Jane Eyre: An Autobiography
a mile, I heard the tramp of hoofs; a horseman came on, full gallop; a
dog ran by his side. Away with evil presentiment! It was he: here he
was, mounted on Mesrour, followed by Pilot. He saw me; for the moon had
opened a blue field in the sky, and rode in it watery bright: he took
his hat off, and waved it round his head. I now ran to meet him.
“There!” he exclaimed, as he stretched out his hand and bent from the
saddle: “You can’t do without me, that is evident. Step on my boot-toe;
give me both hands: mount!”
I obeyed: joy made me agile: I sprang up before him. A hearty kissing I
got for a welcome, and some boastful triumph, which I swallowed as well
as I could. He checked himself in his exultation to demand, “But is
there anything the matter, Janet, that you come to meet me at such an
hour? Is there anything wrong?”
“No, but I thought you would never come. I could not bear to wait in
the house for you, especially with this rain and wind.”
“Rain and wind, indeed! Yes, you are dripping like a mermaid; pull my
cloak round you: but I think you are feverish, Jane: both your cheek
and hand are burning hot. I ask again, is there anything the matter?”
“Nothing now; I am neither afraid nor unhappy.”
“Then you have been both?”
“Rather: but I’ll tell you all about it by-and-by, sir; and I daresay
you will only laugh at me for my pains.”
“I’ll laugh at you heartily when to-morrow is past; till then I dare
not: my prize is not certain. This is you, who have been as slippery as
an eel this last month, and as thorny as a briar-rose? I could not lay
a finger anywhere but I was pricked; and now I seem to have gathered up
a stray lamb in my arms. You wandered out of the fold to seek your
shepherd, did you, Jane?”
“I wanted you: but don’t boast. Here we are at Thornfield: now let me
get down.”
He landed me on the pavement. As John took his horse, and he followed
me into the hall, he told me to make haste and put something dry on,
and then return to him in the library; and he stopped me, as I made for
the staircase, to extort a promise that I would not be long: nor was I
long; in five minutes I rejoined him. I found him at supper.
“Take a seat and bear me company, Jane: please God, it is the last meal
but one you will eat at Thornfield Hall for a long time.”
I sat down near him, but told him I could not eat.
“Is it because you have the prospect of a journey before you, Jane? Is
it the thoughts of going to London that takes away your appetite?”
“I cannot see my prospects clearly to-night, sir; and I hardly know
what thoughts I have in my head. Everything in life seems unreal.”
“Except me: I am substantial enough—touch me.”
“You, sir, are the most phantom-like of all: you are a mere dream.”
He held out his hand, laughing. “Is that a dream?” said he, placing it
close to my eyes. He had a rounded, muscular, and vigorous hand, as
well as a long, strong arm.
“Yes; though I touch it, it is a dream,” said I, as I put it down from
before my face. “Sir, have you finished supper?”
“Yes, Jane.”
I rang the bell and ordered away the tray. When we were again alone, I
stirred the fire, and then took a low seat at my master’s knee.
“It is near midnight,” I said.
“Yes: but remember, Jane, you promised to wake with me the night before
my wedding.”
“I did; and I will keep my promise, for an hour or two at least: I have
no wish to go to bed.”
“Are all your arrangements complete?”
“All, sir.”
“And on my part likewise,” he returned, “I have settled everything; and
we shall leave Thornfield to-morrow, within half-an-hour after our
return from church.”
“Very well, sir.”
“With what an extraordinary smile you uttered that word—‘very well,’
Jane! What a bright spot of colour you have on each cheek! and how
strangely your eyes glitter! Are you well?”
“I believe I am.”
“Believe! What is the matter? Tell me what you feel.”
“I could not, sir: no words could tell you what I feel. I wish this
present hour would never end: who knows with what fate the next may
come charged?”
“This is hypochondria, Jane. You have been over-excited, or
over-fatigued.”
“Do you, sir, feel calm and happy?”
“Calm?—no: but happy—to the heart’s core.”
I looked up at him to read the signs of bliss in his face: it was
ardent and flushed.
“Give me your confidence, Jane,” he said: “relieve your mind of any
weight that oppresses it, by imparting it to me. What do you fear?—that
I shall not prove a good husband?”
“It is the idea farthest from my thoughts.”
“Are you apprehensive of the new sphere you are about to enter?—of the
new life into which you are passing?”
“No.”
“You puzzle me, Jane: your look and tone of sorrowful audacity perplex
and pain me. I want an explanation.”
“Then, sir, listen. You were from home last night?”
“I was: I know that; and you hinted a while ago at something which had
happened in my absence:—nothing, probably, of consequence; but, in
short, it has disturbed you. Let me hear it. Mrs. Fairfax has said
something, perhaps? or you have overheard the servants talk?—your
sensitive self-respect has been wounded?”
“No, sir.” It struck twelve—I waited till the time-piece had concluded
its silver chime, and the clock its hoarse, vibrating stroke, and then
I proceeded.
“All day yesterday I was very busy, and very happy in my ceaseless
bustle; for I am not, as you seem to think, troubled by any haunting
fears about the new sphere, et cetera: I think it a glorious thing to
have the hope of living with you, because I love you. No, sir, don’t
caress me now—let me talk undisturbed. Yesterday I trusted well in
Providence, and believed that events were working together for your
good and mine: it was a fine day, if you recollect—the calmness of the
air and sky forbade apprehensions respecting your safety or comfort on
your journey. I walked a little while on the pavement after tea,
thinking of you; and I beheld you in imagination so near me, I scarcely
missed your actual presence. I thought of the life that lay before
me—_your_ life, sir—an existence more expansive and stirring than my
own: as much more so as the depths of the sea to which the brook runs
are than the shallows of its own strait channel. I wondered why
moralists call this world a dreary wilderness: for me it blossomed like
a rose. Just at sunset, the air turned cold and the sky cloudy: I went
in, Sophie called me upstairs to look at my wedding-dress, which they
had just brought; and under it in the box I found your present—the veil
which, in your princely extravagance, you sent for from London:
resolved, I suppose, since I would not have jewels, to cheat me into
accepting something as costly. I smiled as I unfolded it, and devised
how I would tease you about your aristocratic tastes, and your efforts
to masque your plebeian bride in the attributes of a peeress. I thought
how I would carry down to you the square of unembroidered blond I had
myself prepared as a covering for my low-born head, and ask if that was
not good enough for a woman who could bring her husband neither
fortune, beauty, nor connections. I saw plainly how you would look; and
heard your impetuous republican answers, and your haughty disavowal of
any necessity on your part to augment your wealth, or elevate your
standing, by marrying either a purse or a coronet.”
“How well you read me, you witch!” interposed Mr. Rochester: “but what
did you find in the veil besides its embroidery? Did you find poison,
or a dagger, that you look so mournful now?”
“No, no, sir; besides the delicacy and richness of the fabric, I found
nothing save Fairfax Rochester’s pride; and that did not scare me,
because I am used to the sight of the demon. But, sir, as it grew dark,
the wind rose: it blew yesterday evening, not as it blows now—wild and
high—but ‘with a sullen, moaning sound’ far more eerie. I wished you
were at home. I came into this room, and the sight of the empty chair
and fireless hearth chilled me. For some time after I went to bed, I
could not sleep—a sense of anxious excitement distressed me. The gale
still rising seemed to my ear to muffle a mournful under-sound;
whether in the house or abroad I could not at first tell, but it
recurred, doubtful yet doleful at every lull; at last I made out it
must be some dog howling at a distance. I was glad when it ceased. On
sleeping, I continued in dreams the idea of a dark and gusty night. I
continued also the wish to be with you, and experienced a strange,
regretful consciousness of some barrier dividing us. During all my
first sleep, I was following the windings of an unknown road; total
obscurity environed me; rain pelted me; I was burdened with the charge
of a little child: a very small creature, too young and feeble to walk,
and which shivered in my cold arms, and wailed piteously in my ear. I
thought, sir, that you were on the road a long way before me; and I
strained every nerve to overtake you, and made effort on effort to
utter your name and entreat you to stop—but my movements were fettered,
and my voice still died away inarticulate; while you, I felt, withdrew
farther and farther every moment.”
“And these dreams weigh on your spirits now, Jane, when I am close to
you? Little nervous subject! Forget visionary woe, and think only of
real happiness! You say you love me, Janet: yes—I will not forget that;
and you cannot deny it. _Those_ words did not die inarticulate on your
lips. I heard them clear and soft: a thought too solemn perhaps, but
sweet as music—‘I think it is a glorious thing to have the hope of
living with you, Edward, because I love you.’ Do you love me,
Jane?—repeat it.”
“I do, sir—I do, with my whole heart.”
“Well,” he said, after some minutes’ silence, “it is strange; but that
sentence has penetrated my breast painfully. Why? I think because you
said it with such an earnest, religious energy, and because your upward
gaze at me now is the very sublime of faith, truth, and devotion: it is
too much as if some spirit were near me. Look wicked, Jane: as you know
well how to look: coin one of your wild, shy, provoking smiles; tell me
you hate me—tease me, vex me; do anything but move me: I would rather
be incensed than saddened.”
“I will tease you and vex you to your heart’s content, when I have
finished my tale: but hear me to the end.”
“I thought, Jane, you had told me all. I thought I had found the source
of your melancholy in a dream.”
I shook my head. “What! is there more? But I will not believe it to be
anything important. I warn you of incredulity beforehand. Go on.”
The disquietude of his air, the somewhat apprehensive impatience of his
manner, surprised me: but I proceeded.
“I dreamt another dream, sir: that Thornfield Hall was a dreary ruin,
the retreat of bats and owls. I thought that of all the stately front
nothing remained but a shell-like wall, very high and very
fragile-looking. I wandered, on a moonlight night, through the
grass-grown enclosure within: here I stumbled over a marble hearth, and
there over a fallen fragment of cornice. Wrapped up in a shawl, I still
carried the unknown little child: I might not lay it down anywhere,
however tired were my arms—however much its weight impeded my progress,
I must retain it. I heard the gallop of a horse at a distance on the
road; I was sure it was you; and you were departing for many years and
for a distant country. I climbed the thin wall with frantic perilous
haste, eager to catch one glimpse of you from the top: the stones
rolled from under my feet, the ivy branches I grasped gave way, the
child clung round my neck in terror, and almost strangled me; at last I
gained the summit. I saw you like a speck on a white track, lessening
every moment. The blast blew so strong I could not stand. I sat down on