The manor-house of Ferndean was a building of considerableantiquity, moderate size, and no architectural pretensions, deepburied in a wood. I had heard of it before. Mr. Rochester oftenspoke of it, and sometimes went there. His father had purchased theestate for the sake of the game covers. He would have let thehouse, but could find no tenant, in consequence of its ineligibleand insalubrious site. Ferndean then remained uninhabited andunfurnished, with the exception of some two or three rooms fitted upfor the accommodation of the squire when he went there in the seasonto shoot.

To this house I came just ere dark on an evening marked by thecharacteristics 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 hadpromised. Even when within a very short distance of the manor-house, you could see nothing of it, so thick and dark grew thetimber of the gloomy wood about it. Iron gates between granitepillars showed me where to enter, and passing through them, I foundmyself at once in the twilight of close-ranked trees. There was agrass-grown track descending the forest aisle between hoar andknotty shafts and under branched arches. I followed it, expectingsoon to reach the dwelling; but it stretched on and on, it would farand farther: no sign of habitation or grounds was visible.

I thought I had taken a wrong direction and lost my way. Thedarkness of natural as well as of sylvan dusk gathered over me. Ilooked round in search of another road. There was none: all wasinterwoven stem, columnar trunk, dense summer foliage--no openinganywhere.

I proceeded: at last my way opened, the trees thinned a little;presently I beheld a railing, then the house--scarce, by this dimlight, distinguishable from the trees; so dank and green were itsdecaying walls. Entering a portal, fastened only by a latch, Istood amidst a space of enclosed ground, from which the wood sweptaway in a semicircle. There were no flowers, no garden-beds; only abroad gravel-walk girdling a grass-plat, and this set in the heavyframe of the forest. The house presented two pointed gables in itsfront; the windows were latticed and narrow: the front door wasnarrow too, one step led up to it. The whole looked, as the host ofthe Rochester Arms had said, "quite a desolate spot." It was asstill as a church on a week-day: the pattering rain on the forestleaves was the only sound audible in its vicinage.

"Can there be life here?" I asked.

Yes, life of some kind there was; for I heard a movement--thatnarrow front-door was unclosing, and some shape was about to issuefrom the grange.

It opened slowly: a figure came out into the twilight and stood onthe step; a man without a hat: he stretched forth his hand as if tofeel 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, and stood to watch him--toexamine him, myself unseen, and alas! to him invisible. It was asudden meeting, and one in which rapture was kept well in check bypain. I had no difficulty in restraining my voice from exclamation,my step from hasty advance.

His form was of the same strong and stalwart contour as ever: hisport was still erect, his heir was still raven black; nor were hisfeatures altered or sunk: not in one year's space, by any sorrow,could his athletic strength be quelled or his vigorous primeblighted. But in his countenance I saw a change: that lookeddesperate and brooding--that reminded me of some wronged andfettered wild beast or bird, dangerous to approach in his sullenwoe. The caged eagle, whose gold-ringed eyes cruelty hasextinguished, might look as looked that sightless Samson.

And, reader, do you think I feared him in his blind ferocity?--ifyou do, you little know me. A soft hope blest with my sorrow thatsoon I should dare to drop a kiss on that brow of rock, and on thoselips so sternly sealed beneath it: but not yet. I would not accosthim yet.

He descended the one step, and advanced slowly and gropingly towardsthe grass-plat. Where was his daring stride now? Then he paused,as if he knew not which way to turn. He lifted his hand and openedhis eyelids; gazed blank, and with a straining effort, on the sky,and toward the amphitheatre of trees: one saw that all to him wasvoid darkness. He stretched his right hand (the left arm, themutilated one, he kept hidden in his bosom); he seemed to wish bytouch to gain an idea of what lay around him: he met but vacancystill; for the trees were some yards off where he stood. Herelinquished the endeavour, folded his arms, and stood quiet andmute in the rain, now falling fast on his uncovered head. At thismoment John approached him from some quarter.

"Will you take my arm, sir?" he said; "there is a heavy showercoming on: had you not better go in?"

"Let me alone," was the answer.

John withdrew without having observed me. Mr. Rochester now triedto walk about: vainly,--all was too uncertain. He groped his wayback to the house, and, re-entering it, closed the door.

I now drew near and knocked: John's wife opened for me. "Mary," Isaid, "how are you?"

She started as if she had seen a ghost: I calmed her. To herhurried "Is it really you, miss, come at this late hour to thislonely place?" I answered by taking her hand; and then I followedher into the kitchen, where John now sat by a good fire. Iexplained to them, in few words, that I had heard all which hadhappened since I left Thornfield, and that I was come to see Mr.Rochester. I asked John to go down to the turn-pike-house, where Ihad dismissed the chaise, and bring my trunk, which I had leftthere: and then, while I removed my bonnet and shawl, I questionedMary as to whether I could be accommodated at the Manor House forthe 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 tospeak to him, but do not give my name."

"I don't think he will see you," she answered; "he refuseseverybody."

When she returned, I inquired what he had said. "You are to send inyour name and your business," she replied. She then proceeded tofill a glass with water, and place it on a tray, together withcandles.

"Is that what he rang for?" I asked.

"Yes: he always has candles brought in at dark, though he isblind."

"Give the tray to me; I will carry it in."

I took it from her hand: she pointed me out the parlour door. Thetray shook as I held it; the water spilt from the glass; my heartstruck my ribs loud and fast. Mary opened the door for me, and shutit behind me.

This parlour looked gloomy: a neglected handful of fire burnt lowin the grate; and, leaning over it, with his head supported againstthe high, old-fashioned mantelpiece, appeared the blind tenant ofthe room. His old dog, Pilot, lay on one side, removed out of theway, 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 ayelp and a whine, and bounded towards me: he almost knocked thetray 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 andsighed.

"Give me the water, Mary," he said.

I approached him with the now only half-filled glass; Pilot followedme, still excited.

"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 Istood, he did not touch me. "Who is this? Who is this?" hedemanded, trying, as it seemed, to SEE with those sightless eyes--unavailing and distressing attempt! "Answer me--speak again!" heordered, imperiously and aloud.

"Will you have a little more water, sir? I spilt half of what wasin 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 thisevening," I answered.

"Great God!--what delusion has come over me? What sweet madness hasseized me?"

"No delusion--no madness: your mind, sir, is too strong fordelusion, 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 my heart will stop and my brain burst.Whatever--whoever you are--be perceptible to the touch or I cannotlive!"

He groped; I arrested his wandering hand, and prisoned it in bothmine.

"Her very fingers!" he cried; "her small, slight fingers! If sothere must be more of her."

The muscular hand broke from my custody; my arm was seized, myshoulder--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 youout--I am come back to you."

"In truth?--in the flesh? My living Jane?"

"You touch me, sir,--you hold me, and fast enough: I am not coldlike a corpse, nor vacant like air, am I?"

"My living darling! These are certainly her limbs, and these herfeatures; but I cannot be so blest, after all my misery. It is adream; such dreams as I have had at night when I have clasped heronce more to my heart, as I do now; and kissed her, as thus--andfelt 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 anempty mockery; and I was desolate and abandoned--my life dark,lonely, hopeless--my soul athirst and forbidden to drink--my heartfamished and never to be fed. Gentle, soft dream, nestling in myarms now, you will fly, too, as your sisters have all fled beforeyou: but kiss me before you go--embrace me, Jane."

"There, sir--and there!"'

I pressed my lips to his once brilliant and now rayless eyes--Iswept his hair from his brow, and kissed that too. He suddenlyseemed to arouse himself: the conviction of the reality of all thisseized 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 youare 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 left me five thousand pounds."

"Ah! this is practical--this is real!" he cried: "I should neverdream that. Besides, there is that peculiar voice of hers, soanimating and piquant, as well as soft: it cheers my witheredheart; it puts life into it.--What, Janet! Are you an independentwoman? A rich woman?"

"If you won't let me live with you, I can build a house of my ownclose up to your door, and you may come and sit in my parlour whenyou want company of an evening."

"But as you are rich, Jane, you have now, no doubt, friends who willlook after you, and not suffer you to devote yourself to a blindlameter like me?"

"I told you I am independent, sir, as well as rich: I am my ownmistress."

"And you will stay with me?"

"Certainly--unless you object. I will be your neighbour, yournurse, your housekeeper. I find you lonely: I will be yourcompanion--to read to you, to walk with you, to sit with you, towait on you, to be eyes and hands to you. Cease to look somelancholy, my dear master; you shall not be left desolate, so longas 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 alittle embarrassed. Perhaps I had too rashly over-leapedconventionalities; and he, like St. John, saw impropriety in myinconsiderateness. I had indeed made my proposal from the idea thathe wished and would ask me to be his wife: an expectation, not theless certain because unexpressed, had buoyed me up, that he wouldclaim me at once as his own. But no hint to that effect escapinghim and his countenance becoming more overcast, I suddenlyremembered that I might have been all wrong, and was perhaps playingthe fool unwittingly; and I began gently to withdraw myself from hisarms--but he eagerly snatched me closer.

"No--no--Jane; you must not go. No--I have touched you, heard you,felt the comfort of your presence--the sweetness of yourconsolation: I cannot give up these joys. I have little left inmyself--I must have you. The world may laugh--may call me absurd,selfish--but it does not signify. My very soul demands you: itwill be satisfied, 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 by staying with me; and Iunderstand another. You, perhaps, could make up your mind to beabout my hand and chair--to wait on me as a kind little nurse (foryou have an affectionate heart and a generous spirit, which promptyou to make sacrifices for those you pity), and that ought tosuffice for 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 am content to be only yournurse, if you think it better."

"But you cannot always be my nurse, Janet: you are young--you mustmarry one day."

"I don't care about being married."

"You should care, Janet: if I were what I once was, I would try tomake you care--but--a sightless block!"

He relapsed again into gloom. I, on the contrary, became morecheerful, and took fresh courage: these last words gave me aninsight as to where the difficulty lay; and as it was no difficultywith me, I felt quite relieved from my previous embarrassment. Iresumed a livelier vein of conversation.

"It is time some one undertook to rehumanise you," said I, partinghis thick and long uncut locks; "for I see you are beingmetamorphosed into a lion, or something of that sort. You have a'faux air' of Nebuchadnezzar in the fields about you, that iscertain: your hair reminds me of eagles' feathers; whether yournails are grown like birds' claws or not, I have not yet noticed."

"On this arm, I have neither hand nor nails," he said, drawing themutilated limb from his breast, and showing it to me. "It is a merestump--a ghastly sight! Don't you think so, Jane?"

"It is a pity to see it; and a pity to see your eyes--and the scarof fire on your forehead: and the worst of it is, one is in dangerof 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 mycicatrised visage."

"Did you? Don't tell me so--lest I should say something disparagingto your judgment. Now, let me leave you an instant, to make abetter fire, and have the hearth swept up. Can you tell when thereis a good fire?"

"Yes; with the right eye I see a glow--a ruddy 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 thankful to 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, Idaresay, only you forget."

Summoning Mary, I soon had the room in more cheerful order: Iprepared him, likewise, a comfortable repast. My spirits wereexcited, and with pleasure and 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 atperfect ease, because I knew I suited him; all I said or did seemedeither to console or revive him. Delightful consciousness! Itbrought to life and light my whole nature: in his presence Ithoroughly lived; and he lived in mine. Blind as he was, smilesplayed over his face, joy dawned on his forehead: his lineamentssoftened and warmed.

After supper, he began to ask me many questions, of where I hadbeen, what I had been doing, how I had found him out; but I gave himonly very partial replies: it was too late to enter intoparticulars that night. Besides, I wished to touch no deep-thrilling chord--to open no fresh well of emotion in his heart: mysole present aim was to cheer him. Cheered, as I have said, he was:and yet but by fits. If a moment's silence broke the conversation,he would turn restless, touch me, then say, "Jane."

"You are altogether a human being, Jane? You are certain of that?"

"I conscientiously believe so, Mr. Rochester."

"Yet how, on this dark and doleful evening, could you so suddenlyrise 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 aquestion, expecting John's wife to answer me, and your voice spokeat my ear."

"Because I had come in, in Mary's stead, with the tray."

"And there is enchantment in the very hour I am now spending withyou. Who can tell what a dark, dreary, hopeless life I have draggedon for months past? Doing nothing, expecting nothing; merging nightin day; feeling but the sensation of cold when I let the fire goout, of hunger when I forgot to eat: and then a ceaseless sorrow,and, at times, a very delirium of desire to behold my Jane again.Yes: for her restoration I longed, far more than for that of mylost sight. How can it be that Jane is with me, and says she lovesme? Will she not depart as suddenly as she came? To-morrow, I fearI shall find her no more."

A commonplace, practical reply, out of the train of his owndisturbed ideas, was, I was sure, the best and most reassuring forhim in this frame of mind. I passed my finger over his eyebrows,and remarked that they were scorched, and that I would applysomething which would make them grow as broad and black as ever.

"Where is the use of doing me good in any way, beneficent spirit,when, at some fatal moment, you will again desert me--passing like ashadow, whither and how to me unknown, and for me remainingafterwards undiscoverable?

"Have you a pocket-comb about you, sir?"

"What for, Jane?"

"Just to comb out this shaggy black mane. I find you ratheralarming, when I examine you close at hand: you talk of my being afairy, but I am sure, you are more like a brownie."

"Am I hideous, Jane?"

"Very, sir: you always were, you know."

"Humph! The wickedness has not been taken out of you, wherever youhave sojourned."

"Yet I have been with good people; far better than you: a hundredtimes better people; possessed of ideas and views you neverentertained 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 yourhead; and then I think you will cease to entertain doubts of mysubstantiality."

"Who have you been with, Jane?"

"You shall not get it out of me to-night, sir; you must wait tillto-morrow; to leave my tale half told, will, you know, be a sort ofsecurity that I shall appear at your breakfast table to finish it.By the bye, I must mind not to rise on your hearth with only a glassof water then: I must bring an egg at the least, to say nothing offried ham."

"You mocking changeling--fairy-born and human-bred! You make mefeel as I have not felt these twelve months. If Saul could have hadyou for his David, the evil spirit would have been exorcised withoutthe aid of the harp."

"There, sir, you are redd up and made decent. Now I'll leave you:I have been travelling these last three days, and I believe I amtired. Good night."

"Just one word, Jane: were there only ladies in the house where youhave been?"

I laughed and made my escape, still laughing as I ran upstairs. "Agood idea!" I thought with glee. "I see I have the means offretting him out of his melancholy for some time to come."

Very early the next morning I heard him up and astir, wandering fromone room to another. As soon as Mary came down I heard thequestion: "Is Miss Eyre here?" Then: "Which room did you put herinto? 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 was a prospect of breakfast.Entering the room very softly, I had a view of him before hediscovered my presence. It was mournful, indeed, to witness thesubjugation of that vigorous spirit to a corporeal infirmity. Hesat in his chair--still, but not at rest: expectant evidently; thelines of now habitual sadness marking his strong features. Hiscountenance reminded one of a lamp quenched, waiting to be re-lit--and alas! it was not himself that could now kindle the lustre ofanimated expression: he was dependent on another for that office!I had meant to be gay and careless, but the powerlessness of thestrong man touched my heart to the quick: still I accosted him withwhat vivacity I could.

"It is a bright, sunny morning, sir," I said. "The rain is over andgone, and there is a tender shining after it: you shall have a walksoon."

I had wakened the glow: his features beamed.

"Oh, you are indeed there, my skylark! Come to me. You are notgone: not vanished? I heard one of your kind an hour ago, singinghigh over the wood: but its song had no music for me, any more thanthe rising 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 silentone): all the sunshine I can feel is in her presence."

The water stood in my eyes to hear this avowal of his dependence;just as if a royal eagle, chained to a perch, should be forced toentreat a sparrow to become its purveyor. But I would not belachrymose: I dashed off the salt drops, and busied myself withpreparing breakfast.

Most of the morning was spent in the open air. I led him out of thewet and wild wood into some cheerful fields: I described to him howbrilliantly green they were; how the flowers and hedges lookedrefreshed; how sparklingly blue was the sky. I sought a seat forhim in a hidden and lovely spot, a dry stump of a tree; nor did Irefuse to let him, when seated, place me on his knee. Why should I,when both he and I were happier near than apart? Pilot lay besideus: all was quiet. He broke out suddenly while clasping me in hisarms -

"Cruel, cruel deserter! Oh, Jane, what did I feel when I discoveredyou had fled from Thornfield, and when I could nowhere find you;and, after examining your apartment, ascertained that you had takenno money, nor anything which could serve as an equivalent! A pearlnecklace I had given you lay untouched in its little casket; yourtrunks were left corded and locked as they had been prepared for thebridal tour. What could my darling do, I asked, left destitute andpenniless? And what did she do? Let me hear now."

Thus urged, I began the narrative of my experience for the lastyear. I softened considerably what related to the three days ofwandering and starvation, because to have told him all would havebeen to inflict unnecessary pain: the little I did say laceratedhis faithful heart deeper than I wished.

I should not have left him thus, he said, without any means ofmaking my way: I should have told him my intention. I should haveconfided 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 fartoo well and too tenderly to constitute himself my tyrant: he wouldhave given me half his fortune, without demanding so much as a kissin return, rather than I should have flung myself friendless on thewide world. I had endured, he was certain, more than I hadconfessed to him.

"Well, whatever my sufferings had been, they were very short," Ianswered: and then I proceeded to tell him how I had been receivedat Moor House; how I had obtained the office of schoolmistress, &c.The accession of fortune, the discovery of my relations, followed indue order. Of course, St. John Rivers' name came in frequently inthe 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 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 offifty? 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 livesto perform."

"But his brain? That is probably rather soft? He means well: butyou shrug your shoulders to hear him talk?"

"He talks little, sir: what he does say is ever to the point. Hisbrain 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 andparsonic?"

"I never mentioned his manners; but, unless I had a very bad taste,they must suit it; they are polished, calm, and gentlemanlike."

"His appearance,--I forget what description you gave of hisappearance;--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, withblue 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 hadgot hold of him: she stung him; but the sting was salutary: itgave 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 toooverwhelming contrast. Your words have delineated very prettily agraceful Apollo: he is present to your imagination,--tall, fair,blue-eyed, and with a Grecian profile. Your eyes dwell on aVulcan,--a real blacksmith, brown, broad-shouldered: and blind andlame into the bargain."

"I never thought of it, before; but you certainly are rather likeVulcan, sir."

"Well, you can leave me, ma'am: but before you go" (and he retainedme by a firmer grasp than ever), "you will be pleased just to answerme a question or two." He paused.

"What questions, Mr. Rochester?"

Then followed this cross-examination.

"St. John made you schoolmistress of Morton before he knew you werehis 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 tofind? 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 evercome 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 thecousinship was discovered?"

"Five months."

"Did Rivers spend much time with the ladies of his family?"

"Yes; the back parlour was both his study and ours: he sat near thewindow, 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 marryhim?"

"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 thanonce, 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 saythe same thing? Why do you remain pertinaciously perched on myknee, when I have given you notice to quit?"

"Because I am comfortable there."

"No, Jane, you are not comfortable there, because your heart is notwith me: it is with this cousin--this St. John. Oh, till thismoment, I thought my little Jane was all mine! I had a belief sheloved me even when she left me: that was an atom of sweet in muchbitter. Long as we have been parted, hot tears as I have wept overour 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 ofmy own accord."

"Jane, I ever like your tone of voice: it still renews hope, itsounds so truthful. When I hear it, it carries me back a year. Iforget 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 donot love him. He loves (as he CAN love, and that is not as youlove) a beautiful young lady called Rosamond. He wanted to marry meonly 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 nothappy at his side, nor near him, nor with him. He has no indulgencefor 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 clung instinctively closer to myblind but beloved master. He smiled.

"What, Jane! Is this true? Is such really the state of mattersbetween you and Rivers?"

"Absolutely, sir! Oh, you need not be jealous! I wanted to teaseyou a little to make you less sad: I thought anger would be betterthan grief. But if you wish me to love you, could you but see howmuch I DO love you, you would be proud and content. All my heart isyours, sir: it belongs to you; and with you it would remain, werefate to exile the rest of me from your presence for ever."

Again, as he kissed me, painful thoughts darkened his aspect. "Myscared 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 hisface a minute, I saw a tear slide from under the sealed eyelid, andtrickle down the manly cheek. My heart swelled.

"I am no better than the old lightning-struck chestnut-tree inThornfield orchard," he remarked ere long. "And what right wouldthat ruin have to bid a budding woodbine cover its decay withfreshness?"

"You are no ruin, sir--no lightning-struck tree: you are green andvigorous. Plants will grow about your roots, whether you ask themor not, because they take delight in your bountiful shadow; and asthey grow they will lean towards you, and wind round you, becauseyour 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 Imeant more than friends, but could not tell what other word toemploy. 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 towait 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 Ithought a good thought--if ever I prayed a sincere and blamelessprayer--if ever I wished a righteous wish,--I am rewarded now. Tobe 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 forcontent. To be privileged to put my arms round what I value--topress my lips to what I love--to repose on what I trust: is that tomake a sacrifice? If so, then certainly I delight in sacrifice."

"And to bear with my infirmities, Jane: to overlook mydeficiencies."

"Which are none, sir, to me. I love you better now, when I canreally be useful to you, than I did in your state of proudindependence, when you disdained every part but that of the giverand protector."

"Hitherto I have hated to be helped--to be led: henceforth, I feelI 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 littlefingers. I preferred utter loneliness to the constant attendance ofservants; but Jane's soft ministry will be a perpetual joy. Janesuits 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: wemust 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 thelicence to get--then we marry."

"Mr. Rochester, I have just discovered the sun is far declined fromits meridian, and Pilot is actually gone home to his dinner. Let melook at your watch."

"Fasten it into your girdle, Janet, and keep it henceforward: Ihave no use for it."

"It is nearly four o'clock in the afternoon, sir. Don't you feelhungry?"

"The third day from this must be our wedding-day, Jane. Never mindfine 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 momentfastened round my bronze scrag under my cravat? I have worn itsince 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 daresay, an irreligious dog: but my heartswells 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 wrong: I would have sullied my innocentflower--breathed guilt on its purity: the Omnipotent snatched itfrom me. I, in my stiff-necked rebellion, almost cursed thedispensation: instead of bending to the decree, I defied it.Divine justice pursued its course; disasters came thick on me: Iwas forced to pass through the valley of the shadow of death. HISchastisements 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 itsweakness? Of late, Jane--only--only of late--I began to see andacknowledge the hand of God in my doom. I began to experienceremorse, repentance; the wish for reconcilement to my Maker. Ibegan sometimes to pray: very brief prayers they were, but verysincere.

"Some days since: nay, I can number them--four; it was last Mondaynight, a singular mood came over me: one in which grief replacedfrenzy--sorrow, sullenness. I had long had the impression thatsince I could nowhere find you, you must be dead. Late that night--perhaps it might be between eleven and twelve o'clock--ere I retiredto my dreary rest, I supplicated God, that, if it seemed good toHim, I might soon be taken from this life, and admitted to thatworld 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 nostars and only by a vague, luminous haze, knew the presence of amoon. I longed for thee, Janet! Oh, I longed for thee both withsoul and flesh! I asked of God, at once in anguish and humility, ifI had not been long enough desolate, afflicted, tormented; and mightnot soon taste bliss and peace once more. That I merited all Iendured, I acknowledged--that I could scarcely endure more, Ipleaded; and the alpha and omega of my heart's wishes brokeinvoluntarily 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 thoughtme 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 thestrange point. You will think me superstitious,--some superstitionI 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 whencethe voice came, but I know whose voice it was--replied, 'I amcoming: wait for me;' and a moment after, went whispering on thewind the words--'Where are you?'

"I'll tell you, if I can, the idea, the picture these words openedto 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 fallsdull, and dies unreverberating. 'Where are you?' seemed spokenamongst 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 weremeeting. In spirit, I believe we must have met. You no doubt were,at that hour, in unconscious sleep, Jane: perhaps your soulwandered 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 hadreceived the mysterious summons: those were the very words by whichI replied to it. I listened to Mr. Rochester's narrative, but madeno disclosure in return. The coincidence struck me as too awful andinexplicable to be communicated or discussed. If I told anything,my tale would be such as must necessarily make a profound impressionon the mind of my hearer: and that mind, yet from its sufferingstoo prone to gloom, needed not the deeper shade of the supernatural.I kept these things then, and pondered them in my heart.

"You cannot now wonder," continued my master, "that when you roseupon me so unexpectedly last night, I had difficulty in believingyou any other than a mere voice and vision, something that wouldmelt to silence and annihilation, as the midnight whisper andmountain echo had melted before. Now, I thank God! I know it to beotherwise. Yes, I thank God!"

He put me off his knee, rose, and reverently lifting his hat fromhis brow, and bending his sightless eyes to the earth, he stood inmute devotion. Only the last words of the worship were audible.

"I thank my Maker, that, in the midst of judgment, he has rememberedmercy. I humbly entreat my Redeemer to give me strength to leadhenceforth 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 propand guide. We entered the wood, and wended homeward.