Chapter: The manor-house of Ferndean was a building of considerable antiquity,
moderate size, and no architectural pretensions, deep buried in a wood.  I
had heard of it before.  Mr. Rochester often spoke of it, and sometimes
went there.  His father had purchased the estate for the sake of the game
covers.  He would have let the house, but could find no tenant, in
consequence of its ineligible and insalubrious site.  Ferndean then
remained uninhabited and unfurnished, with the exception of some two or
three rooms fitted up for the accommodation of the squire when he went
there in the season to shoot.

To this house I came just ere dark on an evening marked by the
characteristics of sad sky, cold gale, and continued small penetrating
rain.  The last mile I performed on foot, having dismissed the chaise and
driver with the double remuneration I had promised.  Even when within a
very short distance of the manor-house, you could see nothing of it, so
thick and dark grew the timber of the gloomy wood about it.  Iron gates
between granite pillars showed me where to enter, and passing through
them, I found myself at once in the twilight of close-ranked trees.  There
was a grass-grown track descending the forest aisle between hoar and
knotty shafts and under branched arches.  I followed it, expecting soon
to reach the dwelling; but it stretched on and on, it wound far and
farther: no sign of habitation or grounds was visible.

I thought I had taken a wrong direction and lost my way.  The darkness of
natural as well as of sylvan dusk gathered over me.  I looked round in
search of another road.  There was none: all was interwoven stem,
columnar trunk, dense summer foliage--no opening anywhere.

I proceeded: at last my way opened, the trees thinned a little; presently
I beheld a railing, then the house--scarce, by this dim light,
distinguishable from the trees; so dank and green were its decaying
walls.  Entering a portal, fastened only by a latch, I stood amidst a
space of enclosed ground, from which the wood swept away in a semicircle.
There were no flowers, no garden-beds; only a broad gravel-walk girdling
a grass-plat, and this set in the heavy frame of the forest.  The house
presented two pointed gables in its front; the windows were latticed and
narrow: the front door was narrow too, one step led up to it.  The whole
looked, as the host of the Rochester Arms had said, "quite a desolate
spot."  It was as still as a church on a week-day: the pattering rain on
the forest leaves was the only sound audible in its vicinage.

"Can there be life here?" I asked.

Yes, life of some kind there was; for I heard a movement--that narrow
front-door was unclosing, and some shape was about to issue from the
grange.

It opened slowly: a figure came out into the twilight and stood on the
step; a man without a hat: he stretched forth his hand as if to feel
whether it rained.  Dusk as it was, I had recognised him--it was my
master, Edward Fairfax Rochester, and no other.

I stayed my step, almost my breath, and stood to watch him--to examine
him, myself unseen, and alas! to him invisible.  It was a sudden meeting,
and one in which rapture was kept well in check by pain.  I had no
difficulty in restraining my voice from exclamation, my step from hasty
advance.

His form was of the same strong and stalwart contour as ever: his port
was still erect, his hair was still raven black; nor were his features
altered or sunk: not in one year's space, by any sorrow, could his
athletic strength be quelled or his vigorous prime blighted.  But in his
countenance I saw a change: that looked desperate and brooding--that
reminded me of some wronged and fettered wild beast or bird, dangerous to
approach in his sullen woe.  The caged eagle, whose gold-ringed eyes
cruelty has extinguished, might look as looked that sightless Samson.

And, reader, do you think I feared him in his blind ferocity?--if you do,
you little know me.  A soft hope blest with my sorrow that soon I should
dare to drop a kiss on that brow of rock, and on those lips so sternly
sealed beneath it: but not yet.  I would not accost him yet.

He descended the one step, and advanced slowly and gropingly towards the
grass-plat.  Where was his daring stride now?  Then he paused, as if he
knew not which way to turn.  He lifted his hand and opened his eyelids;
gazed blank, and with a straining effort, on the sky, and toward the
amphitheatre of trees: one saw that all to him was void darkness.  He
stretched his right hand (the left arm, the mutilated one, he kept hidden
in his bosom); he seemed to wish by touch to gain an idea of what lay
around him: he met but vacancy still; for the trees were some yards off
where he stood.  He relinquished the endeavour, folded his arms, and
stood quiet and mute in the rain, now falling fast on his uncovered head.
At this moment John approached him from some quarter.

"Will you take my arm, sir?" he said; "there is a heavy shower coming on:
had you not better go in?"

"Let me alone," was the answer.

John withdrew without having observed me.  Mr. Rochester now tried to
walk about: vainly,--all was too uncertain.  He groped his way back to
the house, and, re-entering it, closed the door.

I now drew near and knocked: John's wife opened for me.  "Mary," I said,
"how are you?"

She started as if she had seen a ghost: I calmed her.  To her hurried "Is
it really you, miss, come at this late hour to this lonely place?"  I
answered by taking her hand; and then I followed her into the kitchen,
where John now sat by a good fire.  I explained to them, in few words,
that I had heard all which had happened since I left Thornfield, and that
I was come to see Mr. Rochester.  I asked John to go down to the turn-
pike-house, where I had dismissed the chaise, and bring my trunk, which I
had left there: and then, while I removed my bonnet and shawl, I
questioned Mary as to whether I could be accommodated at the Manor House
for the night; and finding that arrangements to that effect, though
difficult, would not be impossible, I informed her I should stay.  Just
at this moment the parlour-bell rang.

"When you go in," said I, "tell your master that a person wishes to speak
to him, but do not give my name."

"I don't think he will see you," she answered; "he refuses everybody."

When she returned, I inquired what he had said.  "You are to send in your
name and your business," she replied.  She then proceeded to fill a glass
with water, and place it on a tray, together with candles.

"Is that what he rang for?" I asked.

"Yes: he always has candles brought in at dark, though he is blind."

"Give the tray to me; I will carry it in."

I took it from her hand: she pointed me out the parlour door.  The tray
shook as I held it; the water spilt from the glass; my heart struck my
ribs loud and fast.  Mary opened the door for me, and shut it behind me.

This parlour looked gloomy: a neglected handful of fire burnt low in the
grate; and, leaning over it, with his head supported against the high,
old-fashioned mantelpiece, appeared the blind tenant of the room.  His
old dog, Pilot, lay on one side, removed out of the way, and coiled up as
if afraid of being inadvertently trodden upon.  Pilot pricked up his ears
when I came in: then he jumped up with a yelp and a whine, and bounded
towards me: he almost knocked the tray from my hands.  I set it on the
table; then patted him, and said softly, "Lie down!"  Mr. Rochester
turned mechanically to _see_ what the commotion was: but as he _saw_
nothing, he returned and sighed.

"Give me the water, Mary," he said.

I approached him with the now only half-filled glass; Pilot followed me,
still excited.

"What is the matter?" he inquired.

"Down, Pilot!" I again said.  He checked the water on its way to his
lips, and seemed to listen: he drank, and put the glass down.  "This is
you, Mary, is it not?"

"Mary is in the kitchen," I answered.

He put out his hand with a quick gesture, but not seeing where I stood,
he did not touch me.  "Who is this?  Who is this?" he demanded, trying,
as it seemed, to _see_ with those sightless eyes--unavailing and
distressing attempt!  "Answer me--speak again!" he ordered, imperiously
and aloud.

"Will you have a little more water, sir?  I spilt half of what was in the
glass," I said.

"_Who_ is it?  _What_ is it?  Who speaks?"

"Pilot knows me, and John and Mary know I am here.  I came only this
evening," I answered.

"Great God!--what delusion has come over me?  What sweet madness has
seized me?"

"No delusion--no madness: your mind, sir, is too strong for delusion,
your health too sound for frenzy."

"And where is the speaker?  Is it only a voice?  Oh!  I _cannot_ see, but
I must feel, or my heart will stop and my brain burst.  Whatever--whoever
you are--be perceptible to the touch or I cannot live!"

He groped; I arrested his wandering hand, and prisoned it in both mine.

"Her very fingers!" he cried; "her small, slight fingers!  If so there
must be more of her."

The muscular hand broke from my custody; my arm was seized, my
shoulder--neck--waist--I was entwined and gathered to him.

"Is it Jane?  _What_ is it?  This is her shape--this is her size--"

"And this her voice," I added.  "She is all here: her heart, too.  God
bless you, sir!  I am glad to be so near you again."

"Jane Eyre!--Jane Eyre," was all he said.

"My dear master," I answered, "I am Jane Eyre: I have found you out--I am
come back to you."

"In truth?--in the flesh?  My living Jane?"

"You touch me, sir,--you hold me, and fast enough: I am not cold like a
corpse, nor vacant like air, am I?"

"My living darling!  These are certainly her limbs, and these her
features; but I cannot be so blest, after all my misery.  It is a dream;
such dreams as I have had at night when I have clasped her once more to
my heart, as I do now; and kissed her, as thus--and felt that she loved
me, and trusted that she would not leave me."

"Which I never will, sir, from this day."

"Never will, says the vision?  But I always woke and found it an empty
mockery; and I was desolate and abandoned--my life dark, lonely,
hopeless--my soul athirst and forbidden to drink--my heart famished and
never to be fed.  Gentle, soft dream, nestling in my arms now, you will
fly, too, as your sisters have all fled before you: but kiss me before
you go--embrace me, Jane."

"There, sir--and there!"'

I pressed my lips to his once brilliant and now rayless eyes--I swept his
hair from his brow, and kissed that too.  He suddenly seemed to arouse
himself: the conviction of the reality of all this seized him.

"It is you--is it, Jane?  You are come back to me then?"

"I am."

"And you do not lie dead in some ditch under some stream?  And you are
not a pining outcast amongst strangers?"

"No, sir!  I am an independent woman now."

"Independent!  What do you mean, Jane?"

"My uncle in Madeira is dead, and he left me five thousand pounds."

"Ah! this is practical--this is real!" he cried: "I should never dream
that.  Besides, there is that peculiar voice of hers, so animating and
piquant, as well as soft: it cheers my withered heart; it puts life into
it.--What, Janet!  Are you an independent woman?  A rich woman?"

"If you won't let me live with you, I can build a house of my own close
up to your door, and you may come and sit in my parlour when you want
company of an evening."

"But as you are rich, Jane, you have now, no doubt, friends who will look
after you, and not suffer you to devote yourself to a blind lameter like
me?"

"I told you I am independent, sir, as well as rich: I am my own
mistress."

"And you will stay with me?"

"Certainly--unless you object.  I will be your neighbour, your nurse,
your housekeeper.  I find you lonely: I will be your companion--to read
to you, to walk with you, to sit with you, to wait on you, to be eyes and
hands to you.  Cease to look so melancholy, my dear master; you shall not
be left desolate, so long as I live."

He replied not: he seemed serious--abstracted; he sighed; he half-opened
his lips as if to speak: he closed them again.  I felt a little
embarrassed.  Perhaps I had too rashly over-leaped conventionalities; and
he, like St. John, saw impropriety in my inconsiderateness.  I had indeed
made my proposal from the idea that he wished and would ask me to be his
wife: an expectation, not the less certain because unexpressed, had
buoyed me up, that he would claim me at once as his own.  But no hint to
that effect escaping him and his countenance becoming more overcast, I
suddenly remembered that I might have been all wrong, and was perhaps
playing the fool unwittingly; and I began gently to withdraw myself from
his arms--but he eagerly snatched me closer.

"No--no--Jane; you must not go.  No--I have touched you, heard you, felt
the comfort of your presence--the sweetness of your consolation: I cannot
give up these joys.  I have little left in myself--I must have you.  The
world may laugh--may call me absurd, selfish--but it does not signify.  My
very soul demands you: it will be satisfied, or it will take deadly
vengeance on its frame."

"Well, sir, I will stay with you: I have said so."

"Yes--but you understand one thing by staying with me; and I understand
another.  You, perhaps, could make up your mind to be about my hand and
chair--to wait on me as a kind little nurse (for you have an affectionate
heart and a generous spirit, which prompt you to make sacrifices for
those you pity), and that ought to suffice for me no doubt.  I suppose I
should now entertain none but fatherly feelings for you: do you think so?
Come--tell me."

"I will think what you like, sir: I am content to be only your nurse, if
you think it better."

"But you cannot always be my nurse, Janet: you are young--you must marry
one day."

"I don't care about being married."

"You should care, Janet: if I were what I once was, I would try to make
you care--but--a sightless block!"

He relapsed again into gloom.  I, on the contrary, became more cheerful,
and took fresh courage: these last words gave me an insight as to where
the difficulty lay; and as it was no difficulty with me, I felt quite
relieved from my previous embarrassment.  I resumed a livelier vein of
conversation.

"It is time some one undertook to rehumanise you," said I, parting his
thick and long uncut locks; "for I see you are being metamorphosed into a
lion, or something of that sort.  You have a 'faux air' of Nebuchadnezzar
in the fields about you, that is certain: your hair reminds me of eagles'
feathers; whether your nails are grown like birds' claws or not, I have
not yet noticed."

"On this arm, I have neither hand nor nails," he said, drawing the
mutilated limb from his breast, and showing it to me.  "It is a mere
stump--a ghastly sight!  Don't you think so, Jane?"

"It is a pity to see it; and a pity to see your eyes--and the scar of
fire on your forehead: and the worst of it is, one is in danger of loving
you too well for all this; and making too much of you."

"I thought you would be revolted, Jane, when you saw my arm, and my
cicatrised visage."

"Did you?  Don't tell me so--lest I should say something disparaging to
your judgment.  Now, let me leave you an instant, to make a better fire,
and have the hearth swept up.  Can you tell when there is a good fire?"

"Yes; with the right eye I see a glow--a ruddy haze."

"And you see the candles?"

"Very dimly--each is a luminous cloud."

"Can you see me?"

"No, my fairy: but I am only too thankful to hear and feel you."

"When do you take supper?"

"I never take supper."

"But you shall have some to-night.  I am hungry: so are you, I daresay,
only you forget."

Summoning Mary, I soon had the room in more cheerful order: I prepared
him, likewise, a comfortable repast.  My spirits were excited, and with
pleasure and ease I talked to him during supper, and for a long time
after.  There was no harassing restraint, no repressing of glee and
vivacity with him; for with him I was at perfect ease, because I knew I
suited him; all I said or did seemed either to console or revive him.
Delightful consciousness!  It brought to life and light my whole nature:
in his presence I thoroughly lived; and he lived in mine.  Blind as he
was, smiles played over his face, joy dawned on his forehead: his
lineaments softened and warmed.

After supper, he began to ask me many questions, of where I had been,
what I had been doing, how I had found him out; but I gave him only very
partial replies: it was too late to enter into particulars that night.
Besides, I wished to touch no deep-thrilling chord--to open no fresh well
of emotion in his heart: my sole present aim was to cheer him.  Cheered,
as I have said, he was: and yet but by fits.  If a moment's silence broke
the conversation, he would turn restless, touch me, then say, "Jane."

"You are altogether a human being, Jane?  You are certain of that?"

{You are altogether a human being, Jane?  You are certain of that?:
p422.jpg}

"I conscientiously believe so, Mr. Rochester."

"Yet how, on this dark and doleful evening, could you so suddenly rise on
my lone hearth?  I stretched my hand to take a glass of water from a
hireling, and it was given me by you: I asked a question, expecting
John's wife to answer me, and your voice spoke at my ear."

"Because I had come in, in Mary's stead, with the tray."

"And there is enchantment in the very hour I am now spending with you.
Who can tell what a dark, dreary, hopeless life I have dragged on for
months past?  Doing nothing, expecting nothing; merging night in day;
feeling but the sensation of cold when I let the fire go out, of hunger
when I forgot to eat: and then a ceaseless sorrow, and, at times, a very
delirium of desire to behold my Jane again.  Yes: for her restoration I
longed, far more than for that of my lost sight.  How can it be that Jane
is with me, and says she loves me?  Will she not depart as suddenly as
she came?  To-morrow, I fear I shall find her no more."

A commonplace, practical reply, out of the train of his own disturbed
ideas, was, I was sure, the best and most reassuring for him in this
frame of mind.  I passed my finger over his eyebrows, and remarked that
they were scorched, and that I would apply something which would make
them grow as broad and black as ever.

"Where is the use of doing me good in any way, beneficent spirit, when,
at some fatal moment, you will again desert me--passing like a shadow,
whither and how to me unknown, and for me remaining afterwards
undiscoverable?

"Have you a pocket-comb about you, sir?"

"What for, Jane?"

"Just to comb out this shaggy black mane.  I find you rather alarming,
when I examine you close at hand: you talk of my being a fairy, but I am
sure, you are more like a brownie."

"Am I hideous, Jane?"

"Very, sir: you always were, you know."

"Humph!  The wickedness has not been taken out of you, wherever you have
sojourned."

"Yet I have been with good people; far better than you: a hundred times
better people; possessed of ideas and views you never entertained in your
life: quite more refined and exalted."

"Who the deuce have you been with?"

"If you twist in that way you will make me pull the hair out of your
head; and then I think you will cease to entertain doubts of my
substantiality."

"Who have you been with, Jane?"

"You shall not get it out of me to-night, sir; you must wait till
to-morrow; to leave my tale half told, will, you know, be a sort of
security that I shall appear at your breakfast table to finish it.  By
the bye, I must mind not to rise on your hearth with only a glass of
water then: I must bring an egg at the least, to say nothing of fried
ham."

"You mocking changeling--fairy-born and human-bred!  You make me feel as
I have not felt these twelve months.  If Saul could have had you for his
David, the evil spirit would have been exorcised without the aid of the
harp."

"There, sir, you are redd up and made decent.  Now I'll leave you: I have
been travelling these last three days, and I believe I am tired.  Good
night."

"Just one word, Jane: were there only ladies in the house where you have
been?"

I laughed and made my escape, still laughing as I ran upstairs.  "A good
idea!"  I thought with glee.  "I see I have the means of fretting him out
of his melancholy for some time to come."

Very early the next morning I heard him up and astir, wandering from one
room to another.  As soon as Mary came down I heard the question: "Is
Miss Eyre here?"  Then: "Which room did you put her into?  Was it dry?  Is
she up?  Go and ask if she wants anything; and when she will come down."

I came down as soon as I thought there was a prospect of breakfast.
Entering the room very softly, I had a view of him before he discovered
my presence.  It was mournful, indeed, to witness the subjugation of that
vigorous spirit to a corporeal infirmity.  He sat in his chair--still,
but not at rest: expectant evidently; the lines of now habitual sadness
marking his strong features.  His countenance reminded one of a lamp
quenched, waiting to be re-lit--and alas! it was not himself that could
now kindle the lustre of animated expression: he was dependent on another
for that office!  I had meant to be gay and careless, but the
powerlessness of the strong man touched my heart to the quick: still I
accosted him with what vivacity I could.

"It is a bright, sunny morning, sir," I said.  "The rain is over and
gone, and there is a tender shining after it: you shall have a walk
soon."

I had wakened the glow: his features beamed.

"Oh, you are indeed there, my skylark!  Come to me.  You are not gone:
not vanished?  I heard one of your kind an hour ago, singing high over
the wood: but its song had no music for me, any more than the rising sun
had rays.  All the melody on earth is concentrated in my Jane's tongue to
my ear (I am glad it is not naturally a silent one): all the sunshine I
can feel is in her presence."

The water stood in my eyes to hear this avowal of his dependence; just as
if a royal eagle, chained to a perch, should be forced to entreat a
sparrow to become its purveyor.  But I would not be lachrymose: I dashed
off the salt drops, and busied myself with preparing breakfast.

Most of the morning was spent in the open air.  I led him out of the wet
and wild wood into some cheerful fields: I described to him how
brilliantly green they were; how the flowers and hedges looked refreshed;
how sparklingly blue was the sky.  I sought a seat for him in a hidden
and lovely spot, a dry stump of a tree; nor did I refuse to let him, when
seated, place me on his knee.  Why should I, when both he and I were
happier near than apart?  Pilot lay beside us: all was quiet.  He broke
out suddenly while clasping me in his arms--

"Cruel, cruel deserter!  Oh, Jane, what did I feel when I discovered you
had fled from Thornfield, and when I could nowhere find you; and, after
examining your apartment, ascertained that you had taken no money, nor
anything which could serve as an equivalent!  A pearl necklace I had
given you lay untouched in its little casket; your trunks were left
corded and locked as they had been prepared for the bridal tour.  What
could my darling do, I asked, left destitute and penniless?  And what did
she do?  Let me hear now."

Thus urged, I began the narrative of my experience for the last year.  I
softened considerably what related to the three days of wandering and
starvation, because to have told him all would have been to inflict
unnecessary pain: the little I did say lacerated his faithful heart
deeper than I wished.

I should not have left him thus, he said, without any means of making my
way: I should have told him my intention.  I should have confided in him:
he would never have forced me to be his mistress.  Violent as he had
seemed in his despair, he, in truth, loved me far too well and too
tenderly to constitute himself my tyrant: he would have given me half his
fortune, without demanding so much as a kiss in return, rather than I
should have flung myself friendless on the wide world.  I had endured, he
was certain, more than I had confessed to him.

"Well, whatever my sufferings had been, they were very short," I
answered: and then I proceeded to tell him how I had been received at
Moor House; how I had obtained the office of schoolmistress, &c.  The
accession of fortune, the discovery of my relations, followed in due
order.  Of course, St. John Rivers' name came in frequently in the
progress of my tale.  When I had done, that name was immediately taken
up.

"This St. John, then, is your cousin?"

"Yes."

"You have spoken of him often: do you like him?"

"He was a very good man, sir; I could not help liking him."

"A good man.  Does that mean a respectable well-conducted man of fifty?
Or what does it mean?"

"St John was only twenty-nine, sir."

"'_Jeune encore_,' as the French say.  Is he a person of low stature,
phlegmatic, and plain.  A person whose goodness consists rather in his
guiltlessness of vice, than in his prowess in virtue."

"He is untiringly active.  Great and exalted deeds are what he lives to
perform."

"But his brain?  That is probably rather soft?  He means well: but you
shrug your shoulders to hear him talk?"

"He talks little, sir: what he does say is ever to the point.  His brain
is first-rate, I should think not impressible, but vigorous."

"Is he an able man, then?"

"Truly able."

"A thoroughly educated man?"

"St. John is an accomplished and profound scholar."

"His manners, I think, you said are not to your taste?--priggish and
parsonic?"

"I never mentioned his manners; but, unless I had a very bad taste, they
must suit it; they are polished, calm, and gentlemanlike."

"His appearance,--I forget what description you gave of his appearance;--a
sort of raw curate, half strangled with his white neckcloth, and stilted
up on his thick-soled high-lows, eh?"

"St. John dresses well.  He is a handsome man: tall, fair, with blue
eyes, and a Grecian profile."

(Aside.)  "Damn him!"--(To me.)  "Did you like him, Jane?"

"Yes, Mr. Rochester, I liked him: but you asked me that before."

I perceived, of course, the drift of my interlocutor.  Jealousy had got
hold of him: she stung him; but the sting was salutary: it gave him
respite from the gnawing fang of melancholy.  I would not, therefore,
immediately charm the snake.

"Perhaps you would rather not sit any longer on my knee, Miss Eyre?" was
the next somewhat unexpected observation.

"Why not, Mr. Rochester?"

"The picture you have just drawn is suggestive of a rather too
overwhelming contrast.  Your words have delineated very prettily a
graceful Apollo: he is present to your imagination,--tall, fair, blue-
eyed, and with a Grecian profile.  Your eyes dwell on a Vulcan,--a real
blacksmith, brown, broad-shouldered: and blind and lame into the
bargain."

"I never thought of it, before; but you certainly are rather like Vulcan,
sir."

"Well, you can leave me, ma'am: but before you go" (and he retained me by
a firmer grasp than ever), "you will be pleased just to answer me a
question or two."  He paused.

"What questions, Mr. Rochester?"

Then followed this cross-examination.

"St. John made you schoolmistress of Morton before he knew you were his
cousin?"

"Yes."

"You would often see him?  He would visit the school sometimes?"

"Daily."

"He would approve of your plans, Jane?  I know they would be clever, for
you are a talented creature!"

"He approved of them--yes."

"He would discover many things in you he could not have expected to find?
Some of your accomplishments are not ordinary."

"I don't know about that."

"You had a little cottage near the school, you say: did he ever come
there to see you?"

"Now and then?"

"Of an evening?"

"Once or twice."

A pause.

"How long did you reside with him and his sisters after the cousinship
was discovered?"

"Five months."

"Did Rivers spend much time with the ladies of his family?"

"Yes; the back parlour was both his study and ours: he sat near the
window, and we by the table."

"Did he study much?"

"A good deal."

"What?"

"Hindostanee."

"And what did you do meantime?"

"I learnt German, at first."

"Did he teach you?"

"He did not understand German."

"Did he teach you nothing?"

"A little Hindostanee."

"Rivers taught you Hindostanee?"

"Yes, sir."

"And his sisters also?"

"No."

"Only you?"

"Only me."

"Did you ask to learn?"

"No."

"He wished to teach you?"

"Yes."

A second pause.

"Why did he wish it?  Of what use could Hindostanee be to you?"

"He intended me to go with him to India."

"Ah! here I reach the root of the matter.  He wanted you to marry him?"

"He asked me to marry him."

"That is a fiction--an impudent invention to vex me."

"I beg your pardon, it is the literal truth: he asked me more than once,
and was as stiff about urging his point as ever you could be."

"Miss Eyre, I repeat it, you can leave me.  How often am I to say the
same thing?  Why do you remain pertinaciously perched on my knee, when I
have given you notice to quit?"

"Because I am comfortable there."

"No, Jane, you are not comfortable there, because your heart is not with
me: it is with this cousin--this St. John.  Oh, till this moment, I
thought my little Jane was all mine!  I had a belief she loved me even
when she left me: that was an atom of sweet in much bitter.  Long as we
have been parted, hot tears as I have wept over our separation, I never
thought that while I was mourning her, she was loving another!  But it is
useless grieving.  Jane, leave me: go and marry Rivers."

"Shake me off, then, sir,--push me away, for I'll not leave you of my own
accord."

"Jane, I ever like your tone of voice: it still renews hope, it sounds so
truthful.  When I hear it, it carries me back a year.  I forget that you
have formed a new tie.  But I am not a fool--go--"

"Where must I go, sir?"

"Your own way--with the husband you have chosen."

"Who is that?"

"You know--this St. John Rivers."

"He is not my husband, nor ever will be.  He does not love me: I do not
love him.  He loves (as he _can_ love, and that is not as you love) a
beautiful young lady called Rosamond.  He wanted to marry me only because
he thought I should make a suitable missionary's wife, which she would
not have done.  He is good and great, but severe; and, for me, cold as an
iceberg.  He is not like you, sir: I am not happy at his side, nor near
him, nor with him.  He has no indulgence for me--no fondness.  He sees
nothing attractive in me; not even youth--only a few useful mental
points.--Then I must leave you, sir, to go to him?"

I shuddered involuntarily, and clung instinctively closer to my blind but
beloved master.  He smiled.

"What, Jane!  Is this true?  Is such really the state of matters between
you and Rivers?"

"Absolutely, sir!  Oh, you need not be jealous!  I wanted to tease you a
little to make you less sad: I thought anger would be better than grief.
But if you wish me to love you, could you but see how much I _do_ love
you, you would be proud and content.  All my heart is yours, sir: it
belongs to you; and with you it would remain, were fate to exile the rest
of me from your presence for ever."

Again, as he kissed me, painful thoughts darkened his aspect.

"My seared vision!  My crippled strength!" he murmured regretfully.

I caressed, in order to soothe him.  I knew of what he was thinking, and
wanted to speak for him, but dared not.  As he turned aside his face a
minute, I saw a tear slide from under the sealed eyelid, and trickle down
the manly cheek.  My heart swelled.

"I am no better than the old lightning-struck chestnut-tree in Thornfield
orchard," he remarked ere long.  "And what right would that ruin have to
bid a budding woodbine cover its decay with freshness?"

"You are no ruin, sir--no lightning-struck tree: you are green and
vigorous.  Plants will grow about your roots, whether you ask them or
not, because they take delight in your bountiful shadow; and as they grow
they will lean towards you, and wind round you, because your strength
offers them so safe a prop."

Again he smiled: I gave him comfort.

"You speak of friends, Jane?" he asked.

"Yes, of friends," I answered rather hesitatingly: for I knew I meant
more than friends, but could not tell what other word to employ.  He
helped me.

"Ah!  Jane.  But I want a wife."

"Do you, sir?"

"Yes: is it news to you?"

"Of course: you said nothing about it before."

"Is it unwelcome news?"

"That depends on circumstances, sir--on your choice."

"Which you shall make for me, Jane.  I will abide by your decision."

"Choose then, sir--_her who loves you best_."

"I will at least choose--_her I love best_.  Jane, will you marry me?"

"Yes, sir."

"A poor blind man, whom you will have to lead about by the hand?"

"Yes, sir."

"A crippled man, twenty years older than you, whom you will have to wait
on?"

"Yes, sir."

"Truly, Jane?"

"Most truly, sir."

"Oh! my darling!  God bless you and reward you!"

"Mr. Rochester, if ever I did a good deed in my life--if ever I thought a
good thought--if ever I prayed a sincere and blameless prayer--if ever I
wished a righteous wish,--I am rewarded now.  To be your wife is, for me,
to be as happy as I can be on earth."

"Because you delight in sacrifice."

"Sacrifice!  What do I sacrifice?  Famine for food, expectation for
content.  To be privileged to put my arms round what I value--to press my
lips to what I love--to repose on what I trust: is that to make a
sacrifice?  If so, then certainly I delight in sacrifice."

"And to bear with my infirmities, Jane: to overlook my deficiencies."

"Which are none, sir, to me.  I love you better now, when I can really be
useful to you, than I did in your state of proud independence, when you
disdained every part but that of the giver and protector."

"Hitherto I have hated to be helped--to be led: henceforth, I feel I
shall hate it no more.  I did not like to put my hand into a hireling's,
but it is pleasant to feel it circled by Jane's little fingers.  I
preferred utter loneliness to the constant attendance of servants; but
Jane's soft ministry will be a perpetual joy.  Jane suits me: do I suit
her?"

"To the finest fibre of my nature, sir."

"The case being so, we have nothing in the world to wait for: we must be
married instantly."

He looked and spoke with eagerness: his old impetuosity was rising.

"We must become one flesh without any delay, Jane: there is but the
licence to get--then we marry."

"Mr. Rochester, I have just discovered the sun is far declined from its
meridian, and Pilot is actually gone home to his dinner.  Let me look at
your watch."

"Fasten it into your girdle, Janet, and keep it henceforward: I have no
use for it."

"It is nearly four o'clock in the afternoon, sir.  Don't you feel
hungry?"

"The third day from this must be our wedding-day, Jane.  Never mind fine
clothes and jewels, now: all that is not worth a fillip."

"The sun has dried up all the rain-drops, sir.  The breeze is still: it
is quite hot."

"Do you know, Jane, I have your little pearl necklace at this moment
fastened round my bronze scrag under my cravat?  I have worn it since the
day I lost my only treasure, as a memento of her."

"We will go home through the wood: that will be the shadiest way."

He pursued his own thoughts without heeding me.

"Jane! you think me, I daresay, an irreligious dog: but my heart swells
with gratitude to the beneficent God of this earth just now.  He sees not
as man sees, but far clearer: judges not as man judges, but far more
wisely.  I did wrong: I would have sullied my innocent flower--breathed
guilt on its purity: the Omnipotent snatched it from me.  I, in my stiff-
necked rebellion, almost cursed the dispensation: instead of bending to
the decree, I defied it.  Divine justice pursued its course; disasters
came thick on me: I was forced to pass through the valley of the shadow
of death.  _His_ chastisements are mighty; and one smote me which has
humbled me for ever.  You know I was proud of my strength: but what is it
now, when I must give it over to foreign guidance, as a child does its
weakness?  Of late, Jane--only--only of late--I began to see and
acknowledge the hand of God in my doom.  I began to experience remorse,
repentance; the wish for reconcilement to my Maker.  I began sometimes to
pray: very brief prayers they were, but very sincere.

"Some days since: nay, I can number them--four; it was last Monday night,
a singular mood came over me: one in which grief replaced frenzy--sorrow,
sullenness.  I had long had the impression that since I could nowhere
find you, you must be dead.  Late that night--perhaps it might be between
eleven and twelve o'clock--ere I retired to my dreary rest, I supplicated
God, that, if it seemed good to Him, I might soon be taken from this
life, and admitted to that world to come, where there was still hope of
rejoining Jane.

"I was in my own room, and sitting by the window, which was open: it
soothed me to feel the balmy night-air; though I could see no stars and
only by a vague, luminous haze, knew the presence of a moon.  I longed
for thee, Janet!  Oh, I longed for thee both with soul and flesh!  I
asked of God, at once in anguish and humility, if I had not been long
enough desolate, afflicted, tormented; and might not soon taste bliss and
peace once more.  That I merited all I endured, I acknowledged--that I
could scarcely endure more, I pleaded; and the alpha and omega of my
heart's wishes broke involuntarily from my lips in the words--'Jane!
Jane!  Jane!'"

"Did you speak these words aloud?"

"I did, Jane.  If any listener had heard me, he would have thought me
mad: I pronounced them with such frantic energy."

"And it was last Monday night, somewhere near midnight?"

"Yes; but the time is of no consequence: what followed is the strange
point.  You will think me superstitious,--some superstition I have in my
blood, and always had: nevertheless, this is true--true at least it is
that I heard what I now relate.

"As I exclaimed 'Jane!  Jane!  Jane!' a voice--I cannot tell whence the
voice came, but I know whose voice it was--replied, 'I am coming: wait
for me;' and a moment after, went whispering on the wind the words--'Where
are you?'

"I'll tell you, if I can, the idea, the picture these words opened to my
mind: yet it is difficult to express what I want to express.  Ferndean is
buried, as you see, in a heavy wood, where sound falls dull, and dies
unreverberating.  'Where are you?' seemed spoken amongst mountains; for I
heard a hill-sent echo repeat the words.  Cooler and fresher at the
moment the gale seemed to visit my brow: I could have deemed that in some
wild, lone scene, I and Jane were meeting.  In spirit, I believe we must
have met.  You no doubt were, at that hour, in unconscious sleep, Jane:
perhaps your soul wandered from its cell to comfort mine; for those were
your accents--as certain as I live--they were yours!"

Reader, it was on Monday night--near midnight--that I too had received
the mysterious summons: those were the very words by which I replied to
it.  I listened to Mr. Rochester's narrative, but made no disclosure in
return.  The coincidence struck me as too awful and inexplicable to be
communicated or discussed.  If I told anything, my tale would be such as
must necessarily make a profound impression on the mind of my hearer: and
that mind, yet from its sufferings too prone to gloom, needed not the
deeper shade of the supernatural.  I kept these things then, and pondered
them in my heart.

"You cannot now wonder," continued my master, "that when you rose upon me
so unexpectedly last night, I had difficulty in believing you any other
than a mere voice and vision, something that would melt to silence and
annihilation, as the midnight whisper and mountain echo had melted
before.  Now, I thank God!  I know it to be otherwise.  Yes, I thank
God!"

He put me off his knee, rose, and reverently lifting his hat from his
brow, and bending his sightless eyes to the earth, he stood in mute
devotion.  Only the last words of the worship were audible.

"I thank my Maker, that, in the midst of judgment, he has remembered
mercy.  I humbly entreat my Redeemer to give me strength to lead
henceforth a purer life than I have done hitherto!"

Then he stretched his hand out to be led.  I took that dear hand, held it
a moment to my lips, then let it pass round my shoulder: being so much
lower of stature than he, I served both for his prop and guide.  We
entered the wood, and wended homeward.

 Jane goes to Ferndean. From a distance, she sees Rochester reach a hand out of the door, testing for rain. His body looks the same, but his face is desperate and disconsolate. Rochester returns inside, and Jane approaches the house. She knocks, and Mary answers the door. Inside, Jane carries a tray to Rochester, who is unable to see her. When he realizes that Jane is in the room with him, he thinks she must be a ghost or spirit speaking to him. When he catches her hand, he takes her in his arms, and she promises never to leave him. The next morning they walk through the woods, and Jane tells Rochester about her experiences the previous year. She has to assure him that she is not in love with St. John. He asks her again to marry him, and she says yes--they are now free from the specter of Bertha Mason. Rochester tells Jane that a few nights earlier, in a moment of desperation, he called out her name and thought he heard her answer. She does not wish to upset him or excite him in his fragile condition, and so she does not tell him about hearing his voice at Moor House

