lyric rochester music

chapter twenty seven of jane eyrethis is a librivox recording. all librivox recordings are in the publicdomain. for more information or to volunteer pleasevisit librivox.org recording by elizabeth klettjane eyre by charlotte brontã‹ chapter twenty seven some time in the afternoon i raised my head,and looking round and seeing the western sun gilding the sign of its declineon the wall, i asked, "what am i to do?" but the answer my mind gave--"leave thornfieldat once"--was so prompt,

so dread, that i stopped my ears. i said icould not bear such words now. "that i am not edward rochester's brideis the least part of my woe," i alleged: "that i have wakened outof most glorious dreams, and found them all void and vain, is a horrori 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 thati 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 furthersuffering i saw laid out

for me; and conscience, turned tyrant, heldpassion by the throat, told her tauntingly, she had yet but dipped herdainty foot in the slough, and swore that with that arm of iron he wouldthrust her down to unsounded depths of agony. "let me be torn away," then i cried. "letanother help me!" "no; you shall tear yourself away, none shallhelp you: you shall yourself pluck out your right eye; yourselfcut off your right hand: your heart shall be the victim, and you the priestto transfix it." i rose up suddenly, terror-struck at the solitudewhich so ruthless a

judge haunted,--at the silence which so awfula voice filled. my head swam as i stood erect. i perceived that iwas sickening from excitement and inanition; neither meat nor drink hadpassed my lips that day, for i had taken no breakfast. and, with a strangepang, i now reflected that, long as i had been shut up here, no messagehad been sent to ask how i was, or to invite me to come down: not evenlittle adele had tapped at the door; not even mrs. fairfax had soughtme. "friends always forget those whom fortune forsakes," i murmured,as i undrew the bolt and passed out. i stumbled over an obstacle: my headwas still dizzy, my sight was

dim, and my limbs were feeble. i could notsoon recover myself. i fell, but not on to the ground: an outstretchedarm caught me. i looked up--i was supported by mr. rochester, who sat ina chair across my chamber threshold. "you come out at last," he said. "well, ihave been waiting for you long, and listening: yet not one movementhave i heard, nor one sob: five minutes more of that death-like hush, andi should have forced the lock like a burglar. so you shun me?--you shutyourself up and grieve alone! i would rather you had come and upbraidedme 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 shedon my breast: now a senseless floor has received them, or yourdrenched handkerchief. but i err: you have not wept at all! i see a whitecheek and a faded eye, but no trace of tears. i suppose, then, your hearthas been weeping blood?" "well, jane! not a word of reproach? nothingbitter--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. ifthe man who had but one

little ewe lamb that was dear to him as adaughter, 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 nothave rued his bloody blunder more than i now rue mine. will you ever forgiveme?" reader, i forgave him at the moment and onthe spot. there was such deep remorse in his eye, such true pity in histone, such manly energy in his manner; and besides, there was such unchangedlove 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 longhe inquired wistfully--wondering, i suppose, at my continuedsilence and tameness, the result rather of weakness than of will. "yes, sir." "then tell me so roundly and sharply--don'tspare me." "i cannot: i am tired and sick. i want somewater." 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 borneme; all was cloudy to my glazed sight: presently i felt the revivingwarmth 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 somethinghe offered me, and was soon myself. i was in the library--sitting in hischair--he was quite near. "if i could go out of life now, without toosharp a pang, it would be well for me," i thought; "then i should nothave to make the effort of cracking my heart-strings in rending themfrom among mr. rochester's. i must leave him, it appears. i do not wantto 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 thetable, stood before me, and looked at me attentively. suddenly he turnedaway, with an inarticulate exclamation, full of passionate emotion ofsome kind; he walked fast through the room and came back; he stoopedtowards 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 considermy arms filled and my embraces appropriated?" "at any rate, there is neither room nor claimfor me, sir." "why, jane? i will spare you the trouble ofmuch talking; i will answer for you--because i have a wife already, youwould reply.--i guess rightly?" "yes." "if you think so, you must have a strangeopinion of me; you must regard me as a plotting profligate--a base and lowrake who has been simulating

disinterested love in order to draw you intoa 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 firstplace, you are faint still, and have enough to do to draw your breath;in the second place, you cannot yet accustom yourself to accuse andrevile me, and besides, the flood-gates of tears are opened, and theywould 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_ youconsider is of no use. i know you--i am on my guard."

"sir, i do not wish to act against you," isaid; and my unsteady voice warned me to curtail my sentence. "not in your sense of the word, but in mineyou are scheming to destroy me. you have as good as said that i am a marriedman--as a married man you will shun me, keep out of my way: justnow you have refused to kiss me. you intend to make yourself a completestranger to me: to live under this roof only as adele's governess; if everi say a friendly word to you, if ever a friendly feeling inclines youagain 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 accordinglybecome." 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 recollectionsand associations, there is only one way--adele must have a newgoverness, sir." "oh, adele will go to school--i have settledthat already; nor do i mean to torment you with the hideous associationsand recollections of thornfield hall--this accursed place--thistent of achan--this insolent vault, offering the ghastliness of livingdeath to the light of the open

sky--this narrow stone hell, with its onereal fiend, worse than a legion of such as we imagine. jane, you shall notstay 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; merelybecause i feared adele never would have a governess to stay if she knewwith what inmate she was housed, and my plans would not permit me toremove the maniac elsewhere--though i possess an old house,ferndean manor, even more retired and hidden than this, where i couldhave lodged her safely

enough, had not a scruple about the unhealthinessof the situation, in the heart of a wood, made my conscience recoilfrom the arrangement. probably those damp walls would soon haveeased me of her charge: but to each villain his own vice; and mine is nota tendency to indirect assassination, even of what i most hate. "concealing the mad-woman's neighbourhoodfrom you, however, was something like covering a child with a cloakand 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 thefront door and board the lower

windows: i'll give mrs. poole two hundreda year to live here with _my wife_, as you term that fearful hag: gracewill do much for money, and she shall have her son, the keeper at grimsbyretreat, to bear her company and be at hand to give her aid inthe paroxysms, when _my wife_ is prompted by her familiar to burn peoplein their beds at night, to stab them, to bite their flesh from theirbones, and so on--" "sir," i interrupted him, "you are inexorablefor that unfortunate lady: you speak of her with hate--with vindictiveantipathy. 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 misjudgeme again: it is not because she is mad i hate her. if you were mad, doyou think i should hate you?" "i do indeed, sir." "then you are mistaken, and you know nothingabout me, and nothing about the sort of love of which i am capable. everyatom of your flesh is as dear to me as my own: in pain and sicknessit 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 confineyou, and not a strait

waistcoat--your grasp, even in fury, wouldhave a charm for me: if you flew at me as wildly as that woman did thismorning, i should receive you in an embrace, at least as fond as it wouldbe restrictive. i should not shrink from you with disgust as i did fromher: 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 gaveme no smile in return; and never weary of gazing into your eyes, thoughthey had no longer a ray of recognition for me.--but why do i follow thattrain 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 repairto, which will be a secure sanctuary from hateful reminiscences, fromunwelcome 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 wouldsend 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 importuneme about her! i say, why do you assign adele to me for a companion?" "you spoke of a retirement, sir; and retirementand 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-likeexpression 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 ifsuddenly rooted to one spot. he looked at me long and hard: i turned myeyes from him, fixed them on the fire, and tried to assume and maintaina quiet, collected aspect. "now for the hitch in jane's character," hesaid at last, speaking more calmly than from his look i had expected himto speak. "the reel of silk has run smoothly enough so far; but i alwaysknew 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 afraction of samson's strength, and break the entanglement liketow!"

he recommenced his walk, but soon again stopped,and this time just before me. "jane! will you hear reason?" (he stoopedand 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 toburst an insufferable bond and plunge headlong into wild license. i sawthat in another moment, and with one impetus of frenzy more, i shouldbe able to do nothing with him. the present--the passing second of time--wasall 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 notafraid: 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 rapidin his canoe. i took hold of his clenched hand, loosened the contortedfingers, and said to him, soothingly-- "sit down; i'll talk to you as long as youlike, and hear all you have to say, whether reasonable or unreasonable." he sat down: but he did not get leave to speakdirectly. i had been

struggling with tears for some time: i hadtaken great pains to repress them, because i knew he would not like tosee me weep. now, however, i considered it well to let them flow as freelyand 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 tobe composed. i said i could not while he was in such a passion. "but i am not angry, jane: i only love youtoo 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 resthis head on my shoulder, but i would not permit it. then he would drawme to him: no. "jane! jane!" he said, in such an accent ofbitter 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 youvalued? now that you think me disqualified to become your husband, you recoilfrom my touch as if i were some toad or ape."

these words cut me: yet what could i do ori say? i ought probably to have done or said nothing; but i was so torturedby a sense of remorse at thus hurting his feelings, i could not controlthe 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 lasttime i must express it." "the last time, jane! what! do you think youcan live with me, and see me daily, and yet, if you still love me, bealways cold and distant?" "no, sir; that i am certain i could not; andtherefore i see there is but

one way: but you will be furious if i mentionit." "oh, mention it! if i storm, you have theart of weeping." "mr. rochester, i must leave you." "for how long, jane? for a few minutes, whileyou smooth your hair--which is somewhat dishevelled; and bathe your face--whichlooks feverish?" "i must leave adele and thornfield. i mustpart with you for my whole life: i must begin a new existence among strangefaces and strange scenes." "of course: i told you you should. i passover the madness about parting

from me. you mean you must become a part ofme. as to the new existence, it is all right: you shall yetbe my wife: i am not married. you shall be mrs. rochester--both virtuallyand nominally. i shall keep only to you so long as you and i live. youshall go to a place i have in the south of france: a whitewashed villa onthe shores of the mediterranean. there you shall live a happy,and guarded, and most innocent life. never fear that i wish to lureyou into error--to make you my mistress. why did you shake your head?jane, you must be reasonable, or in truth i shall again becomefrantic."

his voice and hand quivered: his large nostrilsdilated; his eye blazed: still i dared to speak. "sir, your wife is living: that is a factacknowledged this morning by yourself. if i lived with you as you desire,i should then be your mistress: to say otherwise is sophistical--isfalse." "jane, i am not a gentle-tempered man--youforget 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, feelhow 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; iwas distressed on all hands. to agitate him thus deeply, by a resistancehe so abhorred, was cruel: to yield was out of the question. i did whathuman beings do instinctively when they are driven to utter extremity--lookedfor aid to one higher than man: the words "god help me!" burst involuntarilyfrom 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 thecircumstances attending my infernal union with her. oh, i am certainjane will agree with me in

opinion, when she knows all that i know! justput your hand in mine, janet--that i may have the evidence of touchas well as sight, to prove you are near me--and i will in a few wordsshow 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 hearor know that i was not the eldest son of my house: that i had once abrother older than i?" "i remember mrs. fairfax told me so once." "and did you ever hear that my father wasan avaricious, grasping man?"

"i have understood something to that effect." "well, jane, being so, it was his resolutionto keep the property together; he could not bear the idea of dividinghis estate and leaving me a fair portion: all, he resolved, shouldgo to my brother, rowland. yet as little could he endure that a son ofhis 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 andmerchant, was his old acquaintance. he was certain his possessionswere real and vast: he made inquiries. mr. mason, he found, had a sonand daughter; and he learned

from him that he could and would give thelatter a fortune of thirty thousand pounds: that sufficed. when i leftcollege, i was sent out to jamaica, to espouse a bride already courtedfor me. my father said nothing about her money; but he told me missmason was the boast of spanish town for her beauty: and this wasno 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 ofa good race; and so did she. they showed her to me in parties, splendidlydressed. i seldom saw her alone, and had very little private conversationwith her. she flattered

me, and lavishly displayed for my pleasureher charms and accomplishments. all the men in her circleseemed to admire her and envy me. i was dazzled, stimulated: my senses wereexcited; and being ignorant, raw, and inexperienced, i thoughti loved her. there is no folly so besotted that the idiotic rivalriesof society, the prurience, the rashness, the blindness of youth, willnot hurry a man to its commission. her relatives encouraged me; competitorspiqued me; she allured me: a marriage was achieved almostbefore i knew where i was. oh, i have no respect for myself when i thinkof 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 existenceof one virtue in her nature: i had marked neither modesty, norbenevolence, nor candour, nor refinement in her mind or manners--and, imarried 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 understoodshe was dead. the honeymoon over, i learned my mistake; shewas 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 whomi cannot hate, whilst i abhor all his kindred, because he has some grainsof affection in his feeble mind, shown in the continued interest he takesin his wretched sister, and also in a dog-like attachment he oncebore me), will probably be in the same state one day. my father and my brotherrowland knew all this; but they thought only of the thirty thousandpounds, and joined in the plot against me." "these were vile discoveries; but except forthe treachery of concealment, i should have made them no subjectof reproach to my wife,

even when i found her nature wholly aliento mine, her tastes obnoxious to me, her cast of mind common, low, narrow,and singularly incapable of being led to anything higher, expanded toanything larger--when i found that i could not pass a single evening, noreven a single hour of the day with her in comfort; that kindly conversationcould not be sustained between us, because whatever topic i started,immediately received from her a turn at once coarse and trite, perverseand imbecile--when i perceived that i should never have a quietor settled household, because no servant would bear the continued outbreaksof her violent and

unreasonable temper, or the vexations of herabsurd, contradictory, exacting orders--even then i restrained myself:i eschewed upbraiding, i curtailed remonstrance; i tried to devourmy repentance and disgust in secret; i repressed the deep antipathy i felt. "jane, i will not trouble you with abominabledetails: some strong words shall express what i have to say. i livedwith that woman upstairs four years, and before that time she had triedme indeed: her character ripened and developed with frightful rapidity;her vices sprang up fast and rank: they were so strong, only crueltycould check them, and i would

not use cruelty. what a pigmy intellect shehad, and what giant propensities! how fearful were the cursesthose propensities entailed on me! bertha mason, the true daughter of aninfamous mother, dragged me through all the hideous and degrading agonieswhich must attend a man bound to a wife at once intemperate and unchaste. "my brother in the interval was dead, andat the end of the four years my father died too. i was rich enough now--yetpoor to hideous indigence: a nature the most gross, impure, depraved iever saw, was associated with mine, and called by the law and by societya 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 prematurelydeveloped 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 doearnestly pity you." "pity, jane, from some people is a noxiousand insulting sort of tribute, which one is justified in hurling back inthe teeth of those who offer it; but that is the sort of pity native tocallous, 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 yourwhole face is full at this moment--with which your eyes are now almostoverflowing--with which your heart is heaving--with which your hand istrembling in mine. your pity, my darling, is the suffering mother of love:its anguish is the very natal pang of the divine passion. i acceptit, jane; let the daughter have free advent--my arms wait to receiveher." "now, sir, proceed; what did you do when youfound 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 repudiatedthe contamination of her crimes, and wrenched myself from connectionwith her mental defects. still, society associated my name and personwith 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 hadonce been her husband--that recollection was then, and is now, inexpressiblyodious to me; moreover, i knew that while she lived i could neverbe 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 herage), she was likely to live as long as i, being as robust in frame asshe was infirm in mind. thus, at the age of twenty-six, i was hopeless. "one night i had been awakened by her yells--(sincethe medical men had pronounced her mad, she had, of course, beenshut up)--it was a fiery west indian night; one of the descriptionthat frequently precede the hurricanes of those climates. being unableto sleep in bed, i got up and opened the window. the air was like sulphur-steams--icould find no

refreshment anywhere. mosquitoes came buzzingin and hummed sullenly round the room; the sea, which i could hearfrom thence, rumbled dull like an earthquake--black clouds were castingup over it; the moon was setting in the waves, broad and red, likea hot cannon-ball--she threw her last bloody glance over a world quiveringwith the ferment of tempest. i was physically influenced by theatmosphere and scene, and my ears were filled with the curses the maniacstill shrieked out; wherein she momentarily mingled my name with sucha tone of demon-hate, with such language!--no professed harlot ever had afouler vocabulary than she:

though two rooms off, i heard every word--thethin partitions of the west india house opposing but slight obstructionto her wolfish cries. "'this life,' said i at last, 'is hell: thisis the air--those are the sounds of the bottomless pit! i have a rightto deliver myself from it if i can. the sufferings of this mortal statewill leave me with the heavy flesh that now cumbers my soul. of thefanatic's burning eternity i have no fear: there is not a future stateworse than this present one--let me break away, and go home to god!' "i said this whilst i knelt down at, and unlockeda trunk which contained

a brace of loaded pistols: i mean to shootmyself. i only entertained the intention for a moment; for, not beinginsane, the crisis of exquisite and unalloyed despair, which hadoriginated the wish and design of self-destruction, was past in a second. "a wind fresh from europe blew over the oceanand 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, andamongst its drenched pomegranates and pine-apples, and while therefulgent dawn of the tropics

kindled round me--i reasoned thus, jane--andnow listen; for it was true wisdom that consoled me in that hour, andshowed me the right path to follow. "the sweet wind from europe was still whisperingin the refreshed leaves, and the atlantic was thundering in gloriousliberty; my heart, dried up and scorched for a long time, swelled to thetone, and filled with living blood--my being longed for renewal--my soulthirsted 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 thesea--bluer than the sky: the

old world was beyond; clear prospects openedthus:-- "'go,' said hope, 'and live again in europe:there it is not known what a sullied name you bear, nor what a filthy burdenis bound to you. you may take the maniac with you to england; confineher with due attendance and precautions at thornfield: then travel yourselfto 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 outragedyour honour, so blighted your youth, is not your wife, nor are youher husband. see that she is cared for as her condition demands, and youhave done all that god and

humanity require of you. let her identity,her connection with yourself, be buried in oblivion: you are bound to impartthem to no living being. place her in safety and comfort: shelter herdegradation with secrecy, and leave her.' "i acted precisely on this suggestion. myfather 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--havingalready begun to experience extreme disgust of its consequences,and, from the family character and constitution, seeing a hideousfuture opening to me--i

added an urgent charge to keep it secret:and very soon the infamous conduct of the wife my father had selectedfor me was such as to make him blush to own her as his daughter-in-law. farfrom desiring to publish the connection, he became as anxious to concealit as myself. "to england, then, i conveyed her; a fearfulvoyage i had with such a monster in the vessel. glad was i when i atlast got her to thornfield, and saw her safely lodged in that third-storeyroom, of whose secret inner cabinet she has now for ten years madea wild beast's den--a goblin's cell. i had some trouble in findingan attendant for her, as it

was necessary to select one on whose fidelitydependence could be placed; for her ravings would inevitably betray mysecret: besides, she had lucid intervals of days--sometimes weeks--whichshe filled up with abuse of me. at last i hired grace poole from the grimbsyretreat. she and the surgeon, carter (who dressed mason's woundsthat night he was stabbed and worried), are the only two i have ever admittedto 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 ofher own, of which it appears

nothing can cure her, and which is incidentto her harassing profession, her vigilance has been more than once lulledand baffled. the lunatic is both cunning and malignant; she has neverfailed to take advantage of her guardian's temporary lapses; once to secretethe knife with which she stabbed her brother, and twice to possessherself of the key of her cell, and issue therefrom in the night-time. onthe first of these occasions, she perpetrated the attempt to burn me inmy 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 weddingapparel, which perhaps

brought back vague reminiscences of her ownbridal 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 bloodcurdles--" "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 myselfinto a will-o'-the-wisp. where did i go? i pursued wanderings as wildas those of the march-spirit. i sought the continent, andwent devious through all its

lands. my fixed desire was to seek and finda good and intelligent woman, whom i could love: a contrast to thefury i left at thornfield--" "but you could not marry, sir." "i had determined and was convinced that icould and ought. it was not my original intention to deceive, as i havedeceived you. i meant to tell my tale plainly, and make my proposalsopenly: and it appeared to me so absolutely rational that i should be consideredfree to love and be loved, i never doubted some woman might befound willing and able to understand my case and accept me, in spiteof the curse with which i was

burdened." "well, sir?" "when you are inquisitive, jane, you alwaysmake me smile. you open your eyes like an eager bird, and make every nowand then a restless movement, as if answers in speech did not flow fastenough for you, and you wanted to read the tablet of one's heart. but beforei go on, tell me what you mean by your 'well, sir?' it is a small phrasevery frequent with you; and which many a time has drawn me on andon 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: whetheryou asked her to marry you; and what she said." "i can tell you whether i found any one iliked, and whether i asked her to marry me: but what she said is yet to berecorded in the book of fate. for ten long years i roved about, living firstin one capital, then another: sometimes in st. petersburg; oftenerin paris; occasionally in rome, naples, and florence. provided withplenty of money and the

passport of an old name, i could choose myown society: no circles were closed against me. i sought my ideal of awoman amongst english ladies, french countesses, italian signoras, and germangrafinnen. i could not find her. sometimes, for a fleeting moment,i thought i caught a glance, heard a tone, beheld a form, which announcedthe realisation of my dream: but i was presently undeserved. you are notto suppose that i desired perfection, either of mind or person. i longedonly for what suited me--for the antipodes of the creole: and ilonged vainly. amongst them all i found not one whom, had i been everso free, i--warned as i was of

the risks, the horrors, the loathings of incongruousunions--would have asked to marry me. disappointment made mereckless. i tried dissipation--never debauchery: that i hated,and hate. that was my indian messalina's attribute: rooted disgustat it and her restrained me much, even in pleasure. any enjoyment thatbordered on riot seemed to approach me to her and her vices, and i eschewedit. "yet i could not live alone; so i tried thecompanionship of mistresses. the first i chose was celine varens--anotherof those steps which make a man spurn himself when he recalls them. youalready know what she was,

and how my liaison with her terminated. shehad two successors: an italian, giacinta, and a german, clara; bothconsidered singularly handsome. what was their beauty to me in afew weeks? giacinta was unprincipled and violent: i tired of her inthree months. clara was honest and quiet; but heavy, mindless, andunimpressible: not one whit to my taste. i was glad to give her a sufficientsum to set her up in a good line of business, and so get decentlyrid of her. but, jane, i see by your face you are not forming a very favourableopinion of me just now. you think me an unfeeling, loose-principledrake: 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 livein that way, first with one mistress and then another? you talk of itas a mere matter of course." "it was with me; and i did not like it. itwas a grovelling fashion of existence: i should never like to return toit. hiring a mistress is the next worse thing to buying a slave: both areoften by nature, and always by position, inferior: and to live familiarlywith inferiors is degrading. i now hate the recollection ofthe time i passed with celine, giacinta, and clara."

i felt the truth of these words; and i drewfrom them the certain inference, that if i were so far to forgetmyself and all the teaching that had ever been instilled into me, as--underany pretext--with any justification--through any temptation--tobecome the successor of these poor girls, he would one day regard me withthe same feeling which now in his mind desecrated their memory. i did notgive utterance to this conviction: it was enough to feel it. i impressedit on my heart, that it might remain there to serve me as aid inthe 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--ina harsh, bitter frame of mind, the result of a useless, roving,lonely life--corroded with disappointment, sourly disposed against allmen, and especially against all womankind (for i began to regard the notionof an intellectual, faithful, loving woman as a mere dream), recalledby business, i came back to england. "on a frosty winter afternoon, i rode in sightof thornfield hall. abhorred spot! i expected no peace--no pleasurethere. on a stile in

hay lane i saw a quiet little figure sittingby itself. i passed it as negligently as i did the pollard willow oppositeto it: i had no presentiment of what it would be to me; noinward warning that the arbitress of my life--my genius for good orevil--waited there in humble guise. i did not know it, even when, on theoccasion of mesrour's accident, it came up and gravely offered mehelp. childish and slender creature! it seemed as if a linnet had hoppedto my foot and proposed to bear me on its tiny wing. i was surly; butthe thing would not go: it stood by me with strange perseverance, andlooked and spoke with a sort

of authority. i must be aided, and by thathand: 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 welli had learnt that this elf must return to me--that it belonged to myhouse 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. iheard you come home that night, jane, though probably you were notaware that i thought of you or watched for you. the next day i observed you--myselfunseen--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. adeleclaimed your outward attention for a while; yet i fancied yourthoughts were elsewhere: but you were very patient with her, my littlejane; you talked to her and amused her a long time. when at last she leftyou, you lapsed at once into deep reverie: you betook yourself slowlyto pace the gallery. now and then, in passing a casement, you glancedout at the thick-falling snow; you listened to the sobbing wind, andagain you paced gently on and dreamed. i think those day visions were notdark: 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 musingsof youth when its spirit follows on willing wings the flight of hopeup and on to an ideal heaven. the voice of mrs. fairfax, speaking to a servantin the hall, wakened you: and how curiously you smiled to and atyourself, 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--'myfine visions are all very well, but i must not forget they are absolutelyunreal. 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 downstairsand demanded of mrs. fairfax some occupation: the weekly houseaccounts to make up, or something of that sort, i think it was. iwas vexed with you for getting out of my sight. "impatiently i waited for evening, when imight summon you to my presence. an unusual--to me--a perfectly newcharacter i suspected was yours: i desired to search it deeper and knowit 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 mannerwere restricted by rule; your air was often diffident, and altogether thatof one refined by nature, but absolutely unused to society, and a gooddeal afraid of making herself disadvantageously conspicuous by somesolecism or blunder; yet when addressed, you lifted a keen, a daring,and a glowing eye to your interlocutor's face: there was penetrationand power in each glance you gave; when plied by close questions, you foundready and round answers.

very soon you seemed to get used to me: ibelieve you felt the existence of sympathy between you and your grim andcross master, jane; for it was astonishing to see how quickly a certain pleasantease tranquillised your manner: snarl as i would, you showed no surprise,fear, annoyance, or displeasure at my moroseness; you watchedme, and now and then smiled at me with a simple yet sagacious grace i cannotdescribe. i was at once content and stimulated with what i saw: iliked 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 intellectualepicure, and wished to

prolong the gratification of making this noveland piquant acquaintance: besides, i was for a while troubled with ahaunting fear that if i handled the flower freely its bloom wouldfade--the sweet charm of freshness would leave it. i did not then knowthat it was no transitory blossom, but rather the radiant resemblanceof one, cut in an indestructible gem. moreover, i wished tosee whether you would seek me if i shunned you--but you did not; you keptin the schoolroom as still as your own desk and easel; if by chance i metyou, you passed me as soon, and with as little token of recognition, aswas consistent with respect.

your habitual expression in those days, jane,was a thoughtful look; not despondent, for you were not sickly; but notbuoyant, for you had little hope, and no actual pleasure. i wondered whatyou thought of me, or if you ever thought of me, and resolved to findthis out. "i resumed my notice of you. there was somethingglad in your glance, and genial in your manner, when you conversed:i saw you had a social heart; it was the silent schoolroom--it wasthe tedium of your life--that made you mournful. i permitted myself thedelight of being kind to you; kindness stirred emotion soon: your face becamesoft in expression, your

tones gentle; i liked my name pronounced byyour lips in a grateful happy accent. i used to enjoy a chance meeting withyou, jane, at this time: there was a curious hesitation in your manner:you glanced at me with a slight trouble--a hovering doubt: you didnot know what my caprice might be--whether i was going to play the masterand be stern, or the friend and be benignant. i was now too fond of youoften 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; hislanguage was torture to me; for i knew what i must do--and do soon--and allthese reminiscences, and these revelations of his feelings only mademy work more difficult. "no, jane," he returned: "what necessity isthere to dwell on the past, when the present is so much surer--the futureso 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 unutterablemisery and half in dreary

solitude, i have for the first time foundwhat i can truly love--i have found you. you are my sympathy--my betterself--my good angel. i am bound to you with a strong attachment. i thinkyou good, gifted, lovely: a fervent, a solemn passion is conceived inmy 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, fusesyou and me in one. "it was because i felt and knew this, thati resolved to marry you. to tell me that i had already a wife is emptymockery: you know now that i had but a hideous demon. i was wrong to attemptto deceive you; but i

feared a stubbornness that exists in yourcharacter. i feared early instilled prejudice: i wanted to have yousafe before hazarding confidences. this was cowardly: i should haveappealed to your nobleness and magnanimity at first, as i do now--openedto you plainly my life of agony--described to you my hunger and thirstafter 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 askedyou to accept my pledge of fidelity and to give me yours. jane--giveit me now."

a pause. "why are you silent, jane?" i was experiencing an ordeal: a hand of fieryiron grasped my vitals. terrible moment: full of struggle, blackness,burning! not a human being that ever lived could wish to be loved betterthan i was loved; and him who thus loved me i absolutely worshipped:and i must renounce love and idol. one drear word comprised my intolerableduty--"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 gentlenessthat broke me down with grief, and turned me stone-cold with ominous terror--forthis still voice was the pant of a lion rising--"jane, do you meanto 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?" "and now?" softly kissing my forehead andcheek.

"i do," extricating myself from restraintrapidly 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 hisfeatures: he rose; but he forebore yet. i laid my hand on the back ofa chair for support: i shook, i feared--but i resolved. "one instant, jane. give one glance to myhorrible life when you are gone. all happiness will be torn away withyou. what then is left? for

a wife i have but the maniac upstairs: aswell might you refer me to some corpse in yonder churchyard. what shall ido, jane? where turn for a companion and for some hope?" "do as i do: trust in god and yourself. believein heaven. hope to meet again there." "then you will not yield?" "no." "then you condemn me to live wretched andto die accursed?" his voice rose.

"i advise you to live sinless, and i wishyou 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 fateto you than i grasp at it for myself. we were born to strive and endure--youas well as i: do so. you will forget me before i forget you." "you make me a liar by such language: yousully my honour. i declared i could not change: you tell me to my face ishall change soon. and what a distortion in your judgment, what a perversityin your ideas, is proved

by your conduct! is it better to drive a fellow-creatureto despair than to transgress a mere human law, no man beinginjured by the breach? for you have neither relatives nor acquaintanceswhom you need fear to offend by living with me?" this was true: and while he spoke my veryconscience and reason turned traitors against me, and charged me with crimein resisting him. they spoke almost as loud as feeling: and thatclamoured wildly. "oh, comply!" it said. "think of his misery; thinkof his danger--look at his state when left alone; remember his headlongnature; consider the

recklessness following on despair--soothehim; save him; love him; tell him you love him and will be his. who in theworld cares for _you_? or who will be injured by what you do?" still indomitable was the reply--"_i_ carefor myself. the more solitary, the more friendless, the more unsustainedi am, the more i will respect myself. i will keep the law givenby god; sanctioned by man. i will hold to the principles received by mewhen i was sane, and not mad--as i am now. laws and principles arenot for the times when there is no temptation: they are for such momentsas this, when body and soul

rise in mutiny against their rigour; stringentare they; inviolate they shall be. if at my individual conveniencei might break them, what would be their worth? they have a worth--so i havealways believed; and if i cannot believe it now, it is because i aminsane--quite insane: with my veins running fire, and my heart beating fasterthan i can count its throbs. preconceived opinions, foregone determinations,are all i have at this hour to stand by: there i plant myfoot." i did. mr. rochester, reading my countenance,saw i had done so. his fury was wrought to the highest: he must yieldto it for a moment,

whatever followed; he crossed the floor andseized my arm and grasped my waist. he seemed to devour me with his flamingglance: physically, i felt, at the moment, powerless as stubbleexposed to the draught and glow of a furnace: mentally, i still possessedmy soul, and with it the certainty of ultimate safety. the soul, fortunately,has an interpreter--often an unconscious, but stilla truthful interpreter--in the eye. my eye rose to his; and while i lookedin 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 shefeels in my hand!" (and he shook me with the force of his hold.) "i couldbend her with my finger and thumb: and what good would it do if ibent, 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--witha stern triumph. whatever i do with its cage, i cannot getat it--the savage, beautiful creature! if i tear, if i rend the slightprison, my outrage will only let the captive loose. conqueror i might beof the house; but the inmate

would escape to heaven before i could callmyself possessor of its clay dwelling-place. and it is you, spirit--withwill and energy, and virtue and purity--that i want: not alone your brittleframe. of yourself you could come with soft flight and nestle againstmy heart, if you would: seized against your will, you will elude thegrasp 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 thefrantic strain: only an idiot, however, would have succumbed now. i had daredand 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?" "you will not come? you will not be my comforter,my rescuer? my deep love, my wild woe, my frantic prayer, areall 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 havesaid, and, jane, cast a glance on my sufferings--think of me." he turned away; he threw himself on his faceon the sofa. "oh, jane! my hope--my love--my life!" broke in anguishfrom 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 downby 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. "godkeep you from harm and wrong--direct you, solace you--reward youwell for your past kindness to me." "little jane's love would have been my bestreward," he answered; "without it, my heart is broken. but janewill give me her love: yes--nobly, generously." up the blood rushed to his face; forth flashedthe fire from his eyes;

erect he sprang; he held his arms out; buti evaded the embrace, and at once quitted the room. "farewell!" was the cry of my heart as i lefthim. despair added, "farewell for ever!" * * * * * that night i never thought to sleep; but aslumber fell on me as soon as i lay down in bed. i was transported in thoughtto the scenes of childhood: i dreamt i lay in the red-roomat gateshead; that the night was dark, and my mind impressed with strangefears. the light that long

ago had struck me into syncope, recalled inthis vision, seemed glidingly to mount the wall, and tremblingly to pausein the centre of the obscured ceiling. i lifted up my head to look: theroof resolved to clouds, high and dim; the gleam was such as the moon impartsto vapours she is about to sever. i watched her come--watched withthe strangest anticipation; as though some word of doom were to be writtenon her disk. she broke forth as never moon yet burst from cloud:a hand first penetrated the sable folds and waved them away; then, nota moon, but a white human form shone in the azure, inclining a glorious browearthward. it gazed and

gazed on me. it spoke to my spirit: immeasurablydistant 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-likedream. it was yet night, but july nights are short: soon aftermidnight, dawn comes. "it cannot be too early to commence the task ihave to fulfil," thought i. i rose: i was dressed; for i had taken off nothingbut my shoes. i knew where to find in my drawers some linen, alocket, a ring. in seeking

these articles, i encountered the beads ofa pearl necklace mr. rochester had forced me to accept a few days ago. ileft that; it was not mine: it was the visionary bride's who had melted inair. the other articles i made up in a parcel; my purse, containingtwenty shillings (it was all i had), i put in my pocket: i tied on my strawbonnet, pinned my shawl, took the parcel and my slippers, which i wouldnot 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 iglanced towards the nursery.

no thought could be admitted of entering toembrace her. i had to deceive a fine ear: for aught i knew it mightnow be listening. i would have got past mr. rochester's chamberwithout a pause; but my heart momentarily stopping its beat at thatthreshold, my foot was forced to stop also. no sleep was there: the inmatewas walking restlessly from wall to wall; and again and again he sighedwhile i listened. there was a heaven--a temporary heaven--in this roomfor me, if i chose: i had but to go in and to say-- "mr. rochester, i will love you and live withyou through life till

death," and a fount of rapture would springto 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 wouldfeel himself forsaken; his love rejected: he would suffer; perhaps growdesperate. 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 knewwhat i had to do, and i did it

mechanically. i sought the key of the side-doorin 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 perhapsi 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 thedoor, passed out, shut it softly. dim dawn glimmered in the yard. thegreat gates were closed and locked; but a wicket in one of them was onlylatched. through that i departed: it, too, i shut; and now i was outof thornfield. a mile off, beyond the fields, lay a roadwhich stretched in the contrary

direction to millcote; a road i had nevertravelled, but often noticed, and wondered where it led: thither i bentmy steps. no reflection was to be allowed now: not one glance was to be castback; not even one forward. not one thought was to be given either tothe past or the future. the first was a page so heavenly sweet--so deadlysad--that to read one line of it would dissolve my courage and breakdown my energy. the last was an awful blank: something like the world whenthe deluge was gone by. i skirted fields, and hedges, and lanes tillafter 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. buti 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, thinksnot 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 theend: and i thought of drear flight and homeless wandering--and oh! withagony i thought of what i left. i could not help it. i thought of himnow--in his room--watching the sunrise; hoping i should soon come tosay 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 backand be his comforter--his pride; his redeemer from misery, perhaps fromruin. oh, that fear of his self-abandonment--far worse than my abandonment--howit goaded me! it was a barbed arrow-head in my breast; it toreme when i tried to extract it; it sickened me when remembrance thrustit farther in. birds began singing in brake and copse: birds were faithfulto their mates; birds were emblems of love. what was i? in the midstof 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 hatefulin my own eyes. still i could not turn, nor retrace one step. godmust have led me on. as to my own will or conscience, impassioned griefhad trampled one and stifled the other. i was weeping wildly as i walkedalong 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; crawlingforwards on my hands and

knees, and then again raised to my feet--aseager and as determined as ever to reach the road. when i got there, i was forced to sit to restme under the hedge; and while i sat, i heard wheels, and saw a coachcome on. i stood up and lifted my hand; it stopped. i asked whereit was going: the driver named a place a long way off, and where i was suremr. rochester had no connections. i asked for what sum he wouldtake 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 rolledon its way. gentle reader, may you never feel what i thenfelt! may your eyes never shed such stormy, scalding, heart-wrung tearsas poured from mine. may you never appeal to heaven in prayers so hopelessand 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. end of twenty seven