Chapter: Some time in the afternoon I raised my head, and looking round and seeing
the western sun gilding the sign of its decline on the wall, I asked,
"What am I to do?"

But the answer my mind gave--"Leave Thornfield at once"--was so prompt,
so dread, that I stopped my ears.  I said I could not bear such words
now.  "That I am not Edward Rochester's bride is the least part of my
woe," I alleged: "that I have wakened out of most glorious dreams, and
found them all void and vain, is a horror I could bear and master; but
that I must leave him decidedly, instantly, entirely, is intolerable.  I
cannot do it."

But, then, a voice within me averred that I could do it and foretold that
I should do it.  I wrestled with my own resolution: I wanted to be weak
that I might avoid the awful passage of further suffering I saw laid out
for me; and Conscience, turned tyrant, held Passion by the throat, told
her tauntingly, she had yet but dipped her dainty foot in the slough, and
swore that with that arm of iron he would thrust her down to unsounded
depths of agony.

"Let me be torn away," then I cried.  "Let another help me!"

"No; you shall tear yourself away, none shall help you: you shall
yourself pluck out your right eye; yourself cut off your right hand: your
heart shall be the victim, and you the priest to transfix it."

I rose up suddenly, terror-struck at the solitude which so ruthless a
judge haunted,--at the silence which so awful a voice filled.  My head
swam as I stood erect.  I perceived that I was sickening from excitement
and inanition; neither meat nor drink had passed my lips that day, for I
had taken no breakfast.  And, with a strange pang, I now reflected that,
long as I had been shut up here, no message had been sent to ask how I
was, or to invite me to come down: not even little Adele had tapped at
the door; not even Mrs. Fairfax had sought me.  "Friends always forget
those whom fortune forsakes," I murmured, as I undrew the bolt and passed
out.  I stumbled over an obstacle: my head was still dizzy, my sight was
dim, and my limbs were feeble.  I could not soon recover myself.  I fell,
but not on to the ground: an outstretched arm caught me.  I looked up--I
was supported by Mr. Rochester, who sat in a chair across my chamber
threshold.

"You come out at last," he said.  "Well, I have been waiting for you
long, and listening: yet not one movement have I heard, nor one sob: five
minutes more of that death-like hush, and I should have forced the lock
like a burglar.  So you shun me?--you shut yourself up and grieve alone!
I would rather you had come and upbraided me with vehemence.  You are
passionate.  I expected a scene of some kind.  I was prepared for the hot
rain of tears; only I wanted them to be shed on my breast: now a
senseless floor has received them, or your drenched handkerchief.  But I
err: you have not wept at all!  I see a white cheek and a faded eye, but
no trace of tears.  I suppose, then, your heart has been weeping blood?"

"Well, Jane! not a word of reproach?  Nothing bitter--nothing poignant?
Nothing to cut a feeling or sting a passion?  You sit quietly where I
have placed you, and regard me with a weary, passive look."

"Jane, I never meant to wound you thus.  If the man who had but one
little ewe lamb that was dear to him as a daughter, that ate of his bread
and drank of his cup, and lay in his bosom, had by some mistake
slaughtered it at the shambles, he would not have rued his bloody blunder
more than I now rue mine.  Will you ever forgive me?"

Reader, I forgave him at the moment and on the spot.  There was such deep
remorse in his eye, such true pity in his tone, such manly energy in his
manner; and besides, there was such unchanged love in his whole look and
mien--I forgave him all: yet not in words, not outwardly; only at my
heart's core.

"You know I am a scoundrel, Jane?" ere long he inquired
wistfully--wondering, I suppose, at my continued silence and tameness,
the result rather of weakness than of will.

"Yes, sir."

"Then tell me so roundly and sharply--don't spare me."

"I cannot: I am tired and sick.  I want some water."  He heaved a sort of
shuddering sigh, and taking me in his arms, carried me downstairs.  At
first I did not know to what room he had borne me; all was cloudy to my
glazed sight: presently I felt the reviving warmth of a fire; for, summer
as it was, I had become icy cold in my chamber.  He put wine to my lips;
I tasted it and revived; then I ate something he offered me, and was soon
myself.  I was in the library--sitting in his chair--he was quite near.
"If I could go out of life now, without too sharp a pang, it would be
well for me," I thought; "then I should not have to make the effort of
cracking my heart-strings in rending them from among Mr. Rochester's.  I
must leave him, it appears.  I do not want to leave him--I cannot leave
him."

"How are you now, Jane?"

"Much better, sir; I shall be well soon."

"Taste the wine again, Jane."

I obeyed him; then he put the glass on the table, stood before me, and
looked at me attentively.  Suddenly he turned away, with an inarticulate
exclamation, full of passionate emotion of some kind; he walked fast
through the room and came back; he stooped towards me as if to kiss me;
but I remembered caresses were now forbidden.  I turned my face away and
put his aside.

"What!--How is this?" he exclaimed hastily.  "Oh, I know! you won't kiss
the husband of Bertha Mason?  You consider my arms filled and my embraces
appropriated?"

"At any rate, there is neither room nor claim for me, sir."

"Why, Jane?  I will spare you the trouble of much talking; I will answer
for you--Because I have a wife already, you would reply.--I guess
rightly?"

"Yes."

"If you think so, you must have a strange opinion of me; you must regard
me as a plotting profligate--a base and low rake who has been simulating
disinterested love in order to draw you into a snare deliberately laid,
and strip you of honour and rob you of self-respect.  What do you say to
that?  I see you can say nothing in the first place, you are faint still,
and have enough to do to draw your breath; in the second place, you
cannot yet accustom yourself to accuse and revile me, and besides, the
flood-gates of tears are opened, and they would rush out if you spoke
much; and you have no desire to expostulate, to upbraid, to make a scene:
you are thinking how _to act_--_talking_ you consider is of no use.  I
know you--I am on my guard."

"Sir, I do not wish to act against you," I said; and my unsteady voice
warned me to curtail my sentence.

"Not in your sense of the word, but in mine you are scheming to destroy
me.  You have as good as said that I am a married man--as a married man
you will shun me, keep out of my way: just now you have refused to kiss
me.  You intend to make yourself a complete stranger to me: to live under
this roof only as Adele's governess; if ever I say a friendly word to
you, if ever a friendly feeling inclines you again to me, you will
say,--'That man had nearly made me his mistress: I must be ice and rock
to him;' and ice and rock you will accordingly become."

I cleared and steadied my voice to reply: "All is changed about me, sir;
I must change too--there is no doubt of that; and to avoid fluctuations
of feeling, and continual combats with recollections and associations,
there is only one way--Adele must have a new governess, sir."

"Oh, Adele will go to school--I have settled that already; nor do I mean
to torment you with the hideous associations and recollections of
Thornfield Hall--this accursed place--this tent of Achan--this insolent
vault, offering the ghastliness of living death to the light of the open
sky--this narrow stone hell, with its one real fiend, worse than a legion
of such as we imagine.  Jane, you shall not stay here, nor will I.  I was
wrong ever to bring you to Thornfield Hall, knowing as I did how it was
haunted.  I charged them to conceal from you, before I ever saw you, all
knowledge of the curse of the place; merely because I feared Adele never
would have a governess to stay if she knew with what inmate she was
housed, and my plans would not permit me to remove the maniac
elsewhere--though I possess an old house, Ferndean Manor, even more
retired and hidden than this, where I could have lodged her safely
enough, had not a scruple about the unhealthiness of the situation, in
the heart of a wood, made my conscience recoil from the arrangement.
Probably those damp walls would soon have eased me of her charge: but to
each villain his own vice; and mine is not a tendency to indirect
assassination, even of what I most hate.

"Concealing the mad-woman's neighbourhood from you, however, was
something like covering a child with a cloak and laying it down near a
upas-tree: that demon's vicinage is poisoned, and always was.  But I'll
shut up Thornfield Hall: I'll nail up the front door and board the lower
windows: I'll give Mrs. Poole two hundred a year to live here with _my
wife_, as you term that fearful hag: Grace will do much for money, and
she shall have her son, the keeper at Grimsby Retreat, to bear her
company and be at hand to give her aid in the paroxysms, when _my wife_
is prompted by her familiar to burn people in their beds at night, to
stab them, to bite their flesh from their bones, and so on--"

"Sir," I interrupted him, "you are inexorable for that unfortunate lady:
you speak of her with hate--with vindictive antipathy.  It is cruel--she
cannot help being mad."

"Jane, my little darling (so I will call you, for so you are), you don't
know what you are talking about; you misjudge me again: it is not because
she is mad I hate her.  If you were mad, do you think I should hate you?"

"I do indeed, sir."

"Then you are mistaken, and you know nothing about me, and nothing about
the sort of love of which I am capable.  Every atom of your flesh is as
dear to me as my own: in pain and sickness it would still be dear.  Your
mind is my treasure, and if it were broken, it would be my treasure
still: if you raved, my arms should confine you, and not a strait
waistcoat--your grasp, even in fury, would have a charm for me: if you
flew at me as wildly as that woman did this morning, I should receive you
in an embrace, at least as fond as it would be restrictive.  I should not
shrink from you with disgust as I did from her: in your quiet moments you
should have no watcher and no nurse but me; and I could hang over you
with untiring tenderness, though you gave me no smile in return; and
never weary of gazing into your eyes, though they had no longer a ray of
recognition for me.--But why do I follow that train of ideas?  I was
talking of removing you from Thornfield.  All, you know, is prepared for
prompt departure: to-morrow you shall go.  I only ask you to endure one
more night under this roof, Jane; and then, farewell to its miseries and
terrors for ever!  I have a place to repair to, which will be a secure
sanctuary from hateful reminiscences, from unwelcome intrusion--even from
falsehood and slander."

"And take Adele with you, sir," I interrupted; "she will be a companion
for you."

"What do you mean, Jane?  I told you I would send Adele to school; and
what do I want with a child for a companion, and not my own child,--a
French dancer's bastard?  Why do you importune me about her!  I say, why
do you assign Adele to me for a companion?"

"You spoke of a retirement, sir; and retirement and solitude are dull:
too dull for you."

"Solitude! solitude!" he reiterated with irritation.  "I see I must come
to an explanation.  I don't know what sphynx-like expression is forming
in your countenance.  You are to share my solitude.  Do you understand?"

I shook my head: it required a degree of courage, excited as he was
becoming, even to risk that mute sign of dissent.  He had been walking
fast about the room, and he stopped, as if suddenly rooted to one spot.
He looked at me long and hard: I turned my eyes from him, fixed them on
the fire, and tried to assume and maintain a quiet, collected aspect.

"Now for the hitch in Jane's character," he said at last, speaking more
calmly than from his look I had expected him to speak.  "The reel of silk
has run smoothly enough so far; but I always knew there would come a knot
and a puzzle: here it is.  Now for vexation, and exasperation, and
endless trouble!  By God!  I long to exert a fraction of Samson's
strength, and break the entanglement like tow!"

He recommenced his walk, but soon again stopped, and this time just
before me.

"Jane! will you hear reason?" (he stooped and approached his lips to my
ear); "because, if you won't, I'll try violence."  His voice was hoarse;
his look that of a man who is just about to burst an insufferable bond
and plunge headlong into wild license.  I saw that in another moment, and
with one impetus of frenzy more, I should be able to do nothing with him.
The present--the passing second of time--was all I had in which to
control and restrain him--a movement of repulsion, flight, fear would
have sealed my doom,--and his.  But I was not afraid: not in the least.  I
felt an inward power; a sense of influence, which supported me.  The
crisis was perilous; but not without its charm: such as the Indian,
perhaps, feels when he slips over the rapid in his canoe.  I took hold of
his clenched hand, loosened the contorted fingers, and said to him,
soothingly--

"Sit down; I'll talk to you as long as you like, and hear all you have to
say, whether reasonable or unreasonable."

He sat down: but he did not get leave to speak directly.  I had been
struggling with tears for some time: I had taken great pains to repress
them, because I knew he would not like to see me weep.  Now, however, I
considered it well to let them flow as freely and as long as they liked.
If the flood annoyed him, so much the better.  So I gave way and cried
heartily.

Soon I heard him earnestly entreating me to be composed.  I said I could
not while he was in such a passion.

"But I am not angry, Jane: I only love you too well; and you had steeled
your little pale face with such a resolute, frozen look, I could not
endure it.  Hush, now, and wipe your eyes."

His softened voice announced that he was subdued; so I, in my turn,
became calm.  Now he made an effort to rest his head on my shoulder, but
I would not permit it.  Then he would draw me to him: no.

"Jane! Jane!" he said, in such an accent of bitter sadness it thrilled
along every nerve I had; "you don't love me, then?  It was only my
station, and the rank of my wife, that you valued?  Now that you think me
disqualified to become your husband, you recoil from my touch as if I
were some toad or ape."

These words cut me: yet what could I do or I say?  I ought probably to
have done or said nothing; but I was so tortured by a sense of remorse at
thus hurting his feelings, I could not control the wish to drop balm
where I had wounded.

"I _do_ love you," I said, "more than ever: but I must not show or
indulge the feeling: and this is the last time I must express it."

"The last time, Jane!  What! do you think you can live with me, and see
me daily, and yet, if you still love me, be always cold and distant?"

"No, sir; that I am certain I could not; and therefore I see there is but
one way: but you will be furious if I mention it."

"Oh, mention it!  If I storm, you have the art of weeping."

"Mr. Rochester, I must leave you."

"For how long, Jane?  For a few minutes, while you smooth your hair--which
is somewhat dishevelled; and bathe your face--which looks feverish?"

"I must leave Adele and Thornfield.  I must part with you for my whole
life: I must begin a new existence among strange faces and strange
scenes."

"Of course: I told you you should.  I pass over the madness about parting
from me.  You mean you must become a part of me.  As to the new
existence, it is all right: you shall yet be my wife: I am not married.
You shall be Mrs. Rochester--both virtually and nominally.  I shall keep
only to you so long as you and I live.  You shall go to a place I have in
the south of France: a whitewashed villa on the shores of the
Mediterranean.  There you shall live a happy, and guarded, and most
innocent life.  Never fear that I wish to lure you into error--to make
you my mistress.  Why did you shake your head?  Jane, you must be
reasonable, or in truth I shall again become frantic."

His voice and hand quivered: his large nostrils dilated; his eye blazed:
still I dared to speak.

"Sir, your wife is living: that is a fact acknowledged this morning by
yourself.  If I lived with you as you desire, I should then be your
mistress: to say otherwise is sophistical--is false."

"Jane, I am not a gentle-tempered man--you forget that: I am not long-
enduring; I am not cool and dispassionate.  Out of pity to me and
yourself, put your finger on my pulse, feel how it throbs, and--beware!"

He bared his wrist, and offered it to me: the blood was forsaking his
cheek and lips, they were growing livid; I was distressed on all hands.
To agitate him thus deeply, by a resistance he so abhorred, was cruel: to
yield was out of the question.  I did what human beings do instinctively
when they are driven to utter extremity--looked for aid to one higher
than man: the words "God help me!" burst involuntarily from my lips.

"I am a fool!" cried Mr. Rochester suddenly.  "I keep telling her I am
not married, and do not explain to her why.  I forget she knows nothing
of the character of that woman, or of the circumstances attending my
infernal union with her.  Oh, I am certain Jane will agree with me in
opinion, when she knows all that I know!  Just put your hand in mine,
Janet--that I may have the evidence of touch as well as sight, to prove
you are near me--and I will in a few words show you the real state of the
case.  Can you listen to me?"

"Yes, sir; for hours if you will."

"I ask only minutes.  Jane, did you ever hear or know that I was not the
eldest son of my house: that I had once a brother older than I?"

"I remember Mrs. Fairfax told me so once."

"And did you ever hear that my father was an avaricious, grasping man?"

"I have understood something to that effect."

"Well, Jane, being so, it was his resolution to keep the property
together; he could not bear the idea of dividing his estate and leaving
me a fair portion: all, he resolved, should go to my brother, Rowland.
Yet as little could he endure that a son of his should be a poor man.  I
must be provided for by a wealthy marriage.  He sought me a partner
betimes.  Mr. Mason, a West India planter and merchant, was his old
acquaintance.  He was certain his possessions were real and vast: he made
inquiries.  Mr. Mason, he found, had a son and daughter; and he learned
from him that he could and would give the latter a fortune of thirty
thousand pounds: that sufficed.  When I left college, I was sent out to
Jamaica, to espouse a bride already courted for me.  My father said
nothing about her money; but he told me Miss Mason was the boast of
Spanish Town for her beauty: and this was no lie.  I found her a fine
woman, in the style of Blanche Ingram: tall, dark, and majestic.  Her
family wished to secure me because I was of a good race; and so did she.
They showed her to me in parties, splendidly dressed.  I seldom saw her
alone, and had very little private conversation with her.  She flattered
me, and lavishly displayed for my pleasure her charms and
accomplishments.  All the men in her circle seemed to admire her and envy
me.  I was dazzled, stimulated: my senses were excited; and being
ignorant, raw, and inexperienced, I thought I loved her.  There is no
folly so besotted that the idiotic rivalries of society, the prurience,
the rashness, the blindness of youth, will not hurry a man to its
commission.  Her relatives encouraged me; competitors piqued me; she
allured me: a marriage was achieved almost before I knew where I was.  Oh,
I have no respect for myself when I think of that act!--an agony of
inward contempt masters me.  I never loved, I never esteemed, I did not
even know her.  I was not sure of the existence of one virtue in her
nature: I had marked neither modesty, nor benevolence, nor candour, nor
refinement in her mind or manners--and, I married her:--gross,
grovelling, mole-eyed blockhead that I was!  With less sin I might
have--But let me remember to whom I am speaking."

"My bride's mother I had never seen: I understood she was dead.  The
honeymoon over, I learned my mistake; she was only mad, and shut up in a
lunatic asylum.  There was a younger brother, too--a complete dumb idiot.
The elder one, whom you have seen (and whom I cannot hate, whilst I abhor
all his kindred, because he has some grains of affection in his feeble
mind, shown in the continued interest he takes in his wretched sister,
and also in a dog-like attachment he once bore me), will probably be in
the same state one day.  My father and my brother Rowland knew all this;
but they thought only of the thirty thousand pounds, and joined in the
plot against me."

"These were vile discoveries; but except for the treachery of
concealment, I should have made them no subject of reproach to my wife,
even when I found her nature wholly alien to mine, her tastes obnoxious
to me, her cast of mind common, low, narrow, and singularly incapable of
being led to anything higher, expanded to anything larger--when I found
that I could not pass a single evening, nor even a single hour of the day
with her in comfort; that kindly conversation could not be sustained
between us, because whatever topic I started, immediately received from
her a turn at once coarse and trite, perverse and imbecile--when I
perceived that I should never have a quiet or settled household, because
no servant would bear the continued outbreaks of her violent and
unreasonable temper, or the vexations of her absurd, contradictory,
exacting orders--even then I restrained myself: I eschewed upbraiding, I
curtailed remonstrance; I tried to devour my repentance and disgust in
secret; I repressed the deep antipathy I felt.

"Jane, I will not trouble you with abominable details: some strong words
shall express what I have to say.  I lived with that woman upstairs four
years, and before that time she had tried me indeed: her character
ripened and developed with frightful rapidity; her vices sprang up fast
and rank: they were so strong, only cruelty could check them, and I would
not use cruelty.  What a pigmy intellect she had, and what giant
propensities!  How fearful were the curses those propensities entailed on
me!  Bertha Mason, the true daughter of an infamous mother, dragged me
through all the hideous and degrading agonies which must attend a man
bound to a wife at once intemperate and unchaste.

"My brother in the interval was dead, and at the end of the four years my
father died too.  I was rich enough now--yet poor to hideous indigence: a
nature the most gross, impure, depraved I ever saw, was associated with
mine, and called by the law and by society a part of me.  And I could not
rid myself of it by any legal proceedings: for the doctors now discovered
that _my wife_ was mad--her excesses had prematurely developed the germs
of insanity.  Jane, you don't like my narrative; you look almost
sick--shall I defer the rest to another day?"

"No, sir, finish it now; I pity you--I do earnestly pity you."

"Pity, Jane, from some people is a noxious and insulting sort of tribute,
which one is justified in hurling back in the teeth of those who offer
it; but that is the sort of pity native to callous, selfish hearts; it is
a hybrid, egotistical pain at hearing of woes, crossed with ignorant
contempt for those who have endured them.  But that is not your pity,
Jane; it is not the feeling of which your whole face is full at this
moment--with which your eyes are now almost overflowing--with which your
heart is heaving--with which your hand is trembling in mine.  Your pity,
my darling, is the suffering mother of love: its anguish is the very
natal pang of the divine passion.  I accept it, Jane; let the daughter
have free advent--my arms wait to receive her."

"Now, sir, proceed; what did you do when you found she was mad?"

"Jane, I approached the verge of despair; a remnant of self-respect was
all that intervened between me and the gulf.  In the eyes of the world, I
was doubtless covered with grimy dishonour; but I resolved to be clean in
my own sight--and to the last I repudiated the contamination of her
crimes, and wrenched myself from connection with her mental defects.
Still, society associated my name and person with hers; I yet saw her and
heard her daily: something of her breath (faugh!) mixed with the air I
breathed; and besides, I remembered I had once been her husband--that
recollection was then, and is now, inexpressibly odious to me; moreover,
I knew that while she lived I could never be the husband of another and
better wife; and, though five years my senior (her family and her father
had lied to me even in the particular of her age), she was likely to live
as long as I, being as robust in frame as she was infirm in mind.  Thus,
at the age of twenty-six, I was hopeless.

"One night I had been awakened by her yells--(since the medical men had
pronounced her mad, she had, of course, been shut up)--it was a fiery
West Indian night; one of the description that frequently precede the
hurricanes of those climates.  Being unable to sleep in bed, I got up and
opened the window.  The air was like sulphur-steams--I could find no
refreshment anywhere.  Mosquitoes came buzzing in and hummed sullenly
round the room; the sea, which I could hear from thence, rumbled dull
like an earthquake--black clouds were casting up over it; the moon was
setting in the waves, broad and red, like a hot cannon-ball--she threw
her last bloody glance over a world quivering with the ferment of
tempest.  I was physically influenced by the atmosphere and scene, and my
ears were filled with the curses the maniac still shrieked out; wherein
she momentarily mingled my name with such a tone of demon-hate, with such
language!--no professed harlot ever had a fouler vocabulary than she:
though two rooms off, I heard every word--the thin partitions of the West
India house opposing but slight obstruction to her wolfish cries.

"'This life,' said I at last, 'is hell: this is the air--those are the
sounds of the bottomless pit!  I have a right to deliver myself from it
if I can.  The sufferings of this mortal state will leave me with the
heavy flesh that now cumbers my soul.  Of the fanatic's burning eternity
I have no fear: there is not a future state worse than this present
one--let me break away, and go home to God!'

"I said this whilst I knelt down at, and unlocked a trunk which contained
a brace of loaded pistols: I mean to shoot myself.  I only entertained
the intention for a moment; for, not being insane, the crisis of
exquisite and unalloyed despair, which had originated the wish and design
of self-destruction, was past in a second.

"A wind fresh from Europe blew over the ocean and rushed through the open
casement: the storm broke, streamed, thundered, blazed, and the air grew
pure.  I then framed and fixed a resolution.  While I walked under the
dripping orange-trees of my wet garden, and amongst its drenched
pomegranates and pine-apples, and while the refulgent dawn of the tropics
kindled round me--I reasoned thus, Jane--and now listen; for it was true
Wisdom that consoled me in that hour, and showed me the right path to
follow.

"The sweet wind from Europe was still whispering in the refreshed leaves,
and the Atlantic was thundering in glorious liberty; my heart, dried up
and scorched for a long time, swelled to the tone, and filled with living
blood--my being longed for renewal--my soul thirsted for a pure draught.
I saw hope revive--and felt regeneration possible.  From a flowery arch
at the bottom of my garden I gazed over the sea--bluer than the sky: the
old world was beyond; clear prospects opened thus:--

"'Go,' said Hope, 'and live again in Europe: there it is not known what a
sullied name you bear, nor what a filthy burden is bound to you.  You may
take the maniac with you to England; confine her with due attendance and
precautions at Thornfield: then travel yourself to what clime you will,
and form what new tie you like.  That woman, who has so abused your long-
suffering, so sullied your name, so outraged your honour, so blighted
your youth, is not your wife, nor are you her husband.  See that she is
cared for as her condition demands, and you have done all that God and
humanity require of you.  Let her identity, her connection with yourself,
be buried in oblivion: you are bound to impart them to no living being.
Place her in safety and comfort: shelter her degradation with secrecy,
and leave her.'

"I acted precisely on this suggestion.  My father and brother had not
made my marriage known to their acquaintance; because, in the very first
letter I wrote to apprise them of the union--having already begun to
experience extreme disgust of its consequences, and, from the family
character and constitution, seeing a hideous future opening to me--I
added an urgent charge to keep it secret: and very soon the infamous
conduct of the wife my father had selected for me was such as to make him
blush to own her as his daughter-in-law.  Far from desiring to publish
the connection, he became as anxious to conceal it as myself.

"To England, then, I conveyed her; a fearful voyage I had with such a
monster in the vessel.  Glad was I when I at last got her to Thornfield,
and saw her safely lodged in that third-storey room, of whose secret
inner cabinet she has now for ten years made a wild beast's den--a
goblin's cell.  I had some trouble in finding an attendant for her, as it
was necessary to select one on whose fidelity dependence could be placed;
for her ravings would inevitably betray my secret: besides, she had lucid
intervals of days--sometimes weeks--which she filled up with abuse of me.
At last I hired Grace Poole from the Grimbsy Retreat.  She and the
surgeon, Carter (who dressed Mason's wounds that night he was stabbed and
worried), are the only two I have ever admitted to my confidence.  Mrs.
Fairfax may indeed have suspected something, but she could have gained no
precise knowledge as to facts.  Grace has, on the whole, proved a good
keeper; though, owing partly to a fault of her own, of which it appears
nothing can cure her, and which is incident to her harassing profession,
her vigilance has been more than once lulled and baffled.  The lunatic is
both cunning and malignant; she has never failed to take advantage of her
guardian's temporary lapses; once to secrete the knife with which she
stabbed her brother, and twice to possess herself of the key of her cell,
and issue therefrom in the night-time.  On the first of these occasions,
she perpetrated the attempt to burn me in my bed; on the second, she paid
that ghastly visit to you.  I thank Providence, who watched over you,
that she then spent her fury on your wedding apparel, which perhaps
brought back vague reminiscences of her own bridal days: but on what
might have happened, I cannot endure to reflect.  When I think of the
thing which flew at my throat this morning, hanging its black and scarlet
visage over the nest of my dove, my blood curdles--"

"And what, sir," I asked, while he paused, "did you do when you had
settled her here?  Where did you go?"

"What did I do, Jane?  I transformed myself into a will-o'-the-wisp.
Where did I go?  I pursued wanderings as wild as those of the
March-spirit.  I sought the Continent, and went devious through all its
lands.  My fixed desire was to seek and find a good and intelligent
woman, whom I could love: a contrast to the fury I left at Thornfield--"

"But you could not marry, sir."

"I had determined and was convinced that I could and ought.  It was not
my original intention to deceive, as I have deceived you.  I meant to
tell my tale plainly, and make my proposals openly: and it appeared to me
so absolutely rational that I should be considered free to love and be
loved, I never doubted some woman might be found willing and able to
understand my case and accept me, in spite of the curse with which I was
burdened."

"Well, sir?"

"When you are inquisitive, Jane, you always make me smile.  You open your
eyes like an eager bird, and make every now and then a restless movement,
as if answers in speech did not flow fast enough for you, and you wanted
to read the tablet of one's heart.  But before I go on, tell me what you
mean by your 'Well, sir?'  It is a small phrase very frequent with you;
and which many a time has drawn me on and on through interminable talk: I
don't very well know why."

"I mean,--What next?  How did you proceed?  What came of such an event?"

"Precisely! and what do you wish to know now?"

"Whether you found any one you liked: whether you asked her to marry you;
and what she said."

"I can tell you whether I found any one I liked, and whether I asked her
to marry me: but what she said is yet to be recorded in the book of Fate.
For ten long years I roved about, living first in one capital, then
another: sometimes in St. Petersburg; oftener in Paris; occasionally in
Rome, Naples, and Florence.  Provided with plenty of money and the
passport of an old name, I could choose my own society: no circles were
closed against me.  I sought my ideal of a woman amongst English ladies,
French countesses, Italian signoras, and German grafinnen.  I could not
find her.  Sometimes, for a fleeting moment, I thought I caught a glance,
heard a tone, beheld a form, which announced the realisation of my dream:
but I was presently undeserved.  You are not to suppose that I desired
perfection, either of mind or person.  I longed only for what suited
me--for the antipodes of the Creole: and I longed vainly.  Amongst them
all I found not one whom, had I been ever so free, I--warned as I was of
the risks, the horrors, the loathings of incongruous unions--would have
asked to marry me.  Disappointment made me reckless.  I tried
dissipation--never debauchery: that I hated, and hate.  That was my
Indian Messalina's attribute: rooted disgust at it and her restrained me
much, even in pleasure.  Any enjoyment that bordered on riot seemed to
approach me to her and her vices, and I eschewed it.

"Yet I could not live alone; so I tried the companionship of mistresses.
The first I chose was Celine Varens--another of those steps which make a
man spurn himself when he recalls them.  You already know what she was,
and how my liaison with her terminated.  She had two successors: an
Italian, Giacinta, and a German, Clara; both considered singularly
handsome.  What was their beauty to me in a few weeks?  Giacinta was
unprincipled and violent: I tired of her in three months.  Clara was
honest and quiet; but heavy, mindless, and unimpressible: not one whit to
my taste.  I was glad to give her a sufficient sum to set her up in a
good line of business, and so get decently rid of her.  But, Jane, I see
by your face you are not forming a very favourable opinion of me just
now.  You think me an unfeeling, loose-principled rake: don't you?"

"I don't like you so well as I have done sometimes, indeed, sir.  Did it
not seem to you in the least wrong to live in that way, first with one
mistress and then another?  You talk of it as a mere matter of course."

"It was with me; and I did not like it.  It was a grovelling fashion of
existence: I should never like to return to it.  Hiring a mistress is the
next worse thing to buying a slave: both are often by nature, and always
by position, inferior: and to live familiarly with inferiors is
degrading.  I now hate the recollection of the time I passed with Celine,
Giacinta, and Clara."

I felt the truth of these words; and I drew from them the certain
inference, that if I were so far to forget myself and all the teaching
that had ever been instilled into me, as--under any pretext--with any
justification--through any temptation--to become the successor of these
poor girls, he would one day regard me with the same feeling which now in
his mind desecrated their memory.  I did not give utterance to this
conviction: it was enough to feel it.  I impressed it on my heart, that
it might remain there to serve me as aid in the time of trial.

"Now, Jane, why don't you say 'Well, sir?'  I have not done.  You are
looking grave.  You disapprove of me still, I see.  But let me come to
the point.  Last January, rid of all mistresses--in a harsh, bitter frame
of mind, the result of a useless, roving, lonely life--corroded with
disappointment, sourly disposed against all men, and especially against
all womankind (for I began to regard the notion of an intellectual,
faithful, loving woman as a mere dream), recalled by business, I came
back to England.

"On a frosty winter afternoon, I rode in sight of Thornfield Hall.
Abhorred spot!  I expected no peace--no pleasure there.  On a stile in
Hay Lane I saw a quiet little figure sitting by itself.  I passed it as
negligently as I did the pollard willow opposite to it: I had no
presentiment of what it would be to me; no inward warning that the
arbitress of my life--my genius for good or evil--waited there in humble
guise.  I did not know it, even when, on the occasion of Mesrour's
accident, it came up and gravely offered me help.  Childish and slender
creature!  It seemed as if a linnet had hopped to my foot and proposed to
bear me on its tiny wing.  I was surly; but the thing would not go: it
stood by me with strange perseverance, and looked and spoke with a sort
of authority.  I must be aided, and by that hand: and aided I was.

"When once I had pressed the frail shoulder, something new--a fresh sap
and sense--stole into my frame.  It was well I had learnt that this elf
must return to me--that it belonged to my house down below--or I could
not have felt it pass away from under my hand, and seen it vanish behind
the dim hedge, without singular regret.  I heard you come home that
night, Jane, though probably you were not aware that I thought of you or
watched for you.  The next day I observed you--myself unseen--for half-an-
hour, while you played with Adele in the gallery.  It was a snowy day, I
recollect, and you could not go out of doors.  I was in my room; the door
was ajar: I could both listen and watch.  Adele claimed your outward
attention for a while; yet I fancied your thoughts were elsewhere: but
you were very patient with her, my little Jane; you talked to her and
amused her a long time.  When at last she left you, you lapsed at once
into deep reverie: you betook yourself slowly to pace the gallery.  Now
and then, in passing a casement, you glanced out at the thick-falling
snow; you listened to the sobbing wind, and again you paced gently on and
dreamed.  I think those day visions were not dark: there was a
pleasurable illumination in your eye occasionally, a soft excitement in
your aspect, which told of no bitter, bilious, hypochondriac brooding:
your look revealed rather the sweet musings of youth when its spirit
follows on willing wings the flight of Hope up and on to an ideal heaven.
The voice of Mrs. Fairfax, speaking to a servant in the hall, wakened
you: and how curiously you smiled to and at yourself, Janet!  There was
much sense in your smile: it was very shrewd, and seemed to make light of
your own abstraction.  It seemed to say--'My fine visions are all very
well, but I must not forget they are absolutely unreal.  I have a rosy
sky and a green flowery Eden in my brain; but without, I am perfectly
aware, lies at my feet a rough tract to travel, and around me gather
black tempests to encounter.'  You ran downstairs and demanded of Mrs.
Fairfax some occupation: the weekly house accounts to make up, or
something of that sort, I think it was.  I was vexed with you for getting
out of my sight.

"Impatiently I waited for evening, when I might summon you to my
presence.  An unusual--to me--a perfectly new character I suspected was
yours: I desired to search it deeper and know it better.  You entered the
room with a look and air at once shy and independent: you were quaintly
dressed--much as you are now.  I made you talk: ere long I found you full
of strange contrasts.  Your garb and manner were restricted by rule; your
air was often diffident, and altogether that of one refined by nature,
but absolutely unused to society, and a good deal afraid of making
herself disadvantageously conspicuous by some solecism or blunder; yet
when addressed, you lifted a keen, a daring, and a glowing eye to your
interlocutor's face: there was penetration and power in each glance you
gave; when plied by close questions, you found ready and round answers.
Very soon you seemed to get used to me: I believe you felt the existence
of sympathy between you and your grim and cross master, Jane; for it was
astonishing to see how quickly a certain pleasant ease tranquillised your
manner: snarl as I would, you showed no surprise, fear, annoyance, or
displeasure at my moroseness; you watched me, and now and then smiled at
me with a simple yet sagacious grace I cannot describe.  I was at once
content and stimulated with what I saw: I liked what I had seen, and
wished to see more.  Yet, for a long time, I treated you distantly, and
sought your company rarely.  I was an intellectual epicure, and wished to
prolong the gratification of making this novel and piquant acquaintance:
besides, I was for a while troubled with a haunting fear that if I
handled the flower freely its bloom would fade--the sweet charm of
freshness would leave it.  I did not then know that it was no transitory
blossom, but rather the radiant resemblance of one, cut in an
indestructible gem.  Moreover, I wished to see whether you would seek me
if I shunned you--but you did not; you kept in the schoolroom as still as
your own desk and easel; if by chance I met you, you passed me as soon,
and with as little token of recognition, as was consistent with respect.
Your habitual expression in those days, Jane, was a thoughtful look; not
despondent, for you were not sickly; but not buoyant, for you had little
hope, and no actual pleasure.  I wondered what you thought of me, or if
you ever thought of me, and resolved to find this out.

"I resumed my notice of you.  There was something glad in your glance,
and genial in your manner, when you conversed: I saw you had a social
heart; it was the silent schoolroom--it was the tedium of your life--that
made you mournful.  I permitted myself the delight of being kind to you;
kindness stirred emotion soon: your face became soft in expression, your
tones gentle; I liked my name pronounced by your lips in a grateful happy
accent.  I used to enjoy a chance meeting with you, Jane, at this time:
there was a curious hesitation in your manner: you glanced at me with a
slight trouble--a hovering doubt: you did not know what my caprice might
be--whether I was going to play the master and be stern, or the friend
and be benignant.  I was now too fond of you often to simulate the first
whim; and, when I stretched my hand out cordially, such bloom and light
and bliss rose to your young, wistful features, I had much ado often to
avoid straining you then and there to my heart."

"Don't talk any more of those days, sir," I interrupted, furtively
dashing away some tears from my eyes; his language was torture to me; for
I knew what I must do--and do soon--and all these reminiscences, and
these revelations of his feelings only made my work more difficult.

"No, Jane," he returned: "what necessity is there to dwell on the Past,
when the Present is so much surer--the Future so much brighter?"

I shuddered to hear the infatuated assertion.

"You see now how the case stands--do you not?" he continued.  "After a
youth and manhood passed half in unutterable misery and half in dreary
solitude, I have for the first time found what I can truly love--I have
found you.  You are my sympathy--my better self--my good angel.  I am
bound to you with a strong attachment.  I think you good, gifted, lovely:
a fervent, a solemn passion is conceived in my heart; it leans to you,
draws you to my centre and spring of life, wraps my existence about you,
and, kindling in pure, powerful flame, fuses you and me in one.

"It was because I felt and knew this, that I resolved to marry you.  To
tell me that I had already a wife is empty mockery: you know now that I
had but a hideous demon.  I was wrong to attempt to deceive you; but I
feared a stubbornness that exists in your character.  I feared early
instilled prejudice: I wanted to have you safe before hazarding
confidences.  This was cowardly: I should have appealed to your nobleness
and magnanimity at first, as I do now--opened to you plainly my life of
agony--described to you my hunger and thirst after a higher and worthier
existence--shown to you, not my _resolution_ (that word is weak), but my
resistless _bent_ to love faithfully and well, where I am faithfully and
well loved in return.  Then I should have asked you to accept my pledge
of fidelity and to give me yours.  Jane--give it me now."

A pause.

"Why are you silent, Jane?"

I was experiencing an ordeal: a hand of fiery iron grasped my vitals.
Terrible moment: full of struggle, blackness, burning!  Not a human being
that ever lived could wish to be loved better than I was loved; and him
who thus loved me I absolutely worshipped: and I must renounce love and
idol.  One drear word comprised my intolerable duty--"Depart!"

"Jane, you understand what I want of you?  Just this promise--'I will be
yours, Mr. Rochester.'"

"Mr. Rochester, I will _not_ be yours."

Another long silence.

"Jane!" recommenced he, with a gentleness that broke me down with grief,
and turned me stone-cold with ominous terror--for this still voice was
the pant of a lion rising--"Jane, do you mean to go one way in the world,
and to let me go another?"

"I do."

"Jane" (bending towards and embracing me), "do you mean it now?"

"I do."

"And now?" softly kissing my forehead and cheek.

"I do," extricating myself from restraint rapidly and completely.

"Oh, Jane, this is bitter!  This--this is wicked.  It would not be wicked
to love me."

"It would to obey you."

A wild look raised his brows--crossed his features: he rose; but he
forebore yet.  I laid my hand on the back of a chair for support: I
shook, I feared--but I resolved.

"One instant, Jane.  Give one glance to my horrible life when you are
gone.  All happiness will be torn away with you.  What then is left?  For
a wife I have but the maniac upstairs: as well might you refer me to some
corpse in yonder churchyard.  What shall I do, Jane?  Where turn for a
companion and for some hope?"

"Do as I do: trust in God and yourself.  Believe in heaven.  Hope to meet
again there."

"Then you will not yield?"

"No."

"Then you condemn me to live wretched and to die accursed?"  His voice
rose.

"I advise you to live sinless, and I wish you to die tranquil."

"Then you snatch love and innocence from me?  You fling me back on lust
for a passion--vice for an occupation?"

"Mr. Rochester, I no more assign this fate to you than I grasp at it for
myself.  We were born to strive and endure--you as well as I: do so.  You
will forget me before I forget you."

"You make me a liar by such language: you sully my honour.  I declared I
could not change: you tell me to my face I shall change soon.  And what a
distortion in your judgment, what a perversity in your ideas, is proved
by your conduct!  Is it better to drive a fellow-creature to despair than
to transgress a mere human law, no man being injured by the breach? for
you have neither relatives nor acquaintances whom you need fear to offend
by living with me?"

This was true: and while he spoke my very conscience and reason turned
traitors against me, and charged me with crime in resisting him.  They
spoke almost as loud as Feeling: and that clamoured wildly.  "Oh,
comply!" it said.  "Think of his misery; think of his danger--look at his
state when left alone; remember his headlong nature; consider the
recklessness following on despair--soothe him; save him; love him; tell
him you love him and will be his.  Who in the world cares for _you_? or
who will be injured by what you do?"

Still indomitable was the reply--"_I_ care for myself.  The more
solitary, the more friendless, the more unsustained I am, the more I will
respect myself.  I will keep the law given by God; sanctioned by man.  I
will hold to the principles received by me when I was sane, and not
mad--as I am now.  Laws and principles are not for the times when there
is no temptation: they are for such moments as this, when body and soul
rise in mutiny against their rigour; stringent are they; inviolate they
shall be.  If at my individual convenience I might break them, what would
be their worth?  They have a worth--so I have always believed; and if I
cannot believe it now, it is because I am insane--quite insane: with my
veins running fire, and my heart beating faster than I can count its
throbs.  Preconceived opinions, foregone determinations, are all I have
at this hour to stand by: there I plant my foot."

I did.  Mr. Rochester, reading my countenance, saw I had done so.  His
fury was wrought to the highest: he must yield to it for a moment,
whatever followed; he crossed the floor and seized my arm and grasped my
waist.  He seemed to devour me with his flaming glance: physically, I
felt, at the moment, powerless as stubble exposed to the draught and glow
of a furnace: mentally, I still possessed my soul, and with it the
certainty of ultimate safety.  The soul, fortunately, has an
interpreter--often an unconscious, but still a truthful interpreter--in
the eye.  My eye rose to his; and while I looked in his fierce face I
gave an involuntary sigh; his gripe was painful, and my over-taxed
strength almost exhausted.

"Never," said he, as he ground his teeth, "never was anything at once so
frail and so indomitable.  A mere reed she feels in my hand!"  (And he
shook me with the force of his hold.)  "I could bend her with my finger
and thumb: and what good would it do if I bent, if I uptore, if I crushed
her?  Consider that eye: consider the resolute, wild, free thing looking
out of it, defying me, with more than courage--with a stern triumph.
Whatever I do with its cage, I cannot get at it--the savage, beautiful
creature!  If I tear, if I rend the slight prison, my outrage will only
let the captive loose.  Conqueror I might be of the house; but the inmate
would escape to heaven before I could call myself possessor of its clay
dwelling-place.  And it is you, spirit--with will and energy, and virtue
and purity--that I want: not alone your brittle frame.  Of yourself you
could come with soft flight and nestle against my heart, if you would:
seized against your will, you will elude the grasp like an essence--you
will vanish ere I inhale your fragrance.  Oh! come, Jane, come!"

As he said this, he released me from his clutch, and only looked at me.
The look was far worse to resist than the frantic strain: only an idiot,
however, would have succumbed now.  I had dared and baffled his fury; I
must elude his sorrow: I retired to the door.

"You are going, Jane?"

"I am going, sir."

"You are leaving me?"

"Yes."

"You will not come?  You will not be my comforter, my rescuer?  My deep
love, my wild woe, my frantic prayer, are all nothing to you?"

What unutterable pathos was in his voice!  How hard it was to reiterate
firmly, "I am going."

"Jane!"

"Mr. Rochester!"

"Withdraw, then,--I consent; but remember, you leave me here in anguish.
Go up to your own room; think over all I have said, and, Jane, cast a
glance on my sufferings--think of me."

He turned away; he threw himself on his face on the sofa.  "Oh, Jane! my
hope--my love--my life!" broke in anguish from his lips.  Then came a
deep, strong sob.

I had already gained the door; but, reader, I walked back--walked back as
determinedly as I had retreated.  I knelt down by him; I turned his face
from the cushion to me; I kissed his cheek; I smoothed his hair with my
hand.

"God bless you, my dear master!" I said.  "God keep you from harm and
wrong--direct you, solace you--reward you well for your past kindness to
me."

"Little Jane's love would have been my best reward," he answered;
"without it, my heart is broken.  But Jane will give me her love:
yes--nobly, generously."

Up the blood rushed to his face; forth flashed the fire from his eyes;
erect he sprang; he held his arms out; but I evaded the embrace, and at
once quitted the room.

"Farewell!" was the cry of my heart as I left him.  Despair added,
"Farewell for ever!"

* * * * *

That night I never thought to sleep; but a slumber fell on me as soon as
I lay down in bed.  I was transported in thought to the scenes of
childhood: I dreamt I lay in the red-room at Gateshead; that the night
was dark, and my mind impressed with strange fears.  The light that long
ago had struck me into syncope, recalled in this vision, seemed glidingly
to mount the wall, and tremblingly to pause in the centre of the obscured
ceiling.  I lifted up my head to look: the roof resolved to clouds, high
and dim; the gleam was such as the moon imparts to vapours she is about
to sever.  I watched her come--watched with the strangest anticipation;
as though some word of doom were to be written on her disk.  She broke
forth as never moon yet burst from cloud: a hand first penetrated the
sable folds and waved them away; then, not a moon, but a white human form
shone in the azure, inclining a glorious brow earthward.  It gazed and
gazed on me.  It spoke to my spirit: immeasurably distant was the tone,
yet so near, it whispered in my heart--

"My daughter, flee temptation."

"Mother, I will."

So I answered after I had waked from the trance-like dream.  It was yet
night, but July nights are short: soon after midnight, dawn comes.  "It
cannot be too early to commence the task I have to fulfil," thought I.  I
rose: I was dressed; for I had taken off nothing but my shoes.  I knew
where to find in my drawers some linen, a locket, a ring.  In seeking
these articles, I encountered the beads of a pearl necklace Mr. Rochester
had forced me to accept a few days ago.  I left that; it was not mine: it
was the visionary bride's who had melted in air.  The other articles I
made up in a parcel; my purse, containing twenty shillings (it was all I
had), I put in my pocket: I tied on my straw bonnet, pinned my shawl,
took the parcel and my slippers, which I would not put on yet, and stole
from my room.

"Farewell, kind Mrs. Fairfax!" I whispered, as I glided past her door.
"Farewell, my darling Adele!" I said, as I glanced towards the nursery.
No thought could be admitted of entering to embrace her.  I had to
deceive a fine ear: for aught I knew it might now be listening.

I would have got past Mr. Rochester's chamber without a pause; but my
heart momentarily stopping its beat at that threshold, my foot was forced
to stop also.  No sleep was there: the inmate was walking restlessly from
wall to wall; and again and again he sighed while I listened.  There was
a heaven--a temporary heaven--in this room for me, if I chose: I had but
to go in and to say--

"Mr. Rochester, I will love you and live with you through life till
death," and a fount of rapture would spring to my lips.  I thought of
this.

That kind master, who could not sleep now, was waiting with impatience
for day.  He would send for me in the morning; I should be gone.  He
would have me sought for: vainly.  He would feel himself forsaken; his
love rejected: he would suffer; perhaps grow desperate.  I thought of
this too.  My hand moved towards the lock: I caught it back, and glided
on.

Drearily I wound my way downstairs: I knew what I had to do, and I did it
mechanically.  I sought the key of the side-door in the kitchen; I
sought, too, a phial of oil and a feather; I oiled the key and the lock.
I got some water, I got some bread: for perhaps I should have to walk
far; and my strength, sorely shaken of late, must not break down.  All
this I did without one sound.  I opened the door, passed out, shut it
softly.  Dim dawn glimmered in the yard.  The great gates were closed and
locked; but a wicket in one of them was only latched.  Through that I
departed: it, too, I shut; and now I was out of Thornfield.

A mile off, beyond the fields, lay a road which stretched in the contrary
direction to Millcote; a road I had never travelled, but often noticed,
and wondered where it led: thither I bent my steps.  No reflection was to
be allowed now: not one glance was to be cast back; not even one forward.
Not one thought was to be given either to the past or the future.  The
first was a page so heavenly sweet--so deadly sad--that to read one line
of it would dissolve my courage and break down my energy.  The last was
an awful blank: something like the world when the deluge was gone by.

I skirted fields, and hedges, and lanes till after sunrise.  I believe it
was a lovely summer morning: I know my shoes, which I had put on when I
left the house, were soon wet with dew.  But I looked neither to rising
sun, nor smiling sky, nor wakening nature.  He who is taken out to pass
through a fair scene to the scaffold, thinks not of the flowers that
smile on his road, but of the block and axe-edge; of the disseverment of
bone and vein; of the grave gaping at the end: and I thought of drear
flight and homeless wandering--and oh! with agony I thought of what I
left.  I could not help it.  I thought of him now--in his room--watching
the sunrise; hoping I should soon come to say I would stay with him and
be his.  I longed to be his; I panted to return: it was not too late; I
could yet spare him the bitter pang of bereavement.  As yet my flight, I
was sure, was undiscovered.  I could go back and be his comforter--his
pride; his redeemer from misery, perhaps from ruin.  Oh, that fear of his
self-abandonment--far worse than my abandonment--how it goaded me!  It
was a barbed arrow-head in my breast; it tore me when I tried to extract
it; it sickened me when remembrance thrust it farther in.  Birds began
singing in brake and copse: birds were faithful to their mates; birds
were emblems of love.  What was I?  In the midst of my pain of heart and
frantic effort of principle, I abhorred myself.  I had no solace from
self-approbation: none even from self-respect.  I had
injured--wounded--left my master.  I was hateful in my own eyes.  Still I
could not turn, nor retrace one step.  God must have led me on.  As to my
own will or conscience, impassioned grief had trampled one and stifled
the other.  I was weeping wildly as I walked along my solitary way: fast,
fast I went like one delirious.  A weakness, beginning inwardly,
extending to the limbs, seized me, and I fell: I lay on the ground some
minutes, pressing my face to the wet turf.  I had some fear--or hope--that
here I should die: but I was soon up; crawling forwards on my hands and
knees, and then again raised to my feet--as eager and as determined as
ever to reach the road.

When I got there, I was forced to sit to rest me under the hedge; and
while I sat, I heard wheels, and saw a coach come on.  I stood up and
lifted my hand; it stopped.  I asked where it was going: the driver named
a place a long way off, and where I was sure Mr. Rochester had no
connections.  I asked for what sum he would take me there; he said thirty
shillings; I answered I had but twenty; well, he would try to make it do.
He further gave me leave to get into the inside, as the vehicle was
empty: I entered, was shut in, and it rolled on its way.

Gentle reader, may you never feel what I then felt!  May your eyes never
shed such stormy, scalding, heart-wrung tears as poured from mine.  May
you never appeal to Heaven in prayers so hopeless and so agonised as in
that hour left my lips; for never may you, like me, dread to be the
instrument of evil to what you wholly love.

 After falling asleep for a short while, Jane awakes to the realization that she must leave Thornfield. When she steps out of her room, she finds Rochester waiting in a chair on the threshold. To Rochester's assurances that he never meant to wound her, and to his pleas of forgiveness, Jane is silent, although she confides to the reader that she forgave him on the spot. Jane suddenly feels faint, and Rochester carries her to the library to revive her. He then offers her a new proposal--to leave England with him for the South of France, where they will live together as husband and wife. Jane refuses, explaining that no matter how Rochester chooses to view the situation, she will never be more than a mistress to him while Bertha is alive. Rochester realizes that he must explain why he does not consider himself married, and he launches into the story of his past. Unwilling to divide his property, Rochester's father left his entire estate to his other son, Rowland, and sent Rochester to Jamaica to marry Bertha, who was to inherit a massive fortune--30,000 pounds. Bertha was beautiful, and although she and Rochester spent hardly any time alone, the stimulated, dazzled, and ignorant youth believed himself to be in love and agreed to the marriage. Shortly after the wedding, Rochester learned that Bertha's mother was not, as he had been led to believe, dead, but mad and living in an insane asylum. Bertha's younger brother was a mute idiot. Rochester's father and brother had known about the family's unpromising genetic legacy, but they had promoted the marriage for the sake of the money. Bertha soon revealed herself to be coarse, perverse, and prone to violent outbreaks of temper and unhealthy indulgences. These excesses only hastened the approach of what had been lurking on her horizon already: absolute madness. By this time, Rochester's father and brother had died, so Rochester found himself all alone with a maniacal wife and a huge fortune. He considered killing himself but returned to England instead. He resolved to place Bertha at Thornfield Hall "in safety and comfort: shelter her degradation with secrecy, and leave her. Rochester then drifted around the continent from one city to the next, always in search of a woman to love. When he was met with disappointment, he sank into debauchery. He was always disappointed with his mistresses, because they were, as he puts it, "the next worse thing to buying a slave. Then he met Jane. Rochester retells the story of their introduction from his point of view, telling her that she enchanted him from the start. Jane feels torn. She doesn't want to condemn Rochester to further misery, and a voice within her asks, "Who in the world cares for you. Jane wonders how she could ever find another man who values her the way Rochester does, and whether, after a life of loneliness and neglect, she should leave the first man who has ever loved her. Yet her conscience tells her that she will respect herself all the more if she bears her suffering alone and does what she believes to be right. She tells Rochester that she must go, but she kisses his cheek and prays aloud for God to bless him as she departs. That night, Jane has a dream in which her mother tells her to flee temptation. She grabs her purse, sneaks down the stairs, and leaves Thornfield

