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
Adèle 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.”
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“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 aërial.”
“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:
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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
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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, Janet,—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.
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“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—
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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
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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, Adèle 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, Adèle;” 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.
“Adèle 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 Adèle.
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.”
Adèle, 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.
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Adèle 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 Adèle.
“I shall gather manna for her morning and night: the plains and hillsides in the moon are
bleached with manna, Adèle.”
“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, Adèle?
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 Adèle, 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.”
“Adèle, 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, Adèle, 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
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own heaven yonder.’ She nodded again at the moon. The ring, Adèle, 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 fée,” and that “du reste, il n’y avait pas de fées, et
quand même 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 jeweller’s 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!”
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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 Céline Varens?—of the diamonds, the cashmeres you gave her? I will
not be your English Céline Varens. I shall continue to act as Adèle’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.”
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“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 Adèle 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 Adèle, 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 tête-à-tête 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.
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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?”
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“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;
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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.
