Bab Bab 24 · As I rose and dressed, I thought over what had happened, and wondered

. As I rose and dressed, I thought over what had happened, and wondered

if it were a dream. I could not be certain of the reality till I had

seen Mr. Rochester again, and heard him renew his words of love and

promise.

While arranging my hair, I looked at my face in the glass, and felt it

was no longer plain: there was hope in its aspect and life in its

colour; and my eyes seemed as if they had beheld the fount of fruition,

and borrowed beams from the lustrous ripple. I had often been unwilling

to look at my master, because I feared he could not be pleased at my

look; but I was sure I might lift my face to his now, and not cool his

affection by its expression. I took a plain but clean and light summer

dress from my drawer and put it on: it seemed no attire had ever so

well become me, because none had I ever worn in so blissful a mood.

I was not surprised, when I ran down into the hall, to see that a

brilliant June morning had succeeded to the tempest of the night; and

to feel, through the open glass door, the breathing of a fresh and

fragrant breeze. Nature must be gladsome when I was so happy. A

beggar-woman and her little boy—pale, ragged objects both—were coming

up the walk, and I ran down and gave them all the money I happened to

have in my purse—some three or four shillings: good or bad, they must

partake of my jubilee. The rooks cawed, and blither birds sang; but

nothing was so merry or so musical as my own rejoicing heart.

Mrs. Fairfax surprised me by looking out of the window with a sad

countenance, and saying gravely—“Miss Eyre, will you come to

breakfast?” During the meal she was quiet and cool: but I could not

undeceive her then. I must wait for my master to give explanations; and

so must she. I ate what I could, and then I hastened upstairs. I met

Adèle leaving the schoolroom.

“Where are you going? It is time for lessons.”

“Mr. Rochester has sent me away to the nursery.”

“Where is he?”

“In there,” pointing to the apartment she had left; and I went in, and

there he stood.

“Come and bid me good-morning,” said he. I gladly advanced; and it was

not merely a cold word now, or even a shake of the hand that I

received, but an embrace and a kiss. It seemed natural: it seemed

genial to be so well loved, so caressed by him.

“Jane, you look blooming, and smiling, and pretty,” said he: “truly

pretty this morning. Is this my pale, little elf? Is this my

mustard-seed? This little sunny-faced girl with the dimpled cheek and

rosy lips; the satin-smooth hazel hair, and the radiant hazel eyes?” (I

had green eyes, reader; but you must excuse the mistake: for him they

were new-dyed, I suppose.)

“It is Jane Eyre, sir.”

“Soon to be Jane Rochester,” he added: “in four weeks, Janet; not a day

more. Do you hear that?”

I did, and I could not quite comprehend it: it made me giddy. The

feeling, the announcement sent through me, was something stronger than

was consistent with joy—something that smote and stunned: it was, I

think, almost fear.

“You blushed, and now you are white, Jane: what is that for?”

“Because you gave me a new name—Jane Rochester; and it seems so

strange.”

“Yes, Mrs. Rochester,” said he; “young Mrs. Rochester—Fairfax

Rochester’s girl-bride.”

“It can never be, sir; it does not sound likely. Human beings never

enjoy complete happiness in this world. I was not born for a different

destiny to the rest of my species: to imagine such a lot befalling me

is a fairy tale—a day-dream.”

“Which I can and will realise. I shall begin to-day. This morning I

wrote to my banker in London to send me certain jewels he has in his

keeping,—heirlooms for the ladies of Thornfield. In a day or two I hope

to pour them into your lap: for every privilege, every attention shall

be yours that I would accord a peer’s daughter, if about to marry her.”

“Oh, sir!—never rain jewels! I don’t like to hear them spoken of.

Jewels for Jane Eyre sounds unnatural and strange: I would rather not

have them.”

“I will myself put the diamond chain round your neck, and the circlet

on your forehead,—which it will become: for nature, at least, has

stamped her patent of nobility on this brow, Jane; and I will clasp the

bracelets on these fine wrists, and load these fairy-like fingers with

rings.”

“No, no, sir! think of other subjects, and speak of other things, and

in another strain. Don’t address me as if I were a beauty; I am your

plain, Quakerish governess.”

“You are a beauty in my eyes, and a beauty just after the desire of my

heart,—delicate and aërial.”

“Puny and insignificant, you mean. You are dreaming, sir,—or you are

sneering. For God’s sake, don’t be ironical!”

“I will make the world acknowledge you a beauty, too,” he went on,

while I really became uneasy at the strain he had adopted, because I

felt he was either deluding himself or trying to delude me. “I will

attire my Jane in satin and lace, and she shall have roses in her hair;

and I will cover the head I love best with a priceless veil.”

“And then you won’t know me, sir; and I shall not be your Jane Eyre any

longer, but an ape in a harlequin’s jacket—a jay in borrowed plumes. I

would as soon see you, Mr. Rochester, tricked out in stage-trappings,

as myself clad in a court-lady’s robe; and I don’t call you handsome,

sir, though I love you most dearly: far too dearly to flatter you.

Don’t flatter me.”

He pursued his theme, however, without noticing my deprecation. “This

very day I shall take you in the carriage to Millcote, and you must

choose some dresses for yourself. I told you we shall be married in

four weeks. The wedding is to take place quietly, in the church down

below yonder; and then I shall waft you away at once to town. After a

brief stay there, I shall bear my treasure to regions nearer the sun:

to French vineyards and Italian plains; and she shall see whatever is

famous in old story and in modern record: she shall taste, too, of the

life of cities; and she shall learn to value herself by just comparison

with others.”

“Shall I travel?—and with you, sir?”

“You shall sojourn at Paris, Rome, and Naples: at Florence, Venice, and

Vienna: all the ground I have wandered over shall be re-trodden by you:

wherever I stamped my hoof, your sylph’s foot shall step also. Ten

years since, I flew through Europe half mad; with disgust, hate, and

rage as my companions: now I shall revisit it healed and cleansed, with

a very angel as my comforter.”

I laughed at him as he said this. “I am not an angel,” I asserted; “and

I will not be one till I die: I will be myself. Mr. Rochester, you must

neither expect nor exact anything celestial of me—for you will not get

it, any more than I shall get it of you: which I do not at all

anticipate.”

“What do you anticipate of me?”

“For a little while you will perhaps be as you are now,—a very little

while; and then you will turn cool; and then you will be capricious;

and then you will be stern, and I shall have much ado to please you:

but when you get well used to me, you will perhaps like me

again,—_like_ me, I say, not _love_ me. I suppose your love will

effervesce in six months, or less. I have observed in books written by

men, that period assigned as the farthest to which a husband’s ardour

extends. Yet, after all, as a friend and companion, I hope never to

become quite distasteful to my dear master.”

“Distasteful! and like you again! I think I shall like you again, and

yet again: and I will make you confess I do not only _like_, but _love_

you—with truth, fervour, constancy.”

“Yet are you not capricious, sir?”

“To women who please me only by their faces, I am the very devil when I

find out they have neither souls nor hearts—when they open to me a

perspective of flatness, triviality, and perhaps imbecility,

coarseness, and ill-temper: but to the clear eye and eloquent tongue,

to the soul made of fire, and the character that bends but does not

break—at once supple and stable, tractable and consistent—I am ever

tender and true.”

“Had you ever experience of such a character, sir? Did you ever love

such an one?”

“I love it now.”

“But before me: if I, indeed, in any respect come up to your difficult

standard?”

“I never met your likeness. Jane, you please me, and you master me—you

seem to submit, and I like the sense of pliancy you impart; and while I

am twining the soft, silken skein round my finger, it sends a thrill up

my arm to my heart. I am influenced—conquered; and the influence is

sweeter than I can express; and the conquest I undergo has a witchery

beyond any triumph I can win. Why do you smile, Jane? What does that

inexplicable, that uncanny turn of countenance mean?”

“I was thinking, sir (you will excuse the idea; it was involuntary), I

was thinking of Hercules and Samson with their charmers—”

“You were, you little elfish—”

“Hush, sir! You don’t talk very wisely just now; any more than those

gentlemen acted very wisely. However, had they been married, they would

no doubt by their severity as husbands have made up for their softness

as suitors; and so will you, I fear. I wonder how you will answer me a

year hence, should I ask a favour it does not suit your convenience or

pleasure to grant.”

“Ask me something now, Janet,—the least thing: I desire to be

entreated—”

“Indeed I will, sir; I have my petition all ready.”

“Speak! But if you look up and smile with that countenance, I shall

swear concession before I know to what, and that will make a fool of

me.”

“Not at all, sir; I ask only this: don’t send for the jewels, and don’t

crown me with roses: you might as well put a border of gold lace round

that plain pocket handkerchief you have there.”

“I might as well ‘gild refined gold.’ I know it: your request is

granted then—for the time. I will remand the order I despatched to my

banker. But you have not yet asked for anything; you have prayed a gift

to be withdrawn: try again.”

“Well then, sir, have the goodness to gratify my curiosity, which is

much piqued on one point.”

He looked disturbed. “What? what?” he said hastily. “Curiosity is a

dangerous petition: it is well I have not taken a vow to accord every

request—”

“But there can be no danger in complying with this, sir.”

“Utter it, Jane: but I wish that instead of a mere inquiry into,

perhaps, a secret, it was a wish for half my estate.”

“Now, King Ahasuerus! What do I want with half your estate? Do you

think I am a Jew-usurer, seeking good investment in land? I would much

rather have all your confidence. You will not exclude me from your

confidence if you admit me to your heart?”

“You are welcome to all my confidence that is worth having, Jane; but

for God’s sake, don’t desire a useless burden! Don’t long for

poison—don’t turn out a downright Eve on my hands!”

“Why not, sir? You have just been telling me how much you liked to be

conquered, and how pleasant over-persuasion is to you. Don’t you think

I had better take advantage of the confession, and begin and coax and

entreat—even cry and be sulky if necessary—for the sake of a mere essay

of my power?”

“I dare you to any such experiment. Encroach, presume, and the game is

up.”

“Is it, sir? You soon give in. How stern you look now! Your eyebrows

have become as thick as my finger, and your forehead resembles what, in

some very astonishing poetry, I once saw styled, ‘a blue-piled

thunderloft.’ That will be your married look, sir, I suppose?”

“If that will be _your_ married look, I, as a Christian, will soon give

up the notion of consorting with a mere sprite or salamander. But what

had you to ask, thing,—out with it?”

“There, you are less than civil now; and I like rudeness a great deal

better than flattery. I had rather be a _thing_ than an angel. This is

what I have to ask,—Why did you take such pains to make me believe you

wished to marry Miss Ingram?”

“Is that all? Thank God it is no worse!” And now he unknit his black

brows; looked down, smiling at me, and stroked my hair, as if well

pleased at seeing a danger averted. “I think I may confess,” he

continued, “even although I should make you a little indignant,

Jane—and I have seen what a fire-spirit you can be when you are

indignant. You glowed in the cool moonlight last night, when you

mutinied against fate, and claimed your rank as my equal. Janet,

by-the-bye, it was you who made me the offer.”

“Of course I did. But to the point if you please, sir—Miss Ingram?”

“Well, I feigned courtship of Miss Ingram, because I wished to render

you as madly in love with me as I was with you; and I knew jealousy

would be the best ally I could call in for the furtherance of that

end.”

“Excellent! Now you are small—not one whit bigger than the end of my

little finger. It was a burning shame and a scandalous disgrace to act

in that way. Did you think nothing of Miss Ingram’s feelings, sir?”

“Her feelings are concentrated in one—pride; and that needs humbling.

Were you jealous, Jane?”

“Never mind, Mr. Rochester: it is in no way interesting to you to know

that. Answer me truly once more. Do you think Miss Ingram will not

suffer from your dishonest coquetry? Won’t she feel forsaken and

deserted?”

“Impossible!—when I told you how she, on the contrary, deserted me: the

idea of my insolvency cooled, or rather extinguished, her flame in a

moment.”

“You have a curious, designing mind, Mr. Rochester. I am afraid your

principles on some points are eccentric.”

“My principles were never trained, Jane: they may have grown a little

awry for want of attention.”

“Once again, seriously; may I enjoy the great good that has been

vouchsafed to me, without fearing that any one else is suffering the

bitter pain I myself felt a while ago?”

“That you may, my good little girl: there is not another being in the

world has the same pure love for me as yourself—for I lay that pleasant

unction to my soul, Jane, a belief in your affection.”

I turned my lips to the hand that lay on my shoulder. I loved him very

much—more than I could trust myself to say—more than words had power to

express.

“Ask something more,” he said presently; “it is my delight to be

entreated, and to yield.”

I was again ready with my request. “Communicate your intentions to Mrs.

Fairfax, sir: she saw me with you last night in the hall, and she was

shocked. Give her some explanation before I see her again. It pains me

to be misjudged by so good a woman.”

“Go to your room, and put on your bonnet,” he replied. “I mean you to

accompany me to Millcote this morning; and while you prepare for the

drive, I will enlighten the old lady’s understanding. Did she think,

Janet, you had given the world for love, and considered it well lost?”

“I believe she thought I had forgotten my station, and yours, sir.”

“Station! station!—your station is in my heart, and on the necks of

those who would insult you, now or hereafter.—Go.”

I was soon dressed; and when I heard Mr. Rochester quit Mrs. Fairfax’s

parlour, I hurried down to it. The old lady had been reading her

morning portion of Scripture—the Lesson for the day; her Bible lay open

before her, and her spectacles were upon it. Her occupation, suspended

by Mr. Rochester’s announcement, seemed now forgotten: her eyes, fixed

on the blank wall opposite, expressed the surprise of a quiet mind

stirred by unwonted tidings. Seeing me, she roused herself: she made a

sort of effort to smile, and framed a few words of congratulation; but

the smile expired, and the sentence was abandoned unfinished. She put

up her spectacles, shut the Bible, and pushed her chair back from the

table.

“I feel so astonished,” she began, “I hardly know what to say to you,

Miss Eyre. I have surely not been dreaming, have I? Sometimes I half

fall asleep when I am sitting alone and fancy things that have never

happened. It has seemed to me more than once when I have been in a

doze, that my dear husband, who died fifteen years since, has come in

and sat down beside me; and that I have even heard him call me by my

name, Alice, as he used to do. Now, can you tell me whether it is

actually true that Mr. Rochester has asked you to marry him? Don’t

laugh at me. But I really thought he came in here five minutes ago, and

said that in a month you would be his wife.”

“He has said the same thing to me,” I replied.

“He has! Do you believe him? Have you accepted him?”

“Yes.”

She looked at me bewildered.

“I could never have thought it. He is a proud man: all the Rochesters

were proud: and his father, at least, liked money. He, too, has always

been called careful. He means to marry you?”

“He tells me so.”

She surveyed my whole person: in her eyes I read that they had there

found no charm powerful enough to solve the enigma.

“It passes me!” she continued; “but no doubt it is true since you say

so. How it will answer, I cannot tell: I really don’t know. Equality of

position and fortune is often advisable in such cases; and there are

twenty years of difference in your ages. He might almost be your

father.”

“No, indeed, Mrs. Fairfax!” exclaimed I, nettled; “he is nothing like

my father! No one, who saw us together, would suppose it for an

instant. Mr. Rochester looks as young, and is as young, as some men at

five-and-twenty.”

“Is it really for love he is going to marry you?” she asked.

I was so hurt by her coldness and scepticism, that the tears rose to my

eyes.

“I am sorry to grieve you,” pursued the widow; “but you are so young,

and so little acquainted with men, I wished to put you on your guard.

It is an old saying that ‘all is not gold that glitters;’ and in this

case I do fear there will be something found to be different to what

either you or I expect.”

“Why?—am I a monster?” I said: “is it impossible that Mr. Rochester

should have a sincere affection for me?”

“No: you are very well; and much improved of late; and Mr. Rochester, I

daresay, is fond of you. I have always noticed that you were a sort of

pet of his. There are times when, for your sake, I have been a little

uneasy at his marked preference, and have wished to put you on your

guard: but I did not like to suggest even the possibility of wrong. I

knew such an idea would shock, perhaps offend you; and you were so

discreet, and so thoroughly modest and sensible, I hoped you might be

trusted to protect yourself. Last night I cannot tell you what I

suffered when I sought all over the house, and could find you nowhere,

nor the master either; and then, at twelve o’clock, saw you come in

with him.”

“Well, never mind that now,” I interrupted impatiently; “it is enough

that all was right.”

“I hope all will be right in the end,” she said: “but believe me, you

cannot be too careful. Try and keep Mr. Rochester at a distance:

distrust yourself as well as him. Gentlemen in his station are not

accustomed to marry their governesses.”

I was growing truly irritated: happily, Adèle ran in.

“Let me go,—let me go to Millcote too!” she cried. “Mr. Rochester

won’t: though there is so much room in the new carriage. Beg him to let

me go, mademoiselle.”

“That I will, Adèle;” and I hastened away with her, glad to quit my

gloomy monitress. The carriage was ready: they were bringing it round

to the front, and my master was pacing the pavement, Pilot following

him backwards and forwards.

“Adèle may accompany us, may she not, sir?”

“I told her no. I’ll have no brats!—I’ll have only you.”

“Do let her go, Mr. Rochester, if you please: it would be better.”

“Not it: she will be a restraint.”

He was quite peremptory, both in look and voice. The chill of Mrs.

Fairfax’s warnings, and the damp of her doubts were upon me: something

of unsubstantiality and uncertainty had beset my hopes. I half lost the

sense of power over him. I was about mechanically to obey him, without

further remonstrance; but as he helped me into the carriage, he looked

at my face.

“What is the matter?” he asked; “all the sunshine is gone. Do you

really wish the bairn to go? Will it annoy you if she is left behind?”

“I would far rather she went, sir.”

“Then off for your bonnet, and back like a flash of lightning!” cried

he to Adèle.

She obeyed him with what speed she might.

“After all, a single morning’s interruption will not matter much,” said

he, “when I mean shortly to claim you—your thoughts, conversation, and

company—for life.”

Adèle, when lifted in, commenced kissing me, by way of expressing her

gratitude for my intercession: she was instantly stowed away into a

corner on the other side of him. She then peeped round to where I sat;

so stern a neighbour was too restrictive: to him, in his present

fractious mood, she dared whisper no observations, nor ask of him any

information.

“Let her come to me,” I entreated: “she will, perhaps, trouble you,

sir: there is plenty of room on this side.”

He handed her over as if she had been a lapdog. “I’ll send her to

school yet,” he said, but now he was smiling.

Adèle heard him, and asked if she was to go to school “sans

mademoiselle?”

“Yes,” he replied, “absolutely sans mademoiselle; for I am to take

mademoiselle to the moon, and there I shall seek a cave in one of the

white valleys among the volcano-tops, and mademoiselle shall live with

me there, and only me.”

“She will have nothing to eat: you will starve her,” observed Adèle.

“I shall gather manna for her morning and night: the plains and

hillsides in the moon are bleached with manna, Adèle.”

“She will want to warm herself: what will she do for a fire?”

“Fire rises out of the lunar mountains: when she is cold, I’ll carry

her up to a peak, and lay her down on the edge of a crater.”

“Oh, qu’elle y sera mal—peu comfortable! And her clothes, they will

wear out: how can she get new ones?”

Mr. Rochester professed to be puzzled. “Hem!” said he. “What would you

do, Adèle? Cudgel your brains for an expedient. How would a white or a

pink cloud answer for a gown, do you think? And one could cut a pretty

enough scarf out of a rainbow.”

“She is far better as she is,” concluded Adèle, after musing some time:

“besides, she would get tired of living with only you in the moon. If I

were mademoiselle, I would never consent to go with you.”

“She has consented: she has pledged her word.”

“But you can’t get her there; there is no road to the moon: it is all

air; and neither you nor she can fly.”

“Adèle, look at that field.” We were now outside Thornfield gates, and

bowling lightly along the smooth road to Millcote, where the dust was

well laid by the thunderstorm, and, where the low hedges and lofty

timber trees on each side glistened green and rain-refreshed.

“In that field, Adèle, I was walking late one evening about a fortnight

since—the evening of the day you helped me to make hay in the orchard

meadows; and, as I was tired with raking swaths, I sat down to rest me

on a stile; and there I took out a little book and a pencil, and began

to write about a misfortune that befell me long ago, and a wish I had

for happy days to come: I was writing away very fast, though daylight

was fading from the leaf, when something came up the path and stopped

two yards off me. I looked at it. It was a little thing with a veil of

gossamer on its head. I beckoned it to come near me; it stood soon at

my knee. I never spoke to it, and it never spoke to me, in words; but I

read its eyes, and it read mine; and our speechless colloquy was to

this effect—

“It was a fairy, and come from Elf-land, it said; and its errand was to

make me happy: I must go with it out of the common world to a lonely

place—such as the moon, for instance—and it nodded its head towards her

horn, rising over Hay-hill: it told me of the alabaster cave and silver

vale where we might live. I said I should like to go; but reminded it,

as you did me, that I had no wings to fly.

“‘Oh,’ returned the fairy, ‘that does not signify! Here is a talisman

will remove all difficulties;’ and she held out a pretty gold ring.

‘Put it,’ she said, ‘on the fourth finger of my left hand, and I am

yours, and you are mine; and we shall leave earth, and make our own

heaven yonder.’ She nodded again at the moon. The ring, Adèle, is in my

breeches-pocket, under the disguise of a sovereign: but I mean soon to

change it to a ring again.”

“But what has mademoiselle to do with it? I don’t care for the fairy:

you said it was mademoiselle you would take to the moon?”

“Mademoiselle is a fairy,” he said, whispering mysteriously. Whereupon

I told her not to mind his badinage; and she, on her part, evinced a

fund of genuine French scepticism: denominating Mr. Rochester “un vrai

menteur,” and assuring him that she made no account whatever of his

“contes de fée,” and that “du reste, il n’y avait pas de fées, et quand

même il y en avait:” she was sure they would never appear to him, nor

ever give him rings, or offer to live with him in the moon.

The hour spent at Millcote was a somewhat harassing one to me. Mr.

Rochester obliged me to go to a certain silk warehouse: there I was

ordered to choose half-a-dozen dresses. I hated the business, I begged

leave to defer it: no—it should be gone through with now. By dint of

entreaties expressed in energetic whispers, I reduced the half-dozen to

two: these however, he vowed he would select himself. With anxiety I

watched his eye rove over the gay stores: he fixed on a rich silk of

the most brilliant amethyst dye, and a superb pink satin. I told him in

a new series of whispers, that he might as well buy me a gold gown and

a silver bonnet at once: I should certainly never venture to wear his

choice. With infinite difficulty, for he was stubborn as a stone, I

persuaded him to make an exchange in favour of a sober black satin and

pearl-grey silk. “It might pass for the present,” he said; “but he

would yet see me glittering like a parterre.”

Glad was I to get him out of the silk warehouse, and then out of a

jeweller’s shop: the more he bought me, the more my cheek burned with a

sense of annoyance and degradation. As we re-entered the carriage, and

I sat back feverish and fagged, I remembered what, in the hurry of

events, dark and bright, I had wholly forgotten—the letter of my uncle,

John Eyre, to Mrs. Reed: his intention to adopt me and make me his

legatee. “It would, indeed, be a relief,” I thought, “if I had ever so

small an independency; I never can bear being dressed like a doll by

Mr. Rochester, or sitting like a second Danae with the golden shower

falling daily round me. I will write to Madeira the moment I get home,

and tell my uncle John I am going to be married, and to whom: if I had

but a prospect of one day bringing Mr. Rochester an accession of

fortune, I could better endure to be kept by him now.” And somewhat

relieved by this idea (which I failed not to execute that day), I

ventured once more to meet my master’s and lover’s eye, which most

pertinaciously sought mine, though I averted both face and gaze. He

smiled; and I thought his smile was such as a sultan might, in a

blissful and fond moment, bestow on a slave his gold and gems had

enriched: I crushed his hand, which was ever hunting mine, vigorously,

and thrust it back to him red with the passionate pressure.

“You need not look in that way,” I said; “if you do, I’ll wear nothing

but my old Lowood frocks to the end of the chapter. I’ll be married in

this lilac gingham: you may make a dressing-gown for yourself out of

the pearl-grey silk, and an infinite series of waistcoats out of the

black satin.”

He chuckled; he rubbed his hands. “Oh, it is rich to see and hear her!”

he exclaimed. “Is she original? Is she piquant? I would not exchange

this one little English girl for the Grand Turk’s whole seraglio,

gazelle-eyes, houri forms, and all!”

The Eastern allusion bit me again. “I’ll not stand you an inch in the

stead of a seraglio,” I said; “so don’t consider me an equivalent for

one. If you have a fancy for anything in that line, away with you, sir,

to the bazaars of Stamboul without delay, and lay out in extensive

slave-purchases some of that spare cash you seem at a loss to spend

satisfactorily here.”

“And what will you do, Janet, while I am bargaining for so many tons of

flesh and such an assortment of black eyes?”

“I’ll be preparing myself to go out as a missionary to preach liberty

to them that are enslaved—your harem inmates amongst the rest. I’ll get

admitted there, and I’ll stir up mutiny; and you, three-tailed bashaw

as you are, sir, shall in a trice find yourself fettered amongst our

hands: nor will I, for one, consent to cut your bonds till you have

signed a charter, the most liberal that despot ever yet conferred.”

“I would consent to be at your mercy, Jane.”

“I would have no mercy, Mr. Rochester, if you supplicated for it with

an eye like that. While you looked so, I should be certain that

whatever charter you might grant under coercion, your first act, when

released, would be to violate its conditions.”

“Why, Jane, what would you have? I fear you will compel me to go

through a private marriage ceremony, besides that performed at the

altar. You will stipulate, I see, for peculiar terms—what will they

be?”

“I only want an easy mind, sir; not crushed by crowded obligations. Do

you remember what you said of Céline Varens?—of the diamonds, the

cashmeres you gave her? I will not be your English Céline Varens. I

shall continue to act as Adèle’s governess; by that I shall earn my

board and lodging, and thirty pounds a year besides. I’ll furnish my

own wardrobe out of that money, and you shall give me nothing but—”

“Well, but what?”

“Your regard; and if I give you mine in return, that debt will be

quit.”

“Well, for cool native impudence and pure innate pride, you haven’t

your equal,” said he. We were now approaching Thornfield. “Will it

please you to dine with me to-day?” he asked, as we re-entered the

gates.

“No, thank you, sir.”

“And what for, ‘no, thank you?’ if one may inquire.”

“I never have dined with you, sir: and I see no reason why I should

now: till—”

“Till what? You delight in half-phrases.”

“Till I can’t help it.”

“Do you suppose I eat like an ogre or a ghoul, that you dread being the

companion of my repast?”

“I have formed no supposition on the subject, sir; but I want to go on

as usual for another month.”

“You will give up your governessing slavery at once.”

“Indeed, begging your pardon, sir, I shall not. I shall just go on with

it as usual. I shall keep out of your way all day, as I have been

accustomed to do: you may send for me in the evening, when you feel

disposed to see me, and I’ll come then; but at no other time.”

“I want a smoke, Jane, or a pinch of snuff, to comfort me under all

this, ‘pour me donner une contenance,’ as Adèle would say; and

unfortunately I have neither my cigar-case, nor my snuff-box. But

listen—whisper. It is your time now, little tyrant, but it will be mine

presently; and when once I have fairly seized you, to have and to hold,

I’ll just—figuratively speaking—attach you to a chain like this”

(touching his watch-guard). “Yes, bonny wee thing, I’ll wear you in my

bosom, lest my jewel I should tyne.”

He said this as he helped me to alight from the carriage, and while he

afterwards lifted out Adèle, I entered the house, and made good my

retreat upstairs.

He duly summoned me to his presence in the evening. I had prepared an

occupation for him; for I was determined not to spend the whole time in

a _tête-à-tête_ conversation. I remembered his fine voice; I knew he

liked to sing—good singers generally do. I was no vocalist myself, and,

in his fastidious judgment, no musician, either; but I delighted in

listening when the performance was good. No sooner had twilight, that

hour of romance, began to lower her blue and starry banner over the

lattice, than I rose, opened the piano, and entreated him, for the love

of heaven, to give me a song. He said I was a capricious witch, and

that he would rather sing another time; but I averred that no time was

like the present.

“Did I like his voice?” he asked.

“Very much.” I was not fond of pampering that susceptible vanity of

his; but for once, and from motives of expediency, I would e’en soothe

and stimulate it.

“Then, Jane, you must play the accompaniment.”

“Very well, sir, I will try.”

I did try, but was presently swept off the stool and denominated “a

little bungler.” Being pushed unceremoniously to one side—which was

precisely what I wished—he usurped my place, and proceeded to accompany

himself: for he could play as well as sing. I hied me to the

window-recess. And while I sat there and looked out on the still trees

and dim lawn, to a sweet air was sung in mellow tones the following

strain:—

“The truest love that ever heart

Felt at its kindled core,

Did through each vein, in quickened start,

The tide of being pour.

Her coming was my hope each day,

Her parting was my pain;

The chance that did her steps delay

Was ice in every vein.

I dreamed it would be nameless bliss,

As I loved, loved to be;

And to this object did I press

As blind as eagerly.

But wide as pathless was the space

That lay our lives between,

And dangerous as the foamy race

Of ocean-surges green.

And haunted as a robber-path

Through wilderness or wood;

For Might and Right, and Woe and Wrath,

Between our spirits stood.

I dangers dared; I hindrance scorned;

I omens did defy:

Whatever menaced, harassed, warned,

I passed impetuous by.

On sped my rainbow, fast as light;

I flew as in a dream;

For glorious rose upon my sight

That child of Shower and Gleam.

Still bright on clouds of suffering dim

Shines that soft, solemn joy;

Nor care I now, how dense and grim

Disasters gather nigh.

I care not in this moment sweet,

Though all I have rushed o’er

Should come on pinion, strong and fleet,

Proclaiming vengeance sore:

Though haughty Hate should strike me down,

Right, bar approach to me,

And grinding Might, with furious frown,

Swear endless enmity.

My love has placed her little hand

With noble faith in mine,

And vowed that wedlock’s sacred band

Our nature shall entwine.

My love has sworn, with sealing kiss,

With me to live—to die;

I have at last my nameless bliss.

As I love—loved am I!”

He rose and came towards me, and I saw his face all kindled, and his

full falcon-eye flashing, and tenderness and passion in every

lineament. I quailed momentarily—then I rallied. Soft scene, daring

demonstration, I would not have; and I stood in peril of both: a weapon

of defence must be prepared—I whetted my tongue: as he reached me, I

asked with asperity, “whom he was going to marry now?”

“That was a strange question to be put by his darling Jane.”

“Indeed! I considered it a very natural and necessary one: he had

talked of his future wife dying with him. What did he mean by such a

pagan idea? _I_ had no intention of dying with him—he might depend on

that.”

“Oh, all he longed, all he prayed for, was that I might live with him!

Death was not for such as I.”

“Indeed it was: I had as good a right to die when my time came as he

had: but I should bide that time, and not be hurried away in a suttee.”

“Would I forgive him for the selfish idea, and prove my pardon by a

reconciling kiss?”

“No: I would rather be excused.”

Here I heard myself apostrophised as a “hard little thing;” and it was

added, “any other woman would have been melted to marrow at hearing

such stanzas crooned in her praise.”

I assured him I was naturally hard—very flinty, and that he would often

find me so; and that, moreover, I was determined to show him divers

rugged points in my character before the ensuing four weeks elapsed: he

should know fully what sort of a bargain he had made, while there was

yet time to rescind it.

“Would I be quiet and talk rationally?”

“I would be quiet if he liked, and as to talking rationally, I

flattered myself I was doing that now.”

He fretted, pished, and pshawed. “Very good,” I thought; “you may fume

and fidget as you please: but this is the best plan to pursue with you,

I am certain. I like you more than I can say; but I’ll not sink into a

bathos of sentiment: and with this needle of repartee I’ll keep you

from the edge of the gulf too; and, moreover, maintain by its pungent

aid that distance between you and myself most conducive to our real

mutual advantage.”

From less to more, I worked him up to considerable irritation; then,

after he had retired, in dudgeon, quite to the other end of the room, I

got up, and saying, “I wish you good-night, sir,” in my natural and

wonted respectful manner, I slipped out by the side-door and got away.

The system thus entered on, I pursued during the whole season of

probation; and with the best success. He was kept, to be sure, rather

cross and crusty; but on the whole I could see he was excellently

entertained, and that a lamb-like submission and turtle-dove

sensibility, while fostering his despotism more, would have pleased his

judgment, satisfied his common-sense, and even suited his taste less.

In other people’s presence I was, as formerly, deferential and quiet;

any other line of conduct being uncalled for: it was only in the

evening conferences I thus thwarted and afflicted him. He continued to

send for me punctually the moment the clock struck seven; though when I

appeared before him now, he had no such honeyed terms as “love” and

“darling” on his lips: the best words at my service were “provoking

puppet,” “malicious elf,” “sprite,” “changeling,” &c. For caresses,

too, I now got grimaces; for a pressure of the hand, a pinch on the

arm; for a kiss on the cheek, a severe tweak of the ear. It was all

right: at present I decidedly preferred these fierce favours to

anything more tender. Mrs. Fairfax, I saw, approved me: her anxiety on

my account vanished; therefore I was certain I did well. Meantime, Mr.

Rochester affirmed I was wearing him to skin and bone, and threatened

awful vengeance for my present conduct at some period fast coming. I

laughed in my sleeve at his menaces. “I can keep you in reasonable

check now,” I reflected; “and I don’t doubt to be able to do it

hereafter: if one expedient loses its virtue, another must be devised.”

Yet after all my task was not an easy one; often I would rather have

pleased than teased him. My future husband was becoming to me my whole

world; and more than the world: almost my hope of heaven. He stood

between me and every thought of religion, as an eclipse intervenes

between man and the broad sun. I could not, in those days, see God for

His creature: of whom I had made an idol.