Bab Bab 26 · Sophie came at seven to dress me: she was very long indeed in

. Sophie came at seven to dress me: she was very long indeed in

accomplishing her task; so long that Mr. Rochester, grown, I suppose,

impatient of my delay, sent up to ask why I did not come. She was just

fastening my veil (the plain square of blond after all) to my hair with

a brooch; I hurried from under her hands as soon as I could.

“Stop!” she cried in French. “Look at yourself in the mirror: you have

not taken one peep.”

So I turned at the door: I saw a robed and veiled figure, so unlike my

usual self that it seemed almost the image of a stranger. “Jane!”

called a voice, and I hastened down. I was received at the foot of the

stairs by Mr. Rochester.

“Lingerer!” he said, “my brain is on fire with impatience, and you

tarry so long!”

He took me into the dining-room, surveyed me keenly all over,

pronounced me “fair as a lily, and not only the pride of his life, but

the desire of his eyes,” and then telling me he would give me but ten

minutes to eat some breakfast, he rang the bell. One of his lately

hired servants, a footman, answered it.

“Is John getting the carriage ready?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is the luggage brought down?”

“They are bringing it down, sir.”

“Go you to the church: see if Mr. Wood (the clergyman) and the clerk

are there: return and tell me.”

The church, as the reader knows, was but just beyond the gates; the

footman soon returned.

“Mr. Wood is in the vestry, sir, putting on his surplice.”

“And the carriage?”

“The horses are harnessing.”

“We shall not want it to go to church; but it must be ready the moment

we return: all the boxes and luggage arranged and strapped on, and the

coachman in his seat.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Jane, are you ready?”

I rose. There were no groomsmen, no bridesmaids, no relatives to wait

for or marshal: none but Mr. Rochester and I. Mrs. Fairfax stood in the

hall as we passed. I would fain have spoken to her, but my hand was

held by a grasp of iron: I was hurried along by a stride I could hardly

follow; and to look at Mr. Rochester’s face was to feel that not a

second of delay would be tolerated for any purpose. I wonder what other

bridegroom ever looked as he did—so bent up to a purpose, so grimly

resolute: or who, under such steadfast brows, ever revealed such

flaming and flashing eyes.

I know not whether the day was fair or foul; in descending the drive, I

gazed neither on sky nor earth: my heart was with my eyes; and both

seemed migrated into Mr. Rochester’s frame. I wanted to see the

invisible thing on which, as we went along, he appeared to fasten a

glance fierce and fell. I wanted to feel the thoughts whose force he

seemed breasting and resisting.

At the churchyard wicket he stopped: he discovered I was quite out of

breath. “Am I cruel in my love?” he said. “Delay an instant: lean on

me, Jane.”

And now I can recall the picture of the grey old house of God rising

calm before me, of a rook wheeling round the steeple, of a ruddy

morning sky beyond. I remember something, too, of the green

grave-mounds; and I have not forgotten, either, two figures of

strangers straying amongst the low hillocks and reading the mementoes

graven on the few mossy head-stones. I noticed them, because, as they

saw us, they passed round to the back of the church; and I doubted not

they were going to enter by the side-aisle door and witness the

ceremony. By Mr. Rochester they were not observed; he was earnestly

looking at my face, from which the blood had, I daresay, momentarily

fled: for I felt my forehead dewy, and my cheeks and lips cold. When I

rallied, which I soon did, he walked gently with me up the path to the

porch.

We entered the quiet and humble temple; the priest waited in his white

surplice at the lowly altar, the clerk beside him. All was still: two

shadows only moved in a remote corner. My conjecture had been correct:

the strangers had slipped in before us, and they now stood by the vault

of the Rochesters, their backs towards us, viewing through the rails

the old time-stained marble tomb, where a kneeling angel guarded the

remains of Damer de Rochester, slain at Marston Moor in the time of the

civil wars, and of Elizabeth, his wife.

Our place was taken at the communion rails. Hearing a cautious step

behind me, I glanced over my shoulder: one of the strangers—a

gentleman, evidently—was advancing up the chancel. The service began.

The explanation of the intent of matrimony was gone through; and then

the clergyman came a step further forward, and, bending slightly

towards Mr. Rochester, went on.

“I require and charge you both (as ye will answer at the dreadful day

of judgment, when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed), that

if either of you know any impediment why ye may not lawfully be joined

together in matrimony, ye do now confess it; for be ye well assured

that so many as are coupled together otherwise than God’s Word doth

allow, are not joined together by God, neither is their matrimony

lawful.”

He paused, as the custom is. When is the pause after that sentence ever

broken by reply? Not, perhaps, once in a hundred years. And the

clergyman, who had not lifted his eyes from his book, and had held his

breath but for a moment, was proceeding: his hand was already stretched

towards Mr. Rochester, as his lips unclosed to ask, “Wilt thou have

this woman for thy wedded wife?”—when a distinct and near voice said—

“The marriage cannot go on: I declare the existence of an impediment.”

The clergyman looked up at the speaker and stood mute; the clerk did

the same; Mr. Rochester moved slightly, as if an earthquake had rolled

under his feet: taking a firmer footing, and not turning his head or

eyes, he said, “Proceed.”

Profound silence fell when he had uttered that word, with deep but low

intonation. Presently Mr. Wood said—

“I cannot proceed without some investigation into what has been

asserted, and evidence of its truth or falsehood.”

“The ceremony is quite broken off,” subjoined the voice behind us. “I

am in a condition to prove my allegation: an insuperable impediment to

this marriage exists.”

Mr. Rochester heard, but heeded not: he stood stubborn and rigid,

making no movement but to possess himself of my hand. What a hot and

strong grasp he had! and how like quarried marble was his pale, firm,

massive front at this moment! How his eye shone, still watchful, and

yet wild beneath!

Mr. Wood seemed at a loss. “What is the nature of the impediment?” he

asked. “Perhaps it may be got over—explained away?”

“Hardly,” was the answer. “I have called it insuperable, and I speak

advisedly.”

The speaker came forward and leaned on the rails. He continued,

uttering each word distinctly, calmly, steadily, but not loudly—

“It simply consists in the existence of a previous marriage. Mr.

Rochester has a wife now living.”

My nerves vibrated to those low-spoken words as they had never vibrated

to thunder—my blood felt their subtle violence as it had never felt

frost or fire; but I was collected, and in no danger of swooning. I

looked at Mr. Rochester: I made him look at me. His whole face was

colourless rock: his eye was both spark and flint. He disavowed

nothing: he seemed as if he would defy all things. Without speaking,

without smiling, without seeming to recognise in me a human being, he

only twined my waist with his arm and riveted me to his side.

“Who are you?” he asked of the intruder.

“My name is Briggs, a solicitor of —— Street, London.”

“And you would thrust on me a wife?”

“I would remind you of your lady’s existence, sir, which the law

recognises, if you do not.”

“Favour me with an account of her—with her name, her parentage, her

place of abode.”

“Certainly.” Mr. Briggs calmly took a paper from his pocket, and read

out in a sort of official, nasal voice:—

“‘I affirm and can prove that on the 20th of October A.D. —— (a date of

fifteen years back), Edward Fairfax Rochester, of Thornfield Hall, in

the county of ——, and of Ferndean Manor, in ——shire, England, was

married to my sister, Bertha Antoinetta Mason, daughter of Jonas Mason,

merchant, and of Antoinetta his wife, a Creole, at —— church, Spanish

Town, Jamaica. The record of the marriage will be found in the register

of that church—a copy of it is now in my possession. Signed, Richard

Mason.’”

“That—if a genuine document—may prove I have been married, but it does

not prove that the woman mentioned therein as my wife is still living.”

“She was living three months ago,” returned the lawyer.

“How do you know?”

“I have a witness to the fact, whose testimony even you, sir, will

scarcely controvert.”

“Produce him—or go to hell.”

“I will produce him first—he is on the spot. Mr. Mason, have the

goodness to step forward.”

Mr. Rochester, on hearing the name, set his teeth; he experienced, too,

a sort of strong convulsive quiver; near to him as I was, I felt the

spasmodic movement of fury or despair run through his frame. The second

stranger, who had hitherto lingered in the background, now drew near; a

pale face looked over the solicitor’s shoulder—yes, it was Mason

himself. Mr. Rochester turned and glared at him. His eye, as I have

often said, was a black eye: it had now a tawny, nay, a bloody light in

its gloom; and his face flushed—olive cheek and hueless forehead

received a glow as from spreading, ascending heart-fire: and he

stirred, lifted his strong arm—he could have struck Mason, dashed him

on the church-floor, shocked by ruthless blow the breath from his

body—but Mason shrank away, and cried faintly, “Good God!” Contempt

fell cool on Mr. Rochester—his passion died as if a blight had

shrivelled it up: he only asked—“What have _you_ to say?”

An inaudible reply escaped Mason’s white lips.

“The devil is in it if you cannot answer distinctly. I again demand,

what have _you_ to say?”

“Sir—sir,” interrupted the clergyman, “do not forget you are in a

sacred place.” Then addressing Mason, he inquired gently, “Are you

aware, sir, whether or not this gentleman’s wife is still living?”

“Courage,” urged the lawyer,—“speak out.”

“She is now living at Thornfield Hall,” said Mason, in more articulate

tones: “I saw her there last April. I am her brother.”

“At Thornfield Hall!” ejaculated the clergyman. “Impossible! I am an

old resident in this neighbourhood, sir, and I never heard of a Mrs.

Rochester at Thornfield Hall.”

I saw a grim smile contort Mr. Rochester’s lips, and he muttered—

“No, by God! I took care that none should hear of it—or of her under

that name.” He mused—for ten minutes he held counsel with himself: he

formed his resolve, and announced it—

“Enough! all shall bolt out at once, like the bullet from the barrel.

Wood, close your book and take off your surplice; John Green (to the

clerk), leave the church: there will be no wedding to-day.” The man

obeyed.

Mr. Rochester continued, hardily and recklessly: “Bigamy is an ugly

word!—I meant, however, to be a bigamist; but fate has out-manoeuvred

me, or Providence has checked me,—perhaps the last. I am little better

than a devil at this moment; and, as my pastor there would tell me,

deserve no doubt the sternest judgments of God, even to the quenchless

fire and deathless worm. Gentlemen, my plan is broken up:—what this

lawyer and his client say is true: I have been married, and the woman

to whom I was married lives! You say you never heard of a Mrs.

Rochester at the house up yonder, Wood; but I daresay you have many a

time inclined your ear to gossip about the mysterious lunatic kept

there under watch and ward. Some have whispered to you that she is my

bastard half-sister: some, my cast-off mistress. I now inform you that

she is my wife, whom I married fifteen years ago,—Bertha Mason by name;

sister of this resolute personage, who is now, with his quivering limbs

and white cheeks, showing you what a stout heart men may bear. Cheer

up, Dick!—never fear me!—I’d almost as soon strike a woman as you.

Bertha Mason is mad; and she came of a mad family; idiots and maniacs

through three generations! Her mother, the Creole, was both a madwoman

and a drunkard!—as I found out after I had wed the daughter: for they

were silent on family secrets before. Bertha, like a dutiful child,

copied her parent in both points. I had a charming partner—pure, wise,

modest: you can fancy I was a happy man. I went through rich scenes!

Oh! my experience has been heavenly, if you only knew it! But I owe you

no further explanation. Briggs, Wood, Mason, I invite you all to come

up to the house and visit Mrs. Poole’s patient, and _my wife_! You

shall see what sort of a being I was cheated into espousing, and judge

whether or not I had a right to break the compact, and seek sympathy

with something at least human. This girl,” he continued, looking at me,

“knew no more than you, Wood, of the disgusting secret: she thought all

was fair and legal; and never dreamt she was going to be entrapped into

a feigned union with a defrauded wretch, already bound to a bad, mad,

and embruted partner! Come all of you—follow!”

Still holding me fast, he left the church: the three gentlemen came

after. At the front door of the hall we found the carriage.

“Take it back to the coach-house, John,” said Mr. Rochester coolly; “it

will not be wanted to-day.”

At our entrance, Mrs. Fairfax, Adèle, Sophie, Leah, advanced to meet

and greet us.

“To the right-about—every soul!” cried the master; “away with your

congratulations! Who wants them? Not I!—they are fifteen years too

late!”

He passed on and ascended the stairs, still holding my hand, and still

beckoning the gentlemen to follow him, which they did. We mounted the

first staircase, passed up the gallery, proceeded to the third storey:

the low, black door, opened by Mr. Rochester’s master-key, admitted us

to the tapestried room, with its great bed and its pictorial cabinet.

“You know this place, Mason,” said our guide; “she bit and stabbed you

here.”

He lifted the hangings from the wall, uncovering the second door: this,

too, he opened. In a room without a window, there burnt a fire guarded

by a high and strong fender, and a lamp suspended from the ceiling by a

chain. Grace Poole bent over the fire, apparently cooking something in

a saucepan. In the deep shade, at the farther end of the room, a figure

ran backwards and forwards. What it was, whether beast or human being,

one could not, at first sight, tell: it grovelled, seemingly, on all

fours; it snatched and growled like some strange wild animal: but it

was covered with clothing, and a quantity of dark, grizzled hair, wild

as a mane, hid its head and face.

“Good-morrow, Mrs. Poole!” said Mr. Rochester. “How are you? and how is

your charge to-day?”

“We’re tolerable, sir, I thank you,” replied Grace, lifting the boiling

mess carefully on to the hob: “rather snappish, but not ’rageous.”

A fierce cry seemed to give the lie to her favourable report: the

clothed hyena rose up, and stood tall on its hind-feet.

“Ah! sir, she sees you!” exclaimed Grace: “you’d better not stay.”

“Only a few moments, Grace: you must allow me a few moments.”

“Take care then, sir!—for God’s sake, take care!”

The maniac bellowed: she parted her shaggy locks from her visage, and

gazed wildly at her visitors. I recognised well that purple face,—those

bloated features. Mrs. Poole advanced.

“Keep out of the way,” said Mr. Rochester, thrusting her aside: “she

has no knife now, I suppose, and I’m on my guard.”

“One never knows what she has, sir: she is so cunning: it is not in

mortal discretion to fathom her craft.”

“We had better leave her,” whispered Mason.

“Go to the devil!” was his brother-in-law’s recommendation.

“’Ware!” cried Grace. The three gentlemen retreated simultaneously. Mr.

Rochester flung me behind him: the lunatic sprang and grappled his

throat viciously, and laid her teeth to his cheek: they struggled. She

was a big woman, in stature almost equalling her husband, and corpulent

besides: she showed virile force in the contest—more than once she

almost throttled him, athletic as he was. He could have settled her

with a well-planted blow; but he would not strike: he would only

wrestle. At last he mastered her arms; Grace Poole gave him a cord, and

he pinioned them behind her: with more rope, which was at hand, he

bound her to a chair. The operation was performed amidst the fiercest

yells and the most convulsive plunges. Mr. Rochester then turned to the

spectators: he looked at them with a smile both acrid and desolate.

“That is _my wife_,” said he. “Such is the sole conjugal embrace I am

ever to know—such are the endearments which are to solace my leisure

hours! And _this_ is what I wished to have” (laying his hand on my

shoulder): “this young girl, who stands so grave and quiet at the mouth

of hell, looking collectedly at the gambols of a demon, I wanted her

just as a change after that fierce ragout. Wood and Briggs, look at the

difference! Compare these clear eyes with the red balls yonder—this

face with that mask—this form with that bulk; then judge me, priest of

the gospel and man of the law, and remember with what judgment ye judge

ye shall be judged! Off with you now. I must shut up my prize.”

We all withdrew. Mr. Rochester stayed a moment behind us, to give some

further order to Grace Poole. The solicitor addressed me as he

descended the stair.

“You, madam,” said he, “are cleared from all blame: your uncle will be

glad to hear it—if, indeed, he should be still living—when Mr. Mason

returns to Madeira.”

“My uncle! What of him? Do you know him?”

“Mr. Mason does. Mr. Eyre has been the Funchal correspondent of his

house for some years. When your uncle received your letter intimating

the contemplated union between yourself and Mr. Rochester, Mr. Mason,

who was staying at Madeira to recruit his health, on his way back to

Jamaica, happened to be with him. Mr. Eyre mentioned the intelligence;

for he knew that my client here was acquainted with a gentleman of the

name of Rochester. Mr. Mason, astonished and distressed as you may

suppose, revealed the real state of matters. Your uncle, I am sorry to

say, is now on a sick bed; from which, considering the nature of his

disease—decline—and the stage it has reached, it is unlikely he will

ever rise. He could not then hasten to England himself, to extricate

you from the snare into which you had fallen, but he implored Mr. Mason

to lose no time in taking steps to prevent the false marriage. He

referred him to me for assistance. I used all despatch, and am thankful

I was not too late: as you, doubtless, must be also. Were I not morally

certain that your uncle will be dead ere you reach Madeira, I would

advise you to accompany Mr. Mason back; but as it is, I think you had

better remain in England till you can hear further, either from or of

Mr. Eyre. Have we anything else to stay for?” he inquired of Mr. Mason.

“No, no—let us be gone,” was the anxious reply; and without waiting to

take leave of Mr. Rochester, they made their exit at the hall door. The

clergyman stayed to exchange a few sentences, either of admonition or

reproof, with his haughty parishioner; this duty done, he too departed.

I heard him go as I stood at the half-open door of my own room, to

which I had now withdrawn. The house cleared, I shut myself in,

fastened the bolt that none might intrude, and proceeded—not to weep,

not to mourn, I was yet too calm for that, but—mechanically to take off

the wedding dress, and replace it by the stuff gown I had worn

yesterday, as I thought, for the last time. I then sat down: I felt

weak and tired. I leaned my arms on a table, and my head dropped on

them. And now I thought: till now I had only heard, seen,

moved—followed up and down where I was led or dragged—watched event

rush on event, disclosure open beyond disclosure: but _now_, _I

thought_.

The morning had been a quiet morning enough—all except the brief scene

with the lunatic: the transaction in the church had not been noisy;

there was no explosion of passion, no loud altercation, no dispute, no

defiance or challenge, no tears, no sobs: a few words had been spoken,

a calmly pronounced objection to the marriage made; some stern, short

questions put by Mr. Rochester; answers, explanations given, evidence

adduced; an open admission of the truth had been uttered by my master;

then the living proof had been seen; the intruders were gone, and all

was over.

I was in my own room as usual—just myself, without obvious change:

nothing had smitten me, or scathed me, or maimed me. And yet where was

the Jane Eyre of yesterday?—where was her life?—where were her

prospects?

Jane Eyre, who had been an ardent, expectant woman—almost a bride, was

a cold, solitary girl again: her life was pale; her prospects were

desolate. A Christmas frost had come at midsummer; a white December

storm had whirled over June; ice glazed the ripe apples, drifts crushed

the blowing roses; on hayfield and cornfield lay a frozen shroud: lanes

which last night blushed full of flowers, to-day were pathless with

untrodden snow; and the woods, which twelve hours since waved leafy and

fragrant as groves between the tropics, now spread, waste, wild, and

white as pine-forests in wintry Norway. My hopes were all dead—struck

with a subtle doom, such as, in one night, fell on all the first-born

in the land of Egypt. I looked on my cherished wishes, yesterday so

blooming and glowing; they lay stark, chill, livid corpses that could

never revive. I looked at my love: that feeling which was my

master’s—which he had created; it shivered in my heart, like a

suffering child in a cold cradle; sickness and anguish had seized it;

it could not seek Mr. Rochester’s arms—it could not derive warmth from

his breast. Oh, never more could it turn to him; for faith was

blighted—confidence destroyed! Mr. Rochester was not to me what he had

been; for he was not what I had thought him. I would not ascribe vice

to him; I would not say he had betrayed me; but the attribute of

stainless truth was gone from his idea, and from his presence I must

go: _that_ I perceived well. When—how—whither, I could not yet discern;

but he himself, I doubted not, would hurry me from Thornfield. Real

affection, it seemed, he could not have for me; it had been only fitful

passion: that was balked; he would want me no more. I should fear even

to cross his path now: my view must be hateful to him. Oh, how blind

had been my eyes! How weak my conduct!

My eyes were covered and closed: eddying darkness seemed to swim round

me, and reflection came in as black and confused a flow.

Self-abandoned, relaxed, and effortless, I seemed to have laid me down

in the dried-up bed of a great river; I heard a flood loosened in

remote mountains, and felt the torrent come: to rise I had no will, to

flee I had no strength. I lay faint, longing to be dead. One idea only

still throbbed life-like within me—a remembrance of God: it begot an

unuttered prayer: these words went wandering up and down in my rayless

mind, as something that should be whispered, but no energy was found to

express them—

“Be not far from me, for trouble is near: there is none to help.”

It was near: and as I had lifted no petition to Heaven to avert it—as I

had neither joined my hands, nor bent my knees, nor moved my lips—it

came: in full heavy swing the torrent poured over me. The whole

consciousness of my life lorn, my love lost, my hope quenched, my faith

death-struck, swayed full and mighty above me in one sullen mass. That

bitter hour cannot be described: in truth, “the waters came into my

soul; I sank in deep mire: I felt no standing; I came into deep waters;

the floods overflowed me.”