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."
Mr.
Rochester,
on hearing
the name, set
his teeth;
he experienced,
too, a sort of strong convulsive
quiver; near to him as I was,
I felt the spasmodic movement
of fury or despair run through
his frame. The second stranger,
who had hitherto lingered in
the background, now drew near;
a pale face looked over the solicitor's
shoulder--yes, it was Mason himself.
Mr. Rochester turned and glared
at him. His eye, as I have often
said, was a black eye: it had
now a tawny, nay, a bloody light
in its gloom; and his face flushed--olive
cheek and hueless forehead received
a glow as from spreading, ascending
heart-fire: and he stirred, lifted
his strong arm--he could have
struck Mason, dashed him on the
church-floor, shocked by ruthless
blow the breath from his body--but
Mason shrank away, and cried
faintly, "Good God!" Contempt
fell cool on Mr. Rochester--his
passion died as if a blight had
shrivelled it up: he only asked--"What
have YOU to say?"
An inaudible reply escaped
Mason's white lips.
"The
devil is in
it if you cannot
answer distinctly.
I again
demand, what have you to say?"
"Sir--sir," interrupted the
clergyman, "do not forget you
are in a sacred place." Then
addressing Mason, he inquired
gently, "Are you aware, sir,
whether or not this gentleman's
wife is still living?"
"Courage," urged the lawyer,--"speak
out."
"She is now living at Thornfield
Hall," said Mason, in more articulate
tones: "I saw her there last
April. I am her brother."
"At Thornfield Hall!" ejaculated
the clergyman. "Impossible! I
am an old resident in this neighbourhood,
sir, and I never heard of a Mrs.
Rochester at Thornfield Hall."
I saw a grim smile contort
Mr. Rochester's lips, and he
muttered -
"No, by God! I took care that
none should hear of it--or of
her under that name." He mused--for
ten minutes he held counsel with
himself: he formed his resolve,
and announced it -
"Enough! all shall bolt out
at once, like the bullet from
the barrel. Wood, close your
book and take off your surplice;
John Green (to the clerk), leave
the church: there will be no
wedding to-day." The man obeyed.
Mr.
Rochester continued,
hardily and
recklessly: "Bigamy is an
ugly word!--I meant, however,
to be a bigamist; but fate has
out- manoeuvred me, or Providence
has checked me,--perhaps the
last. I am little better than
a devil at this moment; and,
as my pastor there would tell
me, deserve no doubt the sternest
judgments of God, even to the
quenchless fire and deathless
worm. Gentlemen, my plan is broken
up:- what this lawyer and his
client say is true: I have been
married, and the woman to whom
I was married lives! You say
you never heard of a Mrs. Rochester
at the house up yonder, Wood;
but I daresay you have many a
time inclined your ear to gossip
about the mysterious lunatic
kept there under watch and ward.
Some have whispered to you that
she is my bastard half-sister:
some, my cast- off mistress.
I now inform you that she is
my wife, whom I married fifteen
years ago,--Bertha Mason by name;
sister of this resolute personage,
who is now, with his quivering
limbs and white cheeks, showing
you what a stout heart men may
bear. Cheer up, Dick!--never
fear me!--I'd almost as soon
strike a woman as you. Bertha
Mason is mad; and she came of
a mad family; idiots and maniacs
through three generations? Her
mother, the Creole, was both
a madwoman and a drunkard!--as
I found out after I had wed the
daughter: for they were silent
on family secrets before. Bertha,
like a dutiful child, copied
her parent in both points. I
had a charming partner--pure,
wise, modest: you can fancy I
was a happy man. I went through
rich scenes! Oh! my experience
has been heavenly, if you only
knew it! But I owe you no further
explanation. Briggs, Wood, Mason,
I invite you all to come up to
the house and visit Mrs. Poole's
patient, and MY WIFE! You shall
see what sort of a being I was
cheated into espousing, and judge
whether or not I had a right
to break the compact, and seek
sympathy with something at least
human. This girl," he continued,
looking at me, "knew no more
than you, Wood, of the disgusting
secret: she thought all was fair
and legal and never dreamt she
was going to be entrapped into
a feigned union with a defrauded
wretch, already bound to a bad,
mad, and embruted partner! Come
all of you--follow!"
Still holding me fast, he left
the church: the three gentlemen
came after. At the front door
of the hall we found the carriage.
"Take it back to the coach-house,
John," said Mr. Rochester coolly; "it
will not be wanted to-day."
At our entrance, Mrs. Fairfax,
Adele, Sophie, Leah, advanced
to meet and greet us.
"To the right-about--every
soul!" cried the master; "away
with your congratulations! Who
wants them? Not I!--they are
fifteen years too late!"
He passed on and ascended the
stairs, still holding my hand,
and still beckoning the gentlemen
to follow him, which they did.
We mounted the first staircase,
passed up the gallery, proceeded
to the third storey: the low,
black door, opened by Mr. Rochester's
master-key, admitted us to the
tapestried room, with its great
bed and its pictorial cabinet.
"You know this place, Mason," said
our guide; "she bit and stabbed
you here."
He lifted the hangings from
the wall, uncovering the second
door: this, too, he opened. In
a room without a window, there
burnt a fire guarded by a high
and strong fender, and a lamp
suspended from the ceiling by
a chain. Grace Poole bent over
the fire, apparently cooking
something in a saucepan. In the
deep shade, at the farther end
of the room, a figure ran backwards
and forwards. What it was, whether
beast or human being, one could
not, at first sight, tell: it
grovelled, seemingly, on all
fours; it snatched and growled
like some strange wild animal:
but it was covered with clothing,
and a quantity of dark, grizzled
hair, wild as a mane, hid its
head and face.
"Good-morrow, Mrs. Poole!" said
Mr. Rochester. "How are you?
and how is your charge to-day?"
"We're tolerable, sir, I thank
you," replied Grace, lifting
the boiling mess carefully on
to the hob: "rather snappish,
but not 'rageous."
A fierce cry seemed to give
the lie to her favourable report:
the clothed hyena rose up, and
stood tall on its hind-feet.
"Ah! sir, she sees you!" exclaimed
Grace: "you'd better not stay."
"Only
a few moments,
Grace: you
must allow
me a few moments."
"Take
care then,
sir!--for God's
sake, take
care!"
The maniac bellowed: she parted
her shaggy locks from her visage,
and gazed wildly at her visitors.
I recognised well that purple
face,--those bloated features.
Mrs. Poole advanced.
"Keep out of the way," said
Mr. Rochester, thrusting her
aside: "she has no knife now,
I suppose, and I'm on my guard."
"One
never knows
what she has,
sir: she is so cunning: it is
not in mortal discretion to fathom
her craft."
"We had better leave her," whispered
Mason.
"Go to the devil!" was
his brother-in-law's
recommendation.
"'Ware!" cried
Grace. The
three gentlemen
retreated simultaneously.
Mr. Rochester flung me behind
him: the lunatic sprang and grappled
his throat viciously, and laid
her teeth to his cheek: they
struggled. She was a big woman,
in stature almost equalling her
husband, and corpulent besides:
she showed virile force in the
contest--more than once she almost
throttled him, athletic as he
was. He could have settled her
with a well-planted blow; but
he would not strike: he would
only wrestle. At last he mastered
her arms; Grace Poole gave him
a cord, and he pinioned them
behind her: with more rope, which
was at hand, he bound her to
a chair. The operation was performed
amidst the fiercest yells and
the most convulsive plunges.
Mr. Rochester then turned to
the spectators: he looked at
them with a smile both acrid
and desolate.
"That is MY WIFE," said he. "Such
is the sole conjugal embrace
I am ever to know--such are the
endearments which are to solace
my leisure hours! And THIS is
what I wished to have" (laying
his hand on my shoulder): "this
young girl, who stands so grave
and quiet at the mouth of hell,
looking collectedly at the gambols
of a demon, I wanted her just
as a change after that fierce
ragout. Wood and Briggs, look
at the difference! Compare these
clear eyes with the red balls
yonder--this face with that mask--this
form with that bulk; then judge
me, priest of the gospel and
man of the law, and remember
with what judgment ye judge ye
shall be judged! Off with you
now. I must shut up my prize."
We all withdrew. Mr. Rochester
stayed a moment behind us, to
give some further order to Grace
Poole. The solicitor addressed
me as he descended the stair.
"You, madam," said he, "are
cleared from all blame: your
uncle will be glad to hear it--if,
indeed, he should be still living--when
Mr. Mason returns to Madeira."
"My
uncle! What
of him? Do
you know him?"
"Mr. Mason does. Mr. Eyre has
been the Funchal correspondent
of his house for some years.
When your uncle received your
letter intimating the contemplated
union between yourself and Mr.
Rochester, Mr. Mason, who was
staying at Madeira to recruit
his health, on his way back to
Jamaica, happened to be with
him. Mr. Eyre mentioned the intelligence;
for he knew that my client here
was acquainted with a gentleman
of the name of Rochester. Mr.
Mason, astonished and distressed
as you may suppose, revealed
the real state of matters. Your
uncle, I am sorry to say, is
now on a sick bed; from which,
considering the nature of his
disease--decline--and the stage
it has reached, it is unlikely
he will ever rise. He could not
then hasten to England himself,
to extricate you from the snare
into which you had fallen, but
he implored Mr. Mason to lose
no time in taking steps to prevent
the false marriage. He referred
him to me for assistance. I used
all despatch, and am thankful
I was not too late: as you, doubtless,
must be also. Were I not morally
certain that your uncle will
be dead ere you reach Madeira,
I would advise you to accompany
Mr. Mason back; but as it is,
I think you had better remain
in England till you can hear
further, either from or of Mr.
Eyre. Have we anything else to
stay for?" he inquired of Mr.
Mason.
"No, no--let us be gone," was
the anxious reply; and without
waiting to take leave of Mr.
Rochester, they made their exit
at the hall door. The clergyman
stayed to exchange a few sentences,
either of admonition or reproof,
with his haughty parishioner;
this duty done, he too departed.
I heard him go as I stood at
the half-open door of my own
room, to which I had now withdrawn.
The house cleared, I shut myself
in, fastened the bolt that none
might intrude, and proceeded--not
to weep, not to mourn, I was
yet too calm for that, but--mechanically
to take off the wedding dress,
and replace it by the stuff gown
I had worn yesterday, as I thought,
for the last time. I then sat
down: I felt weak and tired.
I leaned my arms on a table,
and my head dropped on them.
And now I thought: till now I
had only heard, seen, moved--followed
up and down where I was led or
dragged- -watched event rush
on event, disclosure open beyond
disclosure: but NOW, I THOUGHT.
The morning had been a quiet
morning enough--all except the
brief scene with the lunatic:
the transaction in the church
had not been noisy; there was
no explosion of passion, no loud
altercation, no dispute, no defiance
or challenge, no tears, no sobs:
a few words had been spoken,
a calmly pronounced objection
to the marriage made; some stern,
short questions put by Mr. Rochester;
answers, explanations given,
evidence adduced; an open admission
of the truth had been uttered
by my master; then the living
proof had been seen; the intruders
were gone, and all was over.
I was in my own room as usual--just
myself, without obvious change:
nothing had smitten me, or scathed
me, or maimed me. And yet where
was the Jane Eyre of yesterday?--where
was her life?--where were her
prospects?
Jane Eyre, who had been an
ardent, expectant woman--almost
a bride, was a cold, solitary
girl again: her life was pale;
her prospects were desolate.
A Christmas frost had come at
midsummer; a white December storm
had whirled over June; ice glazed
the ripe apples, drifts crushed
the blowing roses; on hayfield
and cornfield lay a frozen shroud:
lanes which last night blushed
full of flowers, to- day were
pathless with untrodden snow;
and the woods, which twelve hours
since waved leafy and flagrant
as groves between the tropics,
now spread, waste, wild, and
white as pine-forests in wintry
Norway. My hopes were all dead--struck
with a subtle doom, such as,
in one night, fell on all the
first-born in the land of Egypt.
I looked on my cherished wishes,
yesterday so blooming and glowing;
they lay stark, chill, livid
corpses that could never revive.
I looked at my love: that feeling
which was my master's--which
he had created; it shivered in
my heart, like a suffering child
in a cold cradle; sickness and
anguish had seized it; it could
not seek Mr. Rochester's arms--it
could not derive warmth from
his breast. Oh, never more could
it turn to him; for faith was
blighted--confidence destroyed!
Mr. Rochester was not to me what
he had been; for he was not what
I had thought him. I would not
ascribe vice to him; I would
not say he had betrayed me; but
the attribute of stainless truth
was gone from his idea, and from
his presence I must go: THAT
I perceived well. When--how--whither,
I could not yet discern; but
he himself, I doubted not, would
hurry me from Thornfield. Real
affection, it seemed, he could
not have for me; it had been
only fitful passion: that was
balked; he would want me no more.
I should fear even to cross his
path now: my view must be hateful
to him. Oh, how blind had been
my eyes! How weak my conduct!
My eyes were covered and closed:
eddying darkness seemed to swim
round me, and reflection came
in as black and confused a flow.
Self-abandoned, relaxed, and
effortless, I seemed to have
laid me down in the dried-up
bed of a great river; I heard
a flood loosened in remote mountains,
and felt the torrent come: to
rise I had no will, to flee I
had no strength. I lay faint,
longing to be dead. One idea
only still throbbed life-like
within me--a remembrance of God:
it begot an unuttered prayer:
these words went wandering up
and down in my rayless mind,
as something that should be whispered,
but no energy was found to express
them -
"Be
not far from
me, for trouble
is near: there is none to help."
It
was near: and
as I had lifted
no petition to Heaven to avert
it- -as I had neither joined
my hands, nor bent my knees,
nor moved my lips--it came: in
full heavy swing the torrent
poured over me. The whole consciousness
of my life lorn, my love lost,
my hope quenched, my faith death-struck,
swayed full and mighty above
me in one sullen mass. That bitter
hour cannot be described: in
truth, "the waters came into
my soul; I sank in deep mire:
I felt no standing; I came into
deep waters; the floods overflowed
me."
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