küche und wohnzimmer zusammenlegen

chapter xxxvii the manor-house of ferndean was a buildingof considerable antiquity, moderate size, and no architectural pretensions, deepburied in a wood. i had heard of it before. mr. rochester often spoke of it, andsometimes went there. his father had purchased the estate for thesake of the game covers. he would have let the house, but could findno tenant, in consequence of its ineligible and insalubrious site. ferndean then remained uninhabited andunfurnished, with the exception of some two

or three rooms fitted up for theaccommodation of the squire when he went there in the season to shoot. to this house i came just ere dark on anevening marked by the characteristics of sad sky, cold gale, and continued smallpenetrating rain. the last mile i performed on foot, havingdismissed the chaise and driver with the double remuneration i had promised. even when within a very short distance ofthe manor-house, you could see nothing of it, so thick and dark grew the timber ofthe gloomy wood about it. iron gates between granite pillars showedme where to enter, and passing through

them, i found myself at once in thetwilight of close-ranked trees. there was a grass-grown track descendingthe forest aisle between hoar and knotty shafts and under branched arches. i followed it, expecting soon to reach thedwelling; but it stretched on and on, it would far and farther: no sign ofhabitation or grounds was visible. i thought i had taken a wrong direction andlost my way. the darkness of natural as well as ofsylvan dusk gathered over me. i looked round in search of another road. there was none: all was interwoven stem,columnar trunk, dense summer foliage--no

opening anywhere. i proceeded: at last my way opened, thetrees thinned a little; presently i beheld a railing, then the house--scarce, by thisdim light, distinguishable from the trees; so dank and green were its decaying walls. entering a portal, fastened only by alatch, i stood amidst a space of enclosed ground, from which the wood swept away in asemicircle. there were no flowers, no garden-beds; onlya broad gravel-walk girdling a grass-plat, and this set in the heavy frame of theforest. the house presented two pointed gables inits front; the windows were latticed and

narrow: the front door was narrow too, onestep led up to it. the whole looked, as the host of therochester arms had said, "quite a desolate spot." it was as still as a church on a week-day:the pattering rain on the forest leaves was the only sound audible in its vicinage."can there be life here?" i asked. yes, life of some kind there was; for iheard a movement--that narrow front-door was unclosing, and some shape was about toissue from the grange. it opened slowly: a figure came out intothe twilight and stood on the step; a man

without a hat: he stretched forth his handas if to feel whether it rained. dusk as it was, i had recognised him--itwas my master, edward fairfax rochester, and no other. i stayed my step, almost my breath, andstood to watch him--to examine him, myself unseen, and alas! to him invisible.it was a sudden meeting, and one in which rapture was kept well in check by pain. i had no difficulty in restraining my voicefrom exclamation, my step from hasty advance. his form was of the same strong andstalwart contour as ever: his port was

still erect, his hair was still ravenblack; nor were his features altered or sunk: not in one year's space, by any sorrow, could his athletic strength bequelled or his vigorous prime blighted. but in his countenance i saw a change: thatlooked desperate and brooding--that reminded me of some wronged and fetteredwild beast or bird, dangerous to approach in his sullen woe. the caged eagle, whose gold-ringed eyescruelty has extinguished, might look as looked that sightless samson. and, reader, do you think i feared him inhis blind ferocity?--if you do, you little

know me. a soft hope blest with my sorrow that sooni should dare to drop a kiss on that brow of rock, and on those lips so sternlysealed beneath it: but not yet. i would not accost him yet. he descended the one step, and advancedslowly and gropingly towards the grass- plat.where was his daring stride now? then he paused, as if he knew not which wayto turn. he lifted his hand and opened his eyelids;gazed blank, and with a straining effort, on the sky, and toward the amphitheatre oftrees: one saw that all to him was void

darkness. he stretched his right hand (the left arm,the mutilated one, he kept hidden in his bosom); he seemed to wish by touch to gainan idea of what lay around him: he met but vacancy still; for the trees were someyards off where he stood. he relinquished the endeavour, folded hisarms, and stood quiet and mute in the rain, now falling fast on his uncovered head. at this moment john approached him fromsome quarter. "will you take my arm, sir?" he said;"there is a heavy shower coming on: had you not better go in?"

"let me alone," was the answer.john withdrew without having observed me. mr. rochester now tried to walk about:vainly,--all was too uncertain. he groped his way back to the house, and,re-entering it, closed the door. i now drew near and knocked: john's wifeopened for me. "mary," i said, "how are you?" she started as if she had seen a ghost: icalmed her. to her hurried "is it really you, miss,come at this late hour to this lonely place?" i answered by taking her hand; and then ifollowed her into the kitchen, where john

now sat by a good fire. i explained to them, in few words, that ihad heard all which had happened since i left thornfield, and that i was come to seemr. rochester. i asked john to go down to the turn- pike-house, where i had dismissed the chaise, and bring my trunk, which i had left there:and then, while i removed my bonnet and shawl, i questioned mary as to whether i could be accommodated at the manor housefor the night; and finding that arrangements to that effect, thoughdifficult, would not be impossible, i informed her i should stay.

just at this moment the parlour-bell rang."when you go in," said i, "tell your master that a person wishes to speak to him, butdo not give my name." "i don't think he will see you," sheanswered; "he refuses everybody." when she returned, i inquired what he hadsaid. "you are to send in your name and yourbusiness," she replied. she then proceeded to fill a glass withwater, and place it on a tray, together with candles. "is that what he rang for?"i asked. "yes: he always has candles brought in atdark, though he is blind."

"give the tray to me; i will carry it in." i took it from her hand: she pointed me outthe parlour door. the tray shook as i held it; the waterspilt from the glass; my heart struck my ribs loud and fast. mary opened the door for me, and shut itbehind me. this parlour looked gloomy: a neglectedhandful of fire burnt low in the grate; and, leaning over it, with his headsupported against the high, old-fashioned mantelpiece, appeared the blind tenant ofthe room. his old dog, pilot, lay on one side,removed out of the way, and coiled up as if

afraid of being inadvertently trodden upon. pilot pricked up his ears when i came in:then he jumped up with a yelp and a whine, and bounded towards me: he almost knockedthe tray from my hands. i set it on the table; then patted him, andsaid softly, "lie down!" mr. rochester turned mechanically to seewhat the commotion was: but as he saw nothing, he returned and sighed. "give me the water, mary," he said.i approached him with the now only half- filled glass; pilot followed me, stillexcited. "what is the matter?" he inquired.

"down, pilot!"i again said. he checked the water on its way to hislips, and seemed to listen: he drank, and put the glass down. "this is you, mary, is it not?""mary is in the kitchen," i answered. he put out his hand with a quick gesture,but not seeing where i stood, he did not touch me. "who is this?who is this?" he demanded, trying, as it seemed, to see with those sightless eyes--unavailing and distressing attempt! "answer me--speak again!" he ordered,imperiously and aloud.

"will you have a little more water, sir?i spilt half of what was in the glass," i said. "who is it?what is it? who speaks?""pilot knows me, and john and mary know i am here. i came only this evening," i answered."great god!--what delusion has come over me?what sweet madness has seized me?" "no delusion--no madness: your mind, sir,is too strong for delusion, your health too sound for frenzy.""and where is the speaker?

is it only a voice? oh! i cannot see, but i must feel, or myheart will stop and my brain burst. whatever--whoever you are--be perceptibleto the touch or i cannot live!" he groped; i arrested his wandering hand,and prisoned it in both mine. "her very fingers!" he cried; "her small,slight fingers! if so there must be more of her." the muscular hand broke from my custody; myarm was seized, my shoulder--neck--waist--i was entwined and gathered to him."is it jane? what is it?

this is her shape--this is her size--""and this her voice," i added. "she is all here: her heart, too.god bless you, sir! i am glad to be so near you again." "jane eyre!--jane eyre," was all he said."my dear master," i answered, "i am jane eyre: i have found you out--i am come backto you." "in truth?--in the flesh? my living jane?""you touch me, sir,--you hold me, and fast enough: i am not cold like a corpse, norvacant like air, am i?" "my living darling!

these are certainly her limbs, and theseher features; but i cannot be so blest, after all my misery. it is a dream; such dreams as i have had atnight when i have clasped her once more to my heart, as i do now; and kissed her, asthus--and felt that she loved me, and trusted that she would not leave me." "which i never will, sir, from this day.""never will, says the vision? but i always woke and found it an emptymockery; and i was desolate and abandoned-- my life dark, lonely, hopeless--my soulathirst and forbidden to drink--my heart famished and never to be fed.

gentle, soft dream, nestling in my armsnow, you will fly, too, as your sisters have all fled before you: but kiss mebefore you go--embrace me, jane." "there, sir--and there!"' i pressed my lips to his once brilliant andnow rayless eyes--i swept his hair from his brow, and kissed that too. he suddenly seemed to arouse himself: theconviction of the reality of all this seized him."it is you--is it, jane? you are come back to me then?" "i am.""and you do not lie dead in some ditch

under some stream?and you are not a pining outcast amongst strangers?" "no, sir!i am an independent woman now." "independent!what do you mean, jane?" "my uncle in madeira is dead, and he leftme five thousand pounds." "ah! this is practical--this is real!" hecried: "i should never dream that. besides, there is that peculiar voice ofhers, so animating and piquant, as well as soft: it cheers my withered heart; it putslife into it.--what, janet! are you an independent woman?

a rich woman?" "if you won't let me live with you, i canbuild a house of my own close up to your door, and you may come and sit in myparlour when you want company of an evening." "but as you are rich, jane, you have now,no doubt, friends who will look after you, and not suffer you to devote yourself to ablind lameter like me?" "i told you i am independent, sir, as wellas rich: i am my own mistress." "and you will stay with me?""certainly--unless you object. i will be your neighbour, your nurse, yourhousekeeper.

i find you lonely: i will be yourcompanion--to read to you, to walk with you, to sit with you, to wait on you, to beeyes and hands to you. cease to look so melancholy, my dearmaster; you shall not be left desolate, so long as i live." he replied not: he seemed serious--abstracted; he sighed; he half-opened his lips as if to speak: he closed them again.i felt a little embarrassed. perhaps i had too rashly over-leapedconventionalities; and he, like st. john, saw impropriety in my inconsiderateness. i had indeed made my proposal from the ideathat he wished and would ask me to be his

wife: an expectation, not the less certainbecause unexpressed, had buoyed me up, that he would claim me at once as his own. but no hint to that effect escaping him andhis countenance becoming more overcast, i suddenly remembered that i might have beenall wrong, and was perhaps playing the fool unwittingly; and i began gently to withdraw myself from his arms--but he eagerlysnatched me closer. "no--no--jane; you must not go. no--i have touched you, heard you, felt thecomfort of your presence--the sweetness of your consolation: i cannot give up thesejoys.

i have little left in myself--i must haveyou. the world may laugh--may call me absurd,selfish--but it does not signify. my very soul demands you: it will besatisfied, or it will take deadly vengeance on its frame.""well, sir, i will stay with you: i have said so." "yes--but you understand one thing bystaying with me; and i understand another. you, perhaps, could make up your mind to beabout my hand and chair--to wait on me as a kind little nurse (for you have anaffectionate heart and a generous spirit, which prompt you to make sacrifices for

those you pity), and that ought to sufficefor me no doubt. i suppose i should now entertain none butfatherly feelings for you: do you think so? come--tell me." "i will think what you like, sir: i amcontent to be only your nurse, if you think it better.""but you cannot always be my nurse, janet: you are young--you must marry one day." "i don't care about being married.""you should care, janet: if i were what i once was, i would try to make you care--but--a sightless block!" he relapsed again into gloom.

i, on the contrary, became more cheerful,and took fresh courage: these last words gave me an insight as to where thedifficulty lay; and as it was no difficulty with me, i felt quite relieved from myprevious embarrassment. i resumed a livelier vein of conversation. "it is time some one undertook torehumanise you," said i, parting his thick and long uncut locks; "for i see you arebeing metamorphosed into a lion, or something of that sort. you have a 'faux air' of nebuchadnezzar inthe fields about you, that is certain: your hair reminds me of eagles' feathers;whether your nails are grown like birds'

claws or not, i have not yet noticed." "on this arm, i have neither hand nornails," he said, drawing the mutilated limb from his breast, and showing it to me."it is a mere stump--a ghastly sight! don't you think so, jane?" "it is a pity to see it; and a pity to seeyour eyes--and the scar of fire on your forehead: and the worst of it is, one is indanger of loving you too well for all this; and making too much of you." "i thought you would be revolted, jane,when you saw my arm, and my cicatrised visage.""did you?

don't tell me so--lest i should saysomething disparaging to your judgment. now, let me leave you an instant, to make abetter fire, and have the hearth swept up. can you tell when there is a good fire?" "yes; with the right eye i see a glow--aruddy haze." "and you see the candles?""very dimly--each is a luminous cloud." "can you see me?" "no, my fairy: but i am only too thankfulto hear and feel you." "when do you take supper?""i never take supper." "but you shall have some to-night.

i am hungry: so are you, i daresay, onlyyou forget." summoning mary, i soon had the room in morecheerful order: i prepared him, likewise, a comfortable repast. my spirits were excited, and with pleasureand ease i talked to him during supper, and for a long time after. there was no harassing restraint, norepressing of glee and vivacity with him; for with him i was at perfect ease, becausei knew i suited him; all i said or did seemed either to console or revive him. delightful consciousness!it brought to life and light my whole

nature: in his presence i thoroughly lived;and he lived in mine. blind as he was, smiles played over hisface, joy dawned on his forehead: his lineaments softened and warmed. after supper, he began to ask me manyquestions, of where i had been, what i had been doing, how i had found him out; but igave him only very partial replies: it was too late to enter into particulars thatnight. besides, i wished to touch no deep-thrilling chord--to open no fresh well of emotion in his heart: my sole present aimwas to cheer him. cheered, as i have said, he was: and yetbut by fits.

if a moment's silence broke theconversation, he would turn restless, touch me, then say, "jane." "you are altogether a human being, jane?you are certain of that?" {you are altogether a human being, jane?you are certain of that?: p422.jpg} "i conscientiously believe so, mr.rochester." "yet how, on this dark and doleful evening,could you so suddenly rise on my lone hearth? i stretched my hand to take a glass ofwater from a hireling, and it was given me by you: i asked a question, expectingjohn's wife to answer me, and your voice

spoke at my ear." "because i had come in, in mary's stead,with the tray." "and there is enchantment in the very houri am now spending with you. who can tell what a dark, dreary, hopelesslife i have dragged on for months past? doing nothing, expecting nothing; mergingnight in day; feeling but the sensation of cold when i let the fire go out, of hungerwhen i forgot to eat: and then a ceaseless sorrow, and, at times, a very delirium ofdesire to behold my jane again. yes: for her restoration i longed, far morethan for that of my lost sight. how can it be that jane is with me, andsays she loves me?

will she not depart as suddenly as shecame? to-morrow, i fear i shall find her nomore." a commonplace, practical reply, out of thetrain of his own disturbed ideas, was, i was sure, the best and most reassuring forhim in this frame of mind. i passed my finger over his eyebrows, andremarked that they were scorched, and that i would apply something which would makethem grow as broad and black as ever. "where is the use of doing me good in anyway, beneficent spirit, when, at some fatal moment, you will again desert me--passinglike a shadow, whither and how to me unknown, and for me remaining afterwardsundiscoverable?

"have you a pocket-comb about you, sir?""what for, jane?" "just to comb out this shaggy black mane. i find you rather alarming, when i examineyou close at hand: you talk of my being a fairy, but i am sure, you are more like abrownie." "am i hideous, jane?" "very, sir: you always were, you know.""humph! the wickedness has not been taken out ofyou, wherever you have sojourned." "yet i have been with good people; farbetter than you: a hundred times better people; possessed of ideas and views younever entertained in your life: quite more

refined and exalted." "who the deuce have you been with?""if you twist in that way you will make me pull the hair out of your head; and then ithink you will cease to entertain doubts of my substantiality." "who have you been with, jane?" "you shall not get it out of me to-night,sir; you must wait till to-morrow; to leave my tale half told, will, you know, be asort of security that i shall appear at your breakfast table to finish it. by the bye, i must mind not to rise on yourhearth with only a glass of water then: i

must bring an egg at the least, to saynothing of fried ham." "you mocking changeling--fairy-born andhuman-bred! you make me feel as i have not felt thesetwelve months. if saul could have had you for his david,the evil spirit would have been exorcised without the aid of the harp.""there, sir, you are redd up and made decent. now i'll leave you: i have been travellingthese last three days, and i believe i am tired.good night." "just one word, jane: were there onlyladies in the house where you have been?"

i laughed and made my escape, stilllaughing as i ran upstairs. "a good idea!" i thought with glee."i see i have the means of fretting him out of his melancholy for some time to come." very early the next morning i heard him upand astir, wandering from one room to another.as soon as mary came down i heard the question: "is miss eyre here?" then: "which room did you put her into?was it dry? is she up?go and ask if she wants anything; and when

she will come down." i came down as soon as i thought there wasa prospect of breakfast. entering the room very softly, i had a viewof him before he discovered my presence. it was mournful, indeed, to witness thesubjugation of that vigorous spirit to a corporeal infirmity. he sat in his chair--still, but not atrest: expectant evidently; the lines of now habitual sadness marking his strongfeatures. his countenance reminded one of a lampquenched, waiting to be re-lit--and alas! it was not himself that could now kindlethe lustre of animated expression: he was

dependent on another for that office! i had meant to be gay and careless, but thepowerlessness of the strong man touched my heart to the quick: still i accosted himwith what vivacity i could. "it is a bright, sunny morning, sir," isaid. "the rain is over and gone, and there is atender shining after it: you shall have a walk soon." i had wakened the glow: his featuresbeamed. "oh, you are indeed there, my skylark!come to me. you are not gone: not vanished?

i heard one of your kind an hour ago,singing high over the wood: but its song had no music for me, any more than therising sun had rays. all the melody on earth is concentrated inmy jane's tongue to my ear (i am glad it is not naturally a silent one): all thesunshine i can feel is in her presence." the water stood in my eyes to hear thisavowal of his dependence; just as if a royal eagle, chained to a perch, should beforced to entreat a sparrow to become its purveyor. but i would not be lachrymose: i dashed offthe salt drops, and busied myself with preparing breakfast.most of the morning was spent in the open

air. i led him out of the wet and wild wood intosome cheerful fields: i described to him how brilliantly green they were; how theflowers and hedges looked refreshed; how sparklingly blue was the sky. i sought a seat for him in a hidden andlovely spot, a dry stump of a tree; nor did i refuse to let him, when seated, place meon his knee. why should i, when both he and i werehappier near than apart? pilot lay beside us: all was quiet.he broke out suddenly while clasping me in his arms--

"cruel, cruel deserter! oh, jane, what did i feel when i discoveredyou had fled from thornfield, and when i could nowhere find you; and, afterexamining your apartment, ascertained that you had taken no money, nor anything whichcould serve as an equivalent! a pearl necklace i had given you layuntouched in its little casket; your trunks were left corded and locked as they hadbeen prepared for the bridal tour. what could my darling do, i asked, leftdestitute and penniless? and what did she do?let me hear now." thus urged, i began the narrative of myexperience for the last year.

i softened considerably what related to thethree days of wandering and starvation, because to have told him all would havebeen to inflict unnecessary pain: the little i did say lacerated his faithfulheart 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 wouldnever 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 flungmyself friendless on the wide world. i had endured, he was certain, more than ihad 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 beenreceived at moor house; how i had obtained the office of schoolmistress, &c. the accession of fortune, the discovery ofmy relations, followed in due order. of course, st. john rivers' name came infrequently in the progress of my tale. when i had done, that name was immediatelytaken up. "this st. john, then, is your cousin?""yes."

"you have spoken of him often: do you likehim?" "he was a very good man, sir; i could nothelp liking him." "a good man. does that mean a respectable well-conductedman of fifty? or what does it mean?""st john was only twenty-nine, sir." "'jeune encore,' as the french say. is he a person of low stature, phlegmatic,and plain. a person whose goodness consists rather inhis 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 shouldersto hear him talk?" "he talks little, sir: what he does say isever to the point. his brain is first-rate, i should think notimpressible, but vigorous." "is he an able man, then?""truly able." "a thoroughly educated man?" "st. john is an accomplished and profoundscholar."

"his manners, i think, you said are not toyour taste?--priggish and parsonic?" "i never mentioned his manners; but, unlessi had a very bad taste, they must suit it; they are polished, calm, andgentlemanlike." "his appearance,--i forget what descriptionyou gave of his appearance;--a sort of raw curate, half strangled with his whiteneckcloth, and stilted up on his thick- soled high-lows, 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 stunghim; but the sting was salutary: it gave him respite from the gnawing fang ofmelancholy. i would not, therefore, immediately charmthe snake. "perhaps you would rather not sit anylonger 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 overwhelmingcontrast. your words have delineated very prettily agraceful apollo: he is present to your imagination,--tall, fair, blue- eyed, andwith a grecian profile. your eyes dwell on a vulcan,--a realblacksmith, brown, broad-shouldered: and blind and lame into the bargain.""i never thought of it, before; but you certainly are rather like vulcan, sir." "well, you can leave me, ma'am: but beforeyou go" (and he retained me by a firmer grasp than ever), "you will be pleased justto answer me a question or two." he paused.

"what questions, mr. rochester?"then followed this cross-examination. "st. john made you schoolmistress of mortonbefore 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 atalented 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 notordinary."

"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 hissisters after the cousinship was discovered?" "five months.""did rivers spend much time with the ladies of his family?"

"yes; the back parlour was both his studyand 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 learnt 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 inventionto vex me." "i beg your pardon, it is the literaltruth: he asked me more than once, and was as stiff about urging his point as ever youcould 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 toquit?" "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 sheleft me: that was an atom of sweet in much bitter. long as we have been parted, hot tears as ihave wept over our separation, i never thought that while i was mourning her, shewas 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 forget 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 havechosen." "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 calledrosamond. he wanted to marry me only because hethought i should make a suitable missionary's wife, which she would not havedone.

he is good and great, but severe; and, forme, cold as an iceberg. he is not like you, sir: i am not happy athis side, nor near him, nor with him. he has no indulgence for me--no fondness. he sees nothing attractive in me; not evenyouth--only a few useful mental points.-- then i must leave you, sir, to go to him?" i shuddered involuntarily, and clunginstinctively 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 youless sad: i thought anger would be better than grief. but if you wish me to love you, could youbut see how much i do love you, you would be proud and content. all my heart is yours, sir: it belongs toyou; and with you it would remain, were fate to exile the rest of me from yourpresence for ever." again, as he kissed me, painful thoughtsdarkened 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 sawa 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 bida 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, whetheryou ask them or not, because they take delight in your bountiful shadow; and asthey grow they will lean towards you, and wind round you, because your strengthoffers them so safe a prop." again he smiled: i gave him comfort."you speak of friends, jane?" he asked. "yes, of friends," i answered ratherhesitatingly: for i knew i meant more than friends, but could not tell what other wordto 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 itbefore." "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 youbest." "i will at least choose--her i love best. jane, will you marry me?""yes, sir."

"a poor blind man, whom you will have tolead about by the hand?" "a crippled man, twenty years older thanyou, 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 deedin my life--if ever i thought a good thought--if ever i prayed a sincere andblameless prayer--if ever i wished a righteous wish,--i am rewarded now. to be your wife is, for me, to be as happyas 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 insacrifice." "and to bear with my infirmities, jane: tooverlook my deficiencies." "which are none, sir, to me. i love you better now, when i can really beuseful to you, than i did in your state of

proud independence, when you disdainedevery part but that of the giver and protector." "hitherto i have hated to be helped--to beled: henceforth, i feel i shall hate it no more. i did not like to put my hand into ahireling's, but it is pleasant to feel it circled by jane's little fingers. i preferred utter loneliness to theconstant 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 theworld 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 anydelay, jane: there is but the licence to get--then we marry." "mr. rochester, i have just discovered thesun 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, andkeep 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 littlepearl necklace at this moment fastened round my bronze scrag 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: thatwill be the shadiest way." he pursued his own thoughts without heedingme. "jane! you think me, i daresay, anirreligious dog: but my heart swells with gratitude to the beneficent god of thisearth just now. he sees not as man sees, but far clearer:judges not as man judges, but far more wisely. i did wrong: i would have sullied myinnocent flower--breathed guilt on its purity: the omnipotent snatched it from me. i, in my stiff- necked rebellion, almostcursed the dispensation: instead of bending

to the decree, i defied it. divine justice pursued its course;disasters came thick on me: i was forced to pass through the valley of the shadow ofdeath. his chastisements are mighty; and onesmote me which has humbled me for ever. you know i was proud of my strength: butwhat is it now, when i must give it over to foreign guidance, as a child does itsweakness? of late, jane--only--only of late--i beganto 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 briefprayers 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 griefreplaced frenzy--sorrow, sullenness. i had long had the impression that since icould nowhere find you, you must be dead. late that night--perhaps it might bebetween eleven and twelve o'clock--ere i retired to my dreary rest, i supplicatedgod, that, if it seemed good to him, i might soon be taken from this life, and admitted to that world to come, where therewas still hope of rejoining jane. "i was in my own room, and sitting by thewindow, which was open: it soothed me to

feel the balmy night-air; though i couldsee 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 andhumility, if i had not been long enough desolate, afflicted, tormented; and mightnot soon taste bliss and peace once more. that i merited all i endured, iacknowledged--that i could scarcely endure more, i pleaded; and the alpha and omega ofmy 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 havethought 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,--somesuperstition i have in my blood, and always had: nevertheless, this is true--true atleast it is that i heard what i now relate. "as i exclaimed 'jane!

jane! jane!' a voice--i cannot tell whence thevoice came, but i know whose voice it was-- replied, 'i am coming: wait for me;' and amoment after, went whispering on the wind the words--'where are you?' "i'll tell you, if i can, the idea, thepicture these words opened to my mind: yet it is difficult to express what i want toexpress. ferndean is buried, as you see, in a heavywood, where sound falls dull, and dies unreverberating. 'where are you?' seemed spoken amongstmountains; for i heard a hill-sent echo

repeat the words. cooler and fresher at the moment the galeseemed to visit my brow: i could have deemed that in some wild, lone scene, i andjane were meeting. in spirit, i believe we must have met. you no doubt were, at that hour, inunconscious sleep, jane: perhaps your soul wandered from its cell to comfort mine; forthose were your accents--as certain as i live--they were yours!" reader, it was on monday night--nearmidnight--that i too had received the mysterious summons: those were the verywords by which i replied to it.

i listened to mr. rochester's narrative,but made no disclosure in return. the coincidence struck me as too awful andinexplicable to be communicated or discussed. if i told anything, my tale would be suchas must necessarily make a profound impression on the mind of my hearer: andthat mind, yet from its sufferings too prone to gloom, needed not the deeper shadeof the supernatural. i kept these things then, and pondered themin my heart. "you cannot now wonder," continued mymaster, "that when you rose upon me so unexpectedly last night, i had difficultyin believing you any other than a mere

voice and vision, something that would melt to silence and annihilation, as themidnight 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 wereaudible. "i thank my maker, that, in the midst ofjudgment, he has remembered mercy.

i humbly entreat my redeemer to give mestrength 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 tomy lips, then let it pass round my shoulder: being so much lower of staturethan he, i served both for his prop and guide. we entered the wood, and wended homeward.

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