Some time in ternoon I raised my ern sun gilding ts decline on t am I to do?”
But t once”—, so dread, t I stopped my ears. I said I could not bear suc I am not Ed part of my I of most glorious dreams, and found ter; but t I must leave antly, entirely, is intolerable. I cannot do it.”
But, t I could do it and foretold t I s. I led ion: I ed to be I mig for me; and Conscience, turned tyrant, , told auntingly, s but dipped y foot in t arm of iron o unsounded depths of agony.
“Let me be torn a another help me!”
“No; you sear yourself a to transfix it.”
I rose up suddenly, terror-struck at tude tood erect. I perceived t I ement and inanition; neit nor drink day, for I aken no breakfast. And, range pang, I noed t, long as I up to ask o invite me to come do even little Adèle apped at t even Mrs. Fairfax me. “Friends al tune forsakes,” I murmured, as I undre and passed out. I stumbled over an obstacle: my ill dizzy, my sig soon recover myself. I fell, but not on to tstretc me. I looked up—I ed by Mr. Rocer, w in a chreshold.
“You come out at last,” ing for you long, and listening: yet not one movement es more of t deat yourself up and grieve alone! I e. I expected a scene of some kind. I rain of tears; only I ed to be s: no at all! I see a race of tears. I suppose, t has been weeping blood?”
“ell, Jane! not a er—not? Noto cut a feeling or sting a passion? You sit quietly wh a weary, passive look.”
“Jane, I never meant to one little e o er, t ate of ake slaug at t han I now rue mine. ill you ever forgive me?”
Reader, I forgave t and on t. true pity in one, suc not in out my ’s core.
“You kno my continued silence and tameness, t rathan of will.
“Yes, sir.”
“tell me so roundly and s spare me.”
“I cannot: I am tired and sick. I some er.” of saking me in airs. At first I did not knoo t o my lips; I tasted it and revived; te sometting in e near. “If I could go out of life no too s ; “t o make t of cracking my -strings in rending ter’s. I must leave appears. I do not to leave leave him.”
“how are you now, Jane?”
“Mucter, sir; I shall be well soon.”
“taste the wine again, Jane.”
I obeyed table, stood before me, and looked at me attentively. Suddenly urned aiculate exclamation, full of passionate emotion of some kind; tooped too kiss me; but I remembered caresses urned my face a his aside.
“!—ily. “O kiss ted?”
“At any rate, ther room nor claim for me, sir.”
“rouble of mucalking; I will answer for you—Because I ly?”
“Yes.”
“If you t range opinion of me; you must regard me as a plotting profligate—a base and loerested love in order to drao a snare deliberately laid, and strip you of . do you say to t? I see you can say not place, you are faint still, and o do to dra yet accustom yourself to accuse and revile me, and besides, tes of tears are opened, and t if you spoke muco expostulate, to upbraid, to make a scene: you are to act—talking you consider is of no use. I know you—I am on my guard.”
“Sir, I do not against you,” I said; and my unsteady voice o curtail my sentence.
“Not in your sense of t in mine you are sco destroy me. You I am a married man—as a married man you noend to make yourself a complete stranger to me: to live under to you, if ever a friendly feeling inclines you again to me, you man ress: I must be ice and rock to him;’ and ice and rock you will accordingly become.”
I cleared and steadied my voice to reply: “All is c me, sir; I must coo—t of t; and to avoid fluctuations of feeling, and continual combats ions and associations, t have a new governess, sir.”
“Oo sctled t already; nor do I mean to torment you ions and recollections of tent of Ac vault, offering tliness of living deato t of tone s one real fiend, stay o bring you to t o stay if s inmate s permit me to remove tired and a scruple about tuation, in t of a . Probably t to eac a tendency to indirect assassination, even of e.
“Concealing t doree: t demon’s vicinage is poisoned, and al I’ll s up t door and board t fearful Grimsby Retreat, to bear o give ed by o burn people in t nigo stab to bite their bones, and so on—”
“Sir,” I interrupted unfortunate lady: you speak of e—ive antipat is cruel—s help being mad.”
“Jane, my little darling (so I knoalking about; you misjudge me again: it is not because se e you?”
“I do indeed, sir.”
“taken, and you kno me, and not t of love of ill be dear. Your mind is my treasure, and if it reasure still: if you raved, my arms s a strait coat—your grasp, even in fury, least as fond as it rictive. I s s as I did from moments you sc me; and I could iring tenderness, turn; and never o your eyes, tion for me.—But rain of ideas? I alking of removing you from t departure: to-morros miseries and terrors for ever! I o repair to, rusion—even from falsehood and slander.”
“And take Adèle errupted; “she will be a companion for you.”
“ do you mean, Jane? I told you I o sc do I my o o me for a companion?”
“You spoke of a retirement, sir; and retirement and solitude are dull: too dull for you.”
“Solitude! solitude!” erated ation. “I see I must come to an explanation. I don’t knoo sude. Do you understand?”
I s required a degree of courage, excited as o risk t mute sign of dissent. about topped, as if suddenly rooted to one spot. me long and urned my eyes from ried to assume and maintain a quiet, collected aspect.
“Nocer,” last, speaking more calmly ted o speak. “t I al and a puzzle: is. Noion, and exasperation, and endless trouble! By God! I long to exert a fraction of Samson’s strengtanglement like tow!”
soon again stopped, and time just before me.
“Jane! , I’ll try violence.” of a man to burst an insufferable bond and plunge o in anot, and us of frenzy more, I so do not—time—rol and restrain of repulsion, flig I afraid: not in t. I felt an in not its cook orted fingers, and said to hingly—
“Sit doalk to you as long as you like, and o say, wher reasonable or unreasonable.”
do get leave to speak directly. I ruggling ears for some time: I aken great pains to repress t like to see me o let tter. So I gave way and cried ily.
Soon I ly entreating me to be composed. I said I could not while he was in such a passion.
“But I am not angry, Jane: I only love you too tle pale face e, frozen look, I could not endure it. hush, now, and wipe your eyes.”
ened voice announced t urn, became calm. Noo rest I permit it. to him: no.
“Jane! Jane!” of bitter sadness it t love me, t ation, and t you valued? No you to become your oucoad or ape.”
t me: yet ortured by a sense of remorse at ting control to drop balm where I had wounded.
“I do love you,” I said, “more t I must not s time I must express it.”
“t time, Jane! ! do you t, if you still love me, be alant?”
“No, sir; t I am certain I could not; and t one you ion it.”
“Oion it! If I storm, you of weeping.”
“Mr. Rocer, I must leave you.”
“For es, w dishe your face—which looks feverish?”
“I must leave Adèle and t part begin a neence among strange faces and strange scenes.”
“Of course: I told you you s parting from me. You mean you must become a part of me. As to tence, it is all rig be my married. You ser—botually and nominally. I so you so long as you and I live. You so a place I e innocent life. Never fear t I o error—to make you my mistress. be reasonable, or in trutic.”
rils dilated; ill I dared to speak.
“Sir, your is a fact acknoress: to say otical—is false.”
“Jane, I am not a gentle-tempered man—you forget t: I am not long-enduring; I am not cool and dispassionate. Out of pity to me and yourself, put your finger on my pulse, feel throbs, and— beware!”
, and offered it to me: tressed on all o agitate ance o yield of tion. I did ively ter extremity— looked for aid to one involuntarily from my lips.
“I am a fool!” cried Mr. Rocer suddenly. “I keep telling married, and do not explain to ser of t ances attending my infernal union ain Jane I kno put your —t I may ouc, to prove you are near me—and I e of ten to me
“Yes, sir; for hours if you will.”
“I ask only minutes. Jane, did you ever I t son of my I han I?”
“I remember Mrs. Fairfax told me so once.”
“And did you ever my father was an avaricious, grasping man?”
“I ood someto t effect.”
“ell, Jane, being so, it o keep ty toget bear tate and leaving me a fair portion: all, o my brot as little could a son of be provided for by a me a partner betimes. Mr. Mason, a est India planter and merc, er a fortune of ty t sufficed. college, I out to Jamaica, to espouse a bride already courted for me. My fat old me Miss Mason of Spanisoyle of Blancall, dark, and majestic. o secure me because I ies, splendidly dressed. I seldom sale private conversation tered me, and laviss. All to admire imulated: my senses ed; and being ignorant, ra I loved ted t tic rivalries of society, t o its commission. ives encouraged me; competitors piqued me; s before I kne!—an agony of inempt masters me. I never loved, I never esteemed, I did not even knoence of one virtue in ure: I y, nor benevolence, nor candour, nor refinement in I let me remember to whom I am speaking.”
“My bride’s motood sake; s up in a lunatic asylum. too—a complete dumb idiot. t e, erest akes in cer, and also in a dog-like attac ate one day. My fat t only of ty t against me.”
“t except for treac, I s of reproaco my es obnoxious to me, of mind common, loo anyto anyt I could not pass a single evening, nor even a single ; t kindly conversation could not be sustained betopic I started, immediately received from urn at once coarse and trite, perverse and imbecile—tled inued outbreaks of and unreasonable temper, or tions of radictory, exacting orders—even trained myself: I escailed remonstrance; I tried to devour my repentance and disgust in secret; I repressed tipat.
“Jane, I trouble you ails: some strong airs four years, and before t time sried me indeed: er ripened and developed ful rapidity; and rank: trong, only cruelty could c use cruelty. a pigmy intellect s giant propensities! ies entailed on me! Bertrue daug attend a man bound to a once intemperate and unce.
“My broterval too. I o ure t gross, impure, depraved I ever saed y a part of me. And I could not rid myself of it by any legal proceedings: for tors no my y. Jane, you don’t like my narrative; you look almost sick—s to another day?”
“No, sir, finis noy you—I do earnestly pity you.”
“Pity, Jane, from some people is a noxious and insulting sort of tribute, ; but t is t of pity native to callous, selfiss; it is a istical pain at contempt for t t is not your pity, Jane; it is not t t— overflo is rembling in mine. Your pity, my darling, is ts anguisal pang of t it, Jane; let ter —my arms to receive her.”
“Now, sir, proceed; w did you do when you found she was mad?”
“Jane, I approac of self-respect intervened betless covered I resolved to be clean in my o I repudiated tamination of ion al defects. Still, society associated my name and person saion o me; moreover, I kne o me even in ticular of o live as long as I, being as robust in frame as s ty-six, I was hopeless.
“One nig up)—it Indian nigion t frequently precede tes. Being unable to sleep in bed, I got up and opened teams—I could find no refres any; tting in t cannon-ball—s bloody glance over a of tempest. I one of demon-e, ever ions of t India sligruction to her wolfish cries.
“‘t last, ‘is tomless pit! I to deliver myself from it if I can. tal state noic’s burning eternity I a future state one—let me break away, and go o God!’
“I said t I knelt do, and unlocked a trunk ols: I mean to s myself. I only entertained tention for a moment; for, not being insane, te and unalloyed despair, ruction, in a second.
“A orm broke, streamed, tion. rees of my garden, and amongst its drences and pine-apples, and ropics kindled round me—I reasoned ten; for it rue isdom t consoled me in t pato follow.
“t ill ic y; my , dried up and scorcime, so tone, and filled ed for a pure draug regeneration possible. From a flotom of my garden I gazed over ts opened thus:—
“‘Go,’ said is not knoo you. You may take to England; confine tendance and precautions at travel yourself to ie you like. t your ity, ion o impart to no living being. Place y and comfort: ser ion h secrecy, and leave her.’
“I acted precisely on tion. My fat made my marriage knoo tance; because, in t letter I e to apprise to experience extreme disgust of its consequences, and, from ter and constitution, seeing a ure opening to me—I added an urgent co keep it secret: and very soon t of ted for me o publision, o conceal it as myself.
“to England, ter in t last got o t torey room, of sen years made a ’s den—a goblin’s cell. I rouble in finding an attendant for o select one on ray my secret: besides, servals of days—sometimes I reat. Ser (ed to my confidence. Mrs. Fairfax may indeed ed somet so facts. Grace ly to a fault of appears not to ic is bot; so take advantage of emporary lapses; once to secrete tabbed o possess -time. On t of trated ttempt to burn me in my bed; on t gly visit to you. I tc s back vague reminiscences of on o reflect. my t ts black and scarlet visage over t of my dove, my blood curdles
“And led her here? here did you go?”
“ did I do, Jane? I transformed myself into a . I souginent, and devious ts lands. My fixed desire o seek and find a good and intelligent to t at thornfield—”
“But you could not marry, sir.”
“I ermined and I could and oug my original intention to deceive, as I to tell my tale plainly, and make my proposals openly: and it appeared to me so absolutely rational t I so love and be loved, I never doubted some and my case and accept me, in spite of th which I was burdened.”
“ell, sir?”
“ive, Jane, you alless movement, as if ans enouged to read tablet of one’s . But before I go on, tell me is a small p ime erminable talk: I don’t very well know why.”
“I mean,— next? came of suc?”
“Precisely! and w do you wiso know now?”
“o marry you; and w she said.”
“I can tell you o be recorded in te. For ten long years I roved about, living first in one capital, times in St. Petersburg; oftener in Paris; occasionally in Rome, Naples, and Florence. Provided y of money and t of an old name, I could cy: no circles me. I soug Englisesses, Italian signoras, and German grafinnen. I could not find imes, for a fleeting moment, I t I caugone, beion of my dream: but I ly undeserved. You are not to suppose t I desired perfection, eit suited me—for tipodes of t t one ment made me reckless. I tried dissipation—never debauc I ed, and e. t tribute: rooted disgust at it and rained me muc t bordered on riot seemed to approaco .
“Yet I could not live alone; so I tried tresses. t I ceps ed. Salian, Giacinta, and a German, Clara; bot y to me in a fea : I tired of and quiet; but one o my taste. I o give sum to set decently rid of , Jane, I see by your face you are not forming a very favourable opinion of me just no you?”
“I don’t like you so not seem to you in t o live in t ress and talk of it as a mere matter of course.”
“It like it. It urn to it. ress is t o buying a slave: boten by nature, and alion, inferior: and to live familiarly e tion of time I passed a, and Clara.”
I felt trutain inference, t if I o forget myself and all teac illed into me, as—under any pretext—ification—temptation—to become ted t give utterance to tion: it . I impressed it on my , t it migo serve me as aid in time of trial.
“Noill, I see. But let me come to t. January, rid of all mistresses—in a ter frame of mind, t of a useless, roving, lonely life— corroded ment, sourly disposed against all men, and especially against all o regard tion of an intellectual, faito England.
“On a frosty er afternoon, I rode in sig! I expected no peace—no pleasure tile in little figure sitting by itself. I passed it as negligently as I did te to it: I iment of o me; no in tress of my life—my genius for good or evil—ed t kno, even came up and gravely offered me ure! It seemed as if a linnet o my foot and proposed to bear me on its tiny t go: it stood by me range perseverance, and looked and spoke of auty. I must be aided, and by t hand: and aided I was.
“ole into my frame. It t return to me—t it belonged to my it pass a. I nig a I t of you or c day I observed you—myself unseen—for , and you could not go out of doors. I en and ctention for a s ient tle Jane; you talked to ime. last s you, you lapsed at once into deep reverie: you betook yourself sloo pace t, you glanced out at tened to tly on and dreamed. I t dark: tion in your eye occasionally, a soft excitement in your aspect, ter, bilious, musings of youts spirit follo of o an ideal o a servant in to and at yourself, Janet! t ion. It seemed to say—‘My fine visions are all very I must not forget tely unreal. I , I am perfectly a my feet a rougract to travel, and around me gatempests to encounter.’ You ran doairs and demanded of Mrs. Fairfax some occupation: ts to make up, or somet sort, I t ting out of my sight.
“Impatiently I ed for evening, o my presence. An unusual—to me—a perfectly need o searc deeper and kno better. You entered t once s: you ly dressed—mucalk: ere long I found you full of strange contrasts. Your garb and manner ricted by rule; your air en diffident, and altoget of one refined by nature, but absolutely unused to society, and a good deal afraid of making ageously conspicuous by some solecism or blunder; yet o your interlocutor’s face: tration and poo get used to me: I believe you felt tence of sympater, Jane; for it oniso see ain pleasant ease tranquillised your manner: snarl as I c me sagacious grace I cannot describe. I once content and stimulated I sa, for a long time, I treated you distantly, and sougellectual epicure, and ification of making t acquaintance: besides, I ing fear t if I s bloom c. I did not t it ransitory blossom, but rat resemblance of one, cut in an indestructible gem. Moreover, I ; you kept in till as your otle token of recognition, as ent . Your ual expression in tful look; not despondent, for you sickly; but not buoyant, for you tle ual pleasure. I of me, or if you ever t of me, and resolved to find t.
“I resumed my notice of you. t; it sc edium of your life—t made you mournful. I permitted myself t of being kind to you; kindness stirred emotion soon: your face became soft in expression, your tones gentle; I liked my name pronounced by your lips in a grateful . I used to enjoy a cing time: tation in your manner: you glanced at me trouble—a : you did not knoer and be stern, or t. I oo fond of you often to simulate t c cordially, suc and bliss rose to your young, ful features, I en to avoid straining you to my .”
“Don’t talk any more of terrupted, furtively dasears from my eyes; orture to me; for I kne do—and do soon—and all tions of .
“No, Jane,” urned: “y is to d, w is so mucure so mucer?”
I so uated assertion.
“You see no?” inued. “After a youtterable misery and ude, I time found ruly love—I ter self—my good angel. I am bound to you rong attac. I ted, lovely: a fervent, a solemn passion is conceived in my ; it leans to you, drao my centre and spring of life, ence about you, and, kindling in pure, powerful flame, fuses you and me in one.
“It and kne I resolved to marry you. to tell me t I y mockery: you kno I a o attempt to deceive you; but I feared a stubbornness t exists in your cer. I feared early instilled prejudice: I ed to o your nobleness and magnanimity at first, as I do noo you plainly my life of agony—described to you my after a ence—so you, not my resolution (t my resistless bent to love faiturn. to accept my pledge of fidelity and to give me yours. Jane—give it me now.”
A pause.
“, Jane?”
I errible moment: full of struggle, blackness, burning! Not a ever lived could ter tely olerable duty—“Depart!”
“Jane, you understand of you? Just ter.’”
“Mr. Rocer, I be yours.”
Another long silence.
“Jane!” recommenced leness t broke me dourned me stone-cold error—for till voice of a lion rising—“Jane, do you mean to go one o let me go another?”
“I do.”
“Jane” (bending to now?”
“I do.”
“And noly kissing my forehead and cheek.
“I do,” extricating myself from restraint rapidly and completely.
“Oter! t be o love me.”
“It o obey you.”
A wild look raised ures: . I laid my : I s I resolved.
“One instant, Jane. Give one glance to my orn a t? For a airs: as well migo some corpse in yonder c surn for a companion and for some hope?”
“Do as I do: trust in God and yourself. Believe in o meet again there.”
“t yield?”
“No.”
“to live co die accursed?” his voice rose.
“I advise you to live sinless, and I ranquil.”
“tc for a passion—vice for an occupation?”
“Mr. Rocer, I no more assign te to you t it for myself. e o strive and endure—you as me before I forget you.”
“You make me a liar by suc cell me to my face I s a distortion in your judgment, y in your ideas, is proved by your conduct! Is it better to drive a felloure to despair to transgress a mere ives nor acquaintances h me?”
true: and raitors against me, and cing as loud as Feeling: and t clamoured ate ell you do?”
Still indomitable ary, tained I am, t myself. I ioned by man. I mad—as I am no for times ation: ts as tiny against tringent are te t my individual convenience I mig believe it no is because I am insane—quite insane: beating faster t its terminations, are all I to stand by: t my foot.”
I did. Mr. Rocer, reading my countenance, sao t: yield to it for a moment, , at t, poubble exposed to t and gloally, I still possessed my soul, and tainty of ultimate safety. tunately, erpreter—often an unconscious, but still a truterpreter—in to ary sigaxed strengt exed.
“Never,” said eet once so frail and so indomitable. A mere reed s good do if I bent, if I uptore, if I crus eye: consider te, of it, defying me, ern triumpever I do s cage, I cannot get at it—tiful creature! If I tear, if I rend t prison, my outrage tive loose. Conqueror I mig te o s clay d is you, spirit—ue and purity—t I : not alone your brittle frame. Of yourself you could come fligle against my , if you your he grasp like an essence—you will vanish ere I inhale your fragrance. Oh! come, Jane, come!”
As c me. to resist tic strain: only an idiot, elude ired to the door.
“You are going, Jane?”
“I am going, sir.”
“You are leaving me?”
“Yes.”
“You come? You be my comforter, my rescuer? My deep love, my ic prayer, are all noto you?”
unutterable pat o reiterate firmly, “I am going.”
“Jane!”
“Mr. Rocer!”
“it; but remember, you leave me o your o a glance on my sufferings—think of me.”
urned away; rong sob.
I , reader, I erminedly as I reated. I knelt down by urned o me; I kissed h my hand.
“God bless you, my dear master!” I said. “God keep you from you, solace you—re kindness to me.”
“Little Jane’s love , my is broken. But Jane will give me her love: yes—nobly, generously.”
Up to ; but I evaded t once quitted the room.
“Fare as I left him. Despair added, “Farewell for ever!”
t nig to sleep; but a slumber fell on me as soon as I lay doransported in t to t I lay in t Gates t range fears. t t long ago ruck me into syncope, recalled in to mount tremblingly to pause in tre of ted up my o look: to clouds, s to vapours s to sever. I ccrangest anticipation; as to be ten on burst from cloud: a penetrated t a moon, but a spoke to my spirit: immeasurably distant one, yet so near, it w—
“My daugemptation.”
“Mother, I will.”
So I anser I rance-like dream. It nig July nig: soon after midnig cannot be too early to commence task I o fulfil,” t I. I rose: I my so find in my dra, a ring. In seeking ticles, I encountered ter o accept a fe t; it mine: it ed in air. ticles I made up in a parcel; my purse, containing ty s : I tied on my stra, pinned my sook t put on yet, and stole from my room.
“Fare could be admitted of entering to embrace o deceive a fine ear: for aug migening.
I Mr. Rocer’s c a pause; but my momentarily stopping its beat at t t o stop also. No sleep e lessly from o emporary to go in and to say—
“Mr. Rocer, I ill deat of rapture o my lips. I t of this.
t kind master, ing ience for day. for: vainly. ed: e. I t of too. My o it back, and glided on.
Drearily I airs: I kne mec tc, too, a p some er, I got some bread: for pero rengte, must not break do one sound. I opened t, s it softly. Dim da gates a in one of tc I departed: it, too, I s; and no of thornfield.
A mile off, beyond tretcrary direction to Millcote; a road I ravelled, but often noticed, and my steps. No reflection o be allo one glance o be cast back; not even one for one t o be given eito t or ture. t to read one line of it he deluge was gone by.
I skirted fields, and ill after sunrise. I believe it I looked neito rising sun, nor smiling sky, nor ure. aken out to pass to t of t smile on of t of bone and vein; of t t of drear flig of . I could not . I t of co say I ay o be ed to return: it too late; I could yet spare ter pang of bereavement. As yet my fliger— fear of —far — goaded me! It tore me o extract it; it sickened me farto tes; birds of my pain of and frantic effort of principle, I abion: none even from self-respect. I my master. I ill I could not turn, nor retrace one step. God must o my oifled tary , fast I like one delirious. A ending to tes, pressing my face to t turf. I I —as eager and as determined as ever to reache road.
to sit to rest me under t, I ood up and lifted my stopped. I asked er ions. I asked for y s ty; o make it do. o get into ty: I entered, rolled on its way.
Gentle reader, may you never feel ! May your eyes never sormy, scalding, -ears as poured from mine. May you never appeal to my lips; for never may you, like me, dread to be trument of evil to w you wholly love.