tiquity, moderate size, and no arcectural pretensions, deep buried in a en spoke of it, and sometimes tate for t t could find no tenant, in consequence of its ineligible and insalubrious site. Ferndean ted and unfurnision of some tted up for tion of t to s.
to t ere dark on an evening marked by teristics of sad sky, cold gale, and continued small penetrating rain. t mile I performed on foot, ion I distance of t, so timber of t it. Iron gates bete pillars so enter, and passing t once in track descending t aisle bety ss and under branc, expecting soon to reac it stretc ation or grounds was visible.
I t I aken a ion and lost my ural as erem, columnar trunk, dense summer foliage—no opening anywhere.
I proceeded: at last my rees ttle; presently I be, distinguisrees; so dank and green s decaying ering a portal, fastened only by a latcood amidst a space of enclosed ground, from , and t in t. ted ted gables in its front; tticed and narro door oo, one step led up to it. t of ter Arms e a desolate spot.” It ill as a ctering rain on t leaves s vicinage.
“Can there be life here?” I asked.
Yes, life of some kind t—t narro-door o issue from the grange.
It opened slo into tep; a man a : retco feel er, Edher.
I stayed my step, almost my breatood to co examine o ing, and one in raining my voice from exclamation, my step from y advance.
rong and stal contour as ever: ill erect, ill raven black; nor ered or sunk: not in one year’s space, by any sorrorengted. But in enance I sae and brooding—t reminded me of some tered or bird, dangerous to approacy inguis look as looked t sightless Samson.
And, reader, do you ty?—if you do, you little kno soon I so drop a kiss on t broernly sealed beneat: but not yet. I accost .
ep, and advanced sloo. ride no urn. ed raining effort, on tore of trees: one sa all to retc arm, tilated one, o vacancy still; for trees and mute in t on t Joer.
“ill you take my arm, sir?” better go in?”
“Let me alone,” he answer.
Jo er noried to : vainly,—all oo uncertain. o tering it, closed the door.
I now drew near and knocked: John’s wife opened for me. “Mary,” I said, “how are you?”
Sarted as if s: I calmed o really you, miss, come at te o taking o tc by a good fire. I explained to t I t I o see Mr. Rocer. I asked Joo go doo turn-pike-runk, and sioned Mary as to t; and finding t arrangements to t effect, t, be impossible, I informed ay. Just at t the parlour-bell rang.
“ell your master t a person o do not give my name.”
“I don’t think he will see you,” she answered; “he refuses everybody.”
urned, I inquired er, and place it on a tray, togeth candles.
“Is t w he rang for?” I asked.
“Yes: in at dark, though he is blind.”
“Give tray to me; I in.”
I took it from ed me out tray s; ter spilt from t struck my ribs loud and fast. Mary opened t it behind me.
ted loe; and, leaning over it, ed against telpiece, appeared tenant of t, lay on one side, removed out of tently trodden upon. Pilot pricked up oray from my it on table; tted ly, “Lie dourned meco see ion as urned and sighed.
“Give me ter, Mary,” he said.
I approac folloill excited.
“ is tter?” he inquired.
“Do!” I again said. er on its o o listen: t not?”
“Mary is in tchen,” I answered.
out ure, but not seeing oucrying, as it seemed, to SEE less eyes— unavailing and distressing attempt! “Answer me—speak again!” he ordered, imperiously and aloud.
“ill you tle more er, sir? I spilt he glass,” I said.
“? is it? ho speaks?”
“Pilot knows me, and Johis evening,” I answered.
“Great God!— madness has seized me?”
“No delusion—no madness: your mind, sir, is too strong for delusion, your oo sound for frenzy.”
“And I must feel, or my op and my brain burst. ever—o touc live!”
ed in both mine.
“ fingers! If so t be more of her.”
tody; my arm o him.
“Is it Jane? is it? this is her size—”
“And t, too. God bless you, sir! I am glad to be so near you again.”
“Jane Eyre!—Jane Eyre,” was all he said.
“My dear master,” I anso you.”
“In truthe flesh? My living Jane?”
“You touc enoug cold like a corpse, nor vacant like air, am I?”
“My living darling! tainly ures; but I cannot be so blest, after all my misery. It is a dream; suc nigo my , as I do no srusted t s leave me.”
“his day.”
“Never I al an empty mockery; and I e and abandoned—my life dark, lonely, and forbidden to drink—my famiso be fed. Gentle, soft dream, nestling in my arms nooo, as your sisters kiss me before you go—embrace me, Jane.”
“there!”’
I pressed my lips to and no too. o arouse ion of ty of all this seized him.
“It is you—is it, Jane? You are come back to me then?”
“I am.”
“And you do not lie dead in some ditcream? And you are not a pining outcast amongst strangers?”
“No, sir! I am an independent woman now.”
“Independent! do you mean, Jane?”
“My uncle in Madeira is dead, and me five thousand pounds.”
“Aical—t. Besides, t peculiar voice of ing and piquant, as : it c; it puts life into it.—, Janet! Are you an independent woman? A rich woman?”
“If you let me live o your door, and you may come and sit in my parlour w company of an evening.”
“But as you are ric, friends suffer you to devote yourself to a blind lameter like me?”
“I told you I am independent, sir, as well as ricress.”
“And you ay h me?”
“Certainly—unless you object. I o you, to o sit o on you, to be eyes and o you. Cease to look so melancer; you s be left desolate, so long as I live.”
: racted; o speak: a little embarrassed. Peroo rasionalities; and . Joy in my inconsiderateness. I o be ation, not tain because unexpressed, once as no to t effect escaping enance becoming more overcast, I suddenly remembered t I migtingly; and I began gently to ched me closer.
“No—no—Jane; you must not go. No—I ouc t of your presence—tness of your consolation: I cannot give up ttle left in myself—I must it does not signify. My very soul demands you: it isfied, or it ake deadly vengeance on its frame.”
“ell, sir, I ay h you: I have said so.”
“Yes—but you understand one taying and anoto be about my o on me as a kind little nurse (for you ionate and a generous spirit, o make sacrifices for ty), and t ougo suffice for me no doubt. I suppose I sertain none but fatell me.”
“I you like, sir: I am content to be only your nurse, if you t better.”
“But you cannot al: you are young—you must marry one day.”
“I don’t care about being married.”
“You s: if I ry to make you care—but—a sightless block!”
o gloom. I, on trary, became more cook fres y quite relieved from my previous embarrassment. I resumed a livelier vein of conversation.
“It is time some one undertook to reing locks; “for I see you are being metamorpo a lion, or somet sort. You you, t is certain: your , I yet noticed.”
“On tilated limb from , and s to me. “It is a mere stump—a gly sig you think so, Jane?”
“It is a pity to see it; and a pity to see your eyes—and t of it is, one is in danger of loving you too oo much of you.”
“I t you ed, Jane, wrised visage.”
“Did you? Don’t tell me so—lest I so your judgment. No me leave you an instant, to make a better fire, and up. Can you tell where is a good fire?”
“Yes; eye I see a glow—a ruddy haze.”
“And you see the candles?”
“Very dimly—each is a luminous cloud.”
“Can you see me?”
“No, my fairy: but I am only too to hear and feel you.”
“ake supper?”
“I never take supper.”
“But you so-nig.”
Summoning Mary, I soon able repast. My spirits ed, and alked to ime after. traint, no repressing of glee and vivacity perfect ease, because I kneed o console or revive ful consciousness! It brougo life and ligure: in s softened and warmed.
After supper, o ask me many questions, of I gave ial replies: it oo late to enter into particulars t nigo touco open no fresion in : my sole present aim o c but by fits. If a moment’s silence broke tion, urn restless, touchen say, “Jane.”
“You are altogetain of t?”
“I conscientiously believe so, Mr. Rocer.”
“Yet retco take a glass of er from a ion, expecting Joo ans my ear.”
“Because I ead, ray.”
“And tment in tell ing not in day; feeling but tion of cold , of to eat: and t times, a very delirium of desire to beoration I longed, far more t of my lost sig be t Jane is depart as suddenly as so-morrow, I fear I shall find her no more.”
A commonplace, practical reply, out of train of urbed ideas, and most reassuring for t I hem grow as broad and black as ever.
“ spirit, al moment, you me—passing like a so me unknoerwards undiscoverable?
“-comb about you, sir?”
“ for, Jane?”
“Just to comb out t alk of my being a fairy, but I am sure, you are more like a brownie.”
“Am I hideous, Jane?”
“Very, sir: you always were, you know.”
“ been taken out of you, wherever you have sojourned.”
“Yet I ter times better people; possessed of ideas and vieertained in your life: quite more refined and exalted.”
“h?”
“If you t in t of your o entertain doubts of my substantiality.”
“h, Jane?”
“You s get it out of me to-nig till to-morroo leave my tale old, of security t I s your breakfast table to finis. By t mind not to rise on your er t bring an egg at t, to say nothing of fried ham.”
“You mocking c felt t he harp.”
“t. No tired. Good night.”
“Just one he house where you have been?”
I laugill laugairs. “A good idea!” I t ting of ime to come.”
Very early t morning I ir, o anotion: “Is Miss Eyre o? as it dry? Is ss anything; and when she will come down.”
I came do t of breakfast. Entering tly, I o ness tion of t vigorous spirit to a corporeal infirmity. in ill, but not at rest: expectant evidently; tual sadness marking rong features. enance reminded one of a lamp quencing to be re-lit— and alas! it could nore of animated expression: on anot office! I to be gay and careless, but trong man touc to till I accosted vivacity I could.
“It is a brigender ser it: you shall have a walk soon.”
I ures beamed.
“Oo me. You are not gone: not vanis its song rated in my Jane’s tongue to my ear (I am glad it is not naturally a silent one): all the sunshine I can feel is in her presence.”
ter stood in my eyes to as if a royal eagle, co a perco entreat a sparroo become its purveyor. But I be lac drops, and busied myself .
Most of t in t of t and o some co ly green t a seat for , a dry stump of a tree; nor did I refuse to let ed, place me on ? Pilot lay beside us: all . suddenly while clasping me in his arms—
“Cruel, cruel deserter! O did I feel ment, ascertained t you aken no money, nor anyt! A pearl necklace I oucs little casket; your trunks corded and locked as tour. could my darling do, I asked, left destitute and penniless? And w did s me hear now.”
tive of my experience for t year. I softened considerably ed to tarvation, because to old o inflict unnecessary pain: ttle I did say lacerated deeper than I wished.
I s any means of making my ion. I so be ress. Violent as rutoo oo tenderly to constitute yrant: une, demanding so mucurn, ratain, more to him.
“ell, o tell Moor ained tress, amp;c. tune, tions, follo. Joly in tale. name ely taken up.
“t. Johen, is your cousin?”
“Yes.”
“You en: do you like him?”
“ help liking him.”
“A good man. Does t mean a respectable ed man of fifty? Or mean?”
“St Joy-nine, sir.”
“‘Jeune encore,’ as tature, pic, and plain. A person lessness of vice, tue.”
“iringly active. Great and exalted deeds are w o perform.”
“But is probably rat? you so alk?”
“alks little, sir: . -rate, I s impressible, but vigorous.”
“Is hen?”
“truly able.”
“A ted man?”
“St. John is an accomplished and profound scholar.”
“ to your taste?—priggish and parsonic?”
“I never mentioned , unless I aste, t suit it; tlemanlike.”
“ ion you gave of of rae, rangled e neckclotilted up on hick-soled high-lows, eh?”
“St. Joall, fair, h blue eyes, and a Grecian profile.”
(Aside.) “Damn o me.) “Did you like him, Jane?”
“Yes, Mr. Rocer, I liked you asked me t before.”
I perceived, of course, t of my interlocutor. Jealousy ung ting ary: it gave e from t, tely che snake.
“Per sit any longer on my knee, Miss Eyre?” someed observation.
“, Mr. Rocer?”
“ture you draive of a ratoo over. Your tily a graceful Apollo: to your imagination,—tall, fair, blue-eyed, and o the bargain.”
“I never t of it, before; but you certainly are rather like Vulcan, sir.”
“ell, you can leave me, ma’am: but before you go” (and ained me by a firmer grasp t to ansion or two.” he paused.
“ questions, Mr. Rocer?”
tion.
“St. Joress of Morton before he knew you were his cousin?”
“Yes.”
“You en see times?”
“Daily.”
“alented creature!”
“hem—yes.”
“ ed to find? Some of your accompliss are not ordinary.”
“I don’t kno t.”
“You tle cottage near to see you?”
“Nohen?”
“Of an evening?”
“Once or twice.”
A pause.
“ers after the cousinship was discovered?”
“Five months.”
“Did Rivers spend mucime he ladies of his family?”
“Yes; tudy and ours: near table.”
“Did udy much?”
“A good deal.”
“?”
“anee.”
“And ime?”
“I learnt German, at first.”
“Did each you?”
“ understand German.”
“Did eaching?”
“A little anee.”
“Rivers tauganee?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And ers also?”
“No.”
“Only you?”
“Only me.”
“Did you ask to learn?”
“No.”
“o teach you?”
“Yes.”
A second pause.
“? Of o you?”
“ended me to go o India.”
“A of tter. ed you to marry him?”
“o marry him.”
“t is a fiction—an impudent invention to vex me.”
“I beg your pardon, it is teral trutiff about urging as ever you could be.”
“Miss Eyre, I repeat it, you can leave me. en am I to say tinaciously percice to quit?”
“Because I am comfortable there.”
“No, Jane, you are not comfortable t is not is . Joill t, I t my little Jane om of s in mucter. Long as ears as I over our separation, I never t t is useless grieving. Jane, leave me: go and marry Rivers.”
“S leave you of my own accord.”
“Jane, I ever like your tone of voice: it still renerut, it carries me back a year. I forget t you ie. But I am not a fool—go—”
“ I go, sir?”
“Your ohe husband you have chosen.”
“?”
“You kno. John Rivers.”
“ my love me: I do not love is not as you love) a beautiful young lady called Rosamond. ed to marry me only because I sable missionary’s severe; and, for me, cold as an iceberg. like you, sir: I am not tractive in me; not even youtal points.—t leave you, sir, to go to him?”
I sarily, and clung instinctively closer to my blind but beloved master. he smiled.
“, Jane! Is true? Is sucate of matters between you and Rivers?”
“Absolutely, sir! O be jealous! I ed to tease you a little to make you less sad: I t anger ter t if you see ent. All my is yours, sir: it belongs to you; and e to exile t of me from your presence for ever.”
Again, as s darkened . “My scared vision! My crippled strengtfully.
I caressed, in order to soot ed to speak for dared not. As urned aside e, I saear slide from under trickle do swelled.
“I am no better tning-struck cnut-tree in t rig ruin o bid a budding s decay h freshness?”
“You are no ruin, sir—no ligruck tree: you are green and vigorous. Plants your roots, ake deligiful sorengthem so safe a prop.”
Again .
“You speak of friends, Jane?” he asked.
“Yes, of friends,” I ansatingly: for I kne more t could not tell o employ. he helped me.
“A I a wife.”
“Do you, sir?”
“Yes: is it neo you?”
“Of course: you said not it before.”
“Is it unwelcome news?”
“t depends on circumstances, sir—on your choice.”
“hich you shall make for me, Jane. I will abide by your decision.”
“C.”
“I least c. Jane, will you marry me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“A poor blind man, by the hand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“A crippled man, ty years older to on?”
“Yes, sir.”
“truly, Jane?”
“Most truly, sir.”
“Oh! my darling! God bless you and reward you!”
“Mr. Rocer, if ever I did a good deed in my life—if ever I t a good t—if ever I prayed a sincere and blameless prayer—if ever I o be as h.”
“Because you delight in sacrifice.”
“Sacrifice! do I sacrifice? Famine for food, expectation for content. to be privileged to put my arms round o press my lips to o repose on rust: is t to make a sacrifice? If so, tainly I delight in sacrifice.”
“And to bear ies, Jane: to overlook my deficiencies.”
“o me. I love you better noate of proud independence, t of tector.”
“o I ed to be o be led: e it no more. I did not like to put my o a it is pleasant to feel it circled by Jane’s little fingers. I preferred utter loneliness to tant attendance of servants; but Jane’s soft ministry ual joy. Jane suits me: do I suit her?”
“to t fibre of my nature, sir.”
“to for: be married instantly.”
uosity was rising.
“e must become one fles any delay, Jane: t to get—then we marry.”
“Mr. Rocer, I discovered ts meridian, and Pilot is actually gone o me look at your ch.”
“Fasten it into your girdle, Janet, and keep it .”
“It is nearly four o’clock in ternoon, sir. Don’t you feel hungry?”
“t be our is not h a fillip.”
“till: it is quite .”
“Do you knole pearl necklace at t fastened round my bronze scrag under my cravat? I since t my only treasure, as a memento of her.”
“e way.”
s heeding me.
“Jane! you t my situde to t God of t no far clearer: judges not as man judges, but far more on its purity: tent snatc from me. I, in my stiff-necked rebellion, almost cursed tion: instead of bending to t. Divine justice pursued its course; disasters came to pass tisements are mige me no over to foreign guidance, as a cs e, Jane—only—only of late—I began to see and acknoo experience remorse, repentance; t to my Maker. I began sometimes to pray: very brief prayers t very sincere.
“Some days since: nay, I can number t Monday nig since I could noe t nig migired to my dreary rest, I supplicated God, t, if it seemed good to soon be taken from tted to t o come, will hope of rejoining Jane.
“I ting by t sooto feel t-air; tars and only by a vague, luminous ! O once in anguisy, if I been long enouge, afflicted, tormented; and mig soon taste bliss and peace once more. t I merited all I endured, I ackno I could scarcely endure more, I pleaded; and t’s he words—‘Jane! Jane! Jane!’”
“Did you speak these words aloud?”
“I did, Jane. If any listener me mad: I pronounced tic energy.”
“And it Monday nig?”
“Yes; but time is of no consequence: range point. You itious,—some superstition I rue— true at least it is t I I noe.
“As I exclaimed ‘Jane! Jane! Jane!’ a voice—I cannot tell for me;’ and a moment after, whe words—‘here are you?’
“I’ll tell you, if I can, ture to my mind: yet it is difficult to express to express. Ferndean is buried, as you see, in a ing. ‘ mountains; for I ec t t to visit my broing. In spirit, I believe . You no doubt t s cell to comfort mine; for ts—as certain as I live—they were yours!”
Reader, it I too erious summons: to it. I listened to Mr. Rocer’s narrative, but made no disclosure in return. truck me as too ao be communicated or discussed. If I told anytale mind, yet from its sufferings too prone to gloom, needed not tural. I kept t.
“You cannot noinued my master, “t nigy in believing you any ot to silence and anniion, as t to be othank God!”
me off ly lifting from less eyes to tood in mute devotion. Only t he worship were audible.
“I t, in t of judgment, reat my Redeemer to give me strengto lead o!”
tretc to be led. I took t dear a moment to my lips, t it pass round my sature tered the wood, and wended homeward.