Thus urged, I began the narrative of my experience for the last year. I softened considerably what related to the three days of wandering and starvation, because to have told him all would have been to inflict unnecessary pain; the little I did say lacerated his faithful heart deeper than I wished.
I should not have left him thus, he said, without any means of making my way; I should have told him my intention. I should have confided in him; he would never have forced me to be his mistress. Violent as he had seemed in his despair, he, in truth, loved me far too well and too tenderly to constitute himself my tyrant; he would have given me half his fortune, without demanding so much as a kiss in return, rather than I should have flung myself friendless on the wide world. I had endured, he was certain, more than I had confessed to him.
"Well, whatever my sufferings had been, they were very short," I answered; and then I proceeded to tell him how I had been received at Moor House, how I had obtained the office of school mistress, &c. The accession of fortune, the discovery of my relations, followed in due order. Of course, St. John Rivers' name came in frequently in the progress of my tale. When I had done, that name was immediately taken up.
"This St. John, then, is your cousin?"
"Yes."
"You have spoken of him often; did you like him?"
"He was a very good man, sir; I could not help liking him."
"A good man? Does that mean a respectable, well-conducted man of fifty? Or what does it mean?"
"St. John was only twenty-nine, sir."
" 'Jeune encore,'im as the French say. Is he a person of low stature, phlegmatic, and plain? A person whose goodness consists rather in his guiltlessness of vice than in his prowess in virtue?"
"He is untiringly active. Great and exalted deeds are what he lives to perform."
"But his brain? That is probably rather soft? He means well; but you shrug your shoulders to hear him talk?"
"He talks little, sir; what he does say is ever to the point. His brain is first-rate, I should think; not impressible, but vigorous."
"Is he an able man, then?"
"Truly able."
"A thoroughly educated man?"
"St. John is an accomplished and profound scholar."
"His manners, I think you said, are not to your taste? priggish and parsonic?"
"I never mentioned his manners; but, unless I had a very bad taste, they must suit it; they are polished, calm, and gentleman-like."
"His appearance--I forget what description you gave of his appearance; a sort of raw curate, half strangled with his white neckcloth, and stilted up on his thick-soled high-lows,in eh?"
"St. John dresses well. He is a handsome man; tall, fair, with blue eyes, and a Grecian profile."
(Aside): "Damn him!" (To me): "Did you like him, Jane?"
"Yes, Mr. Rochester, I liked him; but you asked me that before."
I perceived, of course, the drift of my interlocutor. Jealousy had got hold of him; she stung him; but the sting was salutary; it gave him respite from the gnawing fang of melancholy. I would not, therefore, immediately charm the snake.
"Perhaps you would rather not sit any longer on my knee, Miss Eyre?" was the next somewhat unexpected observation.
"Why not, Mr. Rochester?"
"The picture you have just drawn is suggestive of a rather too overwhelming contrast. Your words have delineated very prettily a graceful Apollo; he is present to your imagination--tall, fair, blue-eyed, and with a Grecian profile. Your eyes dwell on a Vulcan io--a real blacksmith, brown, broad-shouldered; and blind and lame in the bargain."
"I never thought of it before; but you certainly are rather like Vulcan, sir."
"Well--you can leave me, ma'am; but before you go (and he retained me by a firmer grasp than ever), you will be pleased just to answer me a question or two." He paused.
"What questions, Mr. Rochester?"
Then followed this cross-examination:
"St. John made you school-mistress of Morton before he knew you were his cousin?"
"Yes."
"You would often see him? He would visit the school sometimes?"
"Daily."
"He would approve of your plans, Jane? I know they would be clever; for you are a talented creature."
"He approved of them--yes."
"He would discover many things in you he could not have expected to find? Some of your accomplishments are not ordinary."
"I don't know about that."
"You had a little cottage near the school, you say; did he ever come there to see you?"
"Now and then."
"Of an evening?"
"Once or twice."
A pause.
"How long did you reside with him and his sisters after the cousinship was discovered?"
"Five months."
"Did Rivers spend much time with the ladies of his family?"
"Yes; the back parlor was both his study and ours; he sat near the window, and we by the table."
"Did he study much?"
"A good deal."
"What?"
"Hindostanee."
"And what did you do meantime?"
"I learned German, at first."
"Did he teach you?"
"He did not understand German."
"Did he teach you nothing?"
"A little Hindostanee."
"Rivers taught you Hindostanee?"
"Yes, sir."
"And his sisters also?"
"No."
"Only you?"
"Only me."
"Did you ask to learn?"
"No."
"He wished to teach you?"
"Yes."
A second pause.
"Why did he wish it? Of what use could Hindostanee be to you?"
"He intended me to go with him to India."
"Ah! here I reach the root of the matter. He wanted you to marry him?"
"He asked me to marry him."
"That is a fiction--an impudent invention to vex me."
"I beg your pardon, it is the literal truth; he asked me more than once, and was as stiff about urging his point as ever you could be."
"Miss Eyre, I repeat it, you can leave me. How often am I to say the same thing? Why do you remain pertinaciously perched on my knee, when I have given you notice to quit?"
"Because I am comfortable there."
"No, Jane, you are not comfortable there; because your heart is not with me; it is with this cousin--this St. John. Oh, till this moment, I thought my little Jane was all mine! I had a belief she loved me even when she left me; that was an atom of sweet in much bitter. Long as we have been parted, hot tears as I have wept over our separation, I never thought that while I was mourning her, she was loving another! But it is useless grieving. Jane, leave me; go and marry Rivers."
"Shake me off, then, sir--push me away; for I'll not leave you of my own accord."
"Jane, I ever like your tone of voice; it still renews hope, it sounds so truthful. When I hear it, it carries me back a year. I forgot that you have formed a new tie. But I am not a fool--go--"
"Where must I go, sir?"
"Your own way--with the husband you have chosen."
"Who is that?"
"You know--this St. John Rivers."
"He is not my husband, nor ever will be. He does not love me; I do not love him. He loves (as he can love, and that is not as you love) a beautiful young lady called Rosamond. He wanted to marry me only because he thought I should make a suitable missionary's wife, which she would not have done. He is good and great, but severe; and, for me, cold as an iceberg. He is not like you, sir; I am not happy at his side, nor near him, nor with him. He has no indulgence for me--no fondness. He sees nothing attractive in me; not even youth--only a few useful mental points. Then, must I leave you, sir, to go to him?"
I shuddered involuntarily, and clung instinctively closer to my blind but beloved master. He smiled.
"What, Jane! Is this true? Is such really the state
of matters between you and Rivers?"
"Absolutely, sir. Oh, you need not be jealous! I wanted to tease you a little to make you less sad; I thought anger would be better than grief. But if you wish me to love you, could you but see how much I do love you, you would be proud and content. All my heart is yours, sir; it belongs to you; and with you it would remain, were fate to exile the rest of me from your presence forever."
Again, as he kissed me, painful thoughts darkened his aspect.
"My seared vision! My crippled strength!" he murmured regretfully.
I caressed in order to soothe him. I knew of what he was thinking, and wanted to speak for him, but dared not. As he turned aside his face a minute, I saw a tear slide from under the sealed eyelid, and trickle down the manly cheek. My heart swelled.
"I am no better than the old, lightning-struck chestnut-tree in Thornfield orchard," he remarked, ere long. "And what right would that ruin have to bid a budding woodbine cover its decay with freshness?"
"You are no ruin, sir--no lightning-struck tree; you are green and vigorous. Plants will grow about your roots, whether you ask them or not, because they take delight in your bountiful shadow; and as they grow they will lean toward you, and wind round you, because your strength offers them so safe a prop."
Again he smiled; I gave him comfort.
"You speak of friends, Jane?" he asked.
"Yes; of friends," I answered, rather hesitatingly; for I knew I meant more than friends, but could not tell what other word to employ. He helped me.
"Ah! Jane. But I want a wife."
"Do you, sir?"
"Yes; is it news to you?"
"Of course; you said nothing about it before."
"Is it unwelcome news?"
"That depends on circumstances, sir--on your choice."
"Which you shall make for me, Jane. I will abide by your decision."
"Choose then, sir--her who loves you best."
"I will at least choose--her I love best. Jane, will you marry me?"
"Yes, sir."
"A poor blind man, whom you will have to lead about by the hand?"
"Yes, sir."
"A crippled man, twenty years older than you, whom you will have to wait on?"
"Yes, sir."
"Truly, Jane?"
"Most truly, sir."
"Oh! my darling! God bless you and reward you!"
"Mr. Rochester, if ever I did a good deed in my life--if ever I thought a good thought--if ever I prayed a sincere and blameless prayer--if ever I wished a righteous wish, I am rewarded now. To be your wife is, for me, to be as happy as I can be on earth."
"Because you delight in sacrifice."
"Sacrifice! What do I sacrifice? Famine for food, expectation for content. To be privileged to put my arms round what I value--to press my lips to what I love--to repose on what I trust; is that to make a sacrifice? If so, then certainly I delight in sacrifice."
"And to bear with my infirmities, Jane; to overlook my deficiencies."
"Which are none, sir, to me. I love you better now, when I can really be useful to you, than I did in your state of proud independence, when you disdained every part but that of the giver and protector."
"Hitherto I have hated to be helped--to be led; henceforth, I feel, I shall hate it no more. I did not like to put my hand into a hireling's, but it is pleasant to feel it circled by Jane's little fingers. I preferred utter loneliness to the constant attendance of servants; but Jane's soft ministry will be a perpetual joy. Jane suits me; do I suit her?"
"To the finest fibre of my nature, sir."
"The case being so, we have nothing in the world to wait for; we must be married instantly."
He looked and spoke with eagerness; his old impetuosity was rising.
"We must become one flesh without any delay, Jane; there is but the license to get--then we marry--"
"Mr. Rochester, I have just discovered the sun is far declined from its meridian, and Pilot is actually gone home to his dinner. Let me look at your watch."
"Fasten it into your girdle, Janet, and keep it henceforward; I have no use for it."
"It is nearly four o'clock in the afternoon, sir. Don't you feel hungry?"
"The third day from this must be our wedding-day, Jane. Never mind 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 have your little pearl necklace at this moment fastened round my bronze scragip under my cravat? I have worn it since the day I lost my only treasure; as a memento of her."
"We will go home through the wood; that will be the shadiest way."
He pursued his own thoughts without heeding me.
"Jane! you think me, I dare say, an irreligious dog; but my heart swells with gratitude to the beneficent God of this earth just now. He sees not as man sees, but far clearer; judges not as man judges, but far more wisely. I did you wrong; I would have sullied my innocent flower--breathed guilt on its purity; the Omnipotent snatched it from me. I, in my stiff-necked rebellion, almost cursed the dispensation; instead of bending to the decree, I defied it. Divine justice pursued its course; disasters came thick upon me; I was forced to pass through the valley of the shadow of death.120 His chastisements are mighty; and one smote me which has humbled me forever. You know I was proud of my strength; but what is it now, when I must give it over to foreign guidance, as a child does its weakness? Of late, Jane--only of late--I began to see and acknowledge the hand of God in my doom. I began to experience remorse, repentance; the wish for reconcilement to my Maker. I began sometimes to pray; very brief prayers they were, but very sincere.
"Some days since--nay, I can number them, four; it was last Monday night, a singular mood came over me, one in which grief replaced frenzy; sorrow, sullenness. I had long had the impression that since I could nowhere find you, you must be dead. Late that night, perhaps it might be between eleven and twelve o'clock, ere I retired to my dreary rest, I supplicated God that, if it seemed good to Him, I might soon be taken from this life and admitted to that world to come, where there was still hope of rejoining Jane.
"I was in my own room and sitting by the window, which was open; it soothed me to feel the balmy night air, though I could see no stars, and only by a vague, luminous haze knew the presence of a moon. I longed for thee, Janet! Oh, I longed for thee both with soul and flesh! I asked of God, at once in anguish and humility, if I had not been long enough desolate, afflicted, tormented, and might not soon taste bliss and peace once more. That I merited all I endured, I acknowledged; that I could scarcely endure more, I pleaded; and the alpha and omega of my heart's wishes broke involuntarily from my lips, in the words, 'Jane! Jane! Jane!' "
"Did you speak these words aloud?"
"I did, Jane. If any listener had heard me he would have thought me mad, I pronounced them with such frantic energy."
"And it was last Monday night; somewhere near midnight?"
"Yes; but the time is of no consequence; what followed is the strange point. You will think me superstitious--some superstition I have in my blood, and always had; nevertheless, this is true--true, at least, it is that I heard what I now relate.
"As I exclaimed 'Jane! Jane! Jane!' a voice--I cannot tell whence the voice came, but I know whose voice it was--replied, 'I am coming; wait for me!' and a moment after, went whispering on the wind, the words, 'Where are you?'
"I'll tell you, if I can, the idea, the picture, these words opened to my mind; yet it is difficult to express what I want to express. Ferndean is buried, as you see, in a heavy wood, where sound falls dull and lies unreverberating. 'Where are you?' seemed spoken among mountains, for I heard a hill-sent echo repeat the words. Cooler and fresher at the moment the gale seemed to visit my brow; I could have deemed that in some wild, lone scene, I and Jane were meeting. In spirit, I believe, we must have met. You, no doubt, were at that hour in unconscious sleep, Jane; perhaps your
soul wandered from its cell to comfort mine; for those were your accents--as certain as I live--they were yours!"
Reader, it was on Monday night, near midnight, that I, too, had received the mysterious summons; those were the very words by which I had replied to it. I listened to Mr. Rochester's narrative, but made no disclosure in return. The coincidence struck me as too awful and inexplicable to be communicated or discussed. If I told anything, my tale would be such as must necessarily make a profound impression on the mind of my hearer; and that mind, yet from its sufferings too prone to gloom, needed not the deeper shade of the supernatural. I kept these things, then, and pondered them in my heart.121
"You cannot now wonder," continued my master, "that when you rose upon me so unexpectedly last night, I had difficulty in believing you any other than a mere voice and vision; something that would melt to silence and annihilation, as the midnight whisper and mountain echo had melted before. Now, I thank God! I know it to be otherwise. Yes, I thank God!"
He put me off his knee, rose, and reverently lifting his hat from his brow, and bending his sightless eyes to the earth, he stood in mute devotion. Only the last words of the worship were audible.
"I thank my Maker, that in the midst of judgment he has remembered mercy. I humbly entreat my Redeemer to give me strength to lead henceforth a purer life than I have done hitherto!"
Then he stretched his hand out to be led. I took that dear hand, held it a moment to my lips, then let it pass round my shoulder; being so much lower of stature than he, I served both for his prop and guide. We entered the wood, and wended homeward.
Chapter XXXVIII
Conclusion
Reader, I married him. A quiet wedding we had; he and I, the parson and clerk, were alone present. When we got back from church, I went into the kitchen of the manor-house, where Mary was cooking the dinner and John cleaning the knives, and I said:
"Mary, I have been married to Mr. Rochester this morning." The housekeeper and her husband were both of that decent, phlegmatic order of people to whom one may at any time safely communicate a remarkable piece of news without incurring the danger of having one's ears pierced by some shrill ejaculation, and subsequently stunned by a torrent of wordy wonderment. Mary did look up, and she did stare at me; the ladle with which she was basting a pair of chickens roasting at the fire did for some three minutes hang suspended in air; and for the same space of time John's knives also had rest from the polishing process; but Mary, bending again over the roast, said only,