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The nor-house of Ferndean was a building of siderable antiquity, derate size, and no architectural pretensions, deep buried in a wood. I had heard of it before. Mr. Rochester often spoke of it, and sotis went there. His father had purchased the estate for the sake of the gaers. He would hae let the house, buuld find , in sequence of its ineligible and insalubrious site. Ferhen reined uninhabited and unfurnished, with the eception of so two or three roo fitted up for the aodation of the squire when he went there in the season to shoot.
To this house I ca just ere dark on an eening rked by the characteristics of sad skyld gale, and tinued sll peing rain. The st le I perford on foot, haing disssed the chaise and drier with the double reion I had prosed. Een when within a ery short distance of the nor- house, yould see nothing of it, so thid dark grew the tier of the gloo wood about it. Iron gates between granite pilrs showed where to enter, and passing through the I found self at owilight of close-rarees. There was a grass-grown track desding the forest aisle between hoar and knotty shafts and under branched arches. I followed it, epeg soon to reach the dwelling; but it stretched on and on, it would far and farther: no sign of habitatirounds was isible.
I thought I had taken a wrong dire and lost way. The darkness of natural as well as of sylan dusk gathered oer . I looked round in search of another road. There was none: all was interwoen ste nar trunk, dense suer foliage—no opening anywhere.
I proceeded: at st ehe trees thinned a little; presently I beheld a railing, then the house—scarce, by this dilight, distinguishable frothe trees; so dank and green were its deg walls. Entering a portal, fastened only by a tch, I stood adst a space of enclosed ground, frowhich the wood swept away in a secircle. There were no flowers, no garden-beds; only a broad grael-walk girdling a grass-pt, and this set in the heay fra of the forest. The house presewo pointed gables in its front; the windows were tticed and narrow: the front door was narrow too, oep led up to it. The whole looked, as the host of the Rochester Ar had said, “quite a desote spot.” It was as still as a chur a week-day: the pattering rain on the forest leaes was the only sound audible in its iage.
“ there be life here?” I asked.
Yes, life of so kind there was; for I heard a ent—that narrow front-door was unclosing, and so shape was about to issue frothe grange.
It opened slowly: a figure ca out into the twilight and stood oep; a n without a hat: he stretched forth his hand as if to feel whether it rained. Dusk as it was, I had reised hiit was ster, Edward Fairfa Rochester, and no other.
I stayed step, alst breath, and stood to watch hito eane hi self unseen, and as! to hiinisible. It was a suddeing, and one in which rapture was kept well in check by pain. I had no difficuy iraining oice froe, step frohasty adance.
His forwas of the sa strong and stalwart tour as eer: his port was still erect, his heir was still raen bor were his features aered or sunk: not in one year’s space, by any sorrowuld his athletic strength be quelled or his igorous pri blighted. But in his tenance I saw a ge: that looked desperate.? and brooding—that rended of sed aered wild beast or bird, dangerous to approa his sullehe caged eagle, whose ged eyes cruey has etinguished, ght look as looked that sightless Saon.
And, reader, do you think I feared hiin his blind ferocit;sa..;/say?—if you do, you little know . A soft hope blest with sorrow that soon I should dare to drop a kiss on that brow of rock, and on those lips so sternly sealed beh it: but not yet. I would not st hiyet.
He desded the oep, and adanced slowly and gropingly towards the grass-pt. Where was his daring stride now? Then he paused, as if he knew not which way to turn. He lifted his hand and opened his eyelids; gazed bnk, and with a straining effort, on the sky, and toward the ahitheatre of trees: one saw that all to hiwas oid darkness. He stretched his right hand (the left ar the tited one, he kept hidden in his boso; he seed to wish by touch to gain an idea of what y around hi he t but acy still; for the trees were so yards off where he stood. He relinquished the endeaour, folded his ar, and stood quiet and te in the rain, now falling fast on his ered head. At this nt John approached hifroso quarter.
“Will you take ar sir?” he said; “there is a heay sh on: had you not better go in?”
“Let alone,” was the answer.
John withdrew without haing obsered . Mr. Rochester now tried to walk about: ainly,—all was too uain. He groped his way back to the house, and, re-entering it, closed the door.
I now drew near and knocked: John’s wife opened for . “Mary,” I said, “how are you?”
She started as if she had seen a ghost: I cald her. To her hurried “Is it really you, ss, e at this te hour to this lonely pce?” I answered by taking her hand; and then I followed her into the kit, where John now sat by a good fire. I epio the in few words, that I had heard all which had happened since I left Thornfield, and that I was e to see Mr. Rochester. I asked John to go down to the turn-pike-house, where I had disssed the chaise, and bring trunk, which I had left there: and then, while I reed bo and shawl, I questioned Mary as to whether uld be aodated at the Manor House for the night; and finding that arras to that effect, though difficu, would not be iossible, I inford her I should stay. Just at this nt the parlour-bell rang.
“When you go in,” said I, “tell your ster that a person wishes to speak to hi but do not gie na.”
“I don’t think he will see you,” she answered; “he refuses eerybody.”
Wheurned, I inquired what he had said. “You are to send in your na and your business,” she replied. She then proceeded to fill a gss with water, and pce it on a tray, together with dles.
“Is that what he rang for?” I asked.
“Yes: he always has dles brought in at dark, though he is blind.”
“Gie the tray to ; I will carry it in.”
I took it froher hand: she pointed out the parlour door. The tray shook as I held it; the water spi frothe gss; heart strubsp; ribs loud and fast. Mary opehe door for , and shut it behind .
This parlour looked gloo: a ed handful of fire burnt low in the grate; and, leani, with his head supported against the high, old-fashioelpiece, appeared the bli of the roo His old dog, Pilot, y on one side, reed out of the way, aniled up as if afraid of beily trodden upon. Pilot pricked up his ears when I : then he jued up with a yelp and a whine, and bouowards : he alst khe tray fro hands. I set it oable; then patted hi and said softly, “Lie down!” Mr. Rochester turned ically to see what the otion was: but as he saw nothing, he returned and sighed.
“Gie the water, Mary,” he said.
I approached hiwith the now only half-filled gss; Pilot followed , still ecited.
“What is the tter?” he inquired.
“Down, Pilot!” I again said. He checked the water on its way to his lips, ao listen: he drank, and put the gss down. “This is you, Mary, is it not?”
“Mary is i,” I answered.
He put out his hand with a quick gesture, but not seeing where I stood, he did not touch . “Who is this? Who is this?”;big..;/big he derying, as it seed, to SEE with those sightless eyes— unaailing and distressing attet! “Answer —speak again!” he ordered, ieriously and aloud.
“Will you hae a little re water, sir? I spi half of what was in the gss,” I said.
“Who is it? What is it? Who speaks?”
“Pilot knows , and John and Mary know I ahere. I ly this eening,” I answered.
“Great God!—what delusion has e oer ? What sweet dness has seized ?”
“No delusion—no dness: your nd, sir, is to for delusion, your heah too sound for frenzy.”
“And where is the speaker? Is it only a oice? Oh! I ot see, but I st feel, or heart will stop and brain burst. Whateer—whoeer you are—be perceptible to the touch or I ot lie!”
He groped; I arrested his wandering hand, and priso in both ne.
“Her ery fingers!” he cried; “her sll, slight fingers! If so there st be re of her.”
The scur hand broke fro custody; arwas seized, shoulder—neck—waist—I was entwined and gathered to hi
“Is it Jane? What is it? This is her shape—this is her size—”
“And this her oice,” I added. “She is all here: her heart, too. God bless you, sir! I agd to be so near you again.”
“Jane Eyre!—Jane Eyre,” was all he said.
“My dear ster,” I answered, “I aJane Eyre: I hae found you out—I ae back to you.”
“In truth?—in the flesh? My liing Jane?”
“You touch , sir,—you hold , and fast enough: I anold like rpse, nor at like air, aI?”
“My liing darling! These are certainly her lis, and these her features; but I ot be so blest, after all sery. It is a drea such drea as I hae had at night when I hae csped her once re to heart, as I do now; and kissed her, as thus—ahat she loed , and trusted that she would not leae .”
“Which I neer will, sir, frothis day.”
“Neer will, says the ision? But I always woke and found it ay ckery; and I was desote and abandoned— life dark, lonely, hopeless— soul athirst and forbidden to drink— heart fashed and o be fed. Gentle, soft drea ling in ar now, you will fly, too, as your sisters hae all fled before you: but kiss before you go—erace , Jane.”
“There, sir—and there!”’
I pressed lips to his once brilliant and now rayless eyes—I swept his hair frohis brow, and kissed that too. He suddenly seed to arouse hielf: the i of the reality of all this seized hi
“It is you—is it, Jane? You are e bae then?”
“I a”
“And you do not lie dead in so ditder so strea And you are not a pining outcast angst strangers?”
“No, sir! I aan indepe won now.”
“Indepe! What do you an, Jane?”
“My uncle in Madeira is dead, and he left fie thousand pounds.”
“Ah! this is practical—this is real!” he cried: “I should neer dreathat. Besides, there is that peculiar oice of hers, so aniting and piquant, as well as soft: it cheers withered heart; it puts life into it.—What, Ja! Are you an indepe won? A rian?”
“If you won’t let lie with you, I build a house of own close up to your door, and you y e and sit in  arlour when you any of an eening.”
“But as you are rich, Jane, you hae now, no doubt, friends who will look after you, and not suffer you to deote yourself to a blind ter like ?”
“I told you I aindepe, sir, as well as rich: I a own stress.”
“And you will stay with ?”
“Certainly—unless you object. I will be your neighbour, your nurse, your housekeeper. I find you lonely: I will be your panion—to read to you, to walk with you, to sit with you, to wait on you, to be eyes and hands to you. Cease to look so ncholy, dear ster; you shall not be left desote, so long as I lie.”
He replied not: he seed serious—abstracted; he sighed; he half- opened his lips as if to speak: he closed theagain. I fe a little earrassed. Perhaps I had too rashly oer-leaped entionalities; and he, like St. John, saw iropriety in ieness. I had indeed de  roposal frothe idea that he wished and would ask to be his wife: aion, not the less certain because unepressed, had buoyed up, that he would ci at once as his own. But no hint to that effect esg hiand his tenance being re oercast, I suddenly reered that I ght hae been all wrong, and erhaps pying the fool unwittingly; and I begaly to withdraw self frohis ar—but he eagerly snatched closer.
“No—no—Jane; you st not go. No—I hae touched you, heard you, fe the fort of your presehe sweetness of your sotion: I ot gie up these joys. I hae little left in self—I st hae you. The world y ugh—y call absurd, selfish—but it does not signify. My ery soul dends you: it will be satisfied, or it will take deadly engean its fra.”
“Well, sir, I will stay with you: I hae said so.”
“Yes—but you uand ohing by staying with ; and I uand another. You, perhapsuld ke up your nd to be about hand and chair—to wait on as a kind little nurse (for you hae an affeate heart and a generous spirit, which prot you to ke sacrifices for those you pity), and that ought to suffie no doubt. I suppose I should ertain fatherly feelings for you: do you think so? e—tell .”
“I will think what you like, sir: I atent to be only your nurse, if you think it better.”
“But you ot always be nurse, Ja: you are young—you st rry one day.”
“I don’t care about being rried.”
“You should care, Ja: if I were what I once was, I would try to ke you care—but—a sightless block!”
He repsed again into gloo I, orary, beca re cheerful, and took fresh ce: these st wae an insight as to where the difficuy y; and as it was no difficuy with , I fe quite relieed fro preious earrassnt. I resud a lielier ein of ersation.
“It is ti so one uook to rehunise you,” said I, parting his thid long uncut locks; “for I see you are beiarphosed into a lion, or sothing of that sort. You hae a ‘fau air’ of Nebuezzar in the fields about you, that is certain: your hair rends of eagles’ feathers; whether your nails are grown like birds’ cws or not, I hae not yet noticed.”
“On this ar I hae her hand nor nails,” he said, drawing the tited li frohis breast, and showing it to . “It is a re stu—a ghastly sight! Don’t you think so, Jane?”
“It is a pity to see it; and a pity to see your eyes—and the scar of fire on your forehead: and the worst of it is, one is in danger of loing you too well for all this; and king too ch of you.”
“I thought you would be reoed, Jane, when you saw ar and cicatrised isage.”
“Did you? Don’t tell so—lest I should say sothing disparaging to your judgnt. Now, let leae you an instant, to ke a better fire, and hae the hearth swept up. you tell when there is a good fire?”
“Yes; with the right eye I see a glow—a ruddy haze.”
“And you see the dles?”
“Very diy—each is a lunous cloud.”
“ you see ?”
“No, fairy: but I aonly too thankful to hear and feel you.”
“When do you take supper?”
“I ake supper.”
“But you shall hae so to-night. I ahungry: so are you, I daresay, only you fet.”
Suoning Mary, I soon had the rooin re cheerful order: I prepared hi likewise, a fortable repast. My spirits were ecited, and with pleasure and ease I talked to hiduring supper, and for a long ti after. There was no harassiraint, no repressing of glee and iacity with hi for with hiI erfect ease, because I knew I suited hi all I said or did seed either to sole or reie hi Delightful sciousness! It brought to life and light whole nature: in his presehhly lied; and he lied in ne. Blind as he was, sles pyed oer his face, joy dawned on his forehead: his lis softened and ward.
After supper, he began to ask ny questions, of where I had been, what I had been doing, how I had found hiout; but I gae hionly ery partial replies: it was too te to enter into particurs that night. Besides, I wished to touo deep- thrilling chord—to open no fresh well of etion in his heart: sole present aiwas to cheer hi Cheered, as I hae said, he was: a but by fits. If a nt’s silence broke the ersation, he would turless, touch , then say, “Jane.”
“You are aogether a hun being, Jane? You are certain of that?”
“I stiously beliee so, Mr. Rochester.”
“Yet how, on this dark and doleful eeninguld you so suddenly rise on loh? I stretched hand to take a gss of water froa hireling, and it was gien by you: I asked a question, epeg John’s wife to answer , and your oice spoke at ear.”
“Because I had e in, in Mary’s stead, with the tray.”
“And there is e in the ery hour I anow spending with you. Who tell what a dark, dreary, hopeless life I hae dragged on for nths past? Doing nothing, epeg nothing; rging night in day; feeling but the sensation old when I let the fire go out, of hunger when I fot to eat: and then a ceaseless sorrow, and, at tis, a ery deliriuof desire to behold Jane again. Yes: for her restoration I longed, far re than for that of lost sight. How it be that Jane is with , and says she loes ? Will she not depart as suddenly as she ca? To-rrow, I fear I shall find her no re.”
A onpce, practical reply, out of the train of his own disturbed ideas, was, I was sure, the best and st reassuring for hiin this fra of nd. I passed finger oer his eyebrows, and rerked that they wererched, and that I would apply sothing which would ke thegrow as broad and bck as eer.
“Where is the use of doing good in any way, be spirit, when, at so fatal nt, you will agai —passing like a shadow, whither and how to unknown, and for reining afterwards underable?
“Hae you a pocket-b about you, sir?”
“What for, Jane?”
“Just to b out this shaggy be. I find you rather arng, when I eane you close at hand: you talk of being a fairy, but I asure, you are re like a brownie.”
“AI hideous, Jane?”
“Very, sir: you always were, you know.”
“Huh! The wiess has not been taken out of you, whereer you hae sojourned.”
“Yet I hae been with good people; far better than you: a huis better people; possessed of ideas and iews you ;rk;/rker eained in your life: quite re refined aed.”
“Who the deuce hae you been with?”
“If you twist in that way you will ke  ull the hair out of your head; and then I think you will cease to eain doubts of substantiality.”
“Who hae you been with, Jane?”
“You shall not get it out of to-night, sir; you st wait till to-rrow; to leae tale half told, will, you know, be a sort of security that I shall appear at your breakfast table to finish it. By the bye, I st nd not to rise on your hearth with only a gss of water then: I st bring an egg at the least, to say nothing of fried ha”
“You g geling—fairy-born and hun-bred! You ke feel as I hae not fe these twele nths. If Sauuld hae had you for his Daid, the eil spirit would hae been eorcised without the aid of the harp.”
“There, sir, you are redd up a. Now I’ll leae you: I hae been traelling these st three days, and I beliee I atired. Good night.”
“Just one word, Jane: were there only dies in the house where you hae been?”
I ughed and de escape, still ughing as I ran upstairs. “A good idea!” I thought with glee. “I see I hae the ans of fretting hiout of his ncholy for so ti to e.”
Very early the I heard hiup and astir, wandering froone rooto another. As soon as Mary ca down I heard the question: “Is Miss Eyre here?” Then: “Whi did you put her into? Was it dry? Is she up? Go and ask if she wants anything; and when she will e down.”
I ca down as soon as I thought there rospect of breakfast. Entering the rooery softly, I had a iew of hibefore he dered  rese was urnful, io withe subjugation of that igorous spirit to rporeal infirty. He sat in his chair—still, but not at rest: epet eidently; the lines of now habitual sadness rking his stroures. His tenance rended one of a quenched, waiting to be re-lit— and as! it was not hielf thauld now kihe lustre of anited epression: he was depe on another for that office! I had ant to be gay and careless, but the powerlessness of the strong n touched heart to the quick: still I sted hiwith what iacity uld.
“It is a bright, sunny sir,” I said. “The rain is oer and gone, and there is a tender shining after it: you shall hae a walk soon.”
I had wakehe glow: his features bead.
“Oh, you are ihere, skyrk! e to . You are not gone: not anished? I heard one of your kind an ho, singing high oer the wood: but its song had no sie, ahan the rising sun had rays. All the lody oh is trated in Jaoo ear (I agd it is not naturally a silent one): all the sunshine I feel is in her presence.”
The water stood in eyes to hear this aowal of his dependence; just as if a royal eagle, ed to a perch, should be forced to e a sparrow to bee its pureyor. But I would not be chryse: I dashed off the sa drops, and busied self with preparing breakfast.
Most of the ent in the open air. I led hiout of the wet and wild wood into so cheerful fields: I described to hihow brilliantly green they were; how the flowers and hedges looked refreshed; how sparklingly blue was the sky. I sought a seat for hiin a hidden and loely spot, a dry stu of a tree; nor did I refuse to let hi wheed, pbsp; on his knee. Why should I, when both he and I were happier han apart? Pilot y beside us: all was quiet. He broke out suddenly while g in his ar—
“Cruel, cruel deserter! Oh, Jane, what did I feel when I dered you had fled froThornfield, and when uld nowhere find you; and, after eaning your apartnt, ascertaihat you had taken no ney, nor anything whiculd sere as an equialent! A pearl neckce I had gien you y untouched in its little casket; your trunks were lefrded and locked as they had been prepared for the bridal tour. Whauld darling do, I asked, left destitute and penniless? And what did she do? Let hear now.”
Thus urged, I began the narratie of eperience for the st year. I softened siderably what reted to the three days of wandering and staration, because to hae told hiall would hae been to inflinecessary pain: the little I did say cerated his faithful heart deeper than I wished.
I should not hae left hithus, he said, without any ans of king way: I should hae told hi iion. I should hae fided in hi he would neer hae forbsp; to be his stress. Violent as he had seed in his despair, he, in truth, loed far too well and too tenderly to stitute hielf tyrant: he would hae gien half his fortune, without dending so ch as a kiss iurn, rather than I should hae flung self friendless on the wide world. I had endured, he was certaihan I had fessed to hi
“Well, whateer sufferings had been, they were ery short,” I answered: and then I proceeded to tell hihow I had been receied at Moor House; how I had obtaihe office of sistress, c. The aession of fortuhe dery of retions, followed in due order. Ourse, St. John Riers’ na frequently in the progress of tale. When I had dohat na was iediately taken up.
“This St. John, then, is youusin?”
“Yes.”
“You hae spoken of hioften: do you like hi”
“He was a ery good n, sir; uld not help liking hi”
“A good n. Does that an a respectable well-ducted n of fifty? Or what does it an?”
“St John was only twenty-nine, sir.”
“‘Jeune re,’ as the French say. Is he a person of low stature, phlegtid pin. A person whose goodness sists rather in his guilessness of ice, than in his prowess in irtue.”
“He is untiringly actie. Great aed deeds are what he lies to perfor”
“But his brain? That is probably rather soft? He ans well: but you shrug your shoulders to hear hitalk?”
“He talks little, sir: what he does say is eer to the point. His brain is first-rate, I shoul;u藏书网;/ud think not iressible, but igorous.”
“Is he an able n, then?”
“Truly able.”
“A thhly educated n?”
“St. John is an aplished and profound schor.”
“His nners, I think, you said are not to your taste?—priggish and parsonic?”
“I ioned his nners; but, unless I had a ery bad taste, they st suit it; they are polished, cal alenlike.”
“His appearance,—I fet what description you gae of his appearance;—a sort of raw curate, half strangled with his white neckcloth, and stied up on his thick-soled high-lows, eh?”
“St. John dresses well. He is a handso n: tall, fair, with blue eyes, and a Gre profile.”
(Aside.) “Da hi”—(To .) “Did you like hi Jane?”
“Yes, Mr. Rochester, I liked hi but you asked that before.”
I perceied, ourse, the drift of interlocutor. Jealousy had got hold of hi she stung hi but the sting was salutary: it gae hirespite frothe gnawing fang of ncholy. I would not, therefore, iediately charthe snake.
“Perhaps you would rather not sit any longer on knee, Miss Eyre?” was the sowhat ued obseration.
“Why not, Mr. Rochester?”
“The picture you hae just drawn is suggestie of a rather too oerwhelng trast. Your words hae delied ery prettily a graceful Apollo: he is present to yination,—tall, fair, blue-eyed, and with a Gre profile. Your eyes dwell on a Vul,—a real bcksth, brown, broad-shouldered: and blind and into the bargain.”
“I hought of it, before; but you certainly are rather like Vul, sir.”
“Well, you leae , ’a but before you go” (aained by a firr grasp than eer), “you will be pleased just to answer a question or two.” He paused.
“What questions, Mr. Rochester?”
Then followed this cross-eanation.
“St. John de you sistress of Morton before he knew you were hiusin?”
“Yes.”
“You would often see hi He would isit the school sotis?”
“Daily.”
“He would approe of your pns, Jane? I know they would be cleer, for you are a talented creature!”
“He approed of theyes.”
“He would der ny things in you huld not hae epected to find? So of your aplishnts are not ordinary.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“You had a litttage he school, you say: did he eer e there to see you?”
“Now and then?”
“Of an eening?”
“Once or twice.”
A pause.
“How long did you reside with hiand his sisters after thusinship was dered?”
“Fie nths.”
“Did Riers spend ch ti with the dies of his faly?”
“Yes; the back parlour was both his study and ours: he sat he window, and we by the table.”
“Did he study ch?”
“A good deal.”
“What?”
“Hindostanee.”
“And what did you do anti?”
“I learnt Gern, at first.”
“Did he teach you?”
“He did not uand Gern.”
“Did he teach you nothing?”
“A little Hindostanee.”
“Riers taught you Hindostanee?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And his sisters also?”
“No.”
“Only you?”
“Only .”
“Did you ask to learn?”
“No.”
“He wished to teach you?”
“Yes.”
A sed pause.
“Why did he wish it? Of what usuld Hindostanee be to you?”
“He intended to go with hito India.”
“Ah! here I reach the root of the tter. He wanted you to rry hi”
“He asked to rry hi”
“That is a fi—an iudent iion to e .”
“I beg your pardon, it is the literal truth: he asked re than once, and was as stiff about urging his point as eer yould be.”
“Miss Eyre, I repeat it, you leae . How often aI to say the sa thing? Why do you reiinaciously perched on knee, when I hae gien you notice to quit?”
“Because I afortable there.”
“No, Jane, you are not fortable there, because your heart is not with : it is with thiusin—this St. John. Oh, till this nt, I thought little Jane was all ne! I had a belief she loed een when she left : that was an atoof sweet in ch bitter. Long as we hae been parted, hot tears as I hae wept oer our separation, I hought that while I was her, she was loing another! But it is useless grieing. Jane, leae : go and rry Riers.”
“Shake off, then, sir,—push away, for I’ll not leae you of own rd.”
“Jane, I eer like your tone of oice: it still renews hope, it sounds so truthful. When I hear it, it carries back a year. I fet that you hae ford a ie. But I anot a fool—go—”
“Where st I go, sir?”
“Your oith the husband you hae chosen.”
“Who is that?”
“You know—this St. John Riers.”
“He is not husband, nor eer will be. He does not loe : I do not loe hi He loes (as he loe, and that is not as you loe) a beautiful young dy called Rosand. He wao rry only because he thought I should ke a suitable ssionary’s wife, which she would not hae done. He is good and great, but seere; and, for ld as an iceberg. He is not like you, sir: I anot happy at his side, nor near hi nor with hi He has no indulgene—no fondness. He sees nothing attractie in ; not een youth—only a few useful ntal points.—Then I st leae you, sir, to go to hi”
I shuddered inoluntarily, and g instinctiely closer to blind but beloed ster. He sled.
“What, Jane! Is this true? Is such really the state of tters between you and Riers?”
“Absolutely, sir! Oh, you need not be jealous! I wao tease you a little to ke you less sad: I thought anger would be better than grief. But if you wish to loe youuld you but see how ch I do loe you, you would be proud a. All heart is yours, sir: it belongs to you; and with you it would rein, were fate to eile the rest of froyour presence for eer.”
Again, as he kissed , painful thoughts darkened his aspect. “My scared ision! My crippled strength!” he rred regretfully.
I caressed, in order to soothe hi I knew of what he was thinking, and eak for hi but dared not. As he turned aside his face a nute, I saw a tear slide frouhe sealed eyelid, and trickle down the nly cheek. My heart swelled.
“I aer than the old lightning-struck chestnut-tree in Thornfield orchard,” he rerked ere long. “And what right would that ruio bid a budding woodbis decay with freshness?”
“You are no ruin, sir—no lightning-struck tree: yreen and igorous. Pnts will grow about your roots, whether you ask theor not, because they take delight in your bountiful shadow; and as they grow they will lean towards you, and wind round you, because your strength offers theso safe a prop.”
Again he sled: I gae hifort.
“You speak of friends, Jane?” he asked.
“Yes, of friends,” I answered rather hesitatingly: for I knew I ahan friends, buuld not tell what other word to eloy. He helped .
“Ah! Jane. But I want a wife.”
“Do you, sir?”
“Yes: is it o you?”
“Ourse: you said nothing about it before.”
“Is it unwele news?”
“That depends on circes, sir—on your choice.”
“Which you shall ke for , Jane. I will abide by your decision.”
“Choose then, sir—her who loes you best.”
“I will at least choose—her i loe best. Jane, will you rry ?”
“Yes, sir.”
“A poor blind n, whoyou will hae to lead about by the hand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“A crippled n, twenty years older than you, whoyou will hae to wait on?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Truly, Jane?”
“Most truly, sir.”
“Oh! darling! God bless you and reward you!”
“Mr. Rochester, if eer I did a good deed in life—if eer I thought a good thought—if eer I prayed a sincere and bless prayer—if eer I wished a righteous wish,—I arewarded now. To be your wife is, for , to be as happy as I be oh.”
“Because you delight in sacrifice.”
“Sacrifice! What do I sacrifice? Fane for food, epectation for tent. To be priileged to put ar round what I alue—to press lips to what I loe—to repose on what I trust: is that to ke a sacrifice? If so, theainly I delight in sacrifice.”
“And to bear with infirties, Jao oerlook deficies.”
“Which are none, sir, to . I loe you better now, when I really be useful to you, than I did in your state of proud independence, when you disdained eery part but that of the gier and protector.”
“Hitherto I hae hated to be helped—to be led: heh, I feel I shall hate it no re. I did not like to put hand into a hireling’s, but it is pleasant to feel it circled by Jane’s little fingers. I preferred utter lonelio the stant attendance of serants; but Jane’s soft nistry will be a perpetual joy. Jane suits : do I suit her?”
“To the fi fibre of nature, sir.”
“The case being so, we hae nothing in the world to wait for: we st be rried instantly.”
He looked and spoke with eagerness: his old ietuosity was rising.
“We st bee one flesh without any dey, Jahere is but the lice to get—then we rry.”
“Mr. Rochester, I hae just dered the sun is far deed froits ridian, and Pilot is actually gone ho to his dinner. Let look at your watch.”
“Fasten it into yirdle, Ja, and keep it henceforward: I hae no use for it.”
“It is nearly four o’clo the afternoon, sir. Don’t you feel hungry?”
“The third day frothis st be our wedding-day, Jane. Neer nd fine clothes and jewels, now: all that is not worth a fillip.”
“The sun has dried up all the rain-drops, sir. The breeze is still: it is quite hot.”
“Do you know, Jane, I hae your little pearl neckce at this nt fastened round bronze scrag under craat? I hae worn it sihe day I lost only treasure, as a nto of her.”
“We will go hh the wood: that will be the shadiest way.”
He pursued his own thoughts without heeding .
“Jane! you think , I daresay, an irreligious dog: but heart swells with gratitude to the be God of this earth just now. He sees not as n sees, but far clearer: judges not as n judges, but far re wisely. I did wrong: I would hae sullied i flower—breathed gui on its purity: the Oipotent snatched it fro. I, in stiff-necked rebellion, alst cursed the dispensation: instead of bending to the decree, I defied it. Diine justice pursued iturse; disasters ca thie: I was forced to pass through the alley of the shadow of death. His chastisents are ghty; and oe which has huled for eer. You know I roud of strength: but what is it now, when I st gie it oer tn guidance, as a child does its weakness? Of te, Jane—only—only of te—I began to see and aowledge the hand of God in doo I began to eperience rerse, repentahe wish for ret to Maker. I began sotis to pray: ery brief prayers they were, but ery sincere.
“So days sinay, I uer thefour; it was st Monday night, a singur od ca oer : one in which grief repced frenzy—sorrow, sullenness. I had long had the iression that since uld nowhere find you, you st be dead. Late that night— perhaps it ght be between eleen and twele o’clock—ere I retired to dreary rest, I supplicated God, that, if it seed good to Hi I ght sooaken frothis life, and adtted to that world to e, where there was still hope of rejoining Jane.
“I was in own roo and sitting by the window, whi: it soothed to feel the bal night-air; though uld see no stars and only by a ague, lunous haze, khe presence of a on. I longed for thee, Ja! Oh, I longed for thee both with soul and flesh! I asked of God, at on anguish and hulity, if I had not been long enough desote, afflicted, tornted; and ght not soon taste bliss and peace re. That I rited all I endured, I aowledged—that uld scarcely endure re, I pleaded; and the alpha and oga of heart’s wishes broke inoluntarily fro lips in the words—‘Jane! Jane! Jane!’”
“Did you speak these words aloud?”
“I did, Jane. If any listener had heard , he would hae thought d: I proh such frantiergy.”
“And it was st Monday night, sowhere near dnight?”
“Yes; but the ti is of no sequence: what followed is the strange point. You will think superstitious,—so superstition I hae in blood, and always had: heless, this is true— true at least it is that I heard what I now rete.
“As I ecid ‘Jane! Jane! Jane!’ a oice—I ot tell whehe oice ca, but I know whose oice it was—replied, ‘I aing: wait for ;’ and a nt after, went whispering on the wind the words—‘Where are you?’
“I’ll tell you, if I , the idea, the picture these words opeo nd: yet it is difficu to epress what I want to epress. Ferndean is buried, as you see, in a heay wood, where sound falls dull, and dies unreerberating. ‘Where are you?’ seed spoken angst untains; for I heard a hill-sent echo repeat the words. oler and fresher at the nt the gale seed to isit brow: uld hae deed that in so wild, lone se, I and Jane were eting. In spirit, I beliee we st hae t. You no doubt were, at that hour, in unscious sleep, Jane: perhaps your soul wandered froits cell to ine; for those were your ats—as certain as I lie—they were yours!”
Reader, it was on Monday night—near dnight—that I too had receied the sterious suons: those were the ery words by which I replied to it. I listeo Mr. Rochester’s narratie, but de no disclosure iurn. The ce strubsp; as too awful and ineplicable to be unicated or discussed. If I told anything, tale would be such as st necessarily ke a profound iression on the nd of hearer: and that nd, yet froits sufferings tloo needed not the deeper shade of the supernatural. I kept these things then, and pohein heart.
“You ot now wonder,” tinued ster, “that when you rose upon so uedly st night, I had difficuy in belieing you any other than a re oid ision, sothing that would to silend annihition, as the dnight whisper and untain echo had ed before. Now, I thank God! I know it to be otherwise. Yes, I thank God!”
He put off his knee, rose, and reerently lifting his hat frohis brow, and bending his sightless eyes to the earth, he stood in te deotion. Only the st words of the worship were audible.
“I thank Maker, that, i of judgnt, he has reered rcy. I huly e Redeer to gie strength to lead heh a purer life than I hae doherto!”
Theretched his hand out to be led. I took that dear hand, held it a nt to lips, the pass round shoulder: being so ch lower of stature than he, I sered both for his prop and guide. We ehe wood, and wended howard.
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