Chapter: The month of courtship had wasted: its very last hours were being
numbered.  There was no putting off the day that advanced--the bridal
day; and all preparations for its arrival were complete.  _I_, at least,
had nothing more to do: there were my trunks, packed, locked, corded,
ranged in a row along the wall of my little chamber; to-morrow, at this
time, they would be far on their road to London: and so should I
(D.V.),--or rather, not I, but one Jane Rochester, a person whom as yet I
knew not.  The cards of address alone remained to nail on: they lay, four
little squares, in the drawer.  Mr. Rochester had himself written the
direction, "Mrs. Rochester, --- Hotel, London," on each: I could not
persuade myself to affix them, or to have them affixed.  Mrs. Rochester!
She did not exist: she would not be born till to-morrow, some time after
eight o'clock a.m.; and I would wait to be assured she had come into the
world alive before I assigned to her all that property.  It was enough
that in yonder closet, opposite my dressing-table, garments said to be
hers had already displaced my black stuff Lowood frock and straw bonnet:
for not to me appertained that suit of wedding raiment; the
pearl-coloured robe, the vapoury veil pendent from the usurped
portmanteau.  I shut the closet to conceal the strange, wraith-like
apparel it contained; which, at this evening hour--nine o'clock--gave out
certainly a most ghostly shimmer through the shadow of my apartment.  "I
will leave you by yourself, white dream," I said.  "I am feverish: I hear
the wind blowing: I will go out of doors and feel it."

It was not only the hurry of preparation that made me feverish; not only
the anticipation of the great change--the new life which was to commence
to-morrow: both these circumstances had their share, doubtless, in
producing that restless, excited mood which hurried me forth at this late
hour into the darkening grounds: but a third cause influenced my mind
more than they.

I had at heart a strange and anxious thought.  Something had happened
which I could not comprehend; no one knew of or had seen the event but
myself: it had taken place the preceding night.  Mr. Rochester that night
was absent from home; nor was he yet returned: business had called him to
a small estate of two or three farms he possessed thirty miles
off--business it was requisite he should settle in person, previous to
his meditated departure from England.  I waited now his return; eager to
disburthen my mind, and to seek of him the solution of the enigma that
perplexed me.  Stay till he comes, reader; and, when I disclose my secret
to him, you shall share the confidence.

I sought the orchard, driven to its shelter by the wind, which all day
had blown strong and full from the south, without, however, bringing a
speck of rain.  Instead of subsiding as night drew on, it seemed to
augment its rush and deepen its roar: the trees blew steadfastly one way,
never writhing round, and scarcely tossing back their boughs once in an
hour; so continuous was the strain bending their branchy heads
northward--the clouds drifted from pole to pole, fast following, mass on
mass: no glimpse of blue sky had been visible that July day.

It was not without a certain wild pleasure I ran before the wind,
delivering my trouble of mind to the measureless air-torrent thundering
through space.  Descending the laurel walk, I faced the wreck of the
chestnut-tree; it stood up black and riven: the trunk, split down the
centre, gasped ghastly.  The cloven halves were not broken from each
other, for the firm base and strong roots kept them unsundered below;
though community of vitality was destroyed--the sap could flow no more:
their great boughs on each side were dead, and next winter's tempests
would be sure to fell one or both to earth: as yet, however, they might
be said to form one tree--a ruin, but an entire ruin.

"You did right to hold fast to each other," I said: as if the monster-
splinters were living things, and could hear me.  "I think, scathed as
you look, and charred and scorched, there must be a little sense of life
in you yet, rising out of that adhesion at the faithful, honest roots:
you will never have green leaves more--never more see birds making nests
and singing idyls in your boughs; the time of pleasure and love is over
with you: but you are not desolate: each of you has a comrade to
sympathise with him in his decay."  As I looked up at them, the moon
appeared momentarily in that part of the sky which filled their fissure;
her disk was blood-red and half overcast; she seemed to throw on me one
bewildered, dreary glance, and buried herself again instantly in the deep
drift of cloud.  The wind fell, for a second, round Thornfield; but far
away over wood and water, poured a wild, melancholy wail: it was sad to
listen to, and I ran off again.

Here and there I strayed through the orchard, gathered up the apples with
which the grass round the tree roots was thickly strewn; then I employed
myself in dividing the ripe from the unripe; I carried them into the
house and put them away in the store-room.  Then I repaired to the
library to ascertain whether the fire was lit, for, though summer, I knew
on such a gloomy evening Mr. Rochester would like to see a cheerful
hearth when he came in: yes, the fire had been kindled some time, and
burnt well.  I placed his arm-chair by the chimney-corner: I wheeled the
table near it: I let down the curtain, and had the candles brought in
ready for lighting.  More restless than ever, when I had completed these
arrangements I could not sit still, nor even remain in the house: a
little time-piece in the room and the old clock in the hall
simultaneously struck ten.

"How late it grows!" I said.  "I will run down to the gates: it is
moonlight at intervals; I can see a good way on the road.  He may be
coming now, and to meet him will save some minutes of suspense."

The wind roared high in the great trees which embowered the gates; but
the road as far as I could see, to the right hand and the left, was all
still and solitary: save for the shadows of clouds crossing it at
intervals as the moon looked out, it was but a long pale line, unvaried
by one moving speck.

A puerile tear dimmed my eye while I looked--a tear of disappointment and
impatience; ashamed of it, I wiped it away.  I lingered; the moon shut
herself wholly within her chamber, and drew close her curtain of dense
cloud: the night grew dark; rain came driving fast on the gale.

"I wish he would come!  I wish he would come!" I exclaimed, seized with
hypochondriac foreboding.  I had expected his arrival before tea; now it
was dark: what could keep him?  Had an accident happened?  The event of
last night again recurred to me.  I interpreted it as a warning of
disaster.  I feared my hopes were too bright to be realised; and I had
enjoyed so much bliss lately that I imagined my fortune had passed its
meridian, and must now decline.

"Well, I cannot return to the house," I thought; "I cannot sit by the
fireside, while he is abroad in inclement weather: better tire my limbs
than strain my heart; I will go forward and meet him."

I set out; I walked fast, but not far: ere I had measured a quarter of 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-bye, 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 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: p272.jpg}

"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 Adele in the nursery?" he asked, as I lit my
candle.

"Yes, sir."

"And there is room enough in Adele'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
Adele 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 Adele 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 here I was now
to array myself to meet, the dread, but adored, type of my unknown future
day.

 The night before her wedding, Jane waits for Rochester, who has left Thornfield for the evening. She grows restless and takes a walk in the orchard, where she sees the now-split chestnut tree. When Rochester arrives, Jane tells him about strange events that have occurred in his absence. The preceding evening, Jane's wedding dress arrived, and underneath it was an expensive veil--Rochester's wedding gift to Jane. In the night, Jane had a strange dream, in which a little child cried in her arms as Jane tried to make her way toward Rochester on a long, winding road. Rochester dismisses the dream as insignificant, but then she tells him about a second dream. This time, Jane loses her balance and the child falls from her knee. The dream was so disturbing that it roused Jane from her sleep, and she perceived "a form" rustling in her closet. It turned out to be a strange, savage-looking woman, who took Jane's veil and tore it in two. Rochester tells her that the woman must have been Grace Poole and that what she experienced was really "half-dream, half-reality. He tells her that he will give her a full explanation of events after they have been married for one year and one day. Jane sleeps with Adele for the evening and cries because she will soon have to leave the sleeping girl

