Jane Eyre: An Autobiography
the narrow ledge; I hushed the scared infant in my lap: you turned an
angle of the road: I bent forward to take a last look; the wall
crumbled; I was shaken; the child rolled from my knee, I lost my
balance, fell, and woke.”
“Now, Jane, that is all.”
“All the preface, sir; the tale is yet to come. On waking, a gleam
dazzled my eyes; I thought—Oh, it is daylight! But I was mistaken; it
was only candlelight. Sophie, I supposed, had come in. There was a
light in the dressing-table, and the door of the closet, where, before
going to bed, I had hung my wedding-dress and veil, stood open; I heard
a rustling there. I asked, ‘Sophie, what are you doing?’ No one
answered; but a form emerged from the closet; it took the light, held
it aloft, and surveyed the garments pendent from the portmanteau.
‘Sophie! Sophie!’ I again cried: and still it was silent. I had risen
up in bed, I bent forward: first surprise, then bewilderment, came over
me; and then my blood crept cold through my veins. Mr. Rochester, this
was not Sophie, it was not Leah, it was not Mrs. Fairfax: it was
not—no, I was sure of it, and am still—it was not even that strange
woman, Grace Poole.”
“It must have been one of them,” interrupted my master.
“No, sir, I solemnly assure you to the contrary. The shape standing
before me had never crossed my eyes within the precincts of Thornfield
Hall before; the height, the contour were new to me.”
“Describe it, Jane.”
“It seemed, sir, a woman, tall and large, with thick and dark hair
hanging long down her back. I know not what dress she had on: it was
white and straight; but whether gown, sheet, or shroud, I cannot tell.”
“Did you see her face?”
“Not at first. But presently she took my veil from its place; she held
it up, gazed at it long, and then she threw it over her own head, and
turned to the mirror. At that moment I saw the reflection of the visage
and features quite distinctly in the dark oblong glass.”
“And how were they?”
“Fearful and ghastly to me—oh, sir, I never saw a face like it! It was
a discoloured face—it was a savage face. I wish I could forget the roll
of the red eyes and the fearful blackened inflation of the lineaments!”
“Ghosts are usually pale, Jane.”
“This, sir, was purple: the lips were swelled and dark; the brow
furrowed: the black eyebrows widely raised over the bloodshot eyes.
Shall I tell you of what it reminded me?”
“You may.”
“Of the foul German spectre—the Vampyre.”
“Ah!—what did it do?”
“Sir, it removed my veil from its gaunt head, rent it in two parts, and
flinging both on the floor, trampled on them.”
It removed my veil from its gaunt head, rent it in two parts, and
flinging both on the floor, trampled on them
“Afterwards?”
“It drew aside the window-curtain and looked out; perhaps it saw dawn
approaching, for, taking the candle, it retreated to the door. Just at
my bedside, the figure stopped: the fiery eyes glared upon me—she
thrust up her candle close to my face, and extinguished it under my
eyes. I was aware her lurid visage flamed over mine, and I lost
consciousness: for the second time in my life—only the second time—I
became insensible from terror.”
“Who was with you when you revived?”
“No one, sir, but the broad day. I rose, bathed my head and face in
water, drank a long draught; felt that though enfeebled I was not ill,
and determined that to none but you would I impart this vision. Now,
sir, tell me who and what that woman was?”
“The creature of an over-stimulated brain; that is certain. I must be
careful of you, my treasure: nerves like yours were not made for rough
handling.”
“Sir, depend on it, my nerves were not in fault; the thing was real:
the transaction actually took place.”
“And your previous dreams, were they real too? Is Thornfield Hall a
ruin? Am I severed from you by insuperable obstacles? Am I leaving you
without a tear—without a kiss—without a word?”
“Not yet.”
“Am I about to do it? Why, the day is already commenced which is to
bind us indissolubly; and when we are once united, there shall be no
recurrence of these mental terrors: I guarantee that.”
“Mental terrors, sir! I wish I could believe them to be only such: I
wish it more now than ever; since even you cannot explain to me the
mystery of that awful visitant.”
“And since I cannot do it, Jane, it must have been unreal.”
“But, sir, when I said so to myself on rising this morning, and when I
looked round the room to gather courage and comfort from the cheerful
aspect of each familiar object in full daylight, there—on the carpet—I
saw what gave the distinct lie to my hypothesis,—the veil, torn from
top to bottom in two halves!”
I felt Mr. Rochester start and shudder; he hastily flung his arms round
me. “Thank God!” he exclaimed, “that if anything malignant did come
near you last night, it was only the veil that was harmed. Oh, to think
what might have happened!”
He drew his breath short, and strained me so close to him, I could
scarcely pant. After some minutes’ silence, he continued, cheerily—
“Now, Janet, I’ll explain to you all about it. It was half dream, half
reality. A woman did, I doubt not, enter your room: and that woman
was—must have been—Grace Poole. You call her a strange being yourself:
from all you know, you have reason so to call her—what did she do to
me? what to Mason? In a state between sleeping and waking, you noticed
her entrance and her actions; but feverish, almost delirious as you
were, you ascribed to her a goblin appearance different from her own:
the long dishevelled hair, the swelled black face, the exaggerated
stature, were figments of imagination; results of nightmare: the
spiteful tearing of the veil was real: and it is like her. I see you
would ask why I keep such a woman in my house: when we have been
married a year and a day, I will tell you; but not now. Are you
satisfied, Jane? Do you accept my solution of the mystery?”
I reflected, and in truth it appeared to me the only possible one:
satisfied I was not, but to please him I endeavoured to appear
so—relieved, I certainly did feel; so I answered him with a contented
smile. And now, as it was long past one, I prepared to leave him.
“Does not Sophie sleep with Adèle in the nursery?” he asked, as I lit
my candle.
“Yes, sir.”
“And there is room enough in Adèle’s little bed for you. You must share
it with her to-night, Jane: it is no wonder that the incident you have
related should make you nervous, and I would rather you did not sleep
alone: promise me to go to the nursery.”
“I shall be very glad to do so, sir.”
“And fasten the door securely on the inside. Wake Sophie when you go
upstairs, under pretence of requesting her to rouse you in good time
to-morrow; for you must be dressed and have finished breakfast before
eight. And now, no more sombre thoughts: chase dull care away, Janet.
Don’t you hear to what soft whispers the wind has fallen? and there is
no more beating of rain against the window-panes: look here” (he lifted
up the curtain)—“it is a lovely night!”
It was. Half heaven was pure and stainless: the clouds, now trooping
before the wind, which had shifted to the west, were filing off
eastward in long, silvered columns. The moon shone peacefully.
“Well,” said Mr. Rochester, gazing inquiringly into my eyes, “how is my
Janet now?”
“The night is serene, sir; and so am I.”
“And you will not dream of separation and sorrow to-night; but of happy
love and blissful union.”
This prediction was but half fulfilled: I did not indeed dream of
sorrow, but as little did I dream of joy; for I never slept at all.
With little Adèle in my arms, I watched the slumber of childhood—so
tranquil, so passionless, so innocent—and waited for the coming day:
all my life was awake and astir in my frame: and as soon as the sun
rose I rose too. I remember Adèle clung to me as I left her: I remember
I kissed her as I loosened her little hands from my neck; and I cried
over her with strange emotion, and quitted her because I feared my sobs
would break her still sound repose. She seemed the emblem of my past
life; and he, I was now to array myself to meet, the dread, but adored,
type of my unknown future day.
CHAPTER XXVI
Sophie came at seven to dress me: she was very long indeed in
accomplishing her task; so long that Mr. Rochester, grown, I suppose,
impatient of my delay, sent up to ask why I did not come. She was just
fastening my veil (the plain square of blond after all) to my hair with
a brooch; I hurried from under her hands as soon as I could.
“Stop!” she cried in French. “Look at yourself in the mirror: you have
not taken one peep.”
So I turned at the door: I saw a robed and veiled figure, so unlike my
usual self that it seemed almost the image of a stranger. “Jane!”
called a voice, and I hastened down. I was received at the foot of the
stairs by Mr. Rochester.
“Lingerer!” he said, “my brain is on fire with impatience, and you
tarry so long!”
He took me into the dining-room, surveyed me keenly all over,
pronounced me “fair as a lily, and not only the pride of his life, but
the desire of his eyes,” and then telling me he would give me but ten
minutes to eat some breakfast, he rang the bell. One of his lately
hired servants, a footman, answered it.
“Is John getting the carriage ready?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is the luggage brought down?”
“They are bringing it down, sir.”
“Go you to the church: see if Mr. Wood (the clergyman) and the clerk
are there: return and tell me.”
The church, as the reader knows, was but just beyond the gates; the
footman soon returned.
“Mr. Wood is in the vestry, sir, putting on his surplice.”
“And the carriage?”
“The horses are harnessing.”
“We shall not want it to go to church; but it must be ready the moment
we return: all the boxes and luggage arranged and strapped on, and the
coachman in his seat.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Jane, are you ready?”
I rose. There were no groomsmen, no bridesmaids, no relatives to wait
for or marshal: none but Mr. Rochester and I. Mrs. Fairfax stood in the
hall as we passed. I would fain have spoken to her, but my hand was
held by a grasp of iron: I was hurried along by a stride I could hardly
follow; and to look at Mr. Rochester’s face was to feel that not a
second of delay would be tolerated for any purpose. I wonder what other
bridegroom ever looked as he did—so bent up to a purpose, so grimly
resolute: or who, under such steadfast brows, ever revealed such
flaming and flashing eyes.
I know not whether the day was fair or foul; in descending the drive, I
gazed neither on sky nor earth: my heart was with my eyes; and both
seemed migrated into Mr. Rochester’s frame. I wanted to see the
invisible thing on which, as we went along, he appeared to fasten a
glance fierce and fell. I wanted to feel the thoughts whose force he
seemed breasting and resisting.
At the churchyard wicket he stopped: he discovered I was quite out of
breath. “Am I cruel in my love?” he said. “Delay an instant: lean on
me, Jane.”
And now I can recall the picture of the grey old house of God rising
calm before me, of a rook wheeling round the steeple, of a ruddy
morning sky beyond. I remember something, too, of the green
grave-mounds; and I have not forgotten, either, two figures of
strangers straying amongst the low hillocks and reading the mementoes
graven on the few mossy head-stones. I noticed them, because, as they
saw us, they passed round to the back of the church; and I doubted not
they were going to enter by the side-aisle door and witness the
ceremony. By Mr. Rochester they were not observed; he was earnestly
looking at my face, from which the blood had, I daresay, momentarily
fled: for I felt my forehead dewy, and my cheeks and lips cold. When I