughs
once in an hour; so continuous
was the strain bending their
branchy heads northward--the
clouds drifted from pole to pole,
fast following, mass on mass:
no glimpse of blue sky had been
visible that July day.
It was not without a certain
wild pleasure I ran before the
wind, delivering my trouble of
mind to the measureless air-torrent
thundering through space. Descending
the laurel walk, I faced the
wreck of the chestnut-tree; it
stood up black and riven: the
trunk, split down the centre,
gasped ghastly. The cloven halves
were not broken from each other,
for the firm base and strong
roots kept them unsundered below;
though community of vitality
was destroyed--the sap could
flow no more: their great boughs
on each side were dead, and next
winter's tempests would be sure
to fell one or both to earth:
as yet, however, they might be
said to form one tree--a ruin,
but an entire ruin.
"You did right to hold fast
to each other," I said: as if
the monster-splinters were living
things, and could hear me. "I
think, scathed as you look, and
charred and scorched, there must
be a little sense of life in
you yet, rising out of that adhesion
at the faithful, honest roots:
you will never have green leaves
more-- never more see birds making
nests and singing idyls in your
boughs; the time of pleasure
and love is over with you: but
you are not desolate: each of
you has a comrade to sympathise
with him in his decay." As I
looked up at them, the moon appeared
momentarily in that part of the
sky which filled their fissure;
her disk was blood- red and half
overcast; she seemed to throw
on me one bewildered, dreary
glance, and buried herself again
instantly in the deep drift of
cloud. The wind fell, for a second,
round Thornfield; but far away
over wood and water, poured a
wild, melancholy wail: it was
sad to listen to, and I ran off
again.
Here and there I strayed through
the orchard, gathered up the
apples with which the grass round
the tree roots was thickly strewn;
then I employed myself in dividing
the ripe from the unripe; I carried
them into the house and put them
away in the store-room. Then
I repaired to the library to
ascertain whether the fire was
lit, for, though summer, I knew
on such a gloomy evening Mr.
Rochester would like to see a
cheerful hearth when he came
in: yes, the fire had been kindled
some time, and burnt well. I
placed his arm-chair by the chimney-corner:
I wheeled the table near it:
I let down the curtain, and had
the candles brought in ready
for lighting. More restless than
ever, when I had completed these
arrangements I could not sit
still, nor even remain in the
house: a little time-piece in
the room and the old clock in
the hall simultaneously struck
ten.
"How late it grows!" I said. "I
will run down to the gates: it
is moonlight at intervals; I
can see a good way on the road.
He may be coming now, and to
meet him will save some minutes
of suspense."
The wind roared high in the
great trees which embowered the
gates; but the road as far as
I could see, to the right hand
and the left, was all still and
solitary: save for the shadows
of clouds crossing it at intervals
as the moon looked out, it was
but a long pale line, unvaried
by one moving speck.
A puerile tear dimmed my eye
while I looked--a tear of disappointment
and impatience; ashamed of it,
I wiped it away. I lingered;
the moon shut herself wholly
within her chamber, and drew
close her curtain of dense cloud:
the night grew dark; rain came
driving fast on the gale.
"I wish he would come! I wish
he would come!" I exclaimed,
seized with hypochondriac foreboding.
I had expected his arrival before
tea; now it was dark: what could
keep him? Had an accident happened?
The event of last night again
recurred to me. I interpreted
it as a warning of disaster.
I feared my hopes were too bright
to be realised; and I had enjoyed
so much bliss lately that I imagined
my fortune had passed its meridian,
and must now decline.
"Well, I cannot return to the
house," I thought; "I cannot
sit by the fireside, while he
is abroad in inclement weather:
better tire my limbs than strain
my heart; I will go forward and
meet him."
I set out; I walked fast, but
not far: ere I had measured a
quarter of a mile, I heard the
tramp of hoofs; a horseman came
on, full gallop; a dog ran by
his side. Away with evil presentiment!
It was he: here he was, mounted
on Mesrour, followed by Pilot.
He saw me; for the moon had opened
a blue field in the sky, and
rode in it watery bright: he
took his hat off, and waved it
round his head. I now ran to
meet him.
"There!" he exclaimed, as he
stretched out his hand and bent
from the saddle: "You can't do
without me, that is evident.
Step on my boot-toe; give me
both hands: mount!"
I
obeyed: joy
made me agile:
I sprang up before him. A hearty
kissing I got for a welcome,
and some boastful triumph, which
I swallowed as well as I could.
He checked himself in his exultation
to demand, "But is there anything
the matter, Janet, that you come
to meet me at such an hour? Is
there anything wrong?"
"No,
but I thought
you would never
come. I could
not bear
to wait in the house for you,
especially with this rain and
wind."
"Rain
and wind, indeed!
Yes, you are
dripping like
a mermaid;
pull my cloak round you: but
I think you are feverish, Jane:
both your cheek and hand are
burning hot. I ask again, is
there anything the matter?
"Nothing
now; I am neither
afraid nor unhappy."
"Then
you have been
both?"
"Rather:
but I'll tell
you all about
it by-and-bye,
sir;
and I daresay you will only laugh
at me for my pains."
"I'll
laugh at you
heartily when
to-morrow is
past; till
then I dare not: my prize is
not certain. This is you, who
have been as slippery as an eel
this last month, and as thorny
as a briar-rose? I could not
lay a finger anywhere but I was
pricked; and now I seem to have
gathered up a stray lamb in my
arms. You wandered out of the
fold to seek your shepherd, did
you, Jane?"
"I
wanted you:
but don't boast.
Here we are at Thornfield: now
let me get down."
He landed me on the pavement.
As John took his horse, and he
followed me into the hall, he
told me to make haste and put
something dry on, and then return
to him in the library; and he
stopped me, as I made for the
staircase, to extort a promise
that I would not be long: nor
was I long; in five minutes I
rejoined him. I found him at
supper.
"Take
a seat and
bear me company,
Jane: please God, it is the last
meal but one you will eat at
Thornfield Hall for a long time."
I
sat down near
him, but told
him I could not eat. "Is it because
you have the prospect of a journey
before you, Jane? Is it the thoughts
of going to London that takes
away your appetite?"
"I
cannot see
my prospects
clearly to-night, sir; and I
hardly know what thoughts I have
in my head. Everything in life
seems unreal."
"Except
me: I am substantial
enough--touch me."
"You,
sir, are the
most phantom-like
of all: you are a mere dream."
He
held out his
hand, laughing. "Is
that a dream?" said he, placing
it close to my eyes. He had a
rounded, muscular, and vigorous
hand, as well as a long, strong
arm.
"Yes; though I touch it, it
is a dream," said I, as I put
it down from before my face. "Sir,
have you finished supper?"
"Yes,
Jane."
I rang the bell and ordered
away the tray. When we were again
alone, I stirred the fire, and
then took a low seat at my master's
knee.
"It is near midnight," I
said.
"Yes:
but remember,
Jane, you promised
to wake with
me the
night before my wedding."
"I
did; and I
will keep my
promise, for an hour or two at
least: I have no wish to go to
bed."
"Are
all your arrangements
complete?"
"All,
sir."
"And on my part likewise," he
returned, "I have settled everything;
and we shall leave Thornfield
to-morrow, within half-an-hour
after our return from church."
"Very
well, sir."
"With
what an extraordinary
smile you uttered that word--'very
well,' Jane! What a bright spot
of colour you have on each cheek!
and how strangely your eyes glitter!
Are you well?"
"I
believe I am."
"Believe!
What is the
matter? Tell
me what you
feel."
"I
could not,
sir: no words
could tell you what I feel. I
wish this present hour would
never end: who knows with what
fate the next may come charged?"
"This
is hypochondria,
Jane. You have
been over-excited,
or
over- fatigued."
"Do
you, sir, feel
calm and happy?"
"Calm?--no:
but happy--to
the heart's
core."
I looked up at him to read
the signs of bliss in his face:
it was ardent and flushed.
"Give me your confidence, Jane," he
said: "relieve your mind of any
weight that oppresses it, by
imparting it to me. What do you
fear?- -that I shall not prove
a good husband?"
"It
is the idea
farthest from
my thoughts."
"Are
you apprehensive
of the new
sphere you
are about to
enter?--of
the new life into which you are
passing?"
"No."
"You
puzzle me,
Jane: your
look and tone
of sorrowful
audacity
perplex and pain me. I want an
explanation."
"Then,
sir, listen.
You were from
home last night?"
"I
was: I know
that; and you
hinted a while ago at something
which had happened in my absence:-
nothing, probably, of consequence;
but, in short, it has disturbed
you. Let me hear it. Mrs. Fairfax
has said something, perhaps?
or you have overheard the servants
talk?-- your sensitive self-respect
has been wounded?"
"No, sir." It
struck twelve--I
waited till the time-piece had
concluded its silver chime, and
the clock its hoarse, vibritting
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
by 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.
|