"Now, Jane, that is all."
"All the preface, sir; the tale is yet to come. On waking, a gleam dazzled my eyes; I thought--oh, it is daylight! But I was mistaken; it was only candle-light. Sophie, I supposed, had come in. There was a light on the dressing-table, and the door of the closet, where, before going to bed, I had hung my wedding-dress and veil, stood open; I heard a rustling there. I asked, 'Sophie, what are you doing?' No one answered; but a form emerged from the closet; it took the light, held it aloft, and surveyed the garments pendent from the portmanteau. 'Sophie! Sophie!' I again cried; and still it was silent. I had risen up in bed, I bent forward; first surprise, then bewilderment, came over me; and then my blood crept cold through my veins. Mr. Rochester, this was not Sophie, it was not Leah, it was not Mrs. Fairfax; it was not--no, I was sure of it, and am still--it was not even that strange woman, Grace Poole."
"It must have been one of them," interrupted my master.
"No, sir, I solemnly assure you to the contrary. The shape standing before me had never crossed my eyes within the precincts of Thornfield Hall before; the height, the contour, were new to me."
"Describe it, Jane."
"It seemed, sir, a woman, tall and large, with thick and dark hair hanging long down her back. I know not what dress she had on; it was white and straight, but whether gown, sheet, or shroud, I cannot tell."
"Did you see her face?"
"Not at first. But presently she took my veil from its place; she held it up, gazed at it long, and then she threw it over her own head, and turned to the mirror. At that moment I saw the reflection of the visage and features quite distinctly in the dark, oblong glass."
"And how were they?"
"Fearful and ghastly to me--oh, sir, I never saw a face like it! It was a discolored face--it was a savage face. I wish I could forget the roll of the red eyes and the fearful blackened inflation of the lineaments!"
"Ghosts are usually pale, Jane."
"This, sir, was purple; the lips were swelled and dark; the brow furrowed; the black eyebrows widely raised over the bloodshot eyes. Shall I tell you of what it reminded me?"
"You may."
"Of the foul German spectre, the Vampyre."
"Ah! What did it do?"
"Sir, it removed my veil from its gauntgn head, rent it in two parts, and, flinging both on the floor, trampled on them."
"Afterward?"
"It drew aside the window-curtain and looked out; perhaps it saw dawn approaching, for, taking the candle, it retreated to the door. Just at my bedside the figure stopped; the fiery eye glared upon me--she thrust up her candle close to my face, and extinguished it under my eyes. I was aware her wild visage flamed over mine, and I lost consciousness; for the second time in my life--only the second time--I became insensible from terror."
"Who was with you when you revived?"
"No one, sir, but the broad day. I rose, bathed my head and face in water, drank a long draught; felt that though enfeebled, I was not ill, and determined that to none but you would I impart this vision. Now, sir, tell who and what that woman was?"
"The creature of an over-stimulated brain; that is certain. I must be careful of you, my treasure; nerves like yours were not made for rough handling."
"Sir, depend on it, my nerves were not in fault; the thing was real; the transaction actually took place."
"And your previous dreams, were they real, too? Is Thornfield Hall a ruin? Am I severed from you by insuperable obstacles? Am I leaving you without a tear, without a kiss, without a word?"
"Not yet."
"Am I about to do it? Why the day has already commenced which is to bind us indissolubly; and when we are once united, there shall be no recurrence of these mental terrors, I guarantee that."
"Mental terrors, sir! I wish I could believe them to be only such; I wish it more now than ever, since even you cannot explain to me the mystery of that awful visitant."
"And, since I cannot do it, Jane, it must have been unreal."
"But, sir, when I said so to myself on rising this morning, and when I looked round the room to gather courage and comfort from the cheerful aspect of each familiar object in full daylight, there, on the carpet, I saw what gave the distinct lie to my hypothesis--the veil, torn from top to bottom in two halves!"
I felt Mr. Rochester start and shudder; he hastily flung his arms around me: "Thank God!" he exclaimed, "that, if anything malignant did come near you last night, it was only the veil that was harmed. Oh, to think what might have happened!"
He drew his breath short, and strained me so close to him I could scarcely pant. After some minutes' silence, he continued cheerily,
"Now, Janet, I'll explain to you all about it. It was half dream, half reality; a woman did, I doubt not, enter your room: and that woman was, must have been, Grace Poole. You call her a strange being yourself; from all you know, you have reason so to call her. What did she do to me? what to Mason? In a state between sleeping and waking, you noticed her entrance and her actions; but feverish, almost delirious, as you were, you ascribed to her a goblin appearance different from her own; the long dishevelled hair, the swelled black face, the exaggerated stature, were fragments of imagination, results of nightmare; the spiteful tearing of the veil was real, and it is like her. I see you would ask why I keep such a woman in my house; when we have been married a year and a day I will tell you, but not now. Are you satisfied, Jane? Do you accept my solution of the mystery?"
I reflected, and in truth it appeared to me the only possible one; satisfied I was not, but to please him I endeavored to appear so; relieved, I certainly did feel; so I answered him with a contented smile. And now, as it was long past one, I prepared to leave him.
"Does not Sophie sleep with Adele in the nursery?" he asked, as I lighted my candle.
"Yes, sir."
"And there is room enough in Adele's little bed for you. You must share it with her tonight, Jane; it is no wonder that the incident you have related should make you nervous, and I would rather you did not sleep alone; promise me to go to the nursery."
"I shall be very glad to do so, sir."
"And fasten the door securely on the inside. Wake Sophie when you go up stairs, under pretence of requesting her to rouse you in good time to-morrow; for you must be dressed and have finished breakfast before eight. And now, no more sombre thoughts; chase dull care away, Janet. Don't you hear to what soft whispers the wind has fallen? and there is no more beating of rain against the window-panes; look here (he lifted up the curtain), it is a lovely night!"
It was. Half heaven was pure and stainless: the clouds, now trooping before the wind, which had shifted to the west, were filing off eastward in long, silvered columns. The moon shone peacefully.
"Well," said Mr. Rochester, gazing inquiringly into my eyes, "how is my Janet now?"
"The night is serene, sir; and so am I."
"And you will not dream of separation and sorrow tonight, but of happy love and blissful union."
This prediction was but half fulfilled; I did not indeed dream of sorrow, but as little did I dream of joy, for I never slept at all. With little Adele in my arms, I watched the slumber of childhood, so tranquil, so passionless, so innocent, and waited for the coming day; all my life was awake and astir in my frame; and as soon as the sun rose, I rose too. I remember Adele clung to me as I left her; I remember I kissed her as I loosened her little hands from my neck, and I cried over her with strange emotion, and quitted her because I feared my sobs would break her still sound repose. She seemed the emblem of my past life, and he I was now to array myself to meet, the dread, but adored, type of my unknown future day.
Chapter XXVI
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.
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"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 now, 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 church-yard 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 gray 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 among the low hillocks, and reading the mementos 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 dare say, 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 toward 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.70
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 toward 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 toward 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 eyes 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 these low-spoken words as they had never vibrated to thunder--my blood felt their subtile 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 colorless 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 recognize 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 recognizes, if you do not."
"Favor 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 Creolego--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 th
e 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 neighborhood, sir, and I never heard of a Mrs. Rochester at Thornfield Hall."
I saw a grim smile contort Mr. Rochester's lip, 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--