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Sophie ca at seen to dress : she was ery long indeed in aplishiask; so long that Mr. Rochester, grown, I suppose, iatient of dey, sent up to ask why I did not e. She was just fastening eil (the pin square of blond after all) to hair with a brooch; I hurried frounder her hands as soon as uld.
“Stop!” she cried in French. “Look at yourself in the rror: you hae not taken one peep.”
So I tur the door: I saw a robed and eiled figure, so unlike usual self that it seed alst the ige of a stranger. “Jane!” called a oice, and I hastened down. I was receied at the foot of the stairs by Mr. Rochester.
“Lingerer!” he said, “ brain is on fire with iatience, and you tarry so long!”
He took into the dining-roo sureyed keenly all oer, pronounbsp; “fair as a lily, and not only the pride of his life, but the desire of his eyes,” and then telling he would gie but te so breakfast, he rang the bell. One of his tely hired serants, a footn, answered it.
“Is Johing the carriage ready?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is the luggage brought down?”
“They are bringing it down, sir.”
“Go you to the church: see if Mr. Wood (the clergyn) and the clerk are there: return and tell .”
The church, as the reader knows, was but just beyond the gates; the footn soourned.
“Mr. Wood is iry, sir, putting on his surplice.”
“And the carriage?”
“The horses are harnessing.”
“We shall not want it to go to church; but it st be ready the urn: all the boes and luggage arranged and strapped on, and the an in his seat.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Jane, are you ready?”
I rose. There were no groon, no bridesids, ies to wait for or rshal: Mr. Rochester and I. Mrs. Fairfa stood in the hall as we passed. I would fain hae spoken to her, but hand was held by a grasp of iron: I was hurried along by a stride uld hardly follow; and to look at Mr. Rochester’s face was to feel that not a sed of dey would be tolerated for any purpose. I wonder what other bridegrooeer looked as he did—so bent up to a purpose, so griy resolute: or who, under such steadfast brows, eer reealed sug and fshing eyes.
I know not whether the day was fair or foul; in desding the drie, I gazed her on sky h: heart was with eyes; and both seed grated into Mr. Rochester’s fra. I wao see the inisible thing on which, as we went along, he appeared to fasten a gnce fierd fell. I wao feel the thoughts whose force he seed breasting aing.
At the churchyard wicket he stopped: he dered I was quite out of breath. “AI cruel in loe?” he said. “Dey an instant: lean on , Jane.”
And now I recall the picture of the grey old house of God rising calbefore , of a rook wheeling round the steeple, of a ruddy sky beyond. I reer sothing, too, of the green grae- unds; and I hae not fotteher, two figures of strangers straying angst the low hillocks and reading the ntoes graen on the few ssy head-stones. I noticed the because, as they saw us, they passed round to the back of the church; and I doubted not they were going to enter by the side-aisle door and withe y. By Mr. Rochester they were not obsered; he was early looking at face frowhich the blood had, I daresay, ntarily fled: for I fe forehead dewy, and cheeks and lipld. When I rallied, which I soon did, he walked gently with up the path to the porch.
We ehe quiet and hule tele; the priest waited in his white surplice at the lowly aar, the clerk beside hi All was still: two shadows only ed in a rete er. My jecture had beerrect: the strangers had slipped in before us, and they now stood by the au of the Rochesters, their backs towards us, iewing through the rails the old ti-stained rble to, where a kneeling angel guarded the reins of Dar de Rochester, sin at Marston Moor ii of the ciil wars, and of Elizabeth, his wife.
Our pce was taken at the union rails. Hearing a cautious step behind , I gnced oer shoulder: one of the strangers—a gentlen, eidently—was adang up the cel. The serice began. The epnation of the i of triny was gh; and then the clergyn ca a step further forward, and, bending slightly towards Mr. Rochester, went on.
“I require and charge you both (as ye will a the dreadful day of judgnt, when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed), that if either of you know a why ye y not wfully be joiogether in triny, ye do now fess it; for be ye well assured that so ny as arupled together otherwise than God’s Word doth allow, are not joiogether by God, her is their triny wful.”
He paused, as the is. When is the pause after that sentence eer broken by reply? Not, perhaps, on a hundred years. And the clergyn, who had not lifted his eyes frohis book, and had held his breath but for a nt, roceeding: his hand was already stretched towards Mr. Rochester, as his lips unclosed to ask, “Wi thou hae this won for thy wedded wife?”—when a distind near oice said—
“The rriage ot go on: I decre the eistence of a.”
The clergyn looked up at the speaker and stood te; the clerk did the s Mr. Rochester ed slightly, as if ahquake had rolled under his feet: taking a firr footing, and not turning his head or eyes, he said, “Proceed.”
Profound silence fell when he had uttered that word, with deep but low intonation. Presently Mr. Wood said—
“I ot proceed without so iigation into what has been asserted, and eidence of its truth or falsehood.”
“The y is quite broken off,” subjoihe oice behind us. “I ain a dition to proe allegation: an insuperable iedint to this rriage eists.”
Mr. Rochester heard, but heeded not: he stood stubborn and rigid, king but to possess hielf of hand. What a hot and strong grasp he had! and how like quarried rble was his pale, fir ssie front at this nt! How his eye shoill watchful, a wild beh!
Mr. Wood seed at a loss. “What is the nature of the iedint?” he asked. “Perhaps it y be got oer—epined away?”
“Hardly,” was the answer. “I hae called it insuperable, and I speak adisedly.”
The speaker ca forward and leaned on the rails. He tinued, uttering each word distinctly, caly, steadily, but not loudly—
“It sily sists in the eistence of a preie. Mr. Rochester has a wife now liing.”
My neres ibrated to those low-spoken words as they had neer ibrated to thunder— blood fe their subtle iolence as it had neer fe frost or fire; but I wallected, and in no danger of swooning. I looked at Mr. Rochester: I de hilook at . His whole face walourless rock: his eye was both spark and flint. He disaowed nothing: he seed as if he would defy all things. Without speaking, without sling, without seeng tnise in a hun being, he only twined waist with his arand rieted to his side.
“Who are you?” he asked of the intruder.
“My na is Briggs, a solicitor of—Street, London.”
“And you would thrust on a wife?”
“I would rend you of your dy’s eistence, sir, which the w reises, if you do not.”
“Faour with an at of her—with her na, her parentage, her pce of abode.”
“Certainly.” Mr. Briggs caly took a paper frohis pocket, and read out in a sort of official, nasal oice:—
“‘I affirand  roe that oh of October A.D.—(a date of fifteen years back), Edward Fairfa Rochester, of Thornfield Hall, iy of —, and of Ferndean Manor, in—shire, Engnd, was;sa;/sa rried to sister, Bertha Antoia Mason, daughter of Jonas Maso, and of Antoia his wife, a Creole, at—church, Spanish Town, Jaica. The rd of the rriage will be found in the register of that church—py of it is now in  ossession. Signed, Richard Mason.’”
“That—if a ge—y proe I hae been rried, but it does not proe that the woioherein as wife is still liing.”
“She was liing three nths ago,” returhe wyer.
“How do you know?”
“I hae a wito the fact, whose testiny een you, sir, will scarcely troert.”
“Produce hio to hell.”
“I will produce hifirst—he is on the spot. Mr. Mason, hae the goodo step forward.”
Mr. Rochester, on hearing the na, set his teeth; he eperieoo, a sort of strong ulsie quier; o hias I was, I fe the spasdient of fury or despair run through his fra. The sed stranger, who had hitherto lingered in the background, now drew near; a pale face looked oer the solicitor’s shoulder—yes, it was Mason hielf. Mr. Rochester turned and gred at hi His eye, as I hae often said, was a bck eye: it had now a tawny, nay, a bloody light in its gloo and his face flushed—olie cheek and hueless forehead receied a glow as frospreading, asdi-fire: airred, lifted his strong arhuld hae struck Mason, dashed hion the church-floor, shocked by ruthless blow the breath frohis body—but Mason shrank away, and cried faintly, “Good God!” pt felol on Mr. Rochester—his passion died as if a blight had shrielled it up: he only asked—“What hae you to say?”
An inaudible reply escaped Mason’s white lips.
“The deil is in it if you ot answer distinctly. I again dend, what hae you to say?”
“Sir—sir,” interrupted the clergyn, “do not fet you are in a sacred pce.” Then addressing Mason, he inquired gently, “Are you aware, sir, whether or not this gentlen’s wife is still liing?”
“Ce,” urged the wyer,—“speak out.”
“She is now liing at Thornfield Hall,” said Mason, iicute tones: “I saw her there st April. I aher brother.”
“At Thornfield Hall!” ejacuted the clergyn. “Iossible! I aan old resident in this neighbourhood, sir, and I neer heard of a Mrs. Rochester at Thornfield Hall.”
I saw a grisle r. Rochester’s lips, atered—
“No, by God! I took care that none should hear of it—or of her uhat na.” He sed—for ten nutes he held sel with hielf: he ford his resole, and annou—
“Enough! all shall bo out at once, like the bullet frothe barrel. Wood, close your book and take off your surplice; John Green (to the clerk), leae the church: there will be no wedding to-day.” The n obeyed.
Mr. Rochester tinued, hardily and recklessly: “Biga is an ugly word!—I ant, howeer, to be a bigast; but fate has out- noeured , or Proidence has checked ,—perhaps the st. I alittle better than a deil at this nt; and, as  astor there would tell , desere no doubt the ster judgnts of God, een to the quenchless fire ahless wentlen,  n is broken up:- what this wyer and his t say is true: I hae been rried, and the won to whoI was rried lies! You say you neer heard of a Mrs. Rochester at the house up yonder, Wood; but I daresay you hae ny a ti ined your ear to gossip about the sterious lunatic kept there under watd ward. So hae whispered to you that she is bastard half-sister: so, cast- off stress. I now inforyou that she is wife, whoI rried fifteen years ago,—Bertha Mason by n sister of this resolute personage, who is now, with his quiering lis and white cheeks, showing you what a stout heart n y bear. Cheer up, Dieer fear !—I’d alst as soon strike a won as you. Bertha Mason is d; and she ca of a d faly; idiots and niacs through three geions? Her ther, the Creole, was both a dwon and a drunkard!—as I found out after I had wed the daughter: for they were silent on faly secrets before. Bertha, like a dutiful childpied her parent in both points. I had a g partner—pure, wise, dest: you fancy I py n. I 藏书网went through rich ses! Oh! eperience has been heaenly, if you only k! But I owe you no further epnation. Briggs, Wood, Mason, I inite you all to e up to the house and isit Mrs. Poole’s patient, and wife! You shall see what sort of a being I was cheated into espousing, and judge whether or not I had a right to break the pact, and seek syathy with sothing at least hun. This girl,” he tinued, looking at , “knew han you, Wood, of the disgusti: she thought all was fair and legal and neer drea she was going to be entrapped into a feigned union with a defrauded wretch, already bound to a bad, d, aed partner! e all of you—follow!”
Still holding fast, he left the church: the three gentlen ca after. At the front door of the hall we found the carriage.
“Take it back to thach-house, John,” said Mr. Rochesteolly; “it will not be wao-day.”
At our entrance, Mrs. Fairfa, Adèle, Sophie, Leah, adao et and greet us.
“To the right-about—eery soul!” cried the ster; “away with yratutions! Who wants the Not I!—they are fifteen years too te!”
He passed on and asded the stairs, still holding hand, and still being the geo follow hi which they did. We uhe first staircase, passed up the gallery, proceeded to the third storey: the low, bck door, opened by Mr. Rochester’s ster-key, adtted us to the tapestried roo with its great bed and its pictorial et.
“You know this pce, Mason,” said uide; “she bit and stabbed you here.”
He lifted the hangings frothe wall, unc the sed door: this, too, he opened. In a roowithout a window, there burnt a fire guarded by a high and strong fender, and a suspended frothe ceiling by a . Grace Poole behe fire, apparentloking sothing in a sau. In the deep shade, at the farther end of the roo a figure ran backwards and forwards. What it was, whether beast or hun being, onuld not, at first sight, tell: it groelled, seengly, on all fours; it snatched and growled like se wild anil: but it waered with clothing, and a quantity of dark, grizzled hair, wild as a ne, hid its head and face.
“Good-rrow, Mrs. Poole!” said Mr. Rochester. “How are you? and how is your charge to-day?”
“We’re tolerable, sir, I thank you,” replied Grace, lifting the boiling ss carefully on to the hob: “rather snappish, but neous.”
A fierce cry seed to gie the lie to her faourable report: the clothed hyena rose up, and stood tall on its hi.
“Ah! sir, she sees you!” ecid Grace: “you’d better not stay.”
“Only a few nts, Grace: you st allow a few nts.”
“Take care then, sir!—fod’s sake, take care!”
The niac bellowed: she parted her shaggy locks froher isage, and gazed wildly at her isitors. I reised well that purple face,—those bloated features. Mrs. Poole adanced.
“Keep out of the way,” said Mr. Rochester, thrusting her aside: “she has no knife now, I suppose, and I’on guard.”
“One neer knows what she has, sir: she is so ing: it is not in rtal discretion to fathoher craft.”
“We had better leae her,” whispered Mason.
“Go to the deil!” was his brother-in-w’s reendation.
“‘Ware!” cried Grace. The three geed sianeously. Mr. Rochester flung behind hi the lunatic sprang and grappled his throat iciously, and id her teeth to his cheek: they struggled. She was a big won, in stature alst equalling her husband, anrpulent besides: she showed irile for the test—re than once she alst throttled hi athletic as he was. Huld hae settled her with a well-pnted blow; but he would not strike: he would only wrestle. At st he stered her ar; Grace Poole gae hird, and he pihebehind her: with re rope, which was at hand, he bouo a chair. The operation erford adst the fiercest yells and the st ulsie plunges. Mr. Rochester then turo the spectators: he looked at thewith a sle both acrid ae.
“That is wife,” said he. “Such is the sole jugal erace I aeer to know—such are the es which are to sobsp; leisure hours! And THIS is what I wished to hae” (ying his hand on shoulder): “this young girl, who stands so grae and quiet at the uth of hell, lookiedly at the gaols of a den, I wanted her just as a ge after that fierce ragout. Wood and Briggs, look at the difference! pare these clear eyes with the red balls yohis face with that sk—this forwith that bulk; then judge , priest of the gospel and n of the w, and reer with what judgnt ye judge ye shall be judged! Off with you now. I st shut up  rize.”
We all withdrew. Mr. Rochester stayed a nt behind us, to gie so further order to Grace Poole. The solicitor addressed as he desded the stair.
“You, da” said he, “are cleared froall b: your uncle will be gd to hear it—if, indeed, he should be still liing—when Mr. Masourns to Madeira.”
“My uncle! What of hi Do you know hi”
“Mr. Mason does. Mr. Eyre has been the Funcharrespo of his house for so years. When your uncle receied your letter intiting the pted unioween yourself and Mr. Rochester, Mr. Mason, who was staying at Madeira to recruit his heah, on his way baaica, happeo be with hi Mr. Eyre ntiohe intelligence; for he khat t here was acquainted with a gentlen of the na of Rochester. Mr. Mason, astonished and distressed as you y suppose, reealed the real state of tters. Your uncle, I asorry to say, is now on a sick bed; frowhich, sidering the nature of his disease—dee—and the stage it has reached, it is unlikely he will eer rise. Huld not then hasten to Engnd hielf, to etricate you frothe so which you had fallen, but he ilored Mr. Mason to lose no ti in taking steps to preent the false rriage. He referred hito for assistance. I used all despatch, and athankful I was not too te: as you, doubtless, st be also. Were I not rally certain that your uncle will be dead ere you reach Madeira, I would adise you to apany Mr. Mason back; but as it is, I think you had better rein in Engnd till you hear further, either froor of Mr. Eyre. Hae we anything else to stay for?” he inquired of Mr. Mason.
“No, us be gone,” was the anious reply; and without waiting to take leae of Mr. Rochester, they de their eit at the hall door. The clergyn stayed to ege a few sentences, either of adnition or reproof, with his haughty parishiohis duty done, he too departed.
I heard higo as I stood at the half-open door of own roo to which I had now withdrawn. The house cleared, I shut self in, fastehe bo that intrude, and proceeded—not to weep, not to urn, I was yet too calfor that, but—ically to take off the wedding dress, and repce it by the stuff gown I had worerday, as I thought, for the st ti. I then sat down: I fe weak and tired. I leaned ar on a table, and head dropped on the And now I thought: till now I had only heard, seen, ed—followed up and down where I was led ed—watched eent rush o, disclosure open beyond disclosure: but now, I thought.
The had been a quiet enough—all ecept the brief se with the lunatic: the transa in the church had not been noisy; there was no eplosion of passion, no loud aercation, no dispute, no defiance or challenge, no tears, no sobs: a few words had been spoken, a caly pronounced obje to the rriage de; so stern, short questions put by Mr. Rochester; answers, epnations gien, eidence adduced; an open adssion of the truth had been uttered by ster; then the liing proof had beehe intruders were gone, and all was oer.
I was in own rooas usual—just self, without obious ge: nothing had stten , or scathed , or id . A where was the Jane Eyre of yesterday?—where was her life?—where were her prospects?
Jane Eyre, who had been an arde won—alst a bride, was ld, solitary girl again: her life ale; her prospects were desote. A Christs frost had e at dsuer; a white Deceer storhad whirled oer June; ice gzed the ripe apples, drifts crushed the blowing roses; on hayfield and field y a frozen shroud: nes which st night blushed full of flowers, to- day were pathless with untrodden snow; and the woods, which twele hours since waed leafy and fgrant as groes betweeropiow spread, waste, wild, and white as pine-forests in wintry Norway. My hopes were all dead—struck with a subtle doo such as, in one night, fell on all the first-born in the nd of Egypt. I looked on cherished wishes, yesterday so bloong and glowing; they y stark, chill, liirpses thauld neer reie. I looked at loe: that feeling which was ster’s—which he had created; it shiered in heart, like a suffering child in ld cradle; siess and anguish had seized it; iuld not seek Mr. Rochester’s ar—iuld not derie warh frohis breast. Oh, neer ruld it turn to hi for faith was blighted—fidence destroyed! Mr. Rochester was not to what he had been; for he was not what I had thought hi I would not ascribe i; I would not say he had betrayed ; but the attribute of stairuth was gone frohis idea, and frohis presence I st go: THAT I perceied well. When—how—whither, uld not yet dis; but he hielf, I doubted not, would hurry froThornfield. Real affe, it seed, huld not hae for ; it had been only fitful passion: that was balked; he would want no re. I should fear een to cross his path now: iew st be hateful to hi Oh, how blind had been eyes! How weak duct!
My eyes werered and closed: eddying darkness seed to swiround , and refle as bd fused a flow. Self-abandoned, reed, and effortless, I seed to hae id down in the dried-up bed of a great rier; I heard a flood loosened ie untains, ahe torreo rise I had no will, to flee I had nth. I y faint, longing to be dead. One idea only still throbbed life-like within —a rerance of God: it begot an unuttered prayer: these words went wandering up and down in rayless nd, as sothing that should be whispered, but no energy was found to epress the
“Be not far fro, for trouble is near: there is o help.”
It was near: and as I had lifted ion to Heaen to aert it—as I had her joined hands, nor bent knees, nor ed lips—it ca: in full heay swing the torrent poured oer . The whole sciousness of life lorn, loe lost, hope quenched, faith death-struck, swayed full and ghty aboe in one sullen ss. That bitter hour ot be described: in truth, “the waters to soul; I sank in deep re: I fe no standing; I to deep waters; the floods oerflowed .”
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