- •In guarantee whereof, I attached myself to my seat by my hands.
- •I saw Mr. Lloyd smile and frown at the same time.
- •I nodded.
- •I would not now have exchanged Lowood with all its privations for Gateshead and its daily luxuries.
- •I got on to her crib and kissed her her forehead was cold, and her cheek both cold and thin, and so were her hand and wrist; but she smiled as of old.
- •I did so she put her arm over me, and I nestled close to her. After a long silence, she resumed, still whispering—
- •I understood her very well, for I had been accustomed to the fluent tongue of Madame Pierrot.
- •I was in the mood for being useful, or at least officious, I think, for I now drew near him again.
- •I did as requested. As he took the cup from my hand, Adèle, thinking the moment propitious for making a request in my favour, cried out—
- •I assented.
- •I had scarce tied the strings of the portfolio, when, looking at his watch, he said abruptly—
- •I did as I was bid, though I would much rather have remained somewhat in the shade; but Mr. Rochester had such a direct way of giving orders, it seemed a matter of course to obey him promptly.
- •I should, if I had deliberated, have replied to this question by something conventionally vague and polite; but the answer somehow slipped from my tongue before I was aware—“No, sir.”
- •I smiled I thought to myself Mr. Rochester is peculiar—he seems to forget that he pays me £30 per annum for receiving his orders.
- •I was about again to revert to the probability of a union between Mr. Rochester and the beautiful Blanche; but Adèle came in, and the conversation was turned into another channel.
- •I feared—or should I say, hoped—the allusion to me would make Mr. Rochester glance my way; and I involuntarily shrank farther into the shade but he never turned his eyes.
- •I thought I might have retorted the question on him who put it but I would not take that freedom. I answered—
- •In the midst of the tumult, and while my eyes and ears were fully engaged in the scene before me, I heard a hem close at my elbow I turned, and saw Sam.
- •I started to my feet when I heard the name.
- •I said nothing.
- •I knelt. She did not stoop towards me, but only gazed, leaning back in her chair. She began muttering,—
- •I saw Mr. Rochester shudder a singularly marked expression of disgust, horror, hatred, warped his countenance almost to distortion; but he only said—
- •I answered him by assuming it to refuse would, I felt, have been unwise.
- •I was silent the things were frightful. Robert Leaven resumed—
- •I assured her we were alone.
- •I could risk no sort of answer by this time my heart was still.
- •I was silent I thought he mocked me.
- •I was so hurt by her coldness and scepticism, that the tears rose to my eyes.
- •I was growing truly irritated happily, Adèle ran in.
- •I looked up at him to read the signs of bliss in his face it was ardent and flushed.
- •I shook my head. “What! is there more But I will not believe it to be anything important. I warn you of incredulity beforehand. Go on.”
- •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.
- •I saw a grim smile contort Mr. Rochester’s lips, and he muttered—
- •I shuddered to hear the infatuated assertion.
- •I remembered the answer of the old housekeeper at the parsonage, when I had asked to see the clergyman. “This, then, was his father’s residence”
- •I maintained a grave silence for some minutes.
- •I gave an involuntary half start at hearing the alias I had forgotten my new name. Mr. Rivers, whom nothing seemed to escape, noticed it at once.
- •I approached to take it a welcome gift it was. He examined my face, I thought, with austerity, as I came near the traces of tears were doubtless very visible upon it.
- •I smiled incredulously.
- •I again felt rather like an individual of but average gastronomical powers sitting down to feast alone at a table spread with provisions for a hundred. Mr. Rivers rose now and put his cloak on.
- •I looked at him with surprise. “St. John,” I said, “I think you are almost wicked to talk so. I am disposed to be as content as a queen, and you try to stir me up to restlessness! To what end”
- •I showed him the volume on the shelf he took it down, and withdrawing to his accustomed window recess, he began to read it.
- •I looked towards the knoll there he lay, still as a prostrate column; his face turned to me his eye beaming watchful and keen. He started to his feet and approached me.
- •I shuddered as he spoke I felt his influence in my marrow—his hold on my limbs.
- •I was touched by his gentle tone, and overawed by his high, calm mien.
- •I have not much pride under such circumstances I would always rather be happy than dignified; and I ran after him—he stood at the foot of the stairs.
- •It was true. I confessed it by silence.
- •I put her cool hand to my hot forehead; “No, Die, not one whit.”
- •I looked with timorous joy towards a stately house I saw a blackened ruin.
- •I feared now to hear my own story. I endeavoured to recall him to the main fact.
- •I had dreaded worse. I had dreaded he was mad. I summoned strength to ask what had caused this calamity.
- •I now drew near and knocked John’s wife opened for me. “Mary,” I said, “how are you”
- •I approached him with the now only half-filled glass; Pilot followed me, still excited.
- •I shuddered involuntarily, and clung instinctively closer to my blind but beloved master. He smiled.
I could risk no sort of answer by this time my heart was still.
“Because,” he said, “I sometimes have a queer feeling with regard to you—especially when you are near me, as now it is as if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly and inextricably knotted to a similar string situated in the corresponding quarter of your little frame. And if that boisterous Channel, and two hundred miles or so of land come broad between us, I am afraid that cord of communion will be snapt; and then I’ve a nervous notion I should take to bleeding inwardly. As for you,—you’d forget me.”
“That I never should, sir you know—” Impossible to proceed.
“Jane, do you hear that nightingale singing in the wood Listen!”
In listening, I sobbed convulsively; for I could repress what I endured no longer; I was obliged to yield, and I was shaken from head to foot with acute distress. When I did speak, it was only to express an impetuous wish that I had never been born, or never come to Thornfield.
“Because you are sorry to leave it”
The vehemence of emotion, stirred by grief and love within me, was claiming mastery, and struggling for full sway, and asserting a right to predominate, to overcome, to live, rise, and reign at last yes,—and to speak.
“I grieve to leave Thornfield I love Thornfield—I love it, because I have lived in it a full and delightful life,—momentarily at least. I have not been trampled on. I have not been petrified. I have not been buried with inferior minds, and excluded from every glimpse of communion with what is bright and energetic and high. I have talked, face to face, with what I reverence, with what I delight in,—with an original, a vigorous, an expanded mind. I have known you, Mr. Rochester; and it strikes me with terror and anguish to feel I absolutely must be torn from you for ever. I see the necessity of departure; and it is like looking on the necessity of death.”
“Where do you see the necessity” he asked suddenly.
“Where You, sir, have placed it before me.”
“In what shape”
“In the shape of Miss Ingram; a noble and beautiful woman,—your bride.”
“My bride! What bride I have no bride!”
“But you will have.”
“Yes;—I will!—I will!” He set his teeth.
“Then I must go—you have said it yourself.”
“No you must stay! I swear it—and the oath shall be kept.”
“I tell you I must go!” I retorted, roused to something like passion. “Do you think I can stay to become nothing to you Do you think I am an automaton—a machine without feelings and can bear to have my morsel of bread snatched from my lips, and my drop of living water dashed from my cup Do you think, because I am poor, obscure, plain, and little, I am soulless and heartless You think wrong!—I have as much soul as you,—and full as much heart! And if God had gifted me with some beauty and much wealth, I should have made it as hard for you to leave me, as it is now for me to leave you. I am not talking to you now through the medium of custom, conventionalities, nor even of mortal flesh;—it is my spirit that addresses your spirit; just as if both had passed through the grave, and we stood at God’s feet, equal,—as we are!”
“As we are!” repeated Mr. Rochester—“so,” he added, enclosing me in his arms. Gathering me to his breast, pressing his lips on my lips “so, Jane!”
“Yes, so, sir,” I rejoined “and yet not so; for you are a married man—or as good as a married man, and wed to one inferior to you—to one with whom you have no sympathy—whom I do not believe you truly love; for I have seen and heard you sneer at her. I would scorn such a union therefore I am better than you—let me go!”
“Where, Jane To Ireland”
“Yes—to Ireland. I have spoken my mind, and can go anywhere now.”
“Jane, be still; don’t struggle so, like a wild frantic bird that is rending its own plumage in its desperation.”
“I am no bird; and no net ensnares me; I am a free human being with an independent will, which I now exert to leave you.”
Another effort set me at liberty, and I stood erect before him.
“And your will shall decide your destiny,” he said “I offer you my hand, my heart, and a share of all my possessions.”
“You play a farce, which I merely laugh at.”
“I ask you to pass through life at my side—to be my second self, and best earthly companion.”
“For that fate you have already made your choice, and must abide by it.”
“Jane, be still a few moments you are over-excited I will be still too.”
A waft of wind came sweeping down the laurel-walk, and trembled through the boughs of the chestnut it wandered away—away—to an indefinite distance—it died. The nightingale’s song was then the only voice of the hour in listening to it, I again wept. Mr. Rochester sat quiet, looking at me gently and seriously. Some time passed before he spoke; he at last said—
“Come to my side, Jane, and let us explain and understand one another.”
“I will never again come to your side I am torn away now, and cannot return.”
“But, Jane, I summon you as my wife it is you only I intend to marry.”