THE manor-house of Ferndean was a building of considerable

antiquity, moderate size, and no architectural pretensions, deep

buried in a wood. I had heard of it before. Mr. Rochester often

spoke of it, and sometimes went there. His father had purchased the

estate for the sake of the game covers. He would have let the house,

but could find no tenant, in consequence of its ineligible and

insalubrious site. Ferndean then remained uninhabited and unfurnished,

with the exception of some two or three rooms fitted up for the

accommodation of the squire when he went there in the season to shoot.

To this house I came just ere dark on an evening marked by the

characteristics of sad sky, cold gale, and continued small penetrating

rain. The last mile I performed on foot, having dismissed the chaise

and driver with the double remuneration I had promised. Even when

within a very short distance of the manor-house, you could see nothing

of it, so thick and dark grew the timber of the gloomy wood about

it. Iron gates between granite pillars showed me where to enter, and

passing through them, I found myself at once in the twilight of

close-ranked trees. There was a grass-grown track descending the

forest aisle between hoar and knotty shafts and under branched arches.

I followed it, expecting soon to reach the dwelling; but it

stretched on and on, it wound far and farther: no sign of habitation

or grounds was visible.

I thought I had taken a wrong direction and lost my way. The

darkness of natural as well as of sylvan dusk gathered over me. I

looked round in search of another road. There was none: all was

interwoven stem, columnar trunk, dense summer foliage- no opening

anywhere.

I proceeded: at last my way opened, the trees thinned a little;

presently I beheld a railing, then the house- scarce, by this dim

light, distinguishable from the trees, so dank and green were its

decaying walls. Entering a portal, fastened only by a latch, I stood

amidst a space of enclosed ground, from which the wood swept away in a

semicircle. There were no flowers, no garden-beds; only a broad

gravel-walk girdling a grass-plat, and this set in the heavy frame

of the forest. The house presented two pointed gables in its front;

the windows were latticed and narrow: the front door was narrow too,

one step led up to it. The whole looked, as the host of the

Rochester Arms had said, 'quite a desolate spot.' It was as still as a

church on a week-day: the pattering rain on the forest leaves was

the only sound audible in its vicinage.

'Can there be life here?' I asked.

Yes, life of some kind there was; for I heard a movement- that

narrow front-door was unclosing, and some shape was about to issue

from the grange.

It opened slowly: a figure came out into the twilight and stood

on the step; a man without a hat: he stretched forth his hand as if to

feel whether it rained. Dusk as it was, I had recognised him- it was

my master, Edward Fairfax Rochester, and no other.

I stayed my step, almost my breath, and stood to watch him- to

examine him, myself unseen, and alas! to him invisible. It was a

sudden meeting, and one in which rapture was kept well in check by

pain. I had no difficulty in restraining my voice from exclamation, my

step from hasty advance.

His form was of the same strong and stalwart contour as ever: his

port was still erect, his hair was still raven black; nor were his

features altered or sunk: not in one year's space, by any sorrow,

could his athletic strength be quelled or his vigorous prime blighted.

But in his countenance I saw a change: that looked desperate and

brooding- that reminded me of some wronged and fettered wild beast

or bird, dangerous to approach in his sullen woe. The caged eagle,

whose gold-ringed eyes cruelty has extinguished, might look as

looked that sightless Samson.

And, reader, do you think I feared him in his blind ferocity?- if

you do, you little know me. A soft hope blent with my sorrow that soon

I should dare to drop a kiss on that brow of rock, and on those lips

so sternly sealed beneath it: but not yet. I would not accost him yet.

He descended the one step, and advanced slowly and gropingly

towards the grass-plat. Where was his daring stride now? Then he

paused, as if he knew not which way to turn. He lifted his hand and

opened his eyelids; gazed blank, and with a straining effort, on the

sky, and toward the amphitheatre of trees: one saw that all to him was

void darkness. He stretched his right hand (the left arm, the

mutilated one, he kept hidden in his bosom); he seemed to wish by

touch to gain an idea of what lay around him: he met but vacancy

still; for the trees were some yards off where he stood. He

relinquished the endeavour, folded his arms, and stood quiet and

mute in the rain, now falling fast on his uncovered head. At this

moment John approached him from some quarter.

'Will you take my arm, sir?' he said; 'there is a heavy shower

coming on: had you not better go in?'

'Let me alone,' was the answer.

John withdrew without having observed me. Mr. Rochester now tried

to walk about: vainly,- all was too uncertain. He groped his way

back to the house, and, re-entering it, closed the door.

I now drew near and knocked: John's wife opened for me. 'Mary,' I

said, 'how are you?'

She started as if she had seen a ghost: I calmed her. To her

hurried 'Is it really you, miss, come at this late hour to this lonely

place?' I answered by taking her hand; and then I followed her into

the kitchen, where John now sat by a good fire. I explained to them,

in a few words, that I had heard all which had happened since I left

Thornfield, and that I was come to see Mr. Rochester. I asked John

to go down to the turnpike-house, where I had dismissed the chaise,

and bring my trunk, which I had left there: and then, while I

removed my bonnet and shawl, I questioned Mary as to whether I could

be accommodated at the Manor House for the night; and finding that

arrangements to that effect, though difficult, would not be

impossible, I informed her I should stay. just at this moment the

parlour-bell rang.

'When you go in,' said I, 'tell your master that a person wishes to

speak to him, but do not give my name.'

'I don't think he will see you,' she answered; 'he refuses

everybody.'

When she returned, I inquired what he had said.

'You are to send in your name and your business,' she replied.

She then proceeded to fill a glass with water, and place it on a tray,

together with candles.

'Is that what he rang for?' I asked.

'Yes: he always has candles brought in at dark, though he is

blind.'

'Give the tray to me; I will carry it in.'

I took it from her hand: she pointed me out the parlour door. The

tray shook as I held it; the water spilt from the glass; my heart

struck my ribs loud and fast. Mary opened the door for me, and shut it

behind me.

This parlour looked gloomy: a neglected handful of fire burnt low

in the grate; and, leaning over it, with his head supported against

the high, old-fashioned mantelpiece, appeared the blind tenant of

the room. His old dog, Pilot, lay on one side, removed out of the way,

and coiled up as if afraid of being inadvertently trodden upon.

Pilot pricked up his ears when I came in: then he jumped up with a

yelp and a whine, and bounded towards me: he almost knocked the tray

from my hands. I set it on the table; then patted him, and said

softly, 'Lie down!' Mr. Rochester turned mechanically to see what

the commotion was: but as he saw nothing, he returned and sighed.

'Give me the water, Mary,' he said.

I approached him with the now only half-filled glass; Pilot

followed me, still excited.

'What is the matter?' he inquired.

'Down, Pilot!' I again said. He checked the water on its way to his

lips, and seemed to listen: he drank, and put the glass down. 'This is

you, Mary, is it not?'

'Mary is in the kitchen,' I answered.

He put out his hand with a quick gesture, but not seeing where I

stood, he did not touch me. 'Who is this? Who is this?' he demanded,

trying, as it seemed, to see with those sightless eyes- unavailing and

distressing attempt! 'Answer me- speak again!' he ordered, imperiously

and aloud.

'Will you have a little more water, sir? I spilt half of what was

in the glass,' I said.

'Who is it? What is it? Who speaks?'

'Pilot knows me, and John and Mary know I am here. I came only this

evening,' I answered.

'Great God!- what delusion has come over me? What sweet madness has

seized me?'

'No delusion- no madness: your mind, sir, is too strong for

delusion, your health too sound for frenzy.'

'And where is the speaker? Is it only a voice? Oh! I cannot see,

but I must feel, or my heart will stop and my brain burst. Whatever-

whoever you are- be perceptible to the touch or I cannot live!'

He groped; I arrested his wandering hand, and prisoned it in both

mine.

'Her very fingers!' he cried; 'her small, slight fingers! If so

there must be more of her.'

The muscular hand broke from my custody; my arm was seized, my

shoulder- neck- waist- I was entwined and gathered to him.

'Is it Jane? What is it? This is her shape- this is her size-'

'And this her voice,' I added. 'She is all here: her heart, too.

God bless you, sir! I am glad to be so near you again.'

'Jane Eyre!- Jane Eyre,' was all he said.

'My dear master,' I answered, 'I am Jane Eyre: I have found you

out- I am come back to you.'

'In truth?- in the flesh? My living Jane?'

'You touch me, sir,- you hold me, and fast enough: I am not cold

like a corpse, nor vacant like air, am I?'

'My living darling! These are certainly her limbs, and these her

features; but I cannot be so blest, after all my misery. It is a

dream; such dreams as I have had at night when I have clasped her once

more to my heart, as I do now; and kissed her, as thus- and felt

that she loved me, and trusted that she would not leave me.'

'Which I never will, sir, from this day.'

'Never will, says the vision? But I always woke and found it an

empty mockery; and I was desolate and abandoned- my life dark, lonely,

hopeless- my soul athirst and forbidden to drink- my heart famished

and never to be fed. Gentle, soft dream, nestling in my arms now,

you will fly, too, as your sisters have all fled before you: but

kiss me before you go- embrace me, Jane.'

'There, sir- and there!'

I pressed my lips to his once brilliant and now rayless eyes- I

swept his hair from his brow, and kissed that too. He suddenly

seemed to arouse himself: the conviction of the reality of all this

seized him.

'It is you- is it, Jane? You are come back to me then?'

'I am.'

'And you do not lie dead in some ditch under some stream? And you

are not a pining outcast amongst strangers?'

'No, sir! I am an independent woman now.'

'Independent! What do you mean, Jane?'

'My uncle in Madeira is dead, and he left me five thousand pounds.'

'Ah! this is practical- this is real!' he cried: 'I should never

dream that. Besides, there is that peculiar voice of hers, so

animating and piquant, as well as soft: it cheers my withered heart;

it puts life into it.- What, Janet! Are you an independent woman? A

rich woman?'

'Quite rich, sir. If you won't let me live with you, I can build

a house of my own close up to your door, and you may come and sit in

my parlour when you want company of an evening.'

'But as you are rich, Jane, you have now, no doubt, friends who

will look after you, and not suffer you to devote yourself to a

blind lameter like me?'

'I told you I am independent, sir, as well as rich: I am my own

mistress.'

'And you will stay with me?'

'Certainly- unless you object. I will be your neighbour, your

nurse, your housekeeper. I find you lonely: I will be your

companion- to read to you, to walk with you, to sit with you, to

wait on you, to be eyes and hands to you. Cease to look so melancholy,

my dear master; you shall not be left desolate, so long as I live.'

He replied not: he seemed serious- abstracted; he sighed; he

half-opened his lips as if to speak: he closed them again. I felt a

little embarrassed. Perhaps I had too rashly overleaped

conventionalities; and he, like St. John, saw impropriety in my

inconsiderateness. I had indeed made my proposal from the idea that he

wished and would ask me to be his wife: an expectation, not the less

certain because unexpressed, had buoyed me up, that he would claim

me at once as his own. But no hint to that effect escaping him and his

countenance becoming more overcast, I suddenly remembered that I might

have been all wrong, and was perhaps playing the fool unwittingly; and

I began gently to withdraw myself from his arms- but he eagerly

snatched me closer.

'No- no- Jane; you must not go. No- I have touched you, heard

you, felt the comfort of your presence- the sweetness of your

consolation: I cannot give up these joys. I have little left in

myself- I must have you. The world may laugh- may call me absurd,

selfish- but it does not signify. My very soul demands you: it will be

satisfied, or it will take deadly vengeance on its frame.'

'Well, sir, I will stay with you: I have said so.'

'Yes- but you understand one thing by staying with me; and I

understand another. You, perhaps, could make up your mind to be

about my hand and chair- to wait on me as a kind little nurse (for you

have an affectionate heart and a generous spirit, which prompt you

to make sacrifices for those you pity), and that ought to suffice

for me no doubt. I suppose I should now entertain none but fatherly

feelings for you: do you think so? Come- tell me.'

'I will think what you like, sir: I am content to be only your

nurse, if you think it better.'

'But you cannot always be my nurse, Janet: you are young- you

must marry one day.'

'I don't care about being married.'

'You should care, Janet: if I were what I once was, I would try

to make you care- but- a sightless block!'

He relapsed again into gloom. I, on the contrary, became more

cheerful, and took fresh courage: these last words gave me an

insight as to where the difficulty lay; and as it was no difficulty

with me, I felt quite relieved from my previous embarrassment. I

resumed a livelier vein of conversation.

'It is time some one undertook to rehumanise you,' said I,

parting his thick and long uncut locks; 'for I see you are being

metamorphosed into a lion, or something of that sort. You have a "faux

air" of Nebuchadnezzar in the fields about you, that is certain:

your hair reminds me of eagles' feathers; whether your nails are grown

like birds' claws or not, I have not yet noticed.'

'On this arm, I have neither hand nor nails,' he said, drawing

the mutilated limb from his breast, and showing it to me. 'It is a

mere stump- a ghastly sight! Don't you think so, Jane?'

'It is a pity to see it; and a pity to see your eyes- and the

scar of fire on your forehead: and the worst of it is, one is in

danger of loving you too well for all this; and making too much of

you.'

'I thought you would be revolted, Jane, when you saw my arm, and my

cicatrised visage.'

'Did you? Don't tell me so- lest I should say something disparaging

to your judgment. Now, let me leave you an instant, to make a better

fire, and have the hearth swept up. Can you tell when there is a

good fire?'

'Yes; with the right eye I see a glow- a ruddy haze.'

'And you see the candles?'

'Very dimly- each is a luminous cloud.'

'Can you see me?'

'No, my fairy: but I am only too thankful to hear and feel you.'

'When do you take supper?'

'I never take supper.'

'But you shall have some to-night. I am hungry: so are you, I

daresay, only you forget.'

Summoning Mary, I soon had the room in more cheerful order: I

prepared him, likewise, a comfortable repast. My spirits were excited,

and with pleasure and ease I talked to him during supper, and for a

long time after. There was no harassing restraint, no repressing of

glee and vivacity with him; for with him I was at perfect ease,

because I knew I suited him; all I said or did seemed either to

console or revive him. Delightful consciousness! It brought to life

and light my whole nature: in his presence I thoroughly lived; and

he lived in mine. Blind as he was, smiles played over his face, joy

dawned on his forehead: his lineaments softened and warmed.

After supper, he began to ask me many questions, of where I had

been, what I had been doing, how I had found him out; but I gave him

only very partial replies: it was too late to enter into particulars

that night. Besides, I wished to touch no deep-thrilling chord- to

open no fresh well of emotion in his heart: my sole present aim was to

cheer him. Cheered, as I have said, he was: and yet but by fits. If

a moment's silence broke the conversation, he would turn restless,

touch me, then say, 'Jane.'

'You are altogether a human being, Janet? You are certain of that?'

'I conscientiously believe so, Mr. Rochester.'

'Yet how, on this dark and doleful evening, could you so suddenly

rise on my lone hearth? I stretched my hand to take a glass of water

from a hireling, and it was given me by you: I asked a question,

expecting John's wife to answer me, and your voice spoke at my ear.'

'Because I had come in, in Mary's stead, with the tray.'

'And there is enchantment in the very hour I am now spending with

you. Who can tell what a dark, dreary, hopeless life I have dragged on

for months past? Doing nothing, expecting nothing; merging night in

day; feeling but the sensation of cold when I let the fire go out,

of hunger when I forgot to eat: and then a ceaseless sorrow, and, at

times, a very delirium of desire to behold my Jane again. Yes: for her

restoration I longed, far more than for that of my lost sight. How can

it be that Jane is with me, and says she loves me? Will she not depart

as suddenly as she came? To-morrow, I fear I shall find her no more.'

A commonplace, practical reply, out of the train of his own

disturbed ideas, was, I was sure, the best and most reassuring for him

in this frame of mind. I passed my finger over his eyebrows, and

remarked that they were scorched, and that I would apply something

which would make them grow as broad and black as ever.

'Where is the use of doing me good in any way, beneficent spirit,

when, at some fatal moment, you will again desert me- passing like a

shadow, whither and how to me unknown, and for me remaining afterwards

undiscoverable?'

'Have you a pocket-comb about you, sir?'

'What for, Jane?'

'Just to comb out this shaggy black mane. I find you rather

alarming, when I examine you close at hand: you talk of my being a

fairy, but I am sure, you are more like a brownie.'

'Am I hideous, Jane?'

'Very, sir: you always were, you know.'

'Humph! The wickedness has not been taken out of you, wherever

you have sojourned.'

'Yet I have been with good people; far better than you: a hundred

times better people; possessed of ideas and views you never

entertained in your life: quite more refined and exalted.'

'Who the deuce have you been with?'

'If you twist in that way you will make me pull the hair out of

your head; and then I think you will cease to entertain doubts of my

substantiality.'

'Who have you been with, Jane?'

'You shall not get it out of me to-night, sir; you must wait till

to-morrow; to leave my tale half told, will, you know, be a sort of

security that I shall appear at your breakfast table to finish it.

By the bye, I must mind not to rise on your hearth with only a glass

of water then: I must bring an egg at the least, to say nothing of

fried ham.'

'You mocking changeling- fairy-born and human-bred! You make me

feel as I have not felt these twelve months. If Saul could have had

you for his David, the evil spirit would have been exorcised without

the aid of the harp.'

'There, sir, you are redd up and made decent. Now I'll leave you: I

have been travelling these last three days, and I believe I am

tired. Good night.'

'Just one word, Jane: were there only ladies in the house where you

have been?'

I laughed and made my escape, still laughing as I ran upstairs.

'A good idea!' I thought with glee. 'I see I have the means of

fretting him out of his melancholy for some time to come.'

Very early the next morning I heard him up and astir, wandering

from one room to another. As soon as Mary came down I heard the

question: 'Is Miss Eyre here?' Then: 'Which room did you put her into?

Was it dry? Is she up? Go and ask if she wants anything; and when

she will come down.'

I came down as soon as I thought there was a prospect of breakfast.

Entering the room very softly, I had a view of him before he

discovered my presence. It was mournful, indeed, to witness the

subjugation of that vigorous spirit to a corporeal infirmity. He sat

in his chair- still, but not at rest: expectant evidently; the lines

of now habitual sadness marking his strong features. His countenance

reminded one of a lamp quenched, waiting to be re-lit- and alas! it

was not himself that could now kindle the lustre of animated

expression: he was dependent on another for that office! I had meant

to be gay and careless, but the powerlessness of the strong man

touched my heart to the quick: still I accosted him with what vivacity

I could.

'It is a bright, sunny morning, sir,' I said. 'The rain is over and

gone, and there is a tender shining after it: you shall have a walk

soon.'

I had wakened the glow: his features beamed.

'Oh, you are indeed there, my skylark! Come to me. You are not

gone: not vanished? I heard one of your kind an hour ago, singing high

over the wood: but its song had no music for me, any more than the

rising sun had rays. All the melody on earth is concentrated in my

Jane's tongue to my ear (I am glad it is not naturally a silent

one): all the sunshine I can feel is in her presence.'

The water stood in my eyes to hear this avowal of his dependence;

just as if a royal eagle, chained to a perch, should be forced to

entreat a sparrow to become its purveyor. But I would not be

lachrymose: I dashed off the salt drops, and busied myself with

preparing breakfast.

Most of the morning was spent in the open air. I led him out of the

wet and wild wood into some cheerful fields: I described to him how

brilliantly green they were; how the flowers and hedges looked

refreshed; how sparklingly blue was the sky. I sought a seat for him

in a hidden and lovely spot, a dry stump of a tree; nor did I refuse

to let him, when seated, place me on his knee. Why should I, when both

he and I were happier near than apart? Pilot lay beside us: all was

quiet. He broke out suddenly while clasping me in his arms-

'Cruel, cruel deserter! Oh, Jane, what did I feel when I discovered

you had fled from Thornfield, and when I could nowhere find you;

and, after examining your apartment, ascertained that you had taken no

money, nor anything which could serve as an equivalent! A pearl

necklace I had given you lay untouched in its little casket; your

trunks were left corded and locked as they had been prepared for the

bridal tour. What could my darling do, I asked, left destitute and

penniless? And what did she do? Let me hear now.'

Thus urged, I began the narrative of my experience for the last

year. I softened considerably what related to the three days of

wandering and starvation, because to have told him all would have been

to inflict unnecessary pain: the little I did say lacerated his

faithful heart deeper than I wished.

I should not have left him thus, he said, without any means of

making my way: I should have told him my intention. I should have

confided in him: he would never have forced me to be his mistress.

Violent as he had seemed in his despair, he, in truth, loved me far

too well and too tenderly to constitute himself my tyrant: he would

have given me half his fortune, without demanding so much as a kiss in

return, rather than I should have flung myself friendless on the

wide world. I had endured, he was certain, more than I had confessed

to him.

'Well, whatever my sufferings had been, they were very short,' I

answered: and then I proceeded to tell him how I had been received

at Moor House; how I had obtained the office of schoolmistress, etc.

The accession of fortune, the discovery of my relations, followed in

due order. Of course, St. John Rivers' name came in frequently in

the progress of my tale. When I had done, that name was immediately

taken up.

'This St. John, then, is your cousin?'

'Yes.'

'You have spoken of him often: do you like him?'

'He was a very good man, sir; I could not help liking him.'

'A good man. Does that mean a respectable well-conducted man of

fifty? Or what does it mean?'

'St. John was only twenty-nine, sir.'

'"Jeune encore," as the French say. Is he a person of low

stature, phlegmatic, and plain? A person whose goodness consists

rather in his guiltlessness of vice, than in his prowess in virtue?'

'He is untiringly active. Great and exalted deeds are what he lives

to perform.'

'But his brain? That is probably rather soft? He means well: but

you shrug your shoulders to hear him talk?'

'He talks little, sir: what he does say is ever to the point. His

brain is first-rate, I should think not impressible, but vigorous.'

'Is he an able man, then?'

'Truly able.'

'A thoroughly educated man?'

'St. John is an accomplished and profound scholar.'

'His manners, I think, you said are not to your taste?- priggish

and parsonic?'

'I never mentioned his manners; but, unless I had a very bad taste,

they must suit it; they are polished, calm, and gentlemanlike.'

'His appearance,- I forget what description you gave of his

appearance;- a sort of raw curate, half strangled with his white

neckcloth, and stilted up on his thick-soled high-lows, eh?'

'St. John dresses well. He is a handsome man: tall, fair, with blue

eyes, and a Grecian profile.'

(Aside.) 'Damn him!'- (To me.) 'Did you like him, Jane?'

'Yes, Mr. Rochester, I liked him: but you asked me that before.'

I perceived, of course, the drift of my interlocutor. Jealousy

had got hold of him: she stung him; but the sting was salutary: it

gave him respite from the gnawing fang of melancholy. I would not,

therefore, immediately charm the snake.

'Perhaps you would rather not sit any longer on my knee, Miss

Eyre?' was the next somewhat unexpected observation.

'Why not, Mr. Rochester?'

'The picture you have just drawn is suggestive of a rather too

overwhelming contrast. Your words have delineated very prettily a

graceful Apollo: he is present to your imagination,- tall, fair,

blue-eyed, and with a Grecian profile. Your eyes dwell on a Vulcan,- a

real blacksmith, brown, broad-shouldered: and blind and lame into

the bargain.'

'I never thought of it, before; but you certainly are rather like

Vulcan, sir.'

Well, you can leave me, ma'am: but before you go' (and he

retained me by a firmer grasp than ever), 'you will be pleased just to

answer me a question or two.' He paused.

'What questions, Mr. Rochester?'

Then followed this cross-examination.

'St. John made you schoolmistress of Morton before he knew you were

his cousin?'

'Yes.'

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

'Daily.'

'He would approve of your plans, Jane? I know they would be clever,

for you are a talented creature!'

'He approved of them- yes.'

'He would discover many things in you he could not have expected to

find? Some of your accomplishments are not ordinary.'

'I don't know about that.'

'You had a little cottage near the school, you say: did he ever

come there to see you?'

'Now and then.'

'Of an evening?'

'Once or twice.'

A pause.

'How long did you reside with him and his sisters after the

cousinship was discovered?'

'Five months.'

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

'Yes; the back parlour was both his study and ours: he sat near the

window, and we by the table.'

'Did he study much?'

'A good deal.'

'What?'

'Hindostanee.'

'And what did you do meantime?'

'I learnt German, at first.'

'Did he teach you?'

'He did not understand German.'

'Did he teach you nothing?'

'A little Hindostanee.'

'Rivers taught you Hindostanee?'

'Yes, sir.'

'And his sisters also?'

'No.'

'Only you?'

'Only me.'

'Did you ask to learn?'

'No.'

'He wished to teach you?'

'Yes.'

A second pause.

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

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

'Ah! here I reach the root of the matter. He wanted you to marry

him?'

'He asked me to marry him.'

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

'I beg your pardon, it is the literal truth: he asked me more

than once, and was as stiff about urging his point as ever you could

be.'

'Miss Eyre, I repeat it, you can leave me. How often am I to say

the same thing? Why do you remain pertinaciously perched on my knee,

when I have given you notice to quit?'

'Because I am comfortable there.'

'No, Jane, you are not comfortable there, because your heart is not

with me: it is with this cousin- this St. John. Oh, till this

moment, I thought my little Jane was all mine! I had a belief she

loved me even when she left me: that was an atom of sweet in much

bitter. Long as we have been parted, hot tears as I have wept over our

separation, I never thought that while I was mourning her, she was

loving another! But it is useless grieving. Jane, leave me: go and

marry Rivers.'

'Shake me off, then, sir,- push me away, for I'll not leave you

of my own accord.'

'Jane, I ever like your tone of voice: it still renews hope, it

sounds so truthful. When I hear it, it carries me back a year. I

forget that you have formed a new tie. But I am not a fool-'

'Where must I go, sir?'

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

'Who is that?'

'You know- this St. John Rivers.'

'He is not my husband, nor ever will be. He does not love me: I

do not love him. He loves (as he can love, and that is not as you

love) a beautiful young lady called Rosamond. He wanted to marry me

only because he thought I should make a suitable missionary's wife,

which she would not have done. He is good and great, but severe;

and, for me, cold as an iceberg. He is not like you, sir: I am not

happy at his side, nor near him, nor with him. He has no indulgence

for me- no fondness. He sees nothing attractive in me; not even youth-

only a few useful mental points- Then I must leave you, sir, to go

to him?'

I shuddered involuntarily, and clung instinctively closer to my

blind but beloved master. He smiled.

'What, Jane! Is this true? Is such really the state of matters

between you and Rivers?'

'Absolutely, sir! Oh, you need not be jealous! I wanted to tease

you a little to make you less sad: I thought anger would be better

than grief. But if you wish me to love you, could you but see how much

I do love you, you would be proud and content. All my heart is

yours, sir: it belongs to you; and with you it would remain, were fate

to exile the rest of me from your presence for ever.'

Again, as he kissed me, painful thoughts darkened his aspect.

'My seared vision! My crippled strength!' he murmured regretfully.

I caressed, in order to soothe him. I knew of what he was thinking,

and wanted to speak for him, but dared not. As he turned aside his

face a minute, I saw a tear slide from under the sealed eyelid, and

trickle down the manly cheek. My heart swelled.

'I am no better than the old lightning-struck chestnut-tree in

Thornfield orchard,' he remarked ere long. 'And what right would

that ruin have to bid a budding woodbine cover its decay with

freshness?'

'You are no ruin, sir- no lightning-struck tree: you are green

and vigorous. Plants will grow about your roots, whether you ask

them or not, because they take delight in your bountiful shadow; and

as they grow they will lean towards you, and wind round you, because

your strength offers them so safe a prop.'

Again he smiled: I gave him comfort.

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

'Yes, of friends,' I answered rather hesitatingly: for I knew I

meant more than friends, but could not tell what other word to employ.

He helped me.

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

'Do you, sir?'

'Yes: is it news to you?'

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

'Is it unwelcome news?'

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

'Which you shall make for me, Jane. I will abide by your decision.'

'Choose then, sir- her who loves you best.'

'I will at least choose- her I love best. Jane, will you marry me?'

'Yes, sir.'

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

'Yes, sir.'

'A crippled man, twenty years older than you, whom you will have to

wait on?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Truly, Jane?'

'Most truly, sir.'

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

'Mr. Rochester, if ever I did a good deed in my life- if ever I

thought a good thought- if ever I prayed a sincere and blameless

prayer- if ever I wished a righteous wish,- I am rewarded now. To be

your wife is, for me, to be as happy as I can be on earth.'

'Because you delight in sacrifice.'

'Sacrifice! What do I sacrifice? Famine for food, expectation for

content. To be privileged to put my arms round what I value- to

press my lips to what I love- to repose on what I trust: is that to

make a sacrifice? If so, then certainly I delight in sacrifice.'

'And to bear with my infirmities, Jane: to overlook my

deficiencies.'

'Which are none, sir, to me. I love you better now, when I can

really be useful to you, than I did in your state of proud

independence, when you disdained every part but that of the giver

and protector.'

'Hitherto I have hated to be helped- to be led: henceforth, I

feel I shall hate it no more. I did not like to put my hand into a

hireling's, but it is pleasant to feel it circled by Jane's little

fingers. I preferred utter loneliness to the constant attendance of

servants; but Jane's soft ministry will be a perpetual joy. Jane suits

me: do I suit her?'

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

'The case being so, we have nothing in the world to wait for: we

must be married instantly.'

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

'We must become one flesh without any delay, Jane: there is but the

licence to get- then we marry.'

'Mr. Rochester, I have just discovered the sun is far declined from

its meridian, and Pilot is actually gone home to his dinner. Let me

look at your watch.'

'Fasten it into your girdle, Janet, and keep it henceforward: I

have no use for it.'

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

hungry?'

'The third day from this must be our wedding-day, Jane. Never

mind fine clothes and jewels, now: all that is not worth a fillip.'

'The sun has dried up all the rain-drops, sir. The breeze is still:

it is quite hot.'

'Do you know, Jane, I have your little pearl necklace at this

moment fastened round my bronze scrag under my cravat? I have worn

it since the day I lost my only treasure, as a memento of her.'

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

He pursued his own thoughts without heeding me.

'Jane! you think me, I daresay, an irreligious dog: but my heart

swells with gratitude to the beneficent God of this earth just now. He

sees not as man sees, but far clearer: judges not as man judges, but

far more wisely. I did wrong: I would have sullied my innocent flower-

breathed guilt on its purity: the Omnipotent snatched it from me. I,

in my stiff-necked rebellion, almost cursed the dispensation:

instead of bending to the decree, I defied it. Divine justice

pursued its course; disasters came thick on me: I was forced to pass

through the valley of the shadow of death. His chastisements are

mighty; and one smote me which has humbled me for ever. You know I was

proud of my strength: but what is it now, when I must give it over

to foreign guidance, as a child does its weakness? Of late, Jane-

only- only of late- I began to see and acknowledge the hand of God

in my doom. I began to experience remorse, repentance; the wish for

reconcilement to my Maker. I began sometimes to pray: very brief

prayers they were, but very sincere.

'Some days since: nay, I can number them- four; it was last

Monday night, a singular mood came over me: one in which grief

replaced frenzy- sorrow, sullenness. I had long had the impression

that since I could nowhere find you, you must be dead. Late that

night- perhaps it might be between eleven and twelve o'clock- ere I

retired to my dreary rest, I supplicated God, that, if it seemed

good to Him, I might soon be taken from this life, and admitted to

that world to come, where there was still hope of rejoining Jane.

'I was in my own room, and sitting by the window, which was open:

it soothed me to feel the balmy night-air; though I could see no

stars, and only by a vague, luminous haze, knew the presence of a

moon. I longed for thee, Janet! Oh, I longed for thee both with soul

and flesh! I asked of God, at once in anguish and humility, if I had

not been long enough desolate, afflicted, tormented; and might not

soon taste bliss and peace once more. That I merited all I endured,

I acknowledged- that I could scarcely endure more, I pleaded; and

the alpha and omega of my heart's wishes broke involuntarily from my

lips in the words- "Jane! Jane! Jane!"'

'Did you speak these words aloud?'

'I did, Jane. If any listener had heard me, he would have thought

me mad: I pronounced them with such frantic energy.'

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

'Yes; but the time is of no consequence: what followed is the

strange point. You will think me superstitious- some superstition I

have in my blood, and always had: nevertheless, this is true- true

at least it is that I heard what I now relate.

'As I exclaimed "Jane! Jane! Jane!" a voice- I cannot tell whence

the voice came, but I know whose voice it was- replied, "I am

coming: wait for me;" and a moment after, went whispering on the

wind the words- "Where are you?"

'I'll tell you, if I can, the idea, the picture these words

opened to my mind: yet it is difficult to express what I want to

express. Ferndean is buried, as you see, in a heavy wood, where

sound falls dull, and dies unreverberating. "Where are you?" seemed

spoken amongst mountains; for I heard a hill-sent echo repeat the

words. Cooler and fresher at the moment the gale seemed to visit my

brow: I could have deemed that in some wild, lone scene, I and Jane

were meeting. In spirit, I believe we must have met. You no doubt

were, at that hour, in unconscious sleep, Jane: perhaps your soul

wandered from its cell to comfort mine; for those were your accents-

as certain as I live- they were yours!'

Reader, it was on Monday night- near midnight- that I too had

received the mysterious summons: those were the very words by which

I replied to it. I listened to Mr. Rochester's narrative, but made

no disclosure in return. The coincidence struck me as too awful and

inexplicable to be communicated or discussed. If I told anything, my

tale would be such as must necessarily make a profound impression on

the mind of my hearer: and that mind, yet from its sufferings too

prone to gloom, needed not the deeper shade of the supernatural. I

kept these things then, and pondered them in my heart.

'You cannot now wonder,' continued my master, 'that when you rose

upon me so unexpectedly last night, I had difficulty in believing

you any other than a mere voice and vision, something that would

melt to silence and annihilation, as the midnight whisper and mountain

echo had melted before. Now, I thank God! I know it to be otherwise.

Yes, I thank God!'

He put me off his knee, rose, and reverently lifting his hat from

his brow, and bending his sightless eyes to the earth, he stood in

mute devotion. Only the last words of the worship were audible.

'I thank my Maker, that, in the midst of judgment, he has

remembered mercy. I humbly entreat my Redeemer to give me strength

to lead henceforth a purer life than I have done hitherto!'

Then he stretched his hand out to be led. I took that dear hand,

held it a moment to my lips, then let it pass round my shoulder: being

so much lower of stature than he, I served both for his prop and

guide. We entered the wood, and wended homeward.