Some time in
the afternoon I raised my head,
and looking
round and seeing the western
sun gilding the sign of its decline
on the wall,
I asked, "What am I to do?"
But
the answer
my mind gave--"Leave
Thornfield at once"--was so prompt,
so dread, that I stopped my ears.
I said I could not bear such
words now. "That I am not Edward
Rochester's bride is the least
part of my woe," I alleged: "that
I have wakened out of most glorious
dreams, and found them all void
and vain, is a horror I could
bear and master; but that I must
leave him decidedly, instantly,
entirely, is intolerable. I cannot
do it."
But, then, a voice within me
averred that I could do it and
foretold that I should do it.
I wrestled with my own resolution:
I wanted to be weak that I might
avoid the awful passage of further
suffering I saw laid out for
me; and Conscience, turned tyrant,
held Passion by the throat, told
her tauntingly, she had yet but
dipped her dainty foot in the
slough, and swore that with that
arm of iron he would thrust her
down to unsounded depths of agony.
"Let me be torn away," then
I cried. "Let another help me!"
"No;
you shall tear
yourself away,
none shall
help you: you
shall yourself pluck out your
right eye; yourself cut off your
right hand: your heart shall
be the victim, and you the priest
to transfix it."
I
rose up suddenly,
terror-struck
at the solitude which so ruthless
a judge haunted,--at the silence
which so awful a voice filled.
My head swam as I stood erect.
I perceived that I was sickening
from excitement and inanition;
neither meat nor drink had passed
my lips that day, for I had taken
no breakfast. And, with a strange
pang, I now reflected that, long
as I had been shut up here, no
message had been sent to ask
how I was, or to invite me to
come down: not even little Adele
had tapped at the door; not even
Mrs. Fairfax had sought me. "Friends
always forget those whom fortune
forsakes," I murmured, as I undrew
the bolt and passed out. I stumbled
over an obstacle: my head was
still dizzy, my sight was dim,
and my limbs were feeble. I could
not soon recover myself. I fell,
but not on to the ground: an
outstretched arm caught me. I
looked up--I was supported by
Mr. Rochester, who sat in a chair
across my chamber threshold.
"You come out at last," he
said. "Well, I have been waiting
for you long, and listening:
yet not one movement have I heard,
nor one sob: five minutes more
of that death-like hush, and
I should have forced the lock
like a burglar. So you shun me?--you
shut yourself up and grieve alone!
I would rather you had come and
upbraided me with vehemence.
You are passionate. I expected
a scene of some kind. I was prepared
for the hot rain of tears; only
I wanted them to be shed on my
breast: now a senseless floor
has received them, or your drenched
handkerchief. But I err: you
have not wept at all! I see a
white cheek and a faded eye,
but no trace of tears. I suppose,
then, your heart has been weeping
blood?"
"Well,
Jane! not a
word of reproach?
Nothing bitter--nothing
poignant? Nothing to cut a feeling
or sting a passion? You sit quietly
where I have placed you, and
regard me with a weary, passive
look."
"Jane,
I never meant
to wound you
thus. If the
man who had
but one little ewe lamb that
was dear to him as a daughter,
that ate of his bread and drank
of his cup, and lay in his bosom,
had by some mistake slaughtered
it at the shambles, he would
not have rued his bloody blunder
more than I now rue mine. Will
you ever forgive me?"
Reader, I forgave him at the
moment and on the spot. There
was such deep remorse in his
eye, such true pity in his tone,
such manly energy in his manner;
and besides, there was such unchanged
love in his whole look and mien--I
forgave him all: yet not in words,
not outwardly; only at my heart's
core.
"You know I am a scoundrel,
Jane?" ere long he inquired wistfully--
wondering, I suppose, at my continued
silence and tameness, the result
rather of weakness than of will.
"Yes,
sir."
"Then
tell me so
roundly and
sharply--don't spare me."
"I cannot: I am tired and sick.
I want some water." He heaved
a sort of shuddering sigh, and
taking me in his arms, carried
me downstairs. At first I did
not know to what room he had
borne me; all was cloudy to my
glazed sight: presently I felt
the reviving warmth of a fire;
for, summer as it was, I had
become icy cold in my chamber.
He put wine to my lips; I tasted
it and revived; then I ate something
he offered me, and was soon myself.
I was in the library--sitting
in his chair--he was quite near. "If
I could go out of life now, without
too sharp a pang, it would be
well for me," I thought; "then
I should not have to make the
effort of cracking my heart-strings
in rending them from among Mr.
Rochester's. I must leave him,
it appears. I do not want to
leave him--I cannot leave him."
"How
are you now,
Jane?"
"Much
better, sir;
I shall be
well soon."
"Taste
the wine again,
Jane."
I obeyed him; then he put the
glass on the table, stood before
me, and looked at me attentively.
Suddenly he turned away, with
an inarticulate exclamation,
full of passionate emotion of
some kind; he walked fast through
the room and came back; he stooped
towards me as if to kiss me;
but I remembered caresses were
now forbidden. I turned my face
away and put his aside.
"What!--How is this?" he exclaimed
hastily. "Oh, I know! you won't
kiss the husband of Bertha Mason?
You consider my arms filled and
my embraces appropriated?"
"At
any rate, there
is neither
room nor claim
for me, sir."
"Why,
Jane? I will
spare you the
trouble of
much talking;
I will answer for you--Because
I have a wife already, you would
reply.--I guess rightly?"
"Yes."
"If
you think so,
you must have
a strange opinion
of me;
you must regard me as a plotting
profligate--a base and low rake
who has been simulating disinterested
love in order to draw you into
a snare deliberately laid, and
strip you of honour and rob you
of self- respect. What do you
say to that? I see you can say
nothing in the first place, you
are faint still, and have enough
to do to draw your breath; in
the second place, you cannot
yet accustom yourself to accuse
and revile me, and besides, the
flood-gates of tears are opened,
and they would rush out if you
spoke much; and you have no desire
to expostulate, to upbraid, to
make a scene: you are thinking
how TO ACT--TALKING you consider
is of no use. I know you- -I
am on my guard."
"Sir, I do not wish to act
against you," I said; and my
unsteady voice warned me to curtail
my sentence.
"Not
in your sense
of the word,
but in mine you are scheming
to destroy me. You have as good
as said that I am a married man--as
a married man you will shun me,
keep out of my way: just now
you have refused to kiss me.
You intend to make yourself a
complete stranger to me: to live
under this roof only as Adele's
governess; if ever I say a friendly
word to you, if ever a friendly
feeling inclines you again to
me, you will say,--'That man
had nearly made me his mistress:
I must be ice and rock to him;'
and ice and rock you will accordingly
become."
I
cleared and
steadied my
voice to reply: "All
is changed
about me, sir;
I must change
too--there
is no doubt of that; and to avoid
fluctuations of feeling, and
continual combats with recollections
and associations, there is only
one way--Adele must have a new
governess, sir."
"Oh,
Adele will
go to school--I
have settled that already; nor
do I mean to torment you with
the hideous associations and
recollections of Thornfield Hall--this
accursed place--this tent of
Achan--this insolent vault, offering
the ghastliness of living death
to the light of the open sky--this
narrow stone hell, with its one
real fiend, worse than a legion
of such as we imagine. Jane,
you shall not stay here, nor
will I. I was wrong ever to bring
you to Thornfield Hall, knowing
as I did how it was haunted.
I charged them to conceal from
you, before I ever saw you, all
knowledge of the curse of the
place; merely because I feared
Adele never would have a governess
to stay if she knew with what
inmate she was housed, and my
plans would not permit me to
remove the maniac elsewhere--though
I possess an old house, Ferndean
Manor, even more retired and
hidden than this, where I could
have lodged her safely enough,
had not a scruple about the unhealthiness
of the situation, in the heart
of a wood, made my conscience
recoil from the arrangement.
Probably those damp walls would
soon have eased me of her charge:
but to each villain his own vice;
and mine is not a tendency to
indirect assassination, even
of what I most hate.
"Concealing
the mad-woman's
neighbourhood from you, however,
was something like covering a
child with a cloak and laying
it down near a upas-tree: that
demon's vicinage is poisoned,
and always was. But I'll shut
up Thornfield Hall: I'll nail
up the front door and board the
lower windows: I'll give Mrs.
Poole two hundred a year to live
here with MY WIFE, as you term
that fearful hag: Grace will
do much for money, and she shall
have her son, the keeper at Grimsby
Retreat, to bear her company
and be at hand to give her aid
in the paroxysms, when MY WIFE
is prompted by her familiar to
burn people in their beds at
night, to stab them, to bite
their flesh from their bones,
and so on--"
"Sir," I interrupted him, "you
are inexorable for that unfortunate
lady: you speak of her with hate--with
vindictive antipathy. It is cruel--she
cannot help being mad."
"Jane,
my little darling
(so I will
call you, for
so you are),
you don't know what you are talking
about; you misjudge me again:
it is not because she is mad
I hate her. If you were mad,
do you think I should hate you?"
"I
do indeed,
sir."
"Then
you are mistaken,
and you know
nothing about
me, and
nothing about the sort of love
of which I am capable. Every
atom of your flesh is as dear
to me as my own: in pain and
sickness it would still be dear.
Your mind is my treasure, and
if it were broken, it would be
my treasure still: if you raved,
my arms should confine you, and
not a strait waistcoat--your
grasp, even in fury, would have
a charm for me: if you flew at
me as wildly as that woman did
this morning, I should receive
you in an embrace, at least as
fond as it would be restrictive.
I should not shrink from you
with disgust as I did from her:
in your quiet moments you should
have no watcher and no nurse
but me; and I could hang over
you with untiring tenderness,
though you gave me no smile in
return; and never weary of gazing
into your eyes, though they had
no longer a ray of recognition
for me.--But why do I follow
that train of ideas? I was talking
of removing you from Thornfield.
All, you know, is prepared for
prompt departure: to-morrow you
shall go. I only ask you to endure
one more night under this roof,
Jane; and then, farewell to its
miseries and terrors for ever!
I have a place to repair to,
which will be a secure sanctuary
from hateful reminiscences, from
unwelcome intrusion--even from
falsehood and slander."
"And take Adele with you, sir," I
interrupted; "she will be a companion
for you."
"What
do you mean,
Jane? I told
you I would
send Adele
to
school; and what do I want with
a child for a companion, and
not my own child,--a French dancer's
bastard? Why do you importune
me about her! I say, why do you
assign Adele to me for a companion?"
"You
spoke of a
retirement,
sir; and retirement and solitude
are dull: too dull for you."
"Solitude! solitude!" he reiterated
with irritation. "I see I must
come to an explanation. I don't
know what sphynx-like expression
is forming in your countenance.
You are to share my solitude.
Do you understand?"
I shook my head: it required
a degree of courage, excited
as he was becoming, even to risk
that mute sign of dissent. He
had been walking fast about the
room, and he stopped, as if suddenly
rooted to one spot. He looked
at me long and hard: I turned
my eyes from him, fixed them
on the fire, and tried to assume
and maintain a quiet, collected
aspect.
"Now for the hitch in Jane's
character," he said at last,
speaking more calmly than from
his look I had expected him to
speak. "The reel of silk has
run smoothly enough so far; but
I always knew there would come
a knot and a puzzle: here it
is. Now for vexation, and exasperation,
and endless trouble! By God!
I long to exert a fraction of
Samson's strength, and break
the entanglement like tow!"
He recommenced his walk, but
soon again stopped, and this
time just before me.
"Jane! will you hear reason?" (he
stooped and approached his lips
to my ear); "because, if you
won't, I'll try violence." His
voice was hoarse; his look that
of a man who is just about to
burst an insufferable bond and
plunge headlong into wild license.
I saw that in another moment,
and with one impetus of frenzy
more, I should be able to do
nothing with him. The present--the
passing second of time--was all
I had in which to control and
restrain him--a movement of repulsion,
flight, fear would have sealed
my doom,--and his. But I was
not afraid: not in the least.
I felt an inward power; a sense
of influence, which supported
me. The crisis was perilous;
but not without its charm: such
as the Indian, perhaps, feels
when he slips over the rapid
in his canoe. I took hold of
his clenched hand, loosened the
contorted fingers, and said to
him, soothingly -
"Sit
down; I'll
talk to you
as long as you like, and hear
all you have to say, whether
reasonable or unreasonable."
He sat down: but he did not
get leave to speak directly.
I had been struggling with tears
for some time: I had taken great
pains to repress them, because
I knew he would not like to see
me weep. Now, however, I considered
it well to let them flow as freely
and as long as they liked. If
the flood annoyed him, so much
the better. So I gave way and
cried heartily.
Soon I heard him earnestly
entreating me to be composed.
I said I could not while he was
in such a passion.
"But
I am not angry,
Jane: I only
love you too
well; and
you had steeled your little pale
face with such a resolute, frozen
look, I could not endure it.
Hush, now, and wipe your eyes."
His softened voice announced
that he was subdued; so I, in
my turn, became calm. Now he
made an effort to rest his head
on my shoulder, but I would not
permit it. Then he would draw
me to him: no.
"Jane! Jane!" he said, in such
an accent of bitter sadness it
thrilled along every nerve I
had; "you don't love me, then?
It was only my station, and the
rank of my wife, that you valued?
Now that you think me disqualified
to become your husband, you recoil
from my touch as if I were some
toad or ape."
These words cut me: yet what
could I do or I say? I ought
probably to have done or said
nothing; but I was so tortured
by a sense of remorse at thus
hurting his feelings, I could
not control the wish to drop
balm where I had wounded.
"I DO love you," I said, "more
than ever: but I must not show
or indulge the feeling: and this
is the last time I must express
it."
"The
last time,
Jane! What!
do you think you can live with
me, and see me daily, and yet,
if you still love me, be always
cold and distant?"
"No,
sir; that I
am certain
I could not;
and therefore
I
see there is but one way: but
you will be furious if I mention
it."
"Oh,
mention it!
If I storm,
you have the art of weeping."
"Mr.
Rochester,
I must leave
you."
"For
how long, Jane?
For a few minutes,
while you smooth
your hair- -which is somewhat
dishevelled; and bathe your face--which
looks feverish?"
"I
must leave
Adele and Thornfield.
I must part with you for my whole
life: I must begin a new existence
among strange faces and strange
scenes."
"Of
course: I told
you you should.
I pass over
the madness
about parting from me. You mean
you must become a part of me.
As to the new existence, it is
all right: you shall yet be my
wife: I am not married. You shall
be Mrs. Rochester--both virtually
and nominally. I shall keep only
to you so long as you and I live.
You shall go to a place I have
in the south of France: a whitewashed
villa on the shores of the Mediterranean.
There you shall live a happy,
and guarded, and most innocent
life. Never fear that I wish
to lure you into error--to make
you my mistress. Why did you
shake your head? Jane, you must
be reasonable, or in truth I
shall again become frantic."
His voice and hand quivered:
his large nostrils dilated; his
eye blazed: still I dared to
speak.
"Sir,
your wife is
living: that
is a fact acknowledged
this
morning by yourself. If I lived
with you as you desire, I should
then be your mistress: to say
otherwise is sophistical--is
false."
"Jane,
I am not a
gentle-tempered
man--you forget that: I am not
long-enduring; I am not cool
and dispassionate. Out of pity
to me and yourself, put your
finger on my pulse, feel how
it throbs, and-- beware!"
He
bared his wrist,
and offered
it to me: the blood was forsaking
his cheek and lips, they were
growing livid; I was distressed
on all hands. To agitate him
thus deeply, by a resistance
he so abhorred, was cruel: to
yield was out of the question.
I did what human beings do instinctively
when they are driven to utter
extremity-- looked for aid to
one higher than man: the words "God
help me!" burst involuntarily
from my lips.
"I am a fool!" cried Mr. Rochester
suddenly. "I keep telling her
I am not married, and do not
explain to her why. I forget
she knows nothing of the character
of that woman, or of the circumstances
attending my infernal union with
her. Oh, I am certain Jane will
agree with me in opinion, when
she knows all that I know! Just
put your hand in mine, Janet--that
I may have the evidence of touch
as well as sight, to prove you
are near me--and I will in a
few words show you the real state
of the case. Can you listen to
me
"Yes,
sir; for hours
if you will."
"I
ask only minutes.
Jane, did you
ever hear or
know at
I was not the eldest son of my
house: that I had once a brother
older than I?"
"I
remember Mrs.
Fairfax told
me so once."
"And
did you ever
hear that my
father was
an avaricious,
grasping man?"
"I
have understood
something to
that effect."
"Well,
Jane, being
so, it was
his resolution
to keep the
property
together; he could not bear the
idea of dividing his estate and
leaving me a fair portion: all,
he resolved, should go to my
brother, Rowland. Yet as little
could he endure that a son of
his should be a poor man. I must
be provided for by a wealthy
marriage. He sought me a partner
betimes. Mr. Mason, a West India
planter and merchant, was his
old acquaintance. He was certain
his possessions were real and
vast: he made inquiries. Mr.
Mason, he found, had a son and
daughter; and he learned from
him that he could and would give
the latter a fortune of thirty
thousand pounds: that sufficed.
When I left college, I was sent
out to Jamaica, to espouse a
bride already courted for me.
My father said nothing about
her money; but he told me Miss
Mason was the boast of Spanish
Town for her beauty: and this
was no lie. I found her a fine
woman, in the style of Blanche
Ingram: tall, dark, and majestic.
Her family wished to secure me
because I was of a good race;
and so did she. They showed her
to me in parties, splendidly
dressed. I seldom saw her alone,
and had very little private conversation
with her. She flattered me, and
lavishly displayed for my pleasure
her charms and accomplishments.
All the men in her circle seemed
to admire her and envy me. I
was dazzled, stimulated: my senses
were excited; and being ignorant,
raw, and inexperienced, I thought
I loved her. There is no folly
so besotted that the idiotic
rivalries of society, the prurience,
the rashness, the blindness of
youth, will not hurry a man to
its commission. Her relatives
encouraged me; competitors piqued
me; she allured me: a marriage
was achieved almost before I
knew where I was. Oh, I have
no respect for myself when I
think of that act!--an agony
of inward contempt masters me.
I never loved, I never esteemed,
I did not even know her. I was
not sure of the existence of
one virtue in her nature: I had
marked neither modesty, nor benevolence,
nor candour, nor refinement in
her mind or manners--and, I married
her:- gross, grovelling, mole-eyed
blockhead that I was! With less
sin I might have--But let me
remember to whom I am speaking."
"My
bride's mother
I had never
seen: I understood she was dead.
The honeymoon over, I learned
my mistake; she was only mad,
and shut up in a lunatic asylum.
There was a younger brother,
too--a complete dumb idiot. The
elder one, whom you have seen
(and whom I cannot hate, whilst
I abhor all his kindred, because
he has some grains of affection
in his feeble mind, shown in
the continued interest he takes
in his wretched sister, and also
in a dog-like attachment he once
bore me), will probably be in
the same state one day. My father
and my brother Rowland knew all
this; but they thought only of
the thirty thousand pounds, and
joined in the plot against me."
"These
were vile discoveries;
but except for the treachery
of concealment, I should have
made them no subject of reproach
to my wife, even when I found
her nature wholly alien to mine,
her tastes obnoxious to me, her
cast of mind common, low, narrow,
and singularly incapable of being
led to anything higher, expanded
to anything larger--when I found
that I could not pass a single
evening, nor even a single hour
of the day with her in comfort;
that kindly conversation could
not be sustained between us,
because whatever topic I started,
immediately received from her
a turn at once coarse and trite,
perverse and imbecile--when I
perceived that I should never
have a quiet or settled household,
because no servant would bear
the continued outbreaks of her
violent and unreasonable temper,
or the vexations of her absurd,
contradictory, exacting orders--even
then I restrained myself: I eschewed
upbraiding, I curtailed remonstrance;
I tried to devour my repentance
and disgust in secret; I repressed
the deep antipathy I felt.
"Jane,
I will not
trouble you
with abominable details: some
strong words shall express what
I have to say. I lived with that
woman upstairs four years, and
before that time she had tried
me indeed: her character ripened
and developed with frightful
rapidity; her vices sprang up
fast and rank: they were so strong,
only cruelty could check them,
and I would not use cruelty.
What a pigmy intellect she had,
and what giant propensities!
How fearful were the curses those
propensities entailed on me!
Bertha Mason, the true daughter
of an infamous mother, dragged
me through all the hideous and
degrading agonies which must
attend a man bound to a wife
at once intemperate and unchaste.
"My
brother in
the interval
was dead, and at the end of the
four years my father died too.
I was rich enough now--yet poor
to hideous indigence: a nature
the most gross, impure, depraved
I ever saw, was associated with
mine, and called by the law and
by society a part of me. And
I could not rid myself of it
by any legal proceedings: for
the doctors now discovered that
MY WIFE was mad-- her excesses
had prematurely developed the
germs of insanity. Jane, you
don't like my narrative; you
look almost sick--shall I defer
the rest to another day?"
"No,
sir, finish
it now; I pity
you--I do earnestly
pity
you."
"Pity,
Jane, from
some people
is a noxious and insulting sort
of tribute, which one is justified
in hurling back in the teeth
of those who offer it; but that
is the sort of pity native to
callous, selfish hearts; it is
a hybrid, egotistical pain at
hearing of woes, crossed with
ignorant contempt for those who
have endured them. But that is
not your pity, Jane; it is not
the feeling of which your whole
face is full at this moment--with
which your eyes are now almost
overflowing--with which your
heart is heaving--with which
your hand is trembling in mine.
Your pity, my darling, is the
suffering mother of love: its
anguish is the very natal pang
of the divine passion. I accept
it, Jane; let the daughter have
free advent--my arms wait to
receive her."
"Now,
sir, proceed;
what did you
do when you
found she was
mad?"
"Jane,
I approached
the verge of
despair; a
remnant of
self-respect
was all that intervened between
me and the gulf. In the eyes
of the world, I was doubtless
covered with grimy dishonour;
but I resolved to be clean in
my own sight--and to the last
I repudiated the contamination
of her crimes, and wrenched myself
from connection with her mental
defects. Still, society associated
my name and person with hers;
I yet saw her and heard her daily:
something of her breath (faugh!)
mixed with the air I breathed;
and besides, I remembered I had
once been her husband--that recollection
was then, and is now, inexpressibly
odious to me; moreover, I knew
that while she lived I could
never be the husband of another
and better wife; and, though
five years my senior (her family
and her father had lied to me
even in the particular of her
age), she was likely to live
as long as I, being as robust
in frame as she was infirm in
mind. Thus, at the age of twenty-six,
I was hopeless.
"One
night I had
been awakened
by her yells--(since the medical
men had pronounced her mad, she
had, of course, been shut up)--it
was a fiery West Indian night;
one of the description that frequently
precede the hurricanes of those
climates. Being unable to sleep
in bed, I got up and opened the
window. The air was like sulphur-
steams--I could find no refreshment
anywhere. Mosquitoes came buzzing
in and hummed sullenly round
the room; the sea, which I could
hear from thence, rumbled dull
like an earthquake--black clouds
were casting up over it; the
moon was setting in the waves,
broad and red, like a hot cannon-ball--she
threw her last bloody glance
over a world quivering with the
ferment of tempest. I was physically
influenced by the atmosphere
and scene, and my ears were filled
with the curses the maniac still
shrieked out; wherein she momentarily
mingled my name with such a tone
of demon-hate, with such language!--no
professed harlot ever had a fouler
vocabulary than she: though two
rooms off, I heard every word--the
thin partitions of the West India
house opposing but slight obstruction
to her wolfish cries.
"'This
life,' said
I at last,
'is hell: this
is the air--those
are the sounds of the bottomless
pit! I have a right to deliver
myself from it if I can. The
sufferings of this mortal state
will leave me with the heavy
flesh that now cumbers my soul.
Of the fanatic's burning eternity
I have no fear: there is not
a future state worse than this
present one--let me break away,
and go home to God!'
"I
said this whilst
I knelt down
at, and unlocked
a trunk
which contained a brace of loaded
pistols: I mean to shoot myself.
I only entertained the intention
for a moment; for, not being
insane, the crisis of exquisite
and unalloyed despair, which
had originated the wish and design
of self-destruction, was past
in a second.
"A
wind fresh
from Europe
blew over the
ocean and rushed
through
the open casement: the storm
broke, streamed, thundered, blazed,
and the air grew pure. I then
framed and fixed a resolution.
While I walked under the dripping
orange-trees of my wet garden,
and amongst its drenched pomegranates
and pine-apples, and while the
refulgent dawn of the tropics
kindled round me--I reasoned
thus, Jane--and now listen; for
it was true Wisdom that consoled
me in that hour, and showed me
the right path to follow.
"The
sweet wind
from Europe
was still whispering in the refreshed
leaves, and the Atlantic was
thundering in glorious liberty;
my heart, dried up and scorched
for a long time, swelled to the
tone, and filled with living
blood--my being longed for renewal--my
soul thirsted for a pure draught.
I saw hope revive--and felt regeneration
possible. From a flowery arch
at the bottom of my garden I
gazed over the sea--bluer than
the sky: the old world was beyond;
clear prospects opened thus:-
"'Go,'
said Hope,
'and live again
in Europe:
there it is
not known what a sullied name
you bear, nor what a filthy burden
is bound to you. You may take
the maniac with you to England;
confine her with due attendance
and precautions at Thornfield:
then travel yourself to what
clime you will, and form what
new tie you like. That woman,
who has so abused your long-suffering,
so sullied your name, so outraged
your honour, so blighted your
youth, is not your wife, nor
are you her husband. See that
she is cared for as her condition
demands, and you have done all
that God and humanity require
of you. Let her identity, her
connection with yourself, be
buried in oblivion: you are bound
to impart them to no living being.
Place her in safety and comfort:
shelter her degradation with
secrecy, and leave her.'
"I
acted precisely
on this suggestion.
My father and
brother
had not made my marriage known
to their acquaintance; because,
in the very first letter I wrote
to apprise them of the union--having
already begun to experience extreme
disgust of its consequences,
and, from the family character
and constitution, seeing a hideous
future opening to me--I added
an urgent charge to keep it secret:
and very soon the infamous conduct
of the wife my father had selected
for me was such as to make him
blush to own her as his daughter-in-law.
Far from desiring to publish
the connection, he became as
anxious to conceal it as myself.
"To
England, then,
I conveyed
her; a fearful
voyage I had
with
such a monster in the vessel.
Glad was I when I at last got
her to Thornfield, and saw her
safely lodged in that third-storey
room, of whose secret inner cabinet
she has now for ten years made
a wild beast's den--a goblin's
cell. I had some trouble in finding
an attendant for her, as it was
necessary to select one on whose
fidelity dependence could be
placed; for her ravings would
inevitably betray my secret:
besides, she had lucid intervals
of days--sometimes weeks--which
she filled up with abuse of me.
At last I hired Grace Poole from
the Grimbsy Retreat. She and
the surgeon, Carter (who dressed
Mason's wounds that night he
was stabbed and worried), are
the only two I have ever admitted
to my confidence. Mrs. Fairfax
may indeed have suspected something,
but she could have gained no
precise knowledge as to facts.
Grace has, on the whole, proved
a good keeper; though, owing
partly to a fault of her own,
of which it appears nothing can
cure her, and which is incident
to her harassing profession,
her vigilance has been more than
once lulled and baffled. The
lunatic is both cunning and malignant;
she has never failed to take
advantage of her guardian's temporary
lapses; once to secrete the knife
with which she stabbed her brother,
and twice to possess herself
of the key of her cell, and issue
therefrom in the night-time.
On the first of these occasions,
she perpetrated the attempt to
burn me in my bed; on the second,
she paid that ghastly visit to
you. I thank Providence, who
watched over you, that she then
spent her fury on your wedding
apparel, which perhaps brought
back vague reminiscences of her
own bridal days: but on what
might have happened, I cannot
endure to reflect. When I think
of the thing which flew at my
throat this morning, hanging
its black and scarlet visage
over the nest of my dove, my
blood curdles
"And what, sir," I asked, while
he paused, "did you do when you
had settled her here? Where did
you go?"
"What
did I do, Jane?
I transformed
myself into a will-o'-the-wisp.
Where did I go? I pursued wanderings
as wild as those of the March-
spirit. I sought the Continent,
and went devious through all
its lands. My fixed desire was
to seek and find a good and intelligent
woman, whom I could love: a contrast
to the fury I left at Thornfield--"
"But
you could not
marry, sir."
"I
had determined
and was convinced
that I could and ought. It was
not my original intention to
deceive, as I have deceived you.
I meant to tell my tale plainly,
and make my proposals openly:
and it appeared to me so absolutely
rational that I should be considered
free to love and be loved, I
never doubted some woman might
be found willing and able to
understand my case and accept
me, in spite of the curse with
which I was burdened."
"Well,
sir?"
"When
you are inquisitive,
Jane, you always make me smile.
You open your eyes like an eager
bird, and make every now and
then a restless movement, as
if answers in speech did not
flow fast enough for you, and
you wanted to read the tablet
of one's heart. But before I
go on, tell me what you mean
by your 'Well, sir?' It is a
small phrase very frequent with
you; and which many a time has
drawn me on and on through interminable
talk: I don't very well know
why."
"I
mean,--What
next? How did
you proceed? What came of such
an event?"
"Precisely!
and what do
you wish to
know now?"
"Whether
you found any
one you liked:
whether you
asked
her to marry you; and what she
said."
"I
can tell you
whether I found
any one I liked, and whether
I asked her to marry me: but
what she said is yet to be recorded
in the book of Fate. For ten
long years I roved about, living
first in one capital, then another:
sometimes in St. Petersburg;
oftener in Paris; occasionally
in Rome, Naples, and Florence.
Provided with plenty of money
and the passport of an old name,
I could choose my own society:
no circles were closed against
me. I sought my ideal of a woman
amongst English ladies, French
countesses, Italian signoras,
and German grafinnen. I could
not find her. Sometimes, for
a fleeting moment, I thought
I caught a glance, heard a tone,
beheld a form, which announced
the realisation of my dream:
but I was presently undeserved.
You are not to suppose that I
desired perfection, either of
mind or person. I longed only
for what suited me--for the antipodes
of the Creole: and I longed vainly.
Amongst them all I found not
one whom, had I been ever so
free, I--warned as I was of the
risks, the horrors, the loathings
of incongruous unions--would
have asked to marry me. Disappointment
made me reckless. I tried dissipation--never
debauchery: that I hated, and
hate. That was my Indian Messalina's
attribute: rooted disgust at
it and her restrained me much,
even in pleasure. Any enjoyment
that bordered on riot seemed
to approach me to her and her
vices, and I eschewed it.
"Yet
I could not
live alone;
so I tried the companionship
of mistresses. The first I chose
was Celine Varens--another of
those steps which make a man
spurn himself when he recalls
them. You already know what she
was, and how my liaison with
her terminated. She had two successors:
an Italian, Giacinta, and a German,
Clara; both considered singularly
handsome. What was their beauty
to me in a few weeks? Giacinta
was unprincipled and violent:
I tired of her in three months.
Clara was honest and quiet; but
heavy, mindless, and unimpressible:
not one whit to my taste. I was
glad to give her a sufficient
sum to set her up in a good line
of business, and so get decently
rid of her. But, Jane, I see
by your face you are not forming
a very favourable opinion of
me just now. You think me an
unfeeling, loose-principled rake:
don't you?"
"I
don't like
you so well
as I have done
sometimes,
indeed,
sir. Did it not seem to you in
the least wrong to live in that
way, first with one mistress
and then another? You talk of
it as a mere matter of course."
"It
was with me;
and I did not
like it. It
was a grovelling
fashion of existence: I should
never like to return to it. Hiring
a mistress is the next worse
thing to buying a slave: both
are often by nature, and always
by position, inferior: and to
live familiarly with inferiors
is degrading. I now hate the
recollection of the time I passed
with Celine, Giacinta, and Clara."
I felt the truth of these words;
and I drew from them the certain
inference, that if I were so
far to forget myself and all
the teaching that had ever been
instilled into me, as--under
any pretext--with any justification--through
any temptation--to become the
successor of these poor girls,
he would one day regard me with
the same feeling which now in
his mind desecrated their memory.
I did not give utterance to this
conviction: it was enough to
feel it. I impressed it on my
heart, that it might remain there
to serve me as aid in the time
of trial.
"Now,
Jane, why don't
you say 'Well,
sir?' I have
not done.
You are looking grave. You disapprove
of me still, I see. But let me
come to the point. Last January,
rid of all mistresses--in a harsh,
bitter frame of mind, the result
of a useless, roving, lonely
life-- corroded with disappointment,
sourly disposed against all men,
and especially against all womankind
(for I began to regard the notion
of an intellectual, faithful,
loving woman as a mere dream),
recalled by business, I came
back to England.
"On
a frosty winter
afternoon,
I rode in sight
of Thornfield
Hall. Abhorred spot! I expected
no peace--no pleasure there.
On a stile in Hay Lane I saw
a quiet little figure sitting
by itself. I passed it as negligently
as I did the pollard willow opposite
to it: I had no presentiment
of what it would be to me; no
inward warning that the arbitress
of my life--my genius for good
or evil--waited there in humble
guise. I did not know it, even
when, on the occasion of Mesrour's
accident, it came up and gravely
offered me help. Childish and
slender creature! It seemed as
if a linnet had hopped to my
foot and proposed to bear me
on its tiny wing. I was surly;
but the thing would not go: it
stood by me with strange perseverance,
and looked and spoke with a sort
of authority. I must be aided,
and by that hand: and aided I
was.
"When
once I had
pressed the
frail shoulder, something new--a
fresh sap and sense--stole into
my frame. It was well I had learnt
that this elf must return to
me--that it belonged to my house
down below- -or I could not have
felt it pass away from under
my hand, and seen it vanish behind
the dim hedge, without singular
regret. I heard you come home
that night, Jane, though probably
you were not aware that I thought
of you or watched for you. The
next day I observed you--myself
unseen--for half-an-hour, while
you played with Adele in the
gallery. It was a snowy day,
I recollect, and you could not
go out of doors. I was in my
room; the door was ajar: I could
both listen and watch. Adele
claimed your outward attention
for a while; yet I fancied your
thoughts were elsewhere: but
you were very patient with her,
my little Jane; you talked to
her and amused her a long time.
When at last she left you, you
lapsed at once into deep reverie:
you betook yourself slowly to
pace the gallery. Now and then,
in passing a casement, you glanced
out at the thick-falling snow;
you listened to the sobbing wind,
and again you paced gently on
and dreamed. I think those day
visions were not dark: there
was a pleasurable illumination
in your eye occasionally, a soft
excitement in your aspect, which
told of no bitter, bilious, hypochondriac
brooding: your look revealed
rather the sweet musings of youth
when its spirit follows on willing
wings the flight of Hope up and
on to an ideal heaven. The voice
of Mrs. Fairfax, speaking to
a servant in the hall, wakened
you: and how curiously you smiled
to and at yourself, Janet! There
was much sense in your smile:
it was very shrewd, and seemed
to make light of your own abstraction.
It seemed to say--'My fine visions
are all very well, but I must
not forget they are absolutely
unreal. I have a rosy sky and
a green flowery Eden in my brain;
but without, I am perfectly aware,
lies at my feet a rough tract
to travel, and around me gather
black tempests to encounter.'
You ran downstairs and demanded
of Mrs. Fairfax some occupation:
the weekly house accounts to
make up, or something of that
sort, I think it was. I was vexed
with you for getting out of my
sight.
"Impatiently
I waited for
evening, when
I might summon
you to my
presence. An unusual--to me--a
perfectly new character I suspected
was yours: I desired to search
it deeper and know it better.
You entered the room with a look
and air at once shy and independent:
you were quaintly dressed--much
as you are now. I made you talk:
ere long I found you full of
strange contrasts. Your garb
and manner were restricted by
rule; your air was often diffident,
and altogether that of one refined
by nature, but absolutely unused
to society, and a good deal afraid
of making herself disadvantageously
conspicuous by some solecism
or blunder; yet when addressed,
you lifted a keen, a daring,
and a glowing eye to your interlocutor's
face: there was penetration and
power in each glance you gave;
when plied by close questions,
you found ready and round answers.
Very soon you seemed to get used
to me: I believe you felt the
existence of sympathy between
you and your grim and cross master,
Jane; for it was astonishing
to see how quickly a certain
pleasant ease tranquillised your
manner: snarl as I would, you
showed no surprise, fear, annoyance,
or displeasure at my moroseness;
you watched me, and now and then
smiled at me with a simple yet
sagacious grace I cannot describe.
I was at once content and stimulated
with what I saw: I liked what
I had seen, and wished to see
more. Yet, for a long time, I
treated you distantly, and sought
your company rarely. I was an
intellectual epicure, and wished
to prolong the gratification
of making this novel and piquant
acquaintance: besides, I was
for a while troubled with a haunting
fear that if I handled the flower
freely its bloom would fade--the
sweet charm of freshness would
leave it. I did not then know
that it was no transitory blossom,
but rather the radiant resemblance
of one, cut in an indestructible
gem. Moreover, I wished to see
whether you would seek me if
I shunned you--but you did not;
you kept in the schoolroom as
still as your own desk and easel;
if by chance I met you, you passed
me as soon, and with as little
token of recognition, as was
consistent with respect. Your
habitual expression in those
days, Jane, was a thoughtful
look; not despondent, for you
were not sickly; but not buoyant,
for you had little hope, and
no actual pleasure. I wondered
what you thought of me, or if
you ever thought of me, and resolved
to find this out.
"I
resumed my
notice of you.
There was something glad in your
glance, and genial in your manner,
when you conversed: I saw you
had a social heart; it was the
silent schoolroom--it was the
tedium of your life--that made
you mournful. I permitted myself
the delight of being kind to
you; kindness stirred emotion
soon: your face became soft in
expression, your tones gentle;
I liked my name pronounced by
your lips in a grateful happy
accent. I used to enjoy a chance
meeting with you, Jane, at this
time: there was a curious hesitation
in your manner: you glanced at
me with a slight trouble- -a
hovering doubt: you did not know
what my caprice might be-- whether
I was going to play the master
and be stern, or the friend and
be benignant. I was now too fond
of you often to simulate the
first whim; and, when I stretched
my hand out cordially, such bloom
and light and bliss rose to your
young, wistful features, I had
much ado often to avoid straining
you then and there to my heart."
"Don't talk any more of those
days, sir," I interrupted, furtively
dashing away some tears from
my eyes; his language was torture
to me; for I knew what I must
do--and do soon--and all these
reminiscences, and these revelations
of his feelings only made my
work more difficult.
"No, Jane," he returned: "what
necessity is there to dwell on
the Past, when the Present is
so much surer--the Future so
much brighter?"
I shuddered to hear the infatuated
assertion.
"You see now how the case stands--do
you not?" he continued. "After
a youth and manhood passed half
in unutterable misery and half
in dreary solitude, I have for
the first time found what I can
truly love--I have found you.
You are my sympathy--my better
self--my good angel. I am bound
to you with a strong attachment.
I think you good, gifted, lovely:
a fervent, a solemn passion is
conceived in my heart; it leans
to you, draws you to my centre
and spring of life, wraps my
existence about you, and, kindling
in pure, powerful flame, fuses
you and me in one.
"It
was because
I felt and
knew this,
that I resolved
to
marry you. To tell me that I
had already a wife is empty mockery:
you know now that I had but a
hideous demon. I was wrong to
attempt to deceive you; but I
feared a stubbornness that exists
in your character. I feared early
instilled prejudice: I wanted
to have you safe before hazarding
confidences. This was cowardly:
I should have appealed to your
nobleness and magnanimity at
first, as I do now--opened to
you plainly my life of agony--described
to you my hunger and thirst after
a higher and worthier existence--shown
to you, not my RESOLUTION (that
word is weak), but my resistless
BENT to love faithfully and well,
where I am faithfully and well
loved in return. Then I should
have asked you to accept my pledge
of fidelity and to give me yours.
Jane--give it me now."
A pause.
"Why
are you silent,
Jane?"
I
was experiencing
an ordeal:
a hand of fiery
iron grasped
my vitals. Terrible moment: full
of struggle, blackness, burning!
Not a human being that ever lived
could wish to be loved better
than I was loved; and him who
thus loved me I absolutely worshipped:
and I must renounce love and
idol. One drear word comprised
my intolerable duty--"Depart!"
"Jane,
you understand
what I want
of you? Just
this promise--'I
will be yours, Mr. Rochester.'"
"Mr.
Rochester,
I will NOT
be yours."
Another long silence.
"Jane!" recommenced he, with
a gentleness that broke me down
with grief, and turned me stone-cold
with ominous terror--for this
still voice was the pant of a
lion rising--"Jane, do you mean
to go one way in the world, and
to let me go another?"
"I
do."
"Jane" (bending towards and
embracing me), "do you mean it
now?"
"I
do."
"And now?" softly
kissing my
forehead and
cheek.
"I do," extricating
myself from
restraint rapidly
and completely.
"Oh,
Jane, this
is bitter!
This--this
is wicked.
It would
not be wicked to love me."
"It
would to obey
you."
A wild look raised his brows--crossed
his features: he rose; but he
forebore yet. I laid my hand
on the back of a chair for support:
I shook, I feared--but I resolved.
"One
instant, Jane.
Give one glance
to my horrible
life when
you are gone. All happiness will
be torn away with you. What then
is left? For a wife I have but
the maniac upstairs: as well
might you refer me to some corpse
in yonder churchyard. What shall
I do, Jane? Where turn for a
companion and for some hope?"
"Do
as I do: trust
in God and
yourself. Believe
in heaven.
Hope to meet again there."
"Then
you will not
yield?"
"No."
"Then you condemn me to live
wretched and to die accursed?" His
voice rose.
"I
advise you
to live sinless,
and I wish you to die tranquil."
"Then
you snatch
love and innocence
from me? You fling me back on
lust for a passion--vice for
an occupation?"
"Mr.
Rochester,
I no more assign
this fate to you than I grasp
at it for myself. We were born
to strive and endure--you as
well as I: do so. You will forget
me before I forget you."
"You
make me a liar
by such language:
you sully my
honour.
I declared I could not change:
you tell me to my face I shall
change soon. And what a distortion
in your judgment, what a perversity
in your ideas, is proved by your
conduct! Is it better to drive
a fellow-creature to despair
than to transgress a mere human
law, no man being injured by
the breach? for you have neither
relatives nor acquaintances whom
you need fear to offend by living
with me?"
This
was true: and
while he spoke
my very conscience
and
reason turned traitors against
me, and charged me with crime
in resisting him. They spoke
almost as loud as Feeling: and
that clamoured wildly. "Oh, comply!" it
said. "Think of his misery; think
of his danger--look at his state
when left alone; remember his
headlong nature; consider the
recklessness following on despair--soothe
him; save him; love him; tell
him you love him and will be
his. Who in the world cares for
YOU? or who will be injured by
what you do?"
Still
indomitable
was the reply--"I
care for myself. The more solitary,
the more friendless, the more
unsustained I am, the more I
will respect myself. I will keep
the law given by God; sanctioned
by man. I will hold to the principles
received by me when I was sane,
and not mad--as I am now. Laws
and principles are not for the
times when there is no temptation:
they are for such moments as
this, when body and soul rise
in mutiny against their rigour;
stringent are they; inviolate
they shall be. If at my individual
convenience I might break them,
what would be their worth? They
have a worth--so I have always
believed; and if I cannot believe
it now, it is because I am insane--quite
insane: with my veins running
fire, and my heart beating faster
than I can count its throbs.
Preconceived opinions, foregone
determinations, are all I have
at this hour to stand by: there
I plant my foot."
I did. Mr. Rochester, reading
my countenance, saw I had done
so. His fury was wrought to the
highest: he must yield to it
for a moment, whatever followed;
he crossed the floor and seized
my arm and grasped my waist.
He seemed to devour me with his
flaming glance: physically, I
felt, at the moment, powerless
as stubble exposed to the draught
and glow of a furnace: mentally,
I still possessed my soul, and
with it the certainty of ultimate
safety. The soul, fortunately,
has an interpreter--often an
unconscious, but still a truthful
interpreter--in the eye. My eye
rose to his; and while I looked
in his fierce face I gave an
involuntary sigh; his gripe was
painful, and my over-taxed strength
almost exhausted.
"Never," said he, as he ground
his teeth, "never was anything
at once so frail and so indomitable.
A mere reed she feels in my hand!" (And
he shook me with the force of
his hold.) "I could bend her
with my finger and thumb: and
what good would it do if I bent,
if I uptore, if I crushed her?
Consider that eye: consider the
resolute, wild, free thing looking
out of it, defying me, with more
than courage--with a stern triumph.
Whatever I do with its cage,
I cannot get at it--the savage,
beautiful creature! If I tear,
if I rend the slight prison,
my outrage will only let the
captive loose. Conqueror I might
be of the house; but the inmate
would escape to heaven before
I could call myself possessor
of its clay dwelling- place.
And it is you, spirit--with will
and energy, and virtue and purity--that
I want: not alone your brittle
frame. Of yourself you could
come with soft flight and nestle
against my heart, if you would:
seized against your will, you
will elude the grasp like an
essence--you will vanish ere
I inhale your fragrance. Oh!
come, Jane, come!"
As he said this, he released
me from his clutch, and only
looked at me. The look was far
worse to resist than the frantic
strain: only an idiot, however,
would have succumbed now. I had
dared and baffled his fury; I
must elude his sorrow: I retired
to the door.
"You
are going,
Jane?"
"I
am going, sir."
"You
are leaving
me?"
"Yes."
"You
will not come?
You will not
be my comforter,
my rescuer?
My deep love, my wild woe, my
frantic prayer, are all nothing
to you?"
What
unutterable
pathos was
in his voice!
How hard it
was
to reiterate firmly, "I am going."
"Jane!"
"Mr.
Rochester!"
"Withdraw,
then,--I consent;
but remember, you leave me here
in anguish. Go up to your own
room; think over all I have said,
and, Jane, cast a glance on my
sufferings--think of me."
He
turned away;
he threw himself
on his face on the sofa. "Oh,
Jane! my hope--my love--my life!" broke
in anguish from his lips. Then
came a deep, strong sob.
I had already gained the door;
but, reader, I walked back--walked
back as determinedly as I had
retreated. I knelt down by him;
I turned his face from the cushion
to me; I kissed his cheek; I
smoothed his hair with my hand.
"God bless you, my dear master!" I
said. "God keep you from harm
and wrong--direct you, solace
you--reward you well for your
past kindness to me."
"Little Jane's love would have
been my best reward," he answered; "without
it, my heart is broken. But Jane
will give me her love: yes--nobly,
generously."
Up the blood rushed to his
face; forth flashed the fire
from his eyes; erect he sprang;
he held his arms out; but I evaded
the embrace, and at once quitted
the room.
"Farewell!" was the cry of
my heart as I left him. Despair
added, "Farewell for ever!"
That night I never thought
to sleep; but a slumber fell
on me as soon as I lay down in
bed. I was transported in thought
to the scenes of childhood: I
dreamt I lay in the red-room
at Gateshead; that the night
was dark, and my mind impressed
with strange fears. The light
that long ago had struck me into
syncope, recalled in this vision,
seemed glidingly to mount the
wall, and tremblingly to pause
in the centre of the obscured
ceiling. I lifted up my head
to look: the roof resolved to
clouds, high and dim; the gleam
was such as the moon imparts
to vapours she is about to sever.
I watched her come-- watched
with the strangest anticipation;
as though some word of doom were
to be written on her disk. She
broke forth as never moon yet
burst from cloud: a hand first
penetrated the sable folds and
waved them away; then, not a
moon, but a white human form
shone in the azure, inclining
a glorious brow earthward. It
gazed and gazed on me. It spoke
to my spirit: immeasurably distant
was the tone, yet so near, it
whispered in my heart -
"My daughter,
flee temptation."
"Mother, I
will."
So I answered
after I had waked from the
trance-like dream. It
was yet night, but July nights
are short: soon after midnight,
dawn comes. "It cannot be too
early to commence the task I
have to fulfil," thought I. I
rose: I was dressed; for I had
taken off nothing but my shoes.
I knew where to find in my drawers
some linen, a locket, a ring.
In seeking these articles, I
encountered the beads of a pearl
necklace Mr. Rochester had forced
me to accept a few days ago.
I left that; it was not mine:
it was the visionary bride's
who had melted in air. The other
articles I made up in a parcel;
my purse, containing twenty shillings
(it was all I had), I put in
my pocket: I tied on my straw
bonnet, pinned my shawl, took
the parcel and my slippers, which
I would not put on yet, and stole
from my room.
"Farewell, kind Mrs. Fairfax!" I
whispered, as I glided past her
door. "Farewell, my darling Adele!" I
said, as I glanced towards the
nursery. No thought could be
admitted of entering to embrace
her. I had to deceive a fine
ear: for aught I knew it might
now be listening.
I would have got past Mr. Rochester's
chamber without a pause; but
my heart momentarily stopping
its beat at that threshold, my
foot was forced to stop also.
No sleep was there: the inmate
was walking restlessly from wall
to wall; and again and again
he sighed while I listened. There
was a heaven--a temporary heaven--in
this room for me, if I chose:
I had but to go in and to say
-
"Mr. Rochester, I will love
you and live with you through
life till death," and a fount
of rapture would spring to my
lips. I thought of this.
That kind master, who could
not sleep now, was waiting with
impatience for day. He would
send for me in the morning; I
should be gone. He would have
me sought for: vainly. He would
feel himself forsaken; his love
rejected: he would suffer; perhaps
grow desperate. I thought of
this too. My hand moved towards
the lock: I caught it back, and
glided on.
Drearily I wound my way downstairs:
I knew what I had to do, and
I did it mechanically. I sought
the key of the side-door in the
kitchen; I sought, too, a phial
of oil and a feather; I oiled
the key and the lock. I got some
water, I got some bread: for
perhaps I should have to walk
far; and my strength, sorely
shaken of late, must not break
down. All this I did without
one sound. I opened the door,
passed out, shut it softly. Dim
dawn glimmered in the yard. The
great gates were closed and locked;
but a wicket in one of them was
only latched. Through that I
departed: it, too, I shut; and
now I was out of Thornfield.
A mile off, beyond the fields,
lay a road which stretched in
the contrary direction to Millcote;
a road I had never travelled,
but often noticed, and wondered
where it led: thither I bent
my steps. No reflection was to
be allowed now: not one glance
was to be cast back; not even
one forward. Not one thought
was to be given either to the
past or the future. The first
was a page so heavenly sweet--
so deadly sad--that to read one
line of it would dissolve my
courage and break down my energy.
The last was an awful blank:
something like the world when
the deluge was gone by.
I skirted fields, and hedges,
and lanes till after sunrise.
I believe it was a lovely summer
morning: I know my shoes, which
I had put on when I left the
house, were soon wet with dew.
But I looked neither to rising
sun, nor smiling sky, nor wakening
nature. He who is taken out to
pass through a fair scene to
the scaffold, thinks not of the
flowers that smile on his road,
but of the block and axe-edge;
of the disseverment of bone and
vein; of the grave gaping at
the end: and I thought of drear
flight and homeless wandering--and
oh! with agony I thought of what
I left. I could not help it.
I thought of him now--in his
room--watching the sunrise; hoping
I should soon come to say I would
stay with him and be his. I longed
to be his; I panted to return:
it was not too late; I could
yet spare him the bitter pang
of bereavement. As yet my flight,
I was sure, was undiscovered.
I could go back and be his comforter--his
pride; his redeemer from misery,
perhaps from ruin. Oh, that fear
of his self-abandonment--far
worse than my abandonment--how
it goaded me! It was a barbed
arrow-head in my breast; it tore
me when I tried to extract it;
it sickened me when remembrance
thrust it farther in. Birds began
singing in brake and copse: birds
were faithful to their mates;
birds were emblems of love. What
was I? In the midst of my pain
of heart and frantic effort of
principle, I abhorred myself.
I had no solace from self- approbation:
none even from self-respect.
I had injured--wounded-- left
my master. I was hateful in my
own eyes. Still I could not turn,
nor retrace one step. God must
have led me on. As to my own
will or conscience, impassioned
grief had trampled one and stifled
the other. I was weeping wildly
as I walked along my solitary
way: fast, fast I went like one
delirious. A weakness, beginning
inwardly, extending to the limbs,
seized me, and I fell: I lay
on the ground some minutes, pressing
my face to the wet turf. I had
some fear--or hope--that here
I should die: but I was soon
up; crawling forwards on my hands
and knees, and then again raised
to my feet--as eager and as determined
as ever to reach the road.
When I got there, I was forced
to sit to rest me under the hedge;
and while I sat, I heard wheels,
and saw a coach come on. I stood
up and lifted my hand; it stopped.
I asked where it was going: the
driver named a place a long way
off, and where I was sure Mr.
Rochester had no connections.
I asked for what sum he would
take me there; he said thirty
shillings; I answered I had but
twenty; well, he would try to
make it do. He further gave me
leave to get into the inside,
as the vehicle was empty: I entered,
was shut in, and it rolled on
its way.
Gentle reader, may you never
feel what I then felt! May your
eyes never shed such stormy,
scalding, heart-wrung tears as
poured from mine. May you never
appeal to Heaven in prayers so
hopeless and so agonised as in
that hour left my lips; for never
may you, like me, dread to be
the instrument of evil to what
you wholly love.
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