Jane Eyre (52 page)

It was not only the hurry of preparation that made me feverish, not only the anticipation of the great change—the new life which was to commence tomorrow. Both these circumstances had their share, doubtless, in producing that restless, excited mood which hurried me forth at this late hour into the darkening grounds, but a third cause influenced my mind more than they.

I had at heart a strange and anxious thought. Something had happened which I could not comprehend; no one knew of or had seen the event but myself, it had taken place the preceding night. Mr Rochester that night was absent from home, nor was he yet returned, business had called him to a small estate of two or three farms he possessed thirty miles off—business it was requisite he should settle in person, previous to his meditated departure from England. I waited now his return; eager to disburthen my mind, and to seek of him the solution of the enigma that perplexed me. Stay till he comes, reader and, when I disclose my secret to him, you shall share the confidence.

I sought the orchard, driven to its shelter by the wind, which all day had blown strong and full from the south, without, however, bringing a speck of rain. Instead of subsiding as night drew on, it seemed to augment its rush and deepen its roar. The trees blew steadfastly one way, never writhing round, and scarcely tossing back their boughs once in an hour. So continuous was the strain bending their branchy heads northward—the clouds drifted from pole to pole, fast following, mass on mass, no glimpse of blue sky had been visible that July day.

It was not without a certain wild pleasure I ran before the wind, delivering my trouble of mind to the measureless air-torrent thundering through space. Descending the laurel walk, I faced the wreck of the chestnut-tree. It stood up black and riven, the trunk, split down the centre, gasped ghastly. The cloven halves were not broken from each other, for the firm base and strong roots kept them unsundered below, though community of vitality was destroyed—the sap could flow no more, their great boughs on each side were dead, and next winter’s tempests would be sure to fell one or both to earth, as yet, however, they might be said to form one tree—a ruin, but an entire ruin.

“You did right to hold fast to each other,” I said, as if the monster-splinters were living things, and could hear me. “I think, scathed as you look, and charred and scorched, there must be a little sense of life in you yet, rising out of that adhesion at the faithful, honest roots, you will never have green leaves more—never more see birds making nests and singing idyls in your boughs. The time of pleasure and love is over with you, but you are not desolate, each of you has a comrade to sympathise with him in his decay.” As I looked up at them, the moon appeared momentarily in that part of the sky which filled their fissure, her disk was blood-red and half overcast. She seemed to throw on me one bewildered, dreary glance, and buried herself again instantly in the deep drift of cloud. The wind fell, for a second, round Thornfield, but far away over wood and water, poured a wild, melancholy wail, it was sad to listen to, and I ran off again.

Here and there I strayed through the orchard, gathered up the apples with which the grass round the tree roots was thickly strewn, then I employed myself in dividing the ripe from the unripe. I carried them into the house and put them away in the store room. Then I repaired to the library to ascertain whether the fire was lit, for, though summer, I knew on such a gloomy evening Mr Rochester would like to see a cheerful hearth when he came in, yes, the fire had been kindled some time, and burnt well. I placed his arm chair by the chimney-corner, I wheeled the table near it. I let down the curtain, and had the candles brought in ready for lighting. More restless than ever, when I had completed these arrangements I could not sit still, nor even remain in the house, a little time-piece in the room and the old clock in the hall simultaneously struck ten.

“How late it grows!” I said. “I will run down to the gates, it is moonlight at intervals. I can see a good way on the road. He may be coming now, and to meet him will save some minutes of suspense.”

The wind roared high in the great trees which embowered the gates, but the road as far as I could see, to the right hand and the left, was all still and solitary, save for the shadows of clouds crossing it at intervals as the moon looked out, it was but a long pale line, unvaried by one moving speck.

A puerile tear dimmed my eye while I looked—a tear of disappointment and impatience; ashamed of it, I wiped it away. I lingered; the moon shut herself wholly within her chamber, and drew close her curtain of dense cloud, the night grew dark; rain came driving fast on the gale.

“I wish he would come! I wish he would come!” I exclaimed, seized with hypochondriac foreboding. I had expected his arrival before tea; now it was dark, what could keep him? Had an accident happened? The event of last night again recurred to me. I interpreted it as a warning of disaster. I feared my hopes were too bright to be realised and I had enjoyed so much bliss lately that I imagined my fortune had passed its meridian, and must now decline.

“Well, I cannot return to the house,” I thought, “I cannot sit by the fireside, while he is abroad in inclement weather, better tire my limbs than strain my heart. I will go forward and meet him.”

I set out. I walked fast, but not far, ere I had measured a quarter of a mile, I heard the tramp of hoofs; a horseman came on, full gallop; a dog ran by his side. Away with evil presentiment! It was he, here he was, mounted on Mesrour, followed by Pilot. He saw me, for the moon had opened a blue field in the sky, and rode in it watery bright, he took his hat off, and waved it round his head. I now ran to meet him.

“There!” he exclaimed, as he stretched out his hand and bent from the saddle, “You can’t do without me, that is evident. Step on my boot-toe; give me both hands and mount!”

I obeyed. Joy made me agile. I sprang up before him. A hearty kissing I got for a welcome, and some boastful triumph, which I swallowed as well as I could. He wrapped his arms around me forcefully, reassuringly. I was glad I had succumbed to my feminine fears for this welcome proved what he couldn’t say with words. He checked himself in his exultation to demand, “But is there anything the matter, Janet, that you come to meet me at such an hour? Is there anything wrong?”

“No, but I thought you would never come. I could not bear to wait in the house for you, especially with this rain and wind.”

“Rain and wind, indeed! Yes, you are dripping like a mermaid. Pull my cloak round you, but I think you are feverish, Jane, both your cheek and hand are burning hot. I ask again, is there anything the matter?”

“Nothing now. I am neither afraid nor unhappy.”

“Then you have been both?”

“Rather, but I’ll tell you all about it by-and-bye, sir and I daresay you will only laugh at me for my pains.”

“I’ll laugh at you heartily when tomorrow is past. Till then I dare not, my prize is not certain. This is you, who have been as slippery as an eel this last month, and as thorny as a briar-rose? I could not lay a finger anywhere but I was pricked and now I seem to have gathered up a stray lamb in my arms. You wandered out of the fold to seek your shepherd, did you, Jane?”

“I wanted you, but don’t boast. Here we are at Thornfield, now let me get down.”

He landed me on the pavement. As John took his horse, and he followed me into the hall, he told me to make haste and put something dry on, and then return to him in the library and he stopped me, as I made for the staircase—his hand endearingly familiar as he encircled my wrist—to extort a promise that I would not be long, nor was I long. In five minutes I rejoined him. I found him at supper.

“Take a seat and bear me company, Jane, please God, it is the last meal but one you will eat at Thornfield Hall for a long time.”

I sat down near him, but told him I could not eat.

 “Kneel, then. It calms you.”

 I took in a breath and lowered myself to my knees. How well he knew me and what I needed. I no longer struggled with the length of my dress; Mr Rochester ensured I had plenty of experience at moving it around and still retaining my grace.

 I placed the backs of my hands on my thighs. I looked at the ground. I waited for my master to speak.

 “Look at me,”said he. “Is it because you have the prospect of a journey before you, Jane? Is it the thoughts of going to London that takes away your appetite?”

“I cannot see my prospects clearly tonight sir, and I hardly know what thoughts I have in my head. Everything in life seems unreal.”

“Except me, I am substantial enough—touch me.”

“You, sir, are the most phantom-like of all, you are a mere dream.”

He held out his hand, laughing. “Is that a dream?” said he, placing it close to my eyes. He had a rounded, muscular, and vigorous hand, as well as a long, strong arm.

How well I knew that appendage, capable of bringing me to ecstasy, from the way he used it to spank my bottom, wield a whip, stroke my quim, such pain, such pleasure! And now, such reassurance. “Yes; though I touch it, it is a dream,” said I, as I kissed it put it down from before my face. “Sir, have you finished supper?”

“Yes, Jane.”

I stood, resuming my position as his wife-to-be, rang the bell and ordered away the tray. When we were again alone, I stirred the fire, and, as he indicated, took a low seat at my master’s knee.

“It is near midnight,” I said.

“Yes, but remember, Jane, you promised to wake with me the night before my wedding.”

“I did and I will keep my promise, for an hour or two at least, I have no wish to go to bed.” Certainly not alone. Only he could soothe the ache within me.

“Are all your arrangements complete?”

“All, sir.”

“And on my part likewise,” he returned, “I have settled everything and we shall leave Thornfield tomorrow, within half an hour after our return from church.”

“Very well, sir.”

“With what an extraordinary smile you uttered that word—‘very well,’ Jane! What a bright spot of colour you have on each cheek! And how strangely your eyes glitter! Are you well?”

“I believe I am.”

“Believe! What is the matter? Tell me what you feel.”

“I could not, sir, no words could tell you what I feel. I wish this present hour would never end, who knows with what fate the next may come charged?”

“This is hypochondria, Jane. You have been over-excited, or over-fatigued.”

“Do you, sir, feel calm and happy?”

“Calm?—no, but happy—to the heart’s core.”

I looked up at him to read the signs of bliss in his face, it was ardent and flushed.

“Give me your confidence, Jane,” he said, “relieve your mind of any weight that oppresses it, by imparting it to me. What do you fear?—that I shall not prove a good husband?”

“It is the idea farthest from my thoughts.”

“Are you apprehensive of the new sphere you are about to enter?—of the new life into which you are passing?”

“No.”

“You puzzle me, Jane, your look and tone of sorrowful audacity perplex and pain me. I want an explanation.”

“Then, sir, listen. You were from home last night?”

“I was, I know that and you hinted a while ago at something which had happened in my absence—nothing, probably, of consequence, but, in short, it has disturbed you. Let me hear it. Mrs Fairfax has said something, perhaps? or you have overheard the servants talk?—your sensitive self-respect has been wounded?”

Perhaps it should have been, but it was not. How could my self-respect be wounded by joyfully following what I knew was right in my heart. Honestly, answered I, “No, sir.” It struck twelve—I waited till the time-piece had concluded its silver chime, and the clock its hoarse, vibrating stroke, and then I proceeded.

“All day yesterday I was very busy, and very happy in my ceaseless bustle; for I am not, as you seem to think, troubled by any haunting fears about the new sphere, etcetera. I think it a glorious thing to have the hope of living with you, because I love you. No, sir, don’t caress me now—let me talk undisturbed. Yesterday I trusted well in Providence, and believed that events were working together for your good and mine. It was a fine day, if you recollect—the calmness of the air and sky forbade apprehensions respecting your safety or comfort on your journey. I walked a little while on the pavement after tea, thinking of you and I beheld you in imagination so near me, I scarcely missed your actual presence. I thought of the life that lay before me—
your
life, sir—an existence more expansive and stirring than my own, as much more so as the depths of the sea to which the brook runs are than the shallows of its own strait channel. I wondered why moralists call this world a dreary wilderness, for me it blossomed like a rose. Just at sunset, the air turned cold and the sky cloudy, I went in, Sophie called me upstairs to look at my wedding dress, which they had just brought and under it in the box I found your present—the veil which, in your princely extravagance, you sent for from London. Resolved, I suppose, since I would not have jewels, to cheat me into accepting something as costly. I smiled as I unfolded it, and devised how I would tease you about your aristocratic tastes, and your efforts to masque your plebeian bride in the attributes of a peeress. I thought how I would carry down to you the square of unembroidered blond I had myself prepared as a covering for my low-born head, and ask if that was not good enough for a woman who could bring her husband neither fortune, beauty, nor connections. I saw plainly how you would look and heard your impetuous republican answers, and your haughty disavowal of any necessity on your part to augment your wealth, or elevate your standing, by marrying either a purse or a coronet.”

“How well you read me, you witch!” interposed Mr Rochester, “but what did you find in the veil besides its embroidery? Did you find poison, or a dagger, that you look so mournful now?”

“No, no, sir. Besides the delicacy and richness of the fabric, I found nothing save Fairfax Rochester’s pride and that did not scare me, because I am used to the sight of the demon. But, sir, as it grew dark, the wind rose, it blew yesterday evening, not as it blows now—wild and high—but ‘with a sullen, moaning sound’ far more eerie. I wished you were at home. I came into this room, and the sight of the empty chair and fireless hearth chilled me. For some time after I went to bed, I could not sleep—a sense of anxious excitement distressed me. The gale still rising, seemed to my ear to muffle a mournful under-sound; whether in the house or abroad I could not at first tell, but it recurred, doubtful yet doleful at every lull, at last I made out it must be some dog howling at a distance. I was glad when it ceased. On sleeping, I continued in dreams the idea of a dark and gusty night. I continued also the wish to be with you, and experienced a strange, regretful consciousness of some barrier dividing us. During all my first sleep, I was following the windings of an unknown road. Total obscurity environed me, rain pelted me. I was burdened with the charge of a little child, a very small creature, too young and feeble to walk, and which shivered in my cold arms, and wailed piteously in my ear. I thought, sir, that you were on the road a long way before me and I strained every nerve to overtake you, and made effort on effort to utter your name and entreat you to stop—but my movements were fettered, and my voice still died away inarticulate; while you, I felt, withdrew farther and farther every moment.”