Chapter: As I rose and dressed, I thought over what had happened, and wondered if
it were a dream.  I could not be certain of the reality till I had seen
Mr. Rochester again, and heard him renew his words of love and promise.

While arranging my hair, I looked at my face in the glass, and felt it
was no longer plain: there was hope in its aspect and life in its colour;
and my eyes seemed as if they had beheld the fount of fruition, and
borrowed beams from the lustrous ripple.  I had often been unwilling to
look at my master, because I feared he could not be pleased at my look;
but I was sure I might lift my face to his now, and not cool his
affection by its expression.  I took a plain but clean and light summer
dress from my drawer and put it on: it seemed no attire had ever so well
become me, because none had I ever worn in so blissful a mood.

I was not surprised, when I ran down into the hall, to see that a
brilliant June morning had succeeded to the tempest of the night; and to
feel, through the open glass door, the breathing of a fresh and fragrant
breeze.  Nature must be gladsome when I was so happy.  A beggar-woman and
her little boy--pale, ragged objects both--were coming up the walk, and I
ran down and gave them all the money I happened to have in my purse--some
three or four shillings: good or bad, they must partake of my jubilee.
The rooks cawed, and blither birds sang; but nothing was so merry or so
musical as my own rejoicing heart.

Mrs. Fairfax surprised me by looking out of the window with a sad
countenance, and saying gravely--"Miss Eyre, will you come to breakfast?"
During the meal she was quiet and cool: but I could not undeceive her
then.  I must wait for my master to give explanations; and so must she.  I
ate what I could, and then I hastened upstairs.  I met Adele leaving the
schoolroom.

"Where are you going?  It is time for lessons."

"Mr. Rochester has sent me away to the nursery."

"Where is he?"

"In there," pointing to the apartment she had left; and I went in, and
there he stood.

"Come and bid me good-morning," said he.  I gladly advanced; and it was
not merely a cold word now, or even a shake of the hand that I received,
but an embrace and a kiss.  It seemed natural: it seemed genial to be so
well loved, so caressed by him.

"Jane, you look blooming, and smiling, and pretty," said he: "truly
pretty this morning.  Is this my pale, little elf?  Is this my mustard-
seed?  This little sunny-faced girl with the dimpled cheek and rosy lips;
the satin-smooth hazel hair, and the radiant hazel eyes?"  (I had green
eyes, reader; but you must excuse the mistake: for him they were
new-dyed, I suppose.)

"It is Jane Eyre, sir."

"Soon to be Jane Rochester," he added: "in four weeks, Janet; not a day
more.  Do you hear that?"

I did, and I could not quite comprehend it: it made me giddy.  The
feeling, the announcement sent through me, was something stronger than
was consistent with joy--something that smote and stunned.  It was, I
think almost fear.

"You blushed, and now you are white, Jane: what is that for?"

"Because you gave me a new name--Jane Rochester; and it seems so
strange."

"Yes, Mrs. Rochester," said he; "young Mrs. Rochester--Fairfax
Rochester's girl-bride."

"It can never be, sir; it does not sound likely.  Human beings never
enjoy complete happiness in this world.  I was not born for a different
destiny to the rest of my species: to imagine such a lot befalling me is
a fairy tale--a day-dream."

"Which I can and will realise.  I shall begin to-day.  This morning I
wrote to my banker in London to send me certain jewels he has in his
keeping,--heirlooms for the ladies of Thornfield.  In a day or two I hope
to pour them into your lap: for every privilege, every attention shall be
yours that I would accord a peer's daughter, if about to marry her."

"Oh, sir!--never rain jewels!  I don't like to hear them spoken of.
Jewels for Jane Eyre sounds unnatural and strange: I would rather not
have them."

"I will myself put the diamond chain round your neck, and the circlet on
your forehead,--which it will become: for nature, at least, has stamped
her patent of nobility on this brow, Jane; and I will clasp the bracelets
on these fine wrists, and load these fairy-like fingers with rings."

"No, no, sir! think of other subjects, and speak of other things, and in
another strain.  Don't address me as if I were a beauty; I am your plain,
Quakerish governess."

"You are a beauty in my eyes, and a beauty just after the desire of my
heart,--delicate and aerial."

"Puny and insignificant, you mean.  You are dreaming, sir,--or you are
sneering.  For God's sake don't be ironical!"

"I will make the world acknowledge you a beauty, too," he went on, while
I really became uneasy at the strain he had adopted, because I felt he
was either deluding himself or trying to delude me.  "I will attire my
Jane in satin and lace, and she shall have roses in her hair; and I will
cover the head I love best with a priceless veil."

"And then you won't know me, sir; and I shall not be your Jane Eyre any
longer, but an ape in a harlequin's jacket--a jay in borrowed plumes.  I
would as soon see you, Mr. Rochester, tricked out in stage-trappings, as
myself clad in a court-lady's robe; and I don't call you handsome, sir,
though I love you most dearly: far too dearly to flatter you.  Don't
flatter me."

He pursued his theme, however, without noticing my deprecation.  "This
very day I shall take you in the carriage to Millcote, and you must
choose some dresses for yourself.  I told you we shall be married in four
weeks.  The wedding is to take place quietly, in the church down below
yonder; and then I shall waft you away at once to town.  After a brief
stay there, I shall bear my treasure to regions nearer the sun: to French
vineyards and Italian plains; and she shall see whatever is famous in old
story and in modern record: she shall taste, too, of the life of cities;
and she shall learn to value herself by just comparison with others."

"Shall I travel?--and with you, sir?"

"You shall sojourn at Paris, Rome, and Naples: at Florence, Venice, and
Vienna: all the ground I have wandered over shall be re-trodden by you:
wherever I stamped my hoof, your sylph's foot shall step also.  Ten years
since, I flew through Europe half mad; with disgust, hate, and rage as my
companions: now I shall revisit it healed and cleansed, with a very angel
as my comforter."

I laughed at him as he said this.  "I am not an angel," I asserted; "and
I will not be one till I die: I will be myself.  Mr. Rochester, you must
neither expect nor exact anything celestial of me--for you will not get
it, any more than I shall get it of you: which I do not at all
anticipate."

"What do you anticipate of me?"

"For a little while you will perhaps be as you are now,--a very little
while; and then you will turn cool; and then you will be capricious; and
then you will be stern, and I shall have much ado to please you: but when
you get well used to me, you will perhaps like me again,--_like_ me, I
say, not _love_ me.  I suppose your love will effervesce in six months,
or less.  I have observed in books written by men, that period assigned
as the farthest to which a husband's ardour extends.  Yet, after all, as
a friend and companion, I hope never to become quite distasteful to my
dear master."

"Distasteful! and like you again!  I think I shall like you again, and
yet again: and I will make you confess I do not only _like_, but _love_
you--with truth, fervour, constancy."

"Yet are you not capricious, sir?"

"To women who please me only by their faces, I am the very devil when I
find out they have neither souls nor hearts--when they open to me a
perspective of flatness, triviality, and perhaps imbecility, coarseness,
and ill-temper: but to the clear eye and eloquent tongue, to the soul
made of fire, and the character that bends but does not break--at once
supple and stable, tractable and consistent--I am ever tender and true."

"Had you ever experience of such a character, sir?  Did you ever love
such an one?"

"I love it now."

"But before me: if I, indeed, in any respect come up to your difficult
standard?"

"I never met your likeness.  Jane, you please me, and you master me--you
seem to submit, and I like the sense of pliancy you impart; and while I
am twining the soft, silken skein round my finger, it sends a thrill up
my arm to my heart.  I am influenced--conquered; and the influence is
sweeter than I can express; and the conquest I undergo has a witchery
beyond any triumph I can win.  Why do you smile, Jane?  What does that
inexplicable, that uncanny turn of countenance mean?"

"I was thinking, sir (you will excuse the idea; it was involuntary), I
was thinking of Hercules and Samson with their charmers--"

"You were, you little elfish--"

"Hush, sir!  You don't talk very wisely just now; any more than those
gentlemen acted very wisely.  However, had they been married, they would
no doubt by their severity as husbands have made up for their softness as
suitors; and so will you, I fear.  I wonder how you will answer me a year
hence, should I ask a favour it does not suit your convenience or
pleasure to grant."

"Ask me something now, Jane,--the least thing: I desire to be entreated--"

"Indeed I will, sir; I have my petition all ready."

"Speak!  But if you look up and smile with that countenance, I shall
swear concession before I know to what, and that will make a fool of me."

"Not at all, sir; I ask only this: don't send for the jewels, and don't
crown me with roses: you might as well put a border of gold lace round
that plain pocket handkerchief you have there."

"I might as well 'gild refined gold.'  I know it: your request is granted
then--for the time.  I will remand the order I despatched to my banker.
But you have not yet asked for anything; you have prayed a gift to be
withdrawn: try again."

"Well then, sir, have the goodness to gratify my curiosity, which is much
piqued on one point."

He looked disturbed.  "What? what?" he said hastily.  "Curiosity is a
dangerous petition: it is well I have not taken a vow to accord every
request--"

"But there can be no danger in complying with this, sir."

"Utter it, Jane: but I wish that instead of a mere inquiry into, perhaps,
a secret, it was a wish for half my estate."

"Now, King Ahasuerus!  What do I want with half your estate?  Do you
think I am a Jew-usurer, seeking good investment in land?  I would much
rather have all your confidence.  You will not exclude me from your
confidence if you admit me to your heart?"

"You are welcome to all my confidence that is worth having, Jane; but for
God's sake, don't desire a useless burden!  Don't long for poison--don't
turn out a downright Eve on my hands!"

"Why not, sir?  You have just been telling me how much you liked to be
conquered, and how pleasant over-persuasion is to you.  Don't you think I
had better take advantage of the confession, and begin and coax and
entreat--even cry and be sulky if necessary--for the sake of a mere essay
of my power?"

"I dare you to any such experiment.  Encroach, presume, and the game is
up."

"Is it, sir?  You soon give in.  How stern you look now!  Your eyebrows
have become as thick as my finger, and your forehead resembles what, in
some very astonishing poetry, I once saw styled, 'a blue-piled
thunderloft.'  That will be your married look, sir, I suppose?"

"If that will be _your_ married look, I, as a Christian, will soon give
up the notion of consorting with a mere sprite or salamander.  But what
had you to ask, thing,--out with it?"

"There, you are less than civil now; and I like rudeness a great deal
better than flattery.  I had rather be a _thing_ than an angel.  This is
what I have to ask,--Why did you take such pains to make me believe you
wished to marry Miss Ingram?"

"Is that all?  Thank God it is no worse!"  And now he unknit his black
brows; looked down, smiling at me, and stroked my hair, as if well
pleased at seeing a danger averted.  "I think I may confess," he
continued, "even although I should make you a little indignant, Jane--and
I have seen what a fire-spirit you can be when you are indignant.  You
glowed in the cool moonlight last night, when you mutinied against fate,
and claimed your rank as my equal.  Janet, by-the-bye, it was you who
made me the offer."

"Of course I did.  But to the point if you please, sir--Miss Ingram?"

"Well, I feigned courtship of Miss Ingram, because I wished to render you
as madly in love with me as I was with you; and I knew jealousy would be
the best ally I could call in for the furtherance of that end."

"Excellent!  Now you are small--not one whit bigger than the end of my
little finger.  It was a burning shame and a scandalous disgrace to act
in that way.  Did you think nothing of Miss Ingram's feelings, sir?"

"Her feelings are concentrated in one--pride; and that needs humbling.
Were you jealous, Jane?"

"Never mind, Mr. Rochester: it is in no way interesting to you to know
that.  Answer me truly once more.  Do you think Miss Ingram will not
suffer from your dishonest coquetry?  Won't she feel forsaken and
deserted?"

"Impossible!--when I told you how she, on the contrary, deserted me: the
idea of my insolvency cooled, or rather extinguished, her flame in a
moment."

"You have a curious, designing mind, Mr. Rochester.  I am afraid your
principles on some points are eccentric."

"My principles were never trained, Jane: they may have grown a little
awry for want of attention."

"Once again, seriously; may I enjoy the great good that has been
vouchsafed to me, without fearing that any one else is suffering the
bitter pain I myself felt a while ago?"

"That you may, my good little girl: there is not another being in the
world has the same pure love for me as yourself--for I lay that pleasant
unction to my soul, Jane, a belief in your affection."

I turned my lips to the hand that lay on my shoulder.  I loved him very
much--more than I could trust myself to say--more than words had power to
express.

"Ask something more," he said presently; "it is my delight to be
entreated, and to yield."

I was again ready with my request.  "Communicate your intentions to Mrs.
Fairfax, sir: she saw me with you last night in the hall, and she was
shocked.  Give her some explanation before I see her again.  It pains me
to be misjudged by so good a woman."

"Go to your room, and put on your bonnet," he replied.  "I mean you to
accompany me to Millcote this morning; and while you prepare for the
drive, I will enlighten the old lady's understanding.  Did she think,
Janet, you had given the world for love, and considered it well lost?"

"I believe she thought I had forgotten my station, and yours, sir."

"Station! station!--your station is in my heart, and on the necks of
those who would insult you, now or hereafter.--Go."

I was soon dressed; and when I heard Mr. Rochester quit Mrs. Fairfax's
parlour, I hurried down to it.  The old lady, had been reading her
morning portion of Scripture--the Lesson for the day; her Bible lay open
before her, and her spectacles were upon it.  Her occupation, suspended
by Mr. Rochester's announcement, seemed now forgotten: her eyes, fixed on
the blank wall opposite, expressed the surprise of a quiet mind stirred
by unwonted tidings.  Seeing me, she roused herself: she made a sort of
effort to smile, and framed a few words of congratulation; but the smile
expired, and the sentence was abandoned unfinished.  She put up her
spectacles, shut the Bible, and pushed her chair back from the table.

"I feel so astonished," she began, "I hardly know what to say to you,
Miss Eyre.  I have surely not been dreaming, have I?  Sometimes I half
fall asleep when I am sitting alone and fancy things that have never
happened.  It has seemed to me more than once when I have been in a doze,
that my dear husband, who died fifteen years since, has come in and sat
down beside me; and that I have even heard him call me by my name, Alice,
as he used to do.  Now, can you tell me whether it is actually true that
Mr. Rochester has asked you to marry him?  Don't laugh at me.  But I
really thought he came in here five minutes ago, and said that in a month
you would be his wife."

"He has said the same thing to me," I replied.

"He has!  Do you believe him?  Have you accepted him?"

"Yes."

She looked at me bewildered.  "I could never have thought it.  He is a
proud man: all the Rochesters were proud: and his father, at least, liked
money.  He, too, has always been called careful.  He means to marry you?"

"He tells me so."

She surveyed my whole person: in her eyes I read that they had there
found no charm powerful enough to solve the enigma.

"It passes me!" she continued; "but no doubt, it is true since you say
so.  How it will answer, I cannot tell: I really don't know.  Equality of
position and fortune is often advisable in such cases; and there are
twenty years of difference in your ages.  He might almost be your
father."

"No, indeed, Mrs. Fairfax!" exclaimed I, nettled; "he is nothing like my
father!  No one, who saw us together, would suppose it for an instant.
Mr. Rochester looks as young, and is as young, as some men at five-and-
twenty."

"Is it really for love he is going to marry you?" she asked.

I was so hurt by her coldness and scepticism, that the tears rose to my
eyes.

"I am sorry to grieve you," pursued the widow; "but you are so young, and
so little acquainted with men, I wished to put you on your guard.  It is
an old saying that 'all is not gold that glitters;' and in this case I do
fear there will be something found to be different to what either you or
I expect."

"Why?--am I a monster?" I said: "is it impossible that Mr. Rochester
should have a sincere affection for me?"

"No: you are very well; and much improved of late; and Mr. Rochester, I
daresay, is fond of you.  I have always noticed that you were a sort of
pet of his.  There are times when, for your sake, I have been a little
uneasy at his marked preference, and have wished to put you on your
guard: but I did not like to suggest even the possibility of wrong.  I
knew such an idea would shock, perhaps offend you; and you were so
discreet, and so thoroughly modest and sensible, I hoped you might be
trusted to protect yourself.  Last night I cannot tell you what I
suffered when I sought all over the house, and could find you nowhere,
nor the master either; and then, at twelve o'clock, saw you come in with
him."

"Well, never mind that now," I interrupted impatiently; "it is enough
that all was right."

"I hope all will be right in the end," she said: "but believe me, you
cannot be too careful.  Try and keep Mr. Rochester at a distance:
distrust yourself as well as him.  Gentlemen in his station are not
accustomed to marry their governesses."

I was growing truly irritated: happily, Adele ran in.

"Let me go,--let me go to Millcote too!" she cried.  "Mr. Rochester
won't: though there is so much room in the new carriage.  Beg him to let
me go mademoiselle."

"That I will, Adele;" and I hastened away with her, glad to quit my
gloomy monitress.  The carriage was ready: they were bringing it round to
the front, and my master was pacing the pavement, Pilot following him
backwards and forwards.

"Adele may accompany us, may she not, sir?"

"I told her no.  I'll have no brats!--I'll have only you."

"Do let her go, Mr. Rochester, if you please: it would be better."

"Not it: she will be a restraint."

He was quite peremptory, both in look and voice.  The chill of Mrs.
Fairfax's warnings, and the damp of her doubts were upon me: something of
unsubstantiality and uncertainty had beset my hopes.  I half lost the
sense of power over him.  I was about mechanically to obey him, without
further remonstrance; but as he helped me into the carriage, he looked at
my face.

"What is the matter?" he asked; "all the sunshine is gone.  Do you really
wish the bairn to go?  Will it annoy you if she is left behind?"

"I would far rather she went, sir."

"Then off for your bonnet, and back like a flash of lightning!" cried he
to Adele.

She obeyed him with what speed she might.

"After all, a single morning's interruption will not matter much," said
he, "when I mean shortly to claim you--your thoughts, conversation, and
company--for life."

Adele, when lifted in, commenced kissing me, by way of expressing her
gratitude for my intercession: she was instantly stowed away into a
corner on the other side of him.  She then peeped round to where I sat;
so stern a neighbour was too restrictive to him, in his present fractious
mood, she dared whisper no observations, nor ask of him any information.

"Let her come to me," I entreated: "she will, perhaps, trouble you, sir:
there is plenty of room on this side."

He handed her over as if she had been a lapdog.  "I'll send her to school
yet," he said, but now he was smiling.

Adele heard him, and asked if she was to go to school "sans
mademoiselle?"

"Yes," he replied, "absolutely sans mademoiselle; for I am to take
mademoiselle to the moon, and there I shall seek a cave in one of the
white valleys among the volcano-tops, and mademoiselle shall live with me
there, and only me."

"She will have nothing to eat: you will starve her," observed Adele.

"I shall gather manna for her morning and night: the plains and hillsides
in the moon are bleached with manna, Adele."

"She will want to warm herself: what will she do for a fire?"

"Fire rises out of the lunar mountains: when she is cold, I'll carry her
up to a peak, and lay her down on the edge of a crater."

"Oh, qu' elle y sera mal--peu comfortable!  And her clothes, they will
wear out: how can she get new ones?"

Mr. Rochester professed to be puzzled.  "Hem!" said he.  "What would you
do, Adele?  Cudgel your brains for an expedient.  How would a white or a
pink cloud answer for a gown, do you think?  And one could cut a pretty
enough scarf out of a rainbow."

"She is far better as she is," concluded Adele, after musing some time:
"besides, she would get tired of living with only you in the moon.  If I
were mademoiselle, I would never consent to go with you."

"She has consented: she has pledged her word."

"But you can't get her there; there is no road to the moon: it is all
air; and neither you nor she can fly."

"Adele, look at that field."  We were now outside Thornfield gates, and
bowling lightly along the smooth road to Millcote, where the dust was
well laid by the thunderstorm, and, where the low hedges and lofty timber
trees on each side glistened green and rain-refreshed.

"In that field, Adele, I was walking late one evening about a fortnight
since--the evening of the day you helped me to make hay in the orchard
meadows; and, as I was tired with raking swaths, I sat down to rest me on
a stile; and there I took out a little book and a pencil, and began to
write about a misfortune that befell me long ago, and a wish I had for
happy days to come: I was writing away very fast, though daylight was
fading from the leaf, when something came up the path and stopped two
yards off me.  I looked at it.  It was a little thing with a veil of
gossamer on its head.  I beckoned it to come near me; it stood soon at my
knee.  I never spoke to it, and it never spoke to me, in words; but I
read its eyes, and it read mine; and our speechless colloquy was to this
effect--

"It was a fairy, and come from Elf-land, it said; and its errand was to
make me happy: I must go with it out of the common world to a lonely
place--such as the moon, for instance--and it nodded its head towards her
horn, rising over Hay-hill: it told me of the alabaster cave and silver
vale where we might live.  I said I should like to go; but reminded it,
as you did me, that I had no wings to fly.

"'Oh,' returned the fairy, 'that does not signify!  Here is a talisman
will remove all difficulties;' and she held out a pretty gold ring.  'Put
it,' she said, 'on the fourth finger of my left hand, and I am yours, and
you are mine; and we shall leave earth, and make our own heaven yonder.'
She nodded again at the moon.  The ring, Adele, is in my breeches-pocket,
under the disguise of a sovereign: but I mean soon to change it to a ring
again."

"But what has mademoiselle to do with it?  I don't care for the fairy:
you said it was mademoiselle you would take to the moon?"

"Mademoiselle is a fairy," he said, whispering mysteriously.  Whereupon I
told her not to mind his badinage; and she, on her part, evinced a fund
of genuine French scepticism: denominating Mr. Rochester "un vrai
menteur," and assuring him that she made no account whatever of his
"contes de fee," and that "du reste, il n'y avait pas de fees, et quand
meme il y en avait:" she was sure they would never appear to him, nor
ever give him rings, or offer to live with him in the moon.

The hour spent at Millcote was a somewhat harassing one to me.  Mr.
Rochester obliged me to go to a certain silk warehouse: there I was
ordered to choose half-a-dozen dresses.  I hated the business, I begged
leave to defer it: no--it should be gone through with now.  By dint of
entreaties expressed in energetic whispers, I reduced the half-dozen to
two: these however, he vowed he would select himself.  With anxiety I
watched his eye rove over the gay stores: he fixed on a rich silk of the
most brilliant amethyst dye, and a superb pink satin.  I told him in a
new series of whispers, that he might as well buy me a gold gown and a
silver bonnet at once: I should certainly never venture to wear his
choice.  With infinite difficulty, for he was stubborn as a stone, I
persuaded him to make an exchange in favour of a sober black satin and
pearl-grey silk.  "It might pass for the present," he said; "but he would
yet see me glittering like a parterre."

Glad was I to get him out of the silk warehouse, and then out of a
jewellers shop: the more he bought me, the more my cheek burned with a
sense of annoyance and degradation.  As we re-entered the carriage, and I
sat back feverish and fagged, I remembered what, in the hurry of events,
dark and bright, I had wholly forgotten--the letter of my uncle, John
Eyre, to Mrs. Reed: his intention to adopt me and make me his legatee.
"It would, indeed, be a relief," I thought, "if I had ever so small an
independency; I never can bear being dressed like a doll by Mr.
Rochester, or sitting like a second Danae with the golden shower falling
daily round me.  I will write to Madeira the moment I get home, and tell
my uncle John I am going to be married, and to whom: if I had but a
prospect of one day bringing Mr. Rochester an accession of fortune, I
could better endure to be kept by him now."  And somewhat relieved by
this idea (which I failed not to execute that day), I ventured once more
to meet my master's and lover's eye, which most pertinaciously sought
mine, though I averted both face and gaze.  He smiled; and I thought his
smile was such as a sultan might, in a blissful and fond moment, bestow
on a slave his gold and gems had enriched: I crushed his hand, which was
ever hunting mine, vigorously, and thrust it back to him red with the
passionate pressure.

"You need not look in that way," I said; "if you do, I'll wear nothing
but my old Lowood frocks to the end of the chapter.  I'll be married in
this lilac gingham: you may make a dressing-gown for yourself out of the
pearl-grey silk, and an infinite series of waistcoats out of the black
satin."

He chuckled; he rubbed his hands.  "Oh, it is rich to see and hear her?"
he exclaimed.  "Is she original?  Is she piquant?  I would not exchange
this one little English girl for the Grand Turk's whole seraglio, gazelle-
eyes, houri forms, and all!"

The Eastern allusion bit me again.  "I'll not stand you an inch in the
stead of a seraglio," I said; "so don't consider me an equivalent for
one.  If you have a fancy for anything in that line, away with you, sir,
to the bazaars of Stamboul without delay, and lay out in extensive slave-
purchases some of that spare cash you seem at a loss to spend
satisfactorily here."

"And what will you do, Janet, while I am bargaining for so many tons of
flesh and such an assortment of black eyes?"

"I'll be preparing myself to go out as a missionary to preach liberty to
them that are enslaved--your harem inmates amongst the rest.  I'll get
admitted there, and I'll stir up mutiny; and you, three-tailed bashaw as
you are, sir, shall in a trice find yourself fettered amongst our hands:
nor will I, for one, consent to cut your bonds till you have signed a
charter, the most liberal that despot ever yet conferred."

"I would consent to be at your mercy, Jane."

"I would have no mercy, Mr. Rochester, if you supplicated for it with an
eye like that.  While you looked so, I should be certain that whatever
charter you might grant under coercion, your first act, when released,
would be to violate its conditions."

"Why, Jane, what would you have?  I fear you will compel me to go through
a private marriage ceremony, besides that performed at the altar.  You
will stipulate, I see, for peculiar terms--what will they be?"

"I only want an easy mind, sir; not crushed by crowded obligations.  Do
you remember what you said of Celine Varens?--of the diamonds, the
cashmeres you gave her?  I will not be your English Celine Varens.  I
shall continue to act as Adele's governess; by that I shall earn my board
and lodging, and thirty pounds a year besides.  I'll furnish my own
wardrobe out of that money, and you shall give me nothing but--"

"Well, but what?"

"Your regard; and if I give you mine in return, that debt will be quit."

"Well, for cool native impudence and pure innate pride, you haven't your
equal," said he.  We were now approaching Thornfield.  "Will it please
you to dine with me to-day?" he asked, as we re-entered the gates.

"No, thank you, sir."

"And what for, 'no, thank you?' if one may inquire."

"I never have dined with you, sir: and I see no reason why I should now:
till--"

"Till what?  You delight in half-phrases."

"Till I can't help it."

"Do you suppose I eat like an ogre or a ghoul, that you dread being the
companion of my repast?"

"I have formed no supposition on the subject, sir; but I want to go on as
usual for another month."

"You will give up your governessing slavery at once."

"Indeed, begging your pardon, sir, I shall not.  I shall just go on with
it as usual.  I shall keep out of your way all day, as I have been
accustomed to do: you may send for me in the evening, when you feel
disposed to see me, and I'll come then; but at no other time."

"I want a smoke, Jane, or a pinch of snuff, to comfort me under all this,
'pour me donner une contenance,' as Adele would say; and unfortunately I
have neither my cigar-case, nor my snuff-box.  But listen--whisper.  It
is your time now, little tyrant, but it will be mine presently; and when
once I have fairly seized you, to have and to hold, I'll
just--figuratively speaking--attach you to a chain like this" (touching
his watch-guard).  "Yes, bonny wee thing, I'll wear you in my bosom, lest
my jewel I should tyne."

He said this as he helped me to alight from the carriage, and while he
afterwards lifted out Adele, I entered the house, and made good my
retreat upstairs.

He duly summoned me to his presence in the evening.  I had prepared an
occupation for him; for I was determined not to spend the whole time in a
_tete-a-tete_ conversation.  I remembered his fine voice; I knew he liked
to sing--good singers generally do.  I was no vocalist myself, and, in
his fastidious judgment, no musician, either; but I delighted in
listening when the performance was good.  No sooner had twilight, that
hour of romance, began to lower her blue and starry banner over the
lattice, than I rose, opened the piano, and entreated him, for the love
of heaven, to give me a song.  He said I was a capricious witch, and that
he would rather sing another time; but I averred that no time was like
the present.

"Did I like his voice?" he asked.

"Very much."  I was not fond of pampering that susceptible vanity of his;
but for once, and from motives of expediency, I would e'en soothe and
stimulate it.

"Then, Jane, you must play the accompaniment."

"Very well, sir, I will try."

I did try, but was presently swept off the stool and denominated "a
little bungler."  Being pushed unceremoniously to one side--which was
precisely what I wished--he usurped my place, and proceeded to accompany
himself: for he could play as well as sing.  I hied me to the
window-recess.  And while I sat there and looked out on the still trees
and dim lawn, to a sweet air was sung in mellow tones the following
strain:--

   "The truest love that ever heart
      Felt at its kindled core,
   Did through each vein, in quickened start,
      The tide of being pour.

   Her coming was my hope each day,
      Her parting was my pain;
   The chance that did her steps delay
      Was ice in every vein.

   I dreamed it would be nameless bliss,
      As I loved, loved to be;
   And to this object did I press
      As blind as eagerly.

   But wide as pathless was the space
      That lay our lives between,
   And dangerous as the foamy race
      Of ocean-surges green.

   And haunted as a robber-path
      Through wilderness or wood;
   For Might and Right, and Woe and Wrath,
      Between our spirits stood.

   I dangers dared; I hindrance scorned;
      I omens did defy:
   Whatever menaced, harassed, warned,
      I passed impetuous by.

   On sped my rainbow, fast as light;
      I flew as in a dream;
   For glorious rose upon my sight
      That child of Shower and Gleam.

   Still bright on clouds of suffering dim
      Shines that soft, solemn joy;
   Nor care I now, how dense and grim
      Disasters gather nigh.

   I care not in this moment sweet,
      Though all I have rushed o'er
   Should come on pinion, strong and fleet,
      Proclaiming vengeance sore:

   Though haughty Hate should strike me down,
      Right, bar approach to me,
   And grinding Might, with furious frown,
      Swear endless enmity.

   My love has placed her little hand
      With noble faith in mine,
   And vowed that wedlock's sacred band
      Our nature shall entwine.

   My love has sworn, with sealing kiss,
      With me to live--to die;
   I have at last my nameless bliss.
      As I love--loved am I!"

He rose and came towards me, and I saw his face all kindled, and his full
falcon-eye flashing, and tenderness and passion in every lineament.  I
quailed momentarily--then I rallied.  Soft scene, daring demonstration, I
would not have; and I stood in peril of both: a weapon of defence must be
prepared--I whetted my tongue: as he reached me, I asked with asperity,
"whom he was going to marry now?"

"That was a strange question to be put by his darling Jane."

"Indeed!  I considered it a very natural and necessary one: he had talked
of his future wife dying with him.  What did he mean by such a pagan
idea?  _I_ had no intention of dying with him--he might depend on that."

"Oh, all he longed, all he prayed for, was that I might live with him!
Death was not for such as I."

"Indeed it was: I had as good a right to die when my time came as he had:
but I should bide that time, and not be hurried away in a suttee."

"Would I forgive him for the selfish idea, and prove my pardon by a
reconciling kiss?"

"No: I would rather be excused."

Here I heard myself apostrophised as a "hard little thing;" and it was
added, "any other woman would have been melted to marrow at hearing such
stanzas crooned in her praise."

I assured him I was naturally hard--very flinty, and that he would often
find me so; and that, moreover, I was determined to show him divers
rugged points in my character before the ensuing four weeks elapsed: he
should know fully what sort of a bargain he had made, while there was yet
time to rescind it.

"Would I be quiet and talk rationally?"

"I would be quiet if he liked, and as to talking rationally, I flattered
myself I was doing that now."

He fretted, pished, and pshawed.  "Very good," I thought; "you may fume
and fidget as you please: but this is the best plan to pursue with you, I
am certain.  I like you more than I can say; but I'll not sink into a
bathos of sentiment: and with this needle of repartee I'll keep you from
the edge of the gulf too; and, moreover, maintain by its pungent aid that
distance between you and myself most conducive to our real mutual
advantage."

From less to more, I worked him up to considerable irritation; then,
after he had retired, in dudgeon, quite to the other end of the room, I
got up, and saying, "I wish you good-night, sir," in my natural and
wonted respectful manner, I slipped out by the side-door and got away.

The system thus entered on, I pursued during the whole season of
probation; and with the best success.  He was kept, to be sure, rather
cross and crusty; but on the whole I could see he was excellently
entertained, and that a lamb-like submission and turtle-dove sensibility,
while fostering his despotism more, would have pleased his judgment,
satisfied his common-sense, and even suited his taste less.

In other people's presence I was, as formerly, deferential and quiet; any
other line of conduct being uncalled for: it was only in the evening
conferences I thus thwarted and afflicted him.  He continued to send for
me punctually the moment the clock struck seven; though when I appeared
before him now, he had no such honeyed terms as "love" and "darling" on
his lips: the best words at my service were "provoking puppet,"
"malicious elf," "sprite," "changeling," &c.  For caresses, too, I now
got grimaces; for a pressure of the hand, a pinch on the arm; for a kiss
on the cheek, a severe tweak of the ear.  It was all right: at present I
decidedly preferred these fierce favours to anything more tender.  Mrs.
Fairfax, I saw, approved me: her anxiety on my account vanished;
therefore I was certain I did well.  Meantime, Mr. Rochester affirmed I
was wearing him to skin and bone, and threatened awful vengeance for my
present conduct at some period fast coming.  I laughed in my sleeve at
his menaces.  "I can keep you in reasonable check now," I reflected; "and
I don't doubt to be able to do it hereafter: if one expedient loses its
virtue, another must be devised."

Yet after all my task was not an easy one; often I would rather have
pleased than teased him.  My future husband was becoming to me my whole
world; and more than the world: almost my hope of heaven.  He stood
between me and every thought of religion, as an eclipse intervenes
between man and the broad sun.  I could not, in those days, see God for
His creature: of whom I had made an idol.





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 next morning, Jane wakes, wondering if the previous night was just a dream. She feels transformed; even her face looks different, no longer plain. Believing Jane has taken an immoral turn, Mrs. Fairfax is cool and quiet at breakfast, but Jane feels she must let Rochester give explanations. When she walks up to the schoolroom in search of Adele, Jane finds Rochester instead. He calls her "Jane Rochester," which she finds frightening, and tells her the wedding will be in four weeks. Jane doesn't believe the wedding will actually happen -- it would be a "fairy-tale," too much happiness for a real human. Rochester vows to make the world recognize Jane's beauty, but she worries that he's trying to transform her into a costumed ape. Jane is upset by Mrs. Fairfax's response to the news of the engagement. Rather than being delighted with the relationship, Mrs. Fairfax warns Jane to maintain a distance from Rochester, because she's worried about the differences between their ages and social classes. Later that day, Jane and Rochester drive to Millcote to make purchases for the wedding, and Adele rides with them. They shop for silk and jewels, making Jane feel like a "doll." She vows to write her uncle in Madeira when she returns home, reasoning that she'd be more comfortable accepting Rochester's gifts if she knew she'd one day have her own money to contribute to the relationship. That evening, Rochester sings Jane a romantic song, but she has no intention of sinking into a "bathos of sentiment." She plans to keep her distance until after the wedding vows. In Chapter 25, all of the preparations are ready for the wedding, which takes place the next day. Jane cannot bring herself to label her luggage with the cards that say "Mrs. Rochester," because this person doesn't yet exist. Together, they eat their last dinner at Thornfield before leaving on their European honeymoon. Jane can't eat, but tells Rochester about a strange occurrence that happened the previous night, while he was away: Before Jane went to bed, she discovered a hidden gift from Rochester -- an expensive veil from London that she doubts can transform her from a plebian to a peeress. As she slept, she dreamt of a child, too young and feeble to walk, who cried in her arms. Rochester walked on a road ahead of her, but she was unable to catch him. The dream then took her to Thornfield Hall, which had become a "dreary ruin," with nothing remaining but a "shell-like wall." Trying to get a final glimpse of Rochester, she climbed the wall of Thornfield, but it collapsed, causing her to fall and drop the child. When she woke, she saw the figure of a woman in her room, someone she didn't recognize. The woman, whose face was ghastly, "savage," vampirish, threw Jane's veil over her own face. After gazing at herself in the mirror, the woman took the veil off, ripped it in two, and trampled it. Then the woman walked over to Jane's bed and peered into her face, causing her to faint for the second time in her life. When Jane woke in the morning, she discovered the veil on the floor, torn in two, so she knows the experience wasn't a dream. Rochester thanks God that Jane wasn't harmed and then suggests that the woman must have been Grace Poole. In a state between sleeping and waking, Jane simply didn't recognize her. He promises to explain everything in "a year and a day" after their marriage. Rochester insists that Jane sleep in Adele's bed this night, with the door securely fastened.

