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So ti iernoon I raised head, and looking round and seeing the western sun gilding the sign of its dee on the wall, I asked, “What aI to do?”
But the answer nd gae—“Leae Thornfield at once”—was so prot, so dread, that I stopped ears. I said uld not bear such words now. “That I anot Edward Rochester’s bride is the least part of woe,” I alleged: “that I hae wakened out of st glorious drea, and found theall oid and ain, is a horror uld bear and ster; but that I st leae hidecidedly, instantly, entirely, is intolerable. I ot do it.”
But, then, a oice within aerred that uld do it and foretold that I should do it. I wrestled with own resolution: I wao be weak that I ght aoid the awful passage of further suffering I saw id out for ; and sce, turyrant, held Passion by the throat, told her tauntingly, she had yet but dipped her dainty foot in the slough, and swore that with that arof iron he would thrust her down to unsounded depths of agony.
“Let be torn away,” then I cried. “Let another help !”
“No; you shall tear yourself away, none shall help you: you shall yourself pluck out yht eye; yourself cut off yht hand: your heart shall be the icti and you the priest to transfi it.”
I rose up suddenly, terror-struck at the solitude which so ruthless a judge haunted,—at the silence which so awful a oice filled. My head swaas I stood erect. I perceied that I was siing froet and inanitioher at nor drink had passed lips that day, for I had taken no breakfast. And, with a strange pang, I now reflected that, long as I had been shut up here, no ssage had beeo ask how I was, or to inite to e down: not een little Adèle had tapped at the door; not een Mrs. Fairfa had sought . “Friends always fet those whofortune forsakes,” I rred, as I uhe bo and passed out. I stuled oer an obstacle: head was still dizzy, sight was di and lis were feeble. uld not soon er self. I fell, but not on to the ground: an outstretched arcaught . I looked up—I was supported by Mr. Rochester, who sat in a chair ay chaer threshold.
“You e out at st,” he said. “Well, I hae been waiting for you long, and listening: yet not o hae I heard, nor one sob: fie nutes re of that death-like hush, and I should hae forced the lock like a burgr. So you shun ?—you shut yourself up and griee alone! I would rather you had e and upbraided with ehence. You are passionate. I epected a se of so kind. I repared for the hot rain of tears; only I waheto be shed on breast: now a senseless floor has receied the or your drenched handkerchief. But I err: you hae not wept at all! I see a white cheek and a faded eye, but no trace of tears. I suppose, then, your heart has been weeping blood?”
“Well, Jane! not a word of reproaothing bitter—nothing poignant? Nothing to cut a feeling or sting a passion? You sit quietly where I hae pced you, and regard with a weary, passie look.”
“Jane, I neer ant to wound you thus. If the n who had but otle ewe that was dear to hias a daughter, that ate of his bread and drank of his cup, and y in his boso had by so stake sughtered it at the shales, he would not hae rued his bloody blunder re than I now rue ne. Will you eer fie ?”
Reader, I fae hiat the nt and on the spot. There was such deep rerse in his eye, such true pity in his tone, suly energy in his nner; and besides, there was suged loe in his whole look and en—I fae hiall: yet not in words, not outwardly; only at heart’re.
“You know I aa sdrel, Jane?” ere long he inquired wistfully— w, I suppose, at tinued silend taness, the resu rather of weakhan of will.
“Yes, sir.”
“Then tell so roundly and sharply—don’t spare .”
“I ot: I atired and sick. I want so water.” He heaed a sort of shuddering sigh, and taking in his ar, carried downstairs. At first I did not know to what roohe had borne ; all was cloudy to gzed sight: presently I fe the reiing warh of a fire; for, suer as it was, I had bee icld in chaer. He put wio lips; I tasted it and reied; then I ate sothing he offered , and was soon self. I was in the library—sitting in his chair—he was quite near. “If uld go out of life now, without too sharp a pang, it would be well for ,” I thought; “then I should not hae to ke the effort heart-strings in rending thefroang Mr. Rochester’s. I st leae hi it appears. I do not want to leae hiI ot leae hi”
“How are you now, Jane?”
“Much better, sir; I shall be well soon.”
“Taste the wine again, Jane.”
I obeyed hi the the gss oable, stood before , and looked at attentiely. Suddenly he turned away, with an inarticute e, full of passioion of so kind; he walked fast through the rooand ca back; he stooped towards as if to kiss ; but I reered caresses were now forbidden. I turned face aut his aside.
“What!—How is this?” he ecid hastily. “Oh, I know! you won’t kiss the husband of Bertha Mason? You sider ar filled and eraces appropriated?”
“At any rate, there is her roonor cifor , sir.”
“Why, Jane? I will spare you the trouble of ch talking; I will answer for you—Because I hae a wife already, you would reply.—I guess rightly?”
“Yes.”
“If you think so, you st hae a strange opinion of ; you st regard as a plotting profligate—a base and low rake who has been siting disied loe in order to draw you into a snare deliberately id, and strip you of honour and rob you of self- respect. What do you say to that? I see you say nothing in the first pce, you are faint still, and hae enough to do to draw your breath; in the sed pce, you ot yet ac yourself to ause and reile , and besides, the flood-gates of tears are opened, and they would rush out if you spoke ch; and you hae no desire to epostute, to upbraid, to ke a se: you are thinking how to act—talking you sider is of no use. I know you—I aon guard.”
“Sir, I do not wish to act against you,” I said; and unsteady oice warned to curtail sentence.
“Not in your sense of the word, but in ne you are sg to destroy . You hae as good as said that I aa rried n—as a rried n you will shun , keep out of way: just now you hae refused to kiss . You io ke yourself a plete strao : to lie uhis roof only as Adèle’s goerness; if eer I say a friendly word to you, if eer a friendly feeling ines you again to , you will say,—‘That n had nearly de his stress: I st be id ro;’ and id rock you will aly bee.”
I cleared and steadied oice to reply: “All is ged about , sir; I st ge too—there is no doubt of that; and to aoid fluctuations of feeling, and tinual bats with lles and associations, there is only one way—Adèle st hae a new goerness, sir.”
“Oh, Adèle will go to school—I hae settled that already; nor do I an to tornt you with the hideous associations and lles of Thornfield Hall—this aursed pce—this tent of A—this i au, the ghastliness of liih to the light of the open sky—this narrow stone hell, with its one real fiend, worse than a legion of such as we igine. Jane, you shall not stay here, nor will I. I was wro you to Thornfield Hall, knowing as I did how it was haunted. I charged theto ceal froyou, before I eer saw you, all knowledge of the curse of the pce; rely because I feared Adèle neer would hae a goero stay if she knew with what inte she was housed, and  ns would not pert to ree the niac elsewhere—though I possess an old house, Ferndean Manor, eeired and hidden than this, where uld hae lodged her safely enough, had not a scruple about the uhiness of the situation, in the heart of a wood, de sce il frothe arra. Probably those da walls would soon hae eased of her charge: but to each ilin his own ice; and ne is not a tendency to i assassination, een of what I st hate.
“cealing the d-won’s neighbourhood froyou, howeer, was sothing like c a child with a cloak and ying it down near a upas-tree: that den’s iage is poisoned, and always was. But I’ll shut up Thornfield Hall: I’ll nail up the front door and board the lower windows: I’ll gie Mrs. Poole two hundred a year to lie here with wife, as you terthat fearful hag: Grace will do oney, and she shall hae her son, the keeper at Griby Retreat, to bear her pany a hand to gie her aid in the paroys, when wife is proted by her faliar to burn people in their beds at night, to stab the to bite their flesh frotheir bones, and so on—”
“Sir,” I interrupted hi “you are ineorable for that unfortunate dy: you speak of her with hate—with indictie antipathy. It is cruel—she ot help being d.”
“Jane, little darling (so I will call you, for so you are), you don’t know what you are talking about; you sjudge again: it is not because she is d I hate her. If you were d, do you think I should hate you?”
“I do indeed, sir.”
“Then you are staken, and you know nothing about , and nothing about the sort of loe of which I acapable. Eery atoof your flesh is as dear to as own: in pain and siess it would still be dear. Your nd is treasure, and if it were broken, it would be treasure still: if you raed, ar should fine you, and not a strait waiat—yrasp, een in fury, would hae a charfor : if you flew at as wildly as that won did this I should receie you in an erace, at least as fond as it would be restrictie. I should not shrink froyou with disgust as I did froher: in your quiet nts you should hae no watcher and no ; and uld hang oer you with untiring tenderness, though you gae no sle iurn; and neer weary of gazing into your eyes, though they had no longer a ray nition for .—But why do I follow that train of ideas? I was talking you froThornfield. All, you know, is prepared for prot departure: to-rrow you shall go. I only ask you to endure one re night uhis roof, Jane; and then, farewell to its series and terrors for eer! I hae a pce to repair to, which will be a secure sanctuary frohateful renisces, frourusion—een frofalsehood and snder.”
“And take Adèle with you, sir,” I interrupted; “she will be a panion for you.”
“What do you an, Jane? I told you I would send Adèle to school; and what do I want with a child for a panion, and not own child,—a French dancer’s bastard? Why do you iortune about her! I say, why do you assign Adèle to for a panion?”
“You spoke of a retirent, sir; airent and solitude are dull: too dull for you.”
“Solitude! solitude!” he reiterated with irritation. “I see I st e to aion. I don’t knohyn-like epression is f in your tenance. You are to share solitude. Do you uand?”
I shook head: it required a degree of ce, ecited as he was beio risk that te sign of dissent. He had been walking fast about the roo aopped, as if suddenly rooted to one spot. He looked at long and hard: I turned eyes frohi fied theon the fire, and tried to assu and intain a quietllected aspect.
“Now for the hit Jane’s character,” he said at st, speaking re caly than frohis look I had epected hito speak. “The reel of silk has run sothly enough so far; but I always khere would e a knot and a puzzle: here it is. Now for eation, and easperation, and erouble! By God! I long to eert a fra of Saon’s strength, and break the enta like tow!”
He reenced his walk, but soon again stopped, and this ti just before .
“Jane! will you hear reason?” (he stooped and approached his lips to ear); “because, if you won’t, I’ll try iolence.” His oice was hoarse; his look that of a n who is just about to burst an insufferable bond and plunge headlong into wild lise. I saw that in a, and with ous of frenzy re, I should be able to do nothing with hi The present—the passing sed of ti—was all I had in which to trol arain hia ent of repulsion, flight, fear would hae sealed doo—and his. But I was not afraid: not in the least. I fe an inower; a sense of influence, which supported . The crisis erilous; but not without its char such as the Indian, perhaps, feels when he slips oer the rapid in his oe. I took hold of his ched hand, loosehe torted fingers, and said to hi soothingly—
“Sit down; I’ll talk to you as long as you like, and hear all you hae to say, whether reasonable or unreasonable.”
He sat down: but he did not get leae to speak directly. I had been struggling with tears for so ti: I had take pains to repress the because I knew he would not like to see weep. Now, howeer, I sidered it well to let theflow as freely and as long as they liked. If the flood annoyed hi so ch the better. So I gae way and cried heartily.
Soon I heard hiearly eio be posed. I said uld not while he was in such a passion.
“But I anot angry, Jane: I only loe you too well; and you had steeled your little pale face with such a resolute, frozen look, uld not e. Hush, now, and wipe your eyes.”
His softened oinouhat he was subdued; so I, in turn, beca ow he de an effort to rest his head on shoulder, but I would not pert it. Then he would draw to hi no.
“Jane! Jane!” he said, in su at of bitter sadness it thrilled along eery nere I had; “you don’t loe , then? It was only station, and the rank of wife, that you alued? Now that you think disqualified to bee your husband, you il fro touch as if I were so toad or ape.”
These words cut : yet whauld I do or I say? I ought probably to hae done or said nothing; but I was so tortured by a sense of rerse at thus hurting his feelings, uld not trol the wish to drop balwhere I had wounded.
“I do loe you,” I said, “re than eer: but I st not show or indulge the feeling: and this is the st ti I st epress it.”
“The st ti, Jane! What! do you think you lie with , and see daily, a, if you still loe , be alwayld and distant?”
“No, sir; that I acertain uld not; and therefore I see there is but one way: but you will be furious if I ntion it.”
“Oh, ntion it! If I stor you hae the art of weeping.”
“Mr. Rochester, I st leae you.”
“For how long, Jane? For a few nutes, while you soth your hair—which is sowhat disheelled; and bathe your face—which looks feerish?”
“I st leae Adèle and Thornfield. I st part with you for whole life: I st begin a eng strange faces and strange ses.”
“Ourse: I told you you should. I pass oer the dness about parting fro. You an you st bee a part of . As to the e is all right: you shall yet be wife: I anot rried. You shall be Mrs. Rochester—both irtually and nonally. I shall keep only to you so long as you and I lie. You shall go to a pce I hae in the south of France: a whitewashed il on the shores of the Mediterranean. There you shall lie a happy, and guarded, and st i life. Neer fear that I wish to lure you into error—to ke you stress. Why did you shake your head? Jane, you st be reasonable, or in truth I shall again bee frantic.”
His oid hand quiered: his rge nostrils dited; his eye bzed: still I dared to speak.
“Sir, your wife is liing: that is a fact aowledged this by yourself. If I lied with you as you desire, I should then be your stress: to say otherwise is sophistical—is false.”
“Jane, I anot a geeered n—you fet that: I anot long-enduring; I anool and dispassionate. Out of pity to and yourself, put your finger on  ulse, feel how it throbs, and— beware!”
He bared his wrist, and offered it to : the blood was forsaking his cheek and lips, they were growing liid; I was distressed on all hands. To agitate hithus deeply, by a resistance he so abhorred, was cruel: to yield was out of the question. I did what hun beings do instinctiely when they are drien to utter etrety— looked for aid to one higher than n: the words “God help !” burst inoluntarily fro lips.
“I aa fool!” cried Mr. Rochester suddenly. “I keep telling her I anot rried, and do not epin to her why. I fet she knows nothing of the character of that won, or of the circutatending infernal union with her. Oh, I acertain Jane will agree with in opinion, when she knows all that I know! Just put your hand in ne, Jahat I y hae the eidence of touch as well as sight, to proe you are near —and I will in a few words show you the real state of the case. you listen to
“Yes, sir; for hours if you will.”
“I ask only nutes. Jane, did you eer hear or know at I was not the eldest son of house: that I had once a brother older than I?”
“I reer Mrs. Fairfa told so once.”
“And did you eer hear that;sa?;/sa father was an aaricious, grasping n?”
“I hae uood sothing to that effect.”
“Well, Jane, being so, it was his resolution to keep the property together; huld not bear the idea of diiding his estate and leaing a fair portion: all, he resoled, should go to brother, Rownd. Yet as littluld he ehat a son of his should be a poor n. I st be proided for by a weahy rriage. He sought a partner betis. Mr. Mason, a West India pnter a, was his old acquaintance. He was certain his possessions were real and ast: he de inquiries. Mr. Mason, he found, had a son and daughter; and he learned frohithat huld and would gie the tter a fortune of thirty thousand pounds: that sufficed. When I lefllege, I was sent out to Jaica, to espouse a bride alreadurted for . My father said nothing about her ney; but he told Miss Mason was the boast of Spanish Town for her beauty: and this was no lie. I found her a fine won, iyle of Bnche Ingra tall, dark, aic. Her faly wished to secure because I was of a good race; and so did she. They showed her to in parties, splendidly dressed. I seldosaw her alone, and had ery little priate ersation with her. She fttered , and ishly dispyed for  leasure her char and aplishnts. All the n in her circle seed to adre her and eny . I was dazzled, stited: senses were ecited; and being ignorant, raw, and ineperienced, I thought I loed her. There is no folly so besotted that the idiotic rialries of society, the pruriehe rashness, the blindness of youth, will not hurry a n to its ission. Her reties enced ; petitors piqued ; she allured : a rriage was achieed alst before I knew where I was. Oh, I hae no respeyself when I think of that act!—an agony of int sters . I neer loed, I neer esteed, I did not een know her. I was not sure of the eistence of oue in her nature: I had rked her desty, nor beneolenor dour, nor refi in her nd or nners—and, I rried her:- gross, groelling, le-eyed blockhead that I was! With less sin I ght hae—But let reer to whoI aspeaking.”
“My bride’s ther I had neer seen: I uood she was dead. The honeyon oer, I learned stake; she was only d, and shut up in a lunatic asylu There was a younger brother, too—a plete du idiot. The elder one, whoyou hae seen (and whoI ot hate, whilst I abhor all his kindred, because he has so grains of affe in his feeble nd, shown iinued i he takes in his wretched sister, and also in a dog-like attat he one), will probably be in the sa state one day. My father and brother Rownd knew all this; but they thought only of the thirty thousand pounds, and joined in the plot against .”
“These were ile deries; but ecept for the treachery of t, I should hae de theno subject of reproay wife, een when I found her nature wholly alien to ne, her tastes obnoious to , her cast of nd on, low, narrow, and singurly incapable of beio anything higher, epao anything rger—when I found that uld not pass a single eening, nor een a single hour of the day with her in fort; that kindly ersatiould not be sustained between us, because whateer topic I started, iediately receied froher a turn at oncarse and trite, pererse and iecile—when I perceied that I should neer hae a quiet or settled household, because would bear the tinued outbreaks of her iolent and unreasoeer, or the eations of her absurd, tradictory, eag orders—een then I restrained self: I eschewed upbraiding, I curtailed renstrance; I tried to deour repentand disgust i; I repressed the deep antipathy I fe.
“Jane, I will not trouble you with aboails: s words shall epress what I hae to say. I lied with that stairs four years, and before that ti she had tried indeed: her character ripened and deeloped with frightful rapidity; her ices sprang up fast and rank: they were s, only crueuld check the and I would not use cruey. What a pig intellect she had, and what giant propensities! How fearful were the curses those propensities entailed on ! Bertha Mason, the true daughter of an infaus ther, dragged through all the hideous and degrading agonies which st attend a n bound to a wife at oeerate and unchaste.
“My brother ieral was dead, and at the end of the four years father died too. I was riough now—yet poor to hideous indigence: a nature the st gross, iure, depraed I eer saw, was associated with ne, and called by the w and by society a part of . And uld not rid self of it by any legal proceedings: for the dt;.;/a now dered that wife was d— her ecesses had preturely deeloped the ger of insanity. Jane, you don’t like narratie; you look alst sick—shall I defer the rest to another day?”
“No, sir, finish it now; I pity you—I do early pity you.”
“Pity, Jane, froso people is a noious and insuing sort of tribute, whie is justified in hurling ba the teeth of those who offer it; but that is the sort of pity o callous, selfish hearts; it is a hybrid, egotistical pain at hearing of woes, crossed with ignorant pt for those who hae ehe But that is not your pity, Ja is not the feeling of which your whole face is full at this nt—with which your eyes are now alst oerflowing—with which your heart is heaing—with which your hand is treling in ne. Your pity, darling, is the suffering ther of loe: its anguish is the ery natal pang of the diine passion. I aept it, Jane; let the daughter hae free adent— ar wait to receie her.”
“Now, sir, proceed; what did you do when you found she was d?”
“Jane, I approached the erge of despair; a reant of self-respect was all that interened between and the gulf. In the eyes of the world, I was doubtlesered with gri dishonour; but I resoled to be in own sight—and to the st I repudiated the ination of her cris, and wrenched self froe with her ntal defects. Still, society associated na and person with hers; I yet saw her and heard her daily: sothing of her breath (faugh!) ed with the air I breathed; and besides, I reered I had once been her husband—that lle was then, and is now, inepressibly odious to ; reoer, I khat while she lied uld neer be the husband of another aer wife; and, though fie years senior (her faly and her father had lied to een in the particur of her age), she was likely to lie as long as I, being as robust in fra as she was infirin nd. Thus, at the age of twenty-si, I was hopeless.
“One night I had been awakened by her yells—(sihe di had pronounced her d, she had, ourse, been shut up)—it was a fiery West Indian night; one of the description that frequently precede the hurries of those clites. Being uo sleep in bed, I got up and opehe window. The air was like sulphur- stea—uld find no refreshnt anywhere. Mosquitoes ca buzzing in and hued sullenly round the roo the sea, which uld hear frothence, ruled dull like ahquake—bck clouds were casting up oer it; the on was setting in the waes, broad and red, like a hot on-ball—she threw her st bloody gnce oer a world quiering with the fernt of teest. I hysically influenced by the atsphere and se, and ears were filled with the curses the niac still shrieked out; whereiarily ngled h such a tone of den-hate, with suguage!—no professed harlot eer had a fouler ocabury thahough two roo off, I heard eery word—the thin partitions of the West India house opposing but slight obstru to her wolfish cries.
“‘This life,’ said I at st, ‘is hell: this is the air—those are the sounds of the bottoess pit! I hae a right to delier self froit if I . The sufferings of this rtal state will leae with the heay flesh that now cuers soul. Of the fanatic’s bury I hae no fear: there is not a future state worse than this present o break away, and go ho to God!’
“I said this whilst I k down at, and unlocked a trunk which tained a brace of loaded pistols: I an to shoot self. I oertaihe iion for a nt; for, not being ihe crisis of equisite and unalloyed despair, which had ihe wish and design of self-destru, ast in a sed.
“A wind fresh froEurope blew oer the o and rushed through the open t: the storbroke, stread, thundered, bzed, and the air grew pure. I then frad and fied a resolution. While I walked uhe drippirees of wet garden, and angst its drenched pogranates and pine-apples, and while the refulgent dawn of the tropics kindled round —I reasohus, Jane—and now listen; for it was true Wisdothat soled in that hour, and showed the right path to follow.
“The sweet wind froEurope was still whispering in the refreshed leaes, and the Atntic was thundering in glorious liberty; heart, dried up andrched for a long ti, swelled to the tone, and filled with liing blood— being longed for renewal— soul thirsted for a pure draught. I saw hope reie—a regeion possible. Froa flowery arch at the bottoof garden I gazed oer the sea—bluer than the sky: the old world was beyond; clear prospects opehus:—
“‘Go,’ said Hope, ‘and lie again in Europe: there it is not known what a sullied na you bear, nor what a fihy burden is bound to you. You y take the niac with you to Engnd; fine her with due attendand precautions at Thornfield: then trael yourself to what cli you will, and forwhat ie you like. That won, who has so abused your long-suffering, so sullied your na, so ed your honour, so blighted your youth, is not your wife, nor are you her husband. See that she is cared for as her dition dends, and you hae done all that God and hunity require of you. Let her identity, her e with yourself, be buried in obliion: you are bound to iart theto no liing being. Pce her in safety and fort: sheer her degradation with secrecy, and leae her.’
“I acted precisely on this suggestion. My father and brother had not de rriage known to their acquaintance; because, in the ery first letter I wrote to apprise theof the union—haing already begun to eperiere disgust of its sequences, and, frothe faly character and stitution, seeing a hideous future opening to —I added an urgent charge to keep it secret: and ery soon the infaus duct of the wife father had selected for was such as to ke hiblush to own her as his daughter-in-w. Far frodesiring to publish the e, he beca as anious to ceal it as self.
“To Engnd, then, I eyed her; a fearful oyage I had with such a nster in the essel. Gd was I when I at st got her to Thornfield, and saw her safely lodged in that third-storey roo of whose secret i she has now for ten years de a wild beast’s den—a goblin’s cell. I had so trouble in finding an attendant for her, as it was necessary to selee on whose fidelity dependenculd be pced; for her raings would iably betray secret: besides, she had lucid interals of days—sotis weeks—which she filled up with abuse of . At st I hired Grace Poole frothe Grisy Retreat. She and the surgeon, Carter (who dressed Mason’s wounds that night he was stabbed and worried), are the only two I hae eer adtted to fidence. Mrs. Fairfa y indeed hae suspected sothing, but shuld hae gained no precise knowledge as to facts. Grace has, on the whole, proed a good keeper; though, owing partly to a fau of her own, of which it appears nothing cure her, and which is io her harassing profession, her igince has beehan once lulled and baffled. The lunatic is both ing and lignant; she has neer failed to take adantage of her guardian’s teorary pses; oo secrete the kh which she stabbed her brother, and twice to possess herself of the key of her cell, and issue therefroin the night-ti. On the first of these oasions, she perpetrated the attet to burn in bed; on the sed, she paid that ghastly isit to you. I thank Proidence, who watched oer you, that she the her fury on your wedding apparel, which perhaps brought back ague renisces of her own bridal days: but on what ght hae happened, I ot eo reflect. When I think of the thing which flew at throat this hanging its bd scarlet isage oer the of doe, blood curdles
“And what, sir,” I asked, while he paused, “did you do when you had settled her here? Where did you go?”
“What did I do, Jane? I transford self into a will-o’-the-wisp. Where did I go? I pursued wanderings as wild as those of the March- spirit. I sought the ti, a deious through all its nds. My fied desire was to seek and find a good and intelligent won, whould loe: a trast to the fury I left at Thornfield—”
“But yould not rry, sir.”
“I had deterned and was ihat uld and ought. It was not inal iion to deceie, as I hae deceied you. I ant to tell tale pinly, and ke  roposals openly: and it appeared to so absolutely rational that I should be sidered free to loe and be loed, I neer doubted so won ght be found willing and able to uand case a , in spite of the curse with which I was burdened.”
“Well, sir?”
“When you are inquisitie, Jane, you always ke sle. You open your eyes like an eager bird, and ke eery now and then a restless ent, as if answers in speech did not flow fast enough for you, and you wao read the tablet of one’s heart. But before I go on, tell what you an by your ‘Well, sir?’ It is a sll phrase ery frequent with you; and whiy a ti has drawn on and on through interalk: I don’t ery well know why.”
“I an,—What ? How did you proceed? What ca of su eent?”
“Precisely! and what do you wish to know now?”
“Whether you found any one you liked: whether you asked her to rry you; and what she said.”
“I tell you whether I found any one I liked, and whether I asked her to rry : but what she said is yet to be rded in the book of Fate. For ten long years I roed about, liing first in one capital, then another: sotis in St. Petersburg; oftener in Paris; oasionally in Ro, Naples, and Florence. Proided with plenty of ney and the passport of an old na, uld y own society: no circles were closed against . I sought ideal of a won angst English dies, French tesses, Italian signoras, and Gern grafinnen. uld not find her. Sotis, for a fleeting nt, I thought I caught a gnce, heard a tone, beheld a for whinouhe realisation of drea but I resently undesered. You are not to suppose that I desired perfe, either of nd or person. I longed only for what suited —for the antipodes of the Creole: and I longed ainly. Angst theall I found not one who had I been eer so free, I—warned as I was of the risks, the horrors, the loathings of ingruous unions—would hae asked to rry . Disappoi de reckless. I tried dissipation—neer debauchery: that I hated, and hate. That was Indian Messalina’s attribute: rooted disgust at it and her restrained ch, een in pleasure. Any enjoynt that bordered on riot seed to approabsp; to her and her ices, and I eschewed it.
“Yet uld not lie alone; so I tried the panionship of stresses. The first I chose was e Varens—another of those steps which ke a n spurn hielf when he recalls the You already know what she was, and how liaison with her ternated. She had two suessors: an Italian, Giata, and a Gern, Cr both sidered singurly handso. What was their beauty to in a few weeks? Giata was unprincipled and iolent: I tired of her in three nths. Cra was ho and quiet; but heay, ndless, and uniressible: not one whit to taste. I was gd to gie her a suffit suto set her up in a good line of business, and so get detly rid of her. But, Jane, I see by your face you are not f a ery faourable opinion of just now. You think an unfeeling, loose-principled rake: don’t you?”
“I don’t like you so well as I hae dois, indeed, sir. Did it not seeto you in the least wrong to lie in that way, first with oress and then another? You talk of it as a re tter ourse.”
“It was with ; and I did not like it. It was a groelling fashion of eistence: I should neer like to return to it. Hiring a stress is the worse thing to buying a se: both are often by nature, and always by position, inferior: and to lie faliarly with inferiors is degrading. I now hate the lle of the ti I passed with e, Giata, and Cra.”
I fe the truth of these words; and I drew frothethe certain i if I were so far tet self and all the teag that had eer been instilled into , as—under any pretet—with any justification—through aation—to bee the suessor of these pirls, he would one day regard with the sa feeling whiow in his nd desecrated their ry. I did not gie utterao this i: it was enough to feel it. I iressed it on heart, that it ght reio sere as aid ii of trial.
“Now, Jane, why don’t you say ‘Well, sir?’ I hae not done. You are looking grae. You disapproe of still, I see. But let e to the point. January, rid of all stresses—in a harsh, bitter fra of nd, the resu of a useless, roing, lonely liferroded with disappoi, sourly disposed against all n, and especially against all wonkind (for I began tard the notion of an intellectual, faithful, loing won as a re drea, recalled by business, I ca back to Engnd.
“On a frosty winter afternoon, I rode in sight of Thornfield Hall. Abhorred spot! I epected no peao pleasure there. On a stile in Hay Lane I saw a quiet little figure sitting by itself. I passed it as negligently as I did the polrd willow opposite to it: I had no prese of what it would be to ; no inward warning that the arbitress of life— genius food or eil—waited there in hule guise. I did not know it, ee;bdi?;/bdin when, on the oasion of Mesrour’s act, it ca up and graely offered help. Childish and slender creature! It seed as if a li had hopped to foot and proposed to bear on its tiny wing. I was surly; but the thing would not go: it stood by with strange perseerance, and looked and spoke with a sort of authority. I st be aided, and by that hand: and aided I was.
“When once I had pressed the frail shoulder, sothing new—a fresh sap and seole into fra. It was well I had learnt that this elf st return to —that it beloo house down below—or uld not hae fe it pass away frounder hand, and seen it anish behind the dihedge, without singur regret. I heard you e ho that night, Jahough probably you were not aware that I thought of you or watched for you. The day I obsered you—self unseen—for half-an-hour, while you pyed with Adèle in the gallery. It was a snowy day, I llect, and yould not go out of doors. I was in roo the door was ajar: uld both listen and watch. Adèle cid your outward attention for a while; yet I fancied your thoughts were elsewhere: but you were ery patient with her, little Jane; you talked to her and ased her a long ti. When at st she left you, you psed at oo deep reerie: you betook yourself slowly to pace the gallery. Now and then, in passing a t, you gnced out at the thick-falling snow; you listeo the sobbing wind, and ag;bdi藏书网;/bdiain you paced gently on and dread. I think those day isions were not dark: there leasurable illunation in your eye oasionally, a soft et in your aspect, which told of no bitter, bilious, hypodriac brooding: your look reealed rather the sweet sings of youth when its spirit follows on willing wings the flight of Hope up and on to an ideal heaen. The oirs. Fairfa, speaking to a serant in the hall, wakened you: and how curiously you sled to and at yourself, Jahere was ch sense in your sle: it was ery shrewd, ao ke light of your own abstra. It seed to say—‘My fine isions are all ery well, but I st not fet they are absolutely unreal. I hae a rosy sky and a green flowery Eden in brain; but without, I aperfectly aware, lies at feet a rough tract to trael, and arouher bck teests to enter.’ You ran downstairs and dended of Mrs. Fairfa so oupation: the weekly house ats to ke up, or sothing of that sort, I think it was. I was eed with you fetting out of sight.
“Iatiently I waited for eening, when I ght suon you to  resence. An unusual—to —a perfectly new character I suspected was yours: I desired to search it deeper and know it better. You ehe roowith a look and air at once shy and indepe: you were quaintly dressed—ch as you are now. I de you talk: ere long I found you full of strarasts. Yarb and nner were restricted by rule; your air was often diffident, and aogether that of one refined by nature, but absolutely uo society, and a good deal afraid of king herself disadantageously spicuous by so solecisor blunder; yet when addressed, you lifted a keen, a daring, and a glowio your interlocutor’s face: there eion and power in eace you gae; when plied by close questions, you found ready and round answers. Very soon you seed to get used to : I beliee you fe the eistence of syathy between you and yriand aster, Jane; for it was astonishing to see how quickly a certain pleasant ease tranquillised your nner: snarl as I would, you showed no surprise, fear, annoyance, or displeasure at roseness; you watched , and now and the with a sile yet sagacious grace I ot describe. I was at oent and stited with what I saw: I liked what I had seen, and wished to see re. Yet, for a long ti, I treated you distantly, and sought your pany rarely. I was an intellectual epicure, and wished to prolong the gratification of king this noel and piquant acquaintance: besides, I was for a while troubled with a hauntihat if I hahe flower freely its bloowould fade—the sweet charof freshness would leae it. I did not then know that it was no transitory blosso but rather the radiant resence of one, cut in an iructible ge Moreoer, I wished to see whether you would seek if I shunned you—but you did not; you kept in the schoolrooas still as your own desk and easel; if by ce I t you, you passed as soon, and with as little token nition, as was sistent with respect. Your habitual epression in those days, Jane, was a thoughtful look; not despo, for you were not sickly; but not buoyant, for you had little hope, and no actual pleasure. I wondered what you thought of , or if you eer thought of , and resoled to find this out.
“I resud notice of you. There was sothing gd in ynce, and genial in your nner, when you ersed: I saw you had a social heart; it was the silent schoolrooit was the tediuof your life—that de you urnful. I pertted self the delight of being kind to you; kindness stirred etion soon: your face beca soft in epression, your tones gentle; I liked na pronounced by your lips in a grateful happy at. I used to enjoy a ce eting with you, Ja this ti: there was a curious hesitation in your nner: you g with a slight trouble—a h doubt: you did not know what caprice ght be— whether I was going to py the ster aern, or the friend and be benignant. I was now too fond of you often to site the first whi and, when I stretched hand ourdially, such blooand light and bliss rose to your young, wistful features, I had ch ado often to aoid straining you then and there to heart.”
“Don’t talk any re of those days, sir,” I interrupted, furtiely dashing away so tears fro eyes; his nguage was torture to ; for I knew what I st do—and do soon—and all these renisces, and these reetions of his feelings only de work re difficu.
“No, Jane,” he returned: “what y is there to dwell on the Past, when the Present is so ch surer—the Future so ch brighter?”
I shuddered to hear the infatuated assertion.
“You see now how the case stands—do you not?” he tinued. “After a youth and nhood passed half in unutterable sery and half in dreary solitude, I hae for the first ti found what I truly loe—I hae found you. You are syathy— better self— good angel. I abound to you with a strong attat. I think you good, gifted, loely: a ferent, a sole passion is ceied in heart; it leans to you, draws you to tre and spring of life, s eistence about you, and, kindling in pure, powerful f, fuses you and in one.
“It was because I fe and khis, that I resoled to rry you. To tell that I had already a wife is ety ckery: you know now that I had but a hideous den. I was wrong to attet to deceie you; but I feared a stubborhat eists in your character. I feared early instilled prejudice: I wao hae you safe before hazarding fidehis wawardly: I should hae appealed to your nobleness and gnanity at first, as I do now—opeo you pinly life of agony—described to you hunger and thirst after a higher and worthier eistence—shown to you, not resolution (that word is weak), but resistless bent to loe faithfully and well, where I afaithfully and well loed iurn. Then I should hae asked you to aept  ledge of fidelity and to gie yours. Jane—gie it now.”
A pause.
“Why are you silent, Jane?”
I erieng an ordeal: a hand of fiery iron grasped itals. Terrible nt: full of struggle, bess, burning! Not a hun being that eer lieuld wish to be loed better than I was loed; and hiwho thus loed I absolutely worshipped: and I st renounce loe and idol. One drear word prised intolerable duty—“Depart!”
“Jane, you uand what I want of you? Just this prose—‘I will be yours, Mr. Rochester.’”
“Mr. Rochester, I will not be yours.”
Another long silence.
“Jane!” reenced he, with a ge broke down with grief, and turned stonld with onous terror—for this still oice was the pant of a lion rising—“Jane, do you an to go one way in the world, and to let go another?”
“I do.”
“Jane” (bending towards and erag ), “do you an it now?”
“I do.”
“And now?” softly kissing forehead and cheek.
“I do,” etrig self frorestraint rapidly and pletely.
“Oh, Jahis is bitter! This—this is wicked. It would not be wicked to loe .”
“It would to obey you.”
A wild look raised his brows—crossed his features: he rose; but he forebore yet. I id hand on the back of a chair for support: I shook, I feared—but I resoled.
“One instant, Jane. Gie one go horrible life when yone. All happiness will be torn away with you. What then is left? For a wife I hae but the niac upstairs: as well ght you refer to sopse in yonder churchyard. What shall I do, Jane? Where turn for a panion and for so hope?”
“Do as I do: trust in God and yourself. Beliee in heaen. Hope to et again there.”
“Then you will not yield?”
“No.”
“Then you o lie wretched and to die aursed?” His oice rose.
“I adise you to lie sinless, and I wish you to die tranquil.”
“Then you snatch loe and innoce fro? You fling ba lust for a passion—ice for an oupation?”
“Mr. Rochester, I no re assign this fate to you than I grasp at it for self. We were born to strie and endure—you as well as I: do so. You will fet before I fet you.”
“You ke a liar by suguage: you sully honour. I decred uld not ge: you tell to face I shall ge soon. And what a distortion in your judgnt, what a perersity in your ideas, is proed by your duct! Is it better to drie a fellow-creature to despair than tress a re hun w, no n being injured by the breach? for you hae her reties nor acquaintances whoyou need fear to offend by liing with ?”
This was true: and while he spoke ery sd reason turraitainst , and charged with cri iing hi They spoke alst as loud as Feeling: and that cured wildly. “Oh, ply!” it said. “Think of his sery; think of his danger—look at his state whe alone; reer his headlong nature; sider the recklessness following on despair—soothe hi sae hi loe hi tell hiyou loe hiand will be his. Who in the world cares for you? or who will be injured by what you do?”
Still indotable was the reply—“I care for self. The re solitary, the re friendless, the re unsustained I a the re I will respect self. I will keep the w gien by God; saned by n. I will hold to the principles receied by when I was sane, and not d—as I anow. Larinciples are not for the tis when there is ation: they are for suents as this, when body and soul rise in tiny against their rigour; stri are they; ihey shall be. If at indiidual enience I ght break the what would be their worth? They hae a worth—so I hae always belieed; and if I ot beliee it now, it is because I ainsane—quite insane: with eins running fire, and heart beating faster than I t its throbs. Preceied opinions, foernations, are all I hae at this hour to stand by: there I pnt foot.”
I did. Mr. Rochester, reading tenance, saw I had done so. His fury was wrought to the highest: he st yield to it for a nt, whateer followed; he crossed the floor and seized arand grasped waist. He seed to deour with his fng gnce: physically, I fe, at the nt, powerless as stubble eposed to the draught and glow of a furally, I still possessed soul, and with it the certainty of uite safety. The soul, fortunately, has an i?９９lｉｂ.trpreter—often an unscious, but still a truthful interpreter—in the eye. My eye rose to his; and while I looked in his fierce face I gae an inoluntary sigh; his gripe ainful, and oer-taed strength alst ehausted.
“Neer,” said he, as he ground his teeth, “neer was anything at once so frail and so indotable. A re reed she feels in hand!” (And he shook with the force of his hold.) “uld bend her with finger and thu: and what good would it do if I bent, if I uptore, if I crushed her? sider that eye: sider the resolute, wild, free thing looking out of it, defying , with re thah a stern triuh. Whateer I do with its cage, I ot get at it—the saage, beautiful creature! If I tear, if I rend the slight prison, e will only let the captie loose. querht be of the house; but the inte would escape to heaen before uld call self possessor of its cy dwelling- pce. And it is you, spirit—with will and energy, and irtue and purity—that I want: not alone your brittle fra. Of yourself yould e with soft flight ale against heart, if you would: seized against your will, you will elude the grasp like an essence—you will anish ere I inhale your fragrance. Oh! e, Jane, e!”
As he said this, he released frohis clutch, and only looked at . The look was far worse to resist than the frantic strain: only an idiot, howeer, would hae suued now. I had dared and baffled his fury; I st elude his sorrow: I retired to the door.
“Yoing, Jane?”
“I agoing, sir.”
“You are leaing ?”
“Yes.”
“You will not e? You will not be forter, rescuer? My deep loe, wild woe, frantic prayer, are all nothing to you?”
What unutterable pathos was in his oice! How hard it was to reiterate firy, “I agoing.”
“Jane!”
“Mr. Rochester!”
“Withdraw, then,—I sent; but reer, you leae here in anguish. Go up to your own roo think oer all I hae said, and, Jane, cast a gny sufferings—think of .”
He turned away; he threw hielf on his fa the sofa. “Oh, Jane! hope— loe— life!” broke in anguish frohis lips. Then ca a deep, strong sob.
I had already gaihe door; but, reader, I walked back—walked back as deternedly as I had retreated. I k down by hi I turned his face frothe cushion to ; I kissed his cheek; I sothed his hair with hand.
“God bless you, dear ster!” I said. “God keep you froharand wrong—direct you, soce you—reward you well for your past kio .”
“Little Jane’s loe would hae been best reward,” he answered; “without it, heart is broken. But Jane will gie her loe: yes—nobly, generously.”
Up the blood rushed to his face; forth fshed the fire frohis eyes; erect he sprang; he held his ar out; but I eaded the erace, and at once quitted the roo
“Farewell!” was the y heart as I left hi Despair added, “Farewell for eer!”
That night I hought to sleep; but a sluer fell on as soon as I y down in bed. I was transported in thought to the ses of childhood: I drea I y in the red-rooat Gateshead; that the night was dark, and nd iressed with strange fears. The light that long ago had strubsp; into spe, recalled in this ision, seed glidingly to unt the wall, and trelingly to pause ire of the obscured ceiling. I lifted up head to look: the roof resoled to clouds, high and di the gleawas such as the on iarts to apours she is about to seer. I watched her e— watched with the stra anticipation; as though so word of doowere to be written on her disk. She broke forth as neer o burst frocloud: a hand first peed the sable folds and waed theaway; then, not a on, but a white hun forshone in the azure, ining a glorious brow earthward. It gazed and gazed o spoke to spirit: ieasurably distant was the tone, yet so near, it whispered in heart—
“My daughter, flee tetation.”
“Mother, I will.”
So I answered after I had waked frothe trance-like drea It was yet night, but July nights are short: soon after dnight, dawn es. “It ot be too early to ehe task I hae to fulfil,” thought I. I rose: I was dressed; for I had taken off nothing but shoes. I knew where to find in drawers so linen, a locket, a ring. In seeking these articles, I ehe beads of a pearl neckce Mr. Rochester had forbsp; to aept a few days ago. I left that; it was not was the isionary bride’s who had ed in air. The other articles I de up in a parcel;  urse, taining twenty shillings (it was all I had), I put in  ocket: I tied on straw bo, pinned shawl, took the parcel and slippers, which I would not put o, and stole fro roo
“Farewell, kind Mrs. Fairfa!” I whispered, as I glided past her door. “Farewell, darling Adèle!” I said, as I gowards the nursery. No thoughuld be adtted of entering to erace her. I had to deceie a fine ear: fht I k ght now be listening.
I would hae got past Mr. Rochester’s chaer without a pause; but heart ntarily stopping its beat at that threshold, foot was forced to stop also. No sleep was there: the inte was walkilessly frowall to wall; and again and again he sighed while I listehere was a heaen—a teorary heaen—in this roofor , if I chose: I had but to go in and to say—
“Mr. Rochester, I will loe you and lie with you through life till death,” and a fount of rapture would spring to lips. I thought of this.
That kind ster, whuld not sleep noaiting with iatience for day. He would send for in the I should be gone. He would hae sought for: ainly. He would feel hielf forsaken; his loe rejected: he would suffer; perhaps grow desperate. I thought of this too. My haowards the lock: I caught it back, and glided on.
Drearily I wound way downstairs: I knew what I had to do, and I did it ically. I sought the key of the side-door i; I sought, too, a phial of oil and a feather; I oiled the key and the lock. I got so water, I got so bread: for perhaps I should hae to walk far; and strength, sorely shaken of te, st not break down. All this I did without one sound. I opehe door, passed out, shut it softly. Didawn gliered in the yard. The great gates were closed and locked; but a wicket in one of thewas only tched. Through that I departed: it, too, I shut; and now I was out of Thornfield.
A le off, beyond the fields, y a road which stretched irary dire to Mite; a road I had raelled, but often noticed, and wondered where it led: thither I bent steps. No refle was to be allowed now: not one gnce was to be cast baot een one forward. Not ohought was to be gieher to the past or the future. The first age so heaenly sweet— so deadly sad—that to read one line of it would dissole d break down energy. The st was an awful bnk: sothing like the world when the deluge was gone by.
I skirted fields, and hedges, and ill after sunrise. I beliee it was a loely suer I know shoes, which I had put on when I left the house, were soo with dew. But I looked her to rising sun, nor sling sky, nor wakening nature. He who is taken out to pass through a fair se to the scaffold, thinks not of the flowers that sle on his road, but of the blod ae-edge; of the disseernt of bone and ein; of the grae gaping at the end: and I thought of drear flight and holess wandering—and oh! with agony I thought of what I left. uld not help it. I thought of hinow—in his roowatg the sunrise; hoping I should sooo say I would stay with hiand be his. I loo be his; I pao return: it was not too te; uld yet spare hithe bitter pang of bereaent. As yet flight, I was sure, was undered. uld go bad be his forter—his pride; his redeer frosery, perhaps froruin. Oh, that fear of his self-abando—far worse than abando—how it goaded ! It was a barbed arrow-head in breast; it tore when I tried to etract it; it sied when rerahrust it farther in. Birds began singing in brake anpse: birds were faithful to their tes; birds were ele of loe. What was I? I of  ain of heart and frantic effort of principle, I abhorred self. I had no soce froself- approbation: none een froself-respect. I had injured—wounded— left ster. I was hateful in own eyes. Still uld not turn, nor retrae step. God st hae led on. As to own will or sce, iassioned grief had traled one and stifled the other. I was weeping wildly as I walked along solitary way: fast, fast I went like one delirious. A weakness, beginning inwardly, etending to the lis, seized , and I fell: I y on the ground so nutes, pressing face to the wet turf. I had so fear—or hope—that here I should die: but I was soon up; crawling forwards on hands and knees, and then again raised to feet—as eager and as deterned as eer to reach the road.
When I got there, I was forced to sit to rest uhe hedge; and while I sat, I heard wheels, and saw ae on. I stood up and lifted hand; it stopped. I asked where it was going: the drier nad a pce a long way off, and where I was sure Mr. Rochester had no es. I asked for what suhe would take there; he said thirty shillings; I answered I had but twenty; well, he would try to ke it do. He further gae leae to get into the inside, as the ehicle was ety: I entered, was shut in, and it rolled on its way.
Gentle reader, y you neer feel what I the! May your eyes neer shed such stor, scalding, heart-wrung tears as poured frone. May you neer appeal to Heaen in prayers so hopeless and so agonised as in that hour left lips; for neer y you, like , dread to be the instrunt of eil to what you wholly loe.
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