SOME time in the afternoon I raised my head, and looking round

and seeing the western sun gilding the sign of its decline on the

wall, I asked, 'What am I to do?'

   But the answer my mind gave- 'Leave Thornfield at once'- was so

prompt, so dread, that I stopped my ears. I said I could not bear such

words now. 'That I am not Edward Rochester's bride is the least part

of my woe,' I alleged: 'that I have wakened out of most glorious

dreams, and found them all void and vain, is a horror I could bear and

master; but that I must leave him decidedly, instantly, entirely, is

intolerable. I cannot do it.'

   But, then, a voice within me averred that I could do it and

foretold that I should do it. I wrestled with my own resolution: I

wanted to be weak that I might avoid the awful passage of further

suffering I saw laid out for me; and Conscience, turned tyrant, held

Passion by the throat, told her tauntingly, she had yet but dipped her

dainty foot in the slough, and swore that with that arm of iron he

would thrust her down to unsounded depths of agony.

   'Let me be torn away, then!' I cried. 'Let another help me!'

   'No; you shall tear yourself away, none shall help you: you shall

yourself pluck out your right eye; yourself cut off your right hand:

your heart shall be the victim, and you the priest to transfix it.'

   I rose up suddenly, terror-struck at the solitude which so ruthless

a judge haunted,- at the silence which so awful a voice filled. My

head swam as I stood erect. I perceived that I was sickening from

excitement and inanition; neither meat nor drink had passed my lips

that day, for I had taken no breakfast. And, with a strange pang, I

now reflected that, long as I had been shut up here, no message had

been sent to ask how I was, or to invite me to come down: not even

little Adele had tapped at the door; not even Mrs. Fairfax had

sought me. 'Friends always forget those whom fortune forsakes,' I

murmured, as I undrew the bolt and passed out. I stumbled over an

obstacle: my head was still dizzy, my sight was dim, and my limbs were

feeble. I could not soon recover myself. I fell, but not on to the

ground; an outstretched arm caught me. I looked up- I was supported by

Mr. Rochester, who sat in a chair across my chamber threshold.

   'You come out at last,' he said. 'Well, I have been waiting for you

long, and listening: yet not one movement have I heard, nor one sob:

five minutes more of that death-like hush, and I should have forced

the lock like a burglar. So you shun me?- you shut yourself up and

grieve alone! I would rather you had come and upbraided me with

vehemence. You are passionate: I expected a scene of some kind. I

was prepared for the hot rain of tears; only I wanted them to be

shed on my breast: now a senseless floor has received them, or your

drenched handkerchief. But I err: you have not wept at all! I see a

white cheek and a faded eye, but no trace of tears. I suppose, then,

your heart has been weeping blood?

   'Well, Jane! not a word of reproach? Nothing bitter- nothing

poignant? Nothing to cut a feeling or sting a passion? You sit quietly

where I have placed you, and regard me with a weary, passive look.

   'Jane, I never meant to wound you thus. If the man who had but

one little ewe lamb that was dear to him as a daughter, that ate of

his bread and drank of his cup, and lay in his bosom, had by some

mistake slaughtered it at the shambles, he would not have rued his

bloody blunder more than I now rue mine. Will you ever forgive me?'

   Reader, I forgave him at the moment and on the spot. There was such

deep remorse in his eye, such true pity in his tone, such manly energy

in his manner; and besides, there was such unchanged love in his whole

look and mien- I forgave him all: yet not in words, not outwardly;

only at my heart's core.

   'You know I am a scoundrel, Jane?' ere long he inquired

wistfully- wondering, I suppose, at my continued silence and tameness,

the result rather of weakness than of will.

   'Yes, sir.'

   'Then tell me so roundly and sharply- don't spare me.'

   'I cannot: I am tired and sick. I want some water.' He heaved a

sort of shuddering sigh, and taking me in his arms, carried me

downstairs. At first I did not know to what room he had borne me;

all was cloudy to my glazed sight: presently I felt the reviving

warmth of a fire; for, summer as it was, I had become icy cold in my

chamber. He put wine to my lips; I tasted it and revived; then I ate

something he offered me, and was soon myself. I was in the library-

sitting in his chair- he was quite near. 'If I could go out of life

now, without too sharp a pang, it would be well for me,' I thought;

'then I should not have to make the effort of cracking my

heart-strings in rending them from among Mr. Rochester's. I must leave

him, it appears. I do not want to leave him- I cannot leave him.'

   'How are you now, Jane?'

   'Much better, sir; I shall be well soon.'

   'Taste the wine again, Jane.'

   I obeyed him; then he put the glass on the table, stood before

me, and looked at me attentively. Suddenly he turned away, with an

inarticulate exclamation, full of passionate emotion of some kind;

he walked fast through the room and came back; he stooped towards me

as if to kiss me; but I remembered caresses were now forbidden. I

turned my face away and put his aside.

   'What!- How is this?' he exclaimed hastily. 'Oh, I know! you

won't kiss the husband of Bertha Mason? You consider my arms filled

and my embraces appropriated?'

   'At any rate, there is neither room nor claim for me, sir.'

   'Why, Jane? I will spare you the trouble of much talking; I will

answer for you- Because I have a wife already, you would reply.- I

guess rightly?'

   'Yes.'

   'If you think so, you must have a strange opinion of me; you must

regard me as a plotting profligate- a base and low rake who has been

simulating disinterested love in order to draw you into a snare

deliberately laid, and strip you of honour and rob you of

self-respect. What do you say to that? I see you can say nothing: in

the first place, you are faint still, and have enough to do to draw

your breath; in the second place, you cannot yet accustom yourself

to accuse and revile me, and besides, the flood-gates of tears are

opened, and they would rush out if you spoke much; and you have no

desire to expostulate, to upbraid, to make a scene: you are thinking

how to act- talking you consider is of no use. I know you- I am on

my guard.'

   'Sir, I do not wish to act against you,' I said; and my unsteady

voice warned me to curtail my sentence.

   'Not in your sense of the word, but in mine you are scheming to

destroy me. You have as good as said that I am a married man- as a

married man you will shun me, keep out of my way: just now you have

refused to kiss me. You intend to make yourself a complete stranger to

me: to live under this roof only as Adele's governess; if ever I say a

friendly word to you, if ever a friendly feeling inclines you again to

me, you will say,- "That man had nearly made me his mistress: I must

be ice and rock to him"; and ice and rock you will accordingly

become.'

   I cleared and steadied my voice to reply: 'All is changed about me,

sir; I must change too- there is no doubt of that; and to avoid

fluctuations of feeling, and continual combats with recollections

and associations, there is only one way- Adele must have a new

governess, sir.'

   'Oh, Adele will go to school- I have settled that already; nor do I

mean to torment you with the hideous associations and recollections of

Thornfield Hall- this accursed place- this tent of Achan- this

insolent vault, offering the ghastliness of living death to the

light of the open sky- this narrow stone hell, with its one real

fiend, worse than a legion of such as we imagine. Jane, you shall

not stay here, nor will I. I was wrong ever to bring you to Thornfield

Hall, knowing as I did how it was haunted. I charged them to conceal

from you, before I ever saw you, all knowledge of the curse of the

place; merely because I feared Adele never would have a governess to

stay if she knew with what inmate she was housed, and my plans would

not permit me to remove the maniac elsewhere- though I possess an

old house, Ferndean Manor, even more retired and hidden than this,

where I could have lodged her safely enough, had not a scruple about

the unhealthiness of the situation, in the heart of a wood, made my

conscience recoil from the arrangement. Probably those damp walls

would soon have eased me of her charge: but to each villain his own

vice; and mine is not a tendency to indirect assassination, even of

what I most hate.

   'Concealing the mad-woman's neighbourhood from you, however, was

something like covering a child with a cloak and laying it down near a

upas-tree: that demon's vicinage is poisoned, and always was. But I'll

shut up Thornfield Hall: I'll nail up the front door and board the

lower windows: I'll give Mrs. Poole two hundred a year to live here

with my wife, as you term that fearful hag: Grace will do much for

money, and she shall have her son, the keeper at Grimsby Retreat, to

bear her company and be at hand to give her aid in the paroxysms, when

my wife is prompted by her familiar to burn people in their beds at

night, to stab them, to bite their flesh from their bones, and so on-'

   'Sir,' I interrupted him, 'you are inexorable for that

unfortunate lady: you speak of her with hate- with vindictive

antipathy. It is cruel- she cannot help being mad.'

   'Jane, my little darling (so I will call you, for so you are),

you don't know what you are talking about; you misjudge me again: it

is not because she is mad I hate her. If you were mad, do you think

I should hate you?'

   'I do indeed, sir.'

   'Then you are mistaken, and you know nothing about me, and

nothing about the sort of love of which I am capable. Every atom of

your flesh is as dear to me as my own: in pain and sickness it would

still be dear. Your mind is my treasure, and if it were broken, it

would be my treasure still: if you raved, my arms should confine

you, and not a strait waistcoat- your grasp, even in fury, would

have a charm for me: if you flew at me as wildly as that woman did

this morning, I should receive you in an embrace, at least as fond

as it would be restrictive. I should not shrink from you with

disgust as I did from her: in your quiet moments you should have no

watcher and no nurse but me; and I could hang over you with untiring

tenderness, though you gave me no smile in return; and never weary

of gazing into your eyes, though they had no longer a ray of

recognition for me.- But why do I follow that train of ideas? I was

talking of removing you from Thornfield. All, you know, is prepared

for prompt departure: to-morrow you shall go. I only ask you to endure

one more night under this roof, Jane; and then, farewell to its

miseries and terrors for ever! I have a place to repair to, which will

be a secure sanctuary from hateful reminiscences, from unwelcome

intrusion- even from falsehood and slander.'

   'And take Adele with you, sir,' I interrupted; 'she will be a

companion for you.'

   'What do you mean, Jane? I told you I would send Adele to school;

and what do I want with a child for a companion, and not my own

child,- a French dancer's bastard? Why do you importune me about

her! I say, why do you assign Adele to me for a companion?'

   'You spoke of a retirement, sir; and retirement and solitude are

dull: too dull for you.'

   'Solitude! solitude!' he reiterated with irritation. 'I see I

must come to an explanation. I don't know what sphynx-like

expression is forming in your countenance. You are to share my

solitude. Do you understand?'

   I shook my head: it required a degree of courage, excited as he was

becoming, even to risk that mute sign of dissent. He had been

walking fast about the room, and he stopped, as if suddenly rooted

to one spot. He looked at me long and hard: I turned my eyes from him,

fixed them on the fire, and tried to assume and maintain a quiet,

collected aspect.

   'Now for the hitch in Jane's character,' he said at last,

speaking more calmly than from his look I had expected him to speak.

'The reel of silk has run smoothly enough so far; but I always knew

there would come a knot and a puzzle: here it is. Now for vexation,

and exasperation, and endless trouble! By God! I long to exert a

fraction of Samson's strength, and break the entanglement like tow!'

   He recommenced his walk, but soon again stopped, and this time just

before me.

   'Jane! will you hear reason?' (he stooped and approached his lips

to my ear); 'because, if you won't, I'll try violence. His voice was

hoarse; his look that of a man who is just about to burst an

insufferable bond and plunge headlong into wild license. I saw that in

another moment, and with one impetus of frenzy more, I should be

able to do nothing with him. The present- the passing second of

time- was all I had in which to control and restrain him: a movement

of repulsion, flight, fear would have sealed my doom,- and his. But

I was not afraid: not in the least. I felt an inward power; a sense of

influence, which supported me. The crisis was perilous; but not

without its charm: such as the Indian, perhaps, feels when he slips

over the rapid in his canoe. I took hold of his clenched hand,

loosened the contorted fingers, and said to him, soothingly-

   'Sit down; I'll talk to you as long as you like, and hear all you

have to say, whether reasonable or unreasonable.'

   He sat down: but he did not get leave to speak directly. I had been

struggling with tears for some time: I had taken great pains to

repress them, because I knew he would not like to see me weep. Now,

however, I considered it well to let them flow as freely and as long

as they liked. If the flood annoyed him, so much the better. So I gave

way and cried heartily.

   Soon I heard him earnestly entreating me to be composed. I said I

could not while he was in such a passion.

   'But I am not angry, Jane: I only love you too well; and you had

steeled your little pale face with such a resolute, frozen look, I

could not endure it. Hush, now, and wipe your eyes.'

   His softened voice announced that he was subdued; so I, in my turn,

became calm. Now he made an effort to rest his head on my shoulder,

but I would not permit it. Then he would draw me to him: no.

   'Jane! Jane!' he said, in such an accent of bitter sadness it

thrilled along every nerve I had; 'you don't love me, then? It was

only my station, and the rank of my wife, that you valued? Now that

you think me disqualified to become your husband, you recoil from my

touch as if I were some toad or ape.'

   These words cut me: yet what could I do or say? I ought probably to

have done or said nothing; but I was so tortured by a sense of remorse

at thus hurting his feelings, I could not control the wish to drop

balm where I had wounded.

   'I do love you,' I said, 'more than ever: but I must not show or

indulge the feeling: and this is the last time I must express it.'

   'The last time, Jane! What! do you think you can live with me,

and see me daily, and yet, if you still love me, be always cold and

distant?'

   'No, sir; that I am certain I could not; and therefore I see

there is but one way: but you will be furious if I mention it.'

   'Oh, mention it! If I storm, you have the art of weeping.'

   'Mr. Rochester, I must leave you.'

   'For how long, Jane? For a few minutes, while you smooth your hair-

which is somewhat dishevelled; and bathe your face- which looks

feverish?'

   'I must leave Adele and Thornfield. I must part with you for my

whole life: I must begin a new existence among strange faces and

strange scenes.'

   'Of course: I told you you should. I pass over the madness about

parting from me. You mean you must become a part of me. As to the

new existence, it is all right: you shall yet be my wife: I am not

married. You shall be Mrs. Rochester- both virtually and nominally.

I shall keep only to you so long as you and I live. You shall go to

a place I have in the south of France: a whitewashed villa on the

shores of the Mediterranean. There you shall live a happy, and

guarded, and most innocent life. Never fear that I wish to lure you

into error- to make you my mistress. Why did you shake your head?

Jane, you must be reasonable, or in truth I shall again become

frantic.'

   His voice and hand quivered: his large nostrils dilated; his eye

blazed: still I dared to speak.

   'Sir, your wife is living: that is a fact acknowledged this morning

by yourself. If I lived with you as you desire, I should then be

your mistress: to say otherwise is sophistical- is false.'

   'Jane, I am not a gentle-tempered man- you forget that: I am not

long-enduring; I am not cool and dispassionate. Out of pity to me

and yourself, put your finger on my pulse, feel how it throbs, and-

beware!'

   He bared his wrist, and offered it to me: the blood was forsaking

his cheek and lips, they were growing livid; I was distressed on all

hands. To agitate him thus deeply, by a resistance he so abhorred, was

cruel: to yield was out of the question. I did what human beings do

instinctively when they are driven to utter extremity- looked for

aid to one higher than man: the words 'God help me!' burst

involuntarily from my lips.

   'I am a fool!' cried Mr. Rochester suddenly. 'I keep telling her

I am not married, and do not explain to her why. I forget she knows

nothing of the character of that woman, or of the circumstances

attending my infernal union with her. Oh, I am certain Jane will agree

with me in opinion, when she knows all that I know! Just put your hand

in mine, Janet- that I may have the evidence of touch as well as

sight, to prove you are near me- and I will in a few words show you

the real state of the case. Can you listen to me?'

   'Yes, sir; for hours if you will.'

   'I ask only minutes. Jane, did you ever hear or know that I was not

the eldest son of my house: that I had once a brother older than I?'

   'I remember Mrs. Fairfax told me so once.'

   'And did you ever hear that my father was an avaricious, grasping

man?'

   'I have understood something to that effect.'

   'Well, Jane, being so, it was his resolution to keep the property

together; he could not bear the idea of dividing his estate and

leaving me a fair portion: all, he resolved, should go to my

brother, Rowland. Yet as little could he endure that a son of his

should be a poor man. I must be provided for by a wealthy marriage. He

sought me a partner betimes. Mr. Mason, a West India planter and

merchant, was his old acquaintance. He was certain his possessions

were real and vast: he made inquiries. Mr. Mason, he found, had a

son and daughter; and he learned from him that he could and would give

the latter a fortune of thirty thousand pounds: that sufficed. When

I left college, I was sent out to Jamaica, to espouse a bride

already courted for me. My father said nothing about her money; but he

told me Miss Mason was the boast of Spanish Town for her beauty: and

this was no lie. I found her a fine woman, in the style of Blanche

Ingram: tall, dark, and majestic. Her family wished to secure me

because I was of a good race; and so did she. They showed her to me in

parties, splendidly dressed. I seldom saw her alone, and had very

little private conversation with her. She flattered me, and lavishly

displayed for my pleasure her charms and accomplishments. All the

men in her circle seemed to admire her and envy me. I was dazzled,

stimulated: my senses were excited; and being ignorant, raw, and

inexperienced, I thought I loved her. There is no folly so besotted

that the idiotic rivalries of society, the prurience, the rashness,

the blindness of youth, will not hurry a man to its commission. Her

relatives encouraged me; competitors piqued me; she allured me: a

marriage was achieved almost before I knew where I was. Oh, I have

no respect for myself when I think of that act!- an agony of inward

contempt masters me. I never loved, I never esteemed, I did not even

know her. I was not sure of the existence of one virtue in her nature:

I had marked neither modesty, nor benevolence, nor candour, nor

refinement in her mind or manners- and, I married her:- gross,

grovelling, mole-eyed blockhead that I was! With less sin I might

have- But let me remember to whom I am speaking.

   'My bride's mother I had never seen: I understood she was dead. The

honeymoon over, I learned my mistake; she was only mad, and shut up in

a lunatic asylum. There was a younger brother, too- a complete dumb

idiot. The elder one, whom you have seen (and whom I cannot hate,

whilst I abhor all his kindred, because he has some grains of

affection in his feeble mind, shown in the continued interest he takes

in his wretched sister, and also in a dog-like attachment he once bore

me), will probably be in the same state one day. My father and my

brother Rowland knew all this; but they thought only of the thirty

thousand pounds, and joined in the plot against me.

   'These were vile discoveries; but except for the treachery of

concealment, I should have made them no subject of reproach to my

wife, even when I found her nature wholly alien to mine, her tastes

obnoxious to me, her cast of mind common, low, narrow, and

singularly incapable of being led to anything higher, expanded to

anything larger- when I found that I could not pass a single

evening, nor even a single hour of the day with her in comfort; that

kindly conversation could not be sustained between us, because

whatever topic I started, immediately received from her a turn at once

coarse and trite, perverse and imbecile- when I perceived that I

should never have a quiet or settled household, because no servant

would bear the continued outbreaks of her violent and unreasonable

temper, or the vexations of her absurd, contradictory, exacting

orders- even then I restrained myself: I eschewed upbraiding, I

curtailed remonstrance; I tried to devour my repentance and disgust in

secret; I repressed the deep antipathy I felt.

   'Jane, I will not trouble you with abominable details: some

strong words shall express what I have to say. I lived with that woman

upstairs four years, and before that time she had tried me indeed: her

character ripened and developed with frightful rapidity; her vices

sprang up fast and rank: they were so strong, only cruelty could check

them, and I would not use cruelty. What a pigmy intellect she had, and

what giant propensities! How fearful were the curses those

propensities entailed on me! Bertha Mason, the true daughter of an

infamous mother, dragged me through all the hideous and degrading

agonies which must attend a man bound to a wife at once intemperate

and unchaste.

   'My brother in the interval was dead, and at the end of the four

years my father died too. I was rich enough now- yet poor to hideous

indigence: a nature the most gross, impure, depraved I ever saw, was

associated with mine, and called by the law and by society a part of

me. And I could not rid myself of it by any legal proceedings: for the

doctors now discovered that my wife was mad- her excesses had

prematurely developed the germs of insanity. Jane, you don't like my

narrative; you look almost sick- shall I defer the rest to another

day?'

   'No, sir, finish it now; I pity you- I do earnestly pity you.'

   'Pity, Jane, from some people is a noxious and insulting sort of

tribute, which one is justified in hurling back in the teeth of

those who offer it; but that is the sort of pity native to callous,

selfish hearts; it is a hybrid, egotistical pain at hearing of woes,

crossed with ignorant contempt for those who have endured them. But

that is not your pity, Jane; it is not the feeling of which your whole

face is full at this moment- with which your eyes are now almost

overflowing- with which your heart is heaving- with which your hand is

trembling in mine. Your pity, my darling, is the suffering mother of

love: its anguish is the very natal pang of the divine passion. I

accept it, Jane; let the daughter have free advent- my arms wait to

receive her.'

   'Now, sir, proceed; what did you do when you found she was mad?'

   'Jane, I approached the verge of despair; a remnant of self-respect

was all that intervened between me and the gulf. In the eyes of the

world, I was doubtless covered with grimy dishonour; but I resolved to

be clean in my own sight- and to the last I repudiated the

contamination of her crimes, and wrenched myself from connection

with her mental defects. Still, society associated my name and

person with hers; I yet saw her and heard her daily: something of

her breath (faugh!) mixed with the air I breathed; and besides, I

remembered I had once been her husband- that recollection was then,

and is now, inexpressibly odious to me; moreover, I knew that while

she lived I could never be the husband of another and better wife;

and, though five years my senior (her family and her father had lied

to me even in the particular of her age), she was likely to live as

long as I, being as robust in frame as she was infirm in mind. Thus,

at the age of twenty-six, I was hopeless.

   'One night I had been awakened by her yells- (since the medical men

had pronounced her mad, she had, of course, been shut up)- it was a

fiery West Indian night; one of the description that frequently

precede the hurricanes of those climates. Being unable to sleep in

bed, I got up and opened the window. The air was like

sulphur-steams- I could find no refreshment anywhere. Mosquitoes

came buzzing in and hummed sullenly round the room; the sea, which I

could hear from thence, rumbled dull like an earthquake- black

clouds were casting up over it; the moon was setting in the waves,

broad and red, like a hot cannon-ball- she threw her last bloody

glance over a world quivering with the ferment of tempest. I was

physically influenced by the atmosphere and scene, and my ears were

filled with the curses the maniac still shrieked out; wherein she

momentarily mingled my name with such a tone of demon-hate, with

such language!- no professed harlot ever had a fouler vocabulary

than she: though two rooms off, I heard every word- the thin

partitions of the West India house opposing but slight obstruction

to her wolfish cries.

   '"This life," said I at last, "is hell: this is the air- those

are the sounds of the bottomless pit! I have a right to deliver myself

from it if I can. The sufferings of this mortal state will leave me

with the heavy flesh that now cumbers my soul. Of the fanatic's

burning eternity I have no fear: there is not a future state worse

than this present one- let me break away, and go home to God!"

   'I said this whilst I knelt down at, and unlocked a trunk which

contained a brace of loaded pistols: I meant to shoot myself. I only

entertained the intention for a moment; for, not being insane, the

crisis of exquisite and unalloyed despair, which had originated the

wish and design of self-destruction, was past in a second.

   'A wind fresh from Europe blew over the ocean and rushed through

the open casement: the storm broke, streamed, thundered, blazed, and

the air grew pure. I then framed and fixed a resolution. While I

walked under the dripping orange-trees of my wet garden, and amongst

its drenched pomegranates and pineapples, and while the refulgent dawn

of the tropics kindled round me- I reasoned thus, Jane- and now

listen; for it was true Wisdom that consoled me in that hour, and

showed me the right path to follow.

   'The sweet wind from Europe was still whispering in the refreshed

leaves, and the Atlantic was thundering in glorious liberty; my heart,

dried up and scorched for a long time, swelled to the tone, and filled

with living blood- my being longed for renewal- my soul thirsted for a

pure draught. I saw hope revive- and felt regeneration possible.

From a flowery arch at the bottom of my garden I gazed over the sea-

bluer than the sky: the old world was beyond; clear prospects opened

thus:-

   '"Go," said Hope, "and live again in Europe: there it is not

known what a sullied name you bear, nor what a filthy burden is

bound to you. You may take the maniac with you to England; confine her

with due attendance and precautions at Thornfield: then travel

yourself to what clime you will, and form what new tie you like.

That woman, who has so abused your long-suffering, so sullied your

name, so outraged your honour, so blighted your youth, is not your

wife, nor are you her husband. See that she is cared for as her

condition demands, and you have done all that God and humanity require

of you. Let her identity, her connection with yourself, be buried in

oblivion: you are bound to impart them to no living being. Place her

in safety and comfort: shelter her degradation with secrecy, and leave

her."

   'I acted precisely on this suggestion. My father and brother had

not made my marriage known to their acquaintance; because, in the very

first letter I wrote to apprise them of the union- having already

begun to experience extreme disgust of its consequences, and, from the

family character and constitution, seeing a hideous future opening

to me- I added an urgent charge to keep it secret: and very soon the

infamous conduct of the wife my father had selected for me was such as

to make him blush to own her as his daughter-in-law. Far from desiring

to publish the connection, he became as anxious to conceal it as

myself.

   'To England, then, I conveyed her; a fearful voyage I had with such

a monster in the vessel. Glad was I when I at last got her to

Thornfield, and saw her safely lodged in that third storey room, of

whose secret inner cabinet she has now for ten years made a wild

beast's den- a goblin's cell. I had some trouble in finding an

attendant for her, as it was necessary to select one on whose fidelity

dependence could be placed; for her ravings would inevitably betray my

secret: besides, she had lucid intervals of days- sometimes weeks-

which she filled up with abuse of me. At last I hired Grace Poole from

the Grimsby Retreat. She and the surgeon, Carter (who dressed

Mason's wounds that night he was stabbed and worried), are the only

two I have ever admitted to my confidence. Mrs. Fairfax may indeed

have suspected something, but she could have gained no precise

knowledge as to facts. Grace has, on the whole, proved a good

keeper; though, owing partly to a fault of her own, of which it

appears nothing can cure her, and which is incident to her harassing

profession, her vigilance has been more than once lulled and

baffled. The lunatic is both cunning and malignant; she has never

failed to take advantage of her guardian's temporary lapses; once to

secrete the knife with which she stabbed her brother, and twice to

possess herself of the key of her cell, and issue therefrom in the

night-time. On the first of these occasions, she perpetrated the

attempt to burn me in my bed; on the second, she paid that ghastly

visit to you. I thank Providence, who watched over you, that she

then spent her fury on your wedding apparel, which perhaps brought

back vague reminiscences of her own bridal days: but on what might

have happened, I cannot endure to reflect. When I think of the thing

which flew at my throat this morning, hanging its black and scarlet

visage over the nest of my dove, my blood curdles-'

   'And what, sir,' I asked, while he paused, 'did you do when you had

settled her here? Where did you go?'

   'What did I do, Jane? I transformed myself into a will-o'-the-wisp.

Where did I go? I pursued wanderings as wild as those of the

March-spirit. I sought the Continent, and went devious through all its

lands. My fixed desire was to seek and find a good and intelligent

woman, whom I could love: a contrast to the fury I left at

Thornfield-'

   'But you could not marry, sir.'

   'I had determined and was convinced that I could and ought. It

was not my original intention to deceive, as I have deceived you. I

meant to tell my tale plainly, and make my proposals openly: and it

appeared to me so absolutely rational that I should be considered free

to love and be loved, I never doubted some woman might be found

willing and able to understand my case and accept me, in spite of

the curse with which I was burdened.'

   'Well, sir?'

   'When you are inquisitive, Jane, you always make me smile. You open

your eyes like an eager bird, and make every now and then a restless

movement, as if answers in speech did not flow fast enough for you,

and you wanted to read the tablet of one's heart. But before I go

on, tell me what you mean by your "Well, sir?" It is a small phrase

very frequent with you; and which many a time has drawn me on and on

through interminable talk: I don't very well know why.'

   'I mean,- What next? How did you proceed? What came of such an

event?'

   'Precisely! and what do you wish to know now?'

   'Whether you found any one you liked: whether you asked her to

marry you; and what she said.'

   'I can tell you whether I found any one I liked, and whether I

asked her to marry me: but what she said is yet to be recorded in

the book of Fate. For ten long years I roved about, living first in

one capital, then another: sometimes in St. Petersburg; oftener in

Paris; occasionally in Rome, Naples, and Florence. Provided with

plenty of money and the passport of an old name, I could choose my own

society: no circles were closed against me. I sought my ideal of a

woman amongst English ladies, French countesses, Italian signoras, and

German grafinnen. I could not find her. Sometimes, for a fleeting

moment, I thought I caught a glance, heard a tone, beheld a form,

which announced the realisation of my dream: but I was presently

undeceived. You are not to suppose that I desired perfection, either

of mind or person. I longed only for what suited me- for the antipodes

of the Creole: and I longed vainly. Amongst them all I found not one

whom, had I been ever so free, I- warned as I was of the risks, the

horrors, the loathings of incongruous unions- would have asked to

marry me. Disappointment made me reckless. I tried dissipation-

never debauchery: that I hated, and hate. That was my Indian

Messalina's attribute: rooted disgust at it and her restrained me

much, even in pleasure. Any enjoyment that bordered on riot seemed

to approach me to her and her vices, and I eschewed it.

   'Yet I could not live alone; so I tried the companionship of

mistresses. The first I chose was Celine Varens- another of those

steps which make a man spurn himself when he recalls them. You already

know what she was, and how my liaison with her terminated. She had two

successors: an Italian, Giacinta, and a German, Clara; both considered

singularly handsome. What was their beauty to me in a few weeks?

Giacinta was unprincipled and violent: I tired of her in three months.

Clara was honest and quiet; but heavy, mindless, and unimpressible:

not one whit to my taste. I was glad to give her a sufficient sum to

set her up in a good line of business, and so get decently rid of her.

But, Jane, I see by your face you are not forming a very favourable

opinion of me just now. You think me an unfeeling, loose-principled

rake: don't you?'

   'I don't like you so well as I have done sometimes, indeed, sir.

Did it not seem to you in the least wrong to live in that way, first

with one mistress and then another? You talk of it as a mere matter of

course.'

   'It was with me; and I did not like it. It was a grovelling fashion

of existence: I should never like to return to it. Hiring a mistress

is the next worse thing to buying a slave: both are often by nature,

and always by position, inferior: and to live familiarly with

inferiors is degrading. I now hate the recollection of the time I

passed with Celine, Giacinta, and Clara.'

   I felt the truth of these words; and I drew from them the certain

inference, that if I were so far to forget myself and all the teaching

that had ever been instilled into me, as- under any pretext- with

any justification- through any temptation- to become the successor

of these poor girls, he would one day regard me with the same

feeling which now in his mind desecrated their memory. I did not

give utterance to this conviction: it was enough to feel it. I

impressed it on my heart, that it might remain there to serve me as

aid in the time of trial.

   'Now, Jane, why don't you say "Well, sir?" I have not done. You are

looking grave. You disapprove of me still, I see. But let me come to

the point. Last January, rid of all mistresses- in a harsh, bitter

frame of mind, the result of a useless, roving, lonely life-

corroded with disappointment, sourly disposed against all men, and

especially against all womankind (for I began to regard the notion

of an intellectual, faithful, loving woman as a mere dream),

recalled by business, I came back to England.

   'On a frosty winter afternoon, I rode in sight of Thornfield

Hall. Abhorred spot! I expected no peace- no pleasure there. On a

stile in Hay Lane I saw a quiet little figure sitting by itself. I

passed it as negligently as I did the pollard willow opposite to it: I

had no presentiment of what it would be to me; no inward warning

that the arbitress of my life- my genius for good or evil- waited

there in humble guise. I did not know it, even when, on the occasion

of Mesrour's accident, it came up and gravely offered me help.

Childish and slender creature! It seemed as if a linnet had hopped

to my foot and proposed to bear me on its tiny wing. I was surly;

but the thing would not go: it stood by me with strange

perseverance, and looked and spoke with a sort of authority. I must be

aided, and by that hand: and aided I was.

   'When once I had pressed the frail shoulder, something new- a fresh

sap and sense- stole into my frame. It was well I had learnt that this

elf must return to me- that it belonged to my house down below- or I

could not have felt it pass away from under my hand, and seen it

vanish behind the dim hedge, without singular regret. I heard you come

home that night, Jane, though probably you were not aware that I

thought of you or watched for you. The next day I observed you- myself

unseen- for half an hour, while you played with Adele in the

gallery. It was a snowy day, I recollect, and you could not go out

of doors. I was in my room; the door was ajar: I could both listen and

watch. Adele claimed your outward attention for a while; yet I fancied

your thoughts were elsewhere: but you were very patient with her, my

little Jane; you talked to her and amused her a long time. When at

last she left you, you lapsed at once into deep reverie: you betook

yourself slowly to pace the gallery. Now and then, in passing a

casement, you glanced out at the thick-falling snow; you listened to

the sobbing wind, and again you paced gently on and dreamed. I think

those day visions were not dark: there was a pleasurable

illumination in your eye occasionally, a soft excitement in your

aspect, which told of no bitter, bilious, hypochondriac brooding: your

look revealed rather the sweet musings of youth when its spirit

follows on willing wings the flight of Hope up and on to an ideal

heaven. The voice of Mrs. Fairfax, speaking to a servant in the

hall, wakened you: and how curiously you smiled to and at yourself,

Janet! There was much sense in your smile: it was very shrewd, and

seemed to make light of your own abstraction. It seemed to say- "My

fine visions are all very well, but I must not forget they are

absolutely unreal. I have a rosy sky and a green flowery Eden in my

brain; but without, I am perfectly aware, lies at my feet a rough

tract to travel, and around me gather black tempests to encounter."

You ran downstairs and demanded of Mrs. Fairfax some occupation: the

weekly house accounts to make up, or something of that sort, I think

it was. I was vexed with you for getting out of my sight.

   'Impatiently I waited for evening, when I might summon you to my

presence. An unusual- to me- a perfectly new character I suspected was

yours: I desired to search it deeper and know it better. You entered

the room with a look and air at once shy and independent: you were

quaintly dressed- much as you are now. I made you talk: ere long I

found you full of strange contrasts. Your garb and manner were

restricted by rule; your air was often diffident, and altogether

that of one refined by nature, but absolutely unused to society, and a

good deal afraid of making herself disadvantageously conspicuous by

some solecism or blunder; yet when addressed, you lifted a keen, a

daring, and a glowing eye to your interlocutor's face: there was

penetration and power in each glance you gave; when plied by close

questions, you found ready and round answers. Very soon you seemed

to get used to me: I believe you felt the existence of sympathy

between you and your grim and cross master, Jane; for it was

astonishing to see how quickly a certain pleasant ease tranquillised

your manner: snarl as I would, you showed no surprise, fear,

annoyance, or displeasure at my moroseness; you watched me, and now

and then smiled at me with a simple yet sagacious grace I cannot

describe. I was at once content and stimulated with what I saw: I

liked what I had seen, and wished to see more. Yet, for a long time, I

treated you distantly, and sought your company rarely. I was an

intellectual epicure, and wished to prolong the gratification of

making this novel and piquant acquaintance: besides, I was for a while

troubled with a haunting fear that if I handled the flower freely

its bloom would fade- the sweet charm of freshness would leave it. I

did not then know that it was no transitory blossom, but rather the

radiant resemblance of one, cut in an indestructible gem. Moreover,

I wished to see whether you would seek me if I shunned you- but you

did not; you kept in the schoolroom as still as your own desk and

easel; if by chance I met you, you passed me as soon, and with as

little token of recognition, as was consistent with respect. Your

habitual expression in those days, Jane, was a thoughtful look; not

despondent, for you were not sickly; but not buoyant, for you had

little hope, and no actual pleasure. I wondered what you thought of

me, or if you ever thought of me, and resolved to find this out.

   'I resumed my notice of you. There was something glad in your

glance, and genial in your manner, when you conversed: I saw you had a

social heart; it was the silent schoolroom- it was the tedium of

your life- that made you mournful. I permitted myself the delight of

being kind to you; kindness stirred emotion soon: your face became

soft in expression, your tones gentle; I liked my name pronounced by

your lips in a grateful happy accent. I used to enjoy a chance meeting

with you, Jane, at this time: there was a curious hesitation in your

manner: you glanced at me with a slight trouble- a hovering doubt: you

did not know what my caprice might be- whether I was going to play the

master and be stern, or the friend and be benignant. I was now too

fond of you often to simulate the first whim; and, when I stretched my

hand out cordially, such bloom and light and bliss rose to your young,

wistful features, I had much ado often to avoid straining you then and

there to my heart.'

   'Don't talk any more of those days, sir,' I interrupted,

furtively dashing away some tears from my eyes; his language was

torture to me; for I knew what I must do- and do soon- and these

reminiscences, and these revelations of his feelings, only made my

work more difficult.

   'No, Jane,' he returned: 'what necessity is there to dwell on the

Past, when the Present is so much surer- the Future so much brighter?'

   I shuddered to hear the infatuated assertion.

   'You see now how the case stands- do you not?' he continued. 'After

a youth and manhood passed half in unutterable misery and half in

dreary solitude, I have for the first time found what I can truly

love- I have found you. You are my sympathy- my better self- my good

angel. I am bound to you with a strong attachment. I think you good,

gifted, lovely: a fervent, a solemn passion is conceived in my

heart; it leans to you, draws you to my centre and spring of life,

wraps my existence about you, and, kindling in pure, powerful flame,

fuses you and me in one.

   'It was because I felt and knew this, that I resolved to marry you.

To tell me that I had already a wife is empty mockery: you know now

that I had but a hideous demon. I was wrong to attempt to deceive you;

but I feared a stubbornness that exists in your character. I feared

early instilled prejudice: I wanted to have you safe before

hazarding confidences. This was cowardly: I should have appealed to

your nobleness and magnanimity at first, as I do now- opened to you

plainly my life of agony- described to you my hunger and thirst

after a higher and worthier existence- shown to you, not my resolution

(that word is weak), but my resistless bent to love faithfully and

well, where I am faithfully and well loved in return. Then I should

have asked you to accept my pledge of fidelity and to give me yours.

Jane- give it me now.'

   A pause.

   'Why are you silent, Jane?'

   I was experiencing an ordeal: a hand of fiery iron grasped my

vitals. Terrible moment: full of struggle, blackness, burning! Not a

human being that ever lived could wish to be loved better than I was

loved; and him who thus loved me I absolutely worshipped: and I must

renounce love and idol. One drear word comprised my intolerable

duty- 'Depart!'

   'Jane, you understand what I want of you? Just this promise- "I

will be yours, Mr. Rochester."'

   'Mr. Rochester, I will not be yours.'

   Another long silence.

   'Jane!' recommenced he, with a gentleness that broke me down with

grief, and turned me stone-cold with ominous terror- for this still

voice was the pant of a lion rising- 'Jane, do you mean to go one

way in the world, and to let me go another?'

   'I do.'

   'Jane' (bending towards and embracing me), 'do you mean it now?'

   'I do.'

   'And now?' softly kissing my forehead and cheek.

   'I do,' extricating myself from restraint rapidly and completely.

   'Oh, Jane, this is bitter! This- this is wicked. It would not be

wicked to love me.'

   'It would to obey you.'

   A wild look raised his brows- crossed his features: he rose; but he

forbore yet. I laid my hand on the back of a chair for support: I

shook, I feared- but I resolved.

   'One instant, Jane. Give one glance to my horrible life when you

are gone. All happiness will be torn away with you. What then is left?

For a wife I have but the maniac upstairs: as well might you refer

me to some corpse in yonder churchyard. What shall I do, Jane? Where

turn for a companion and for some hope?'

   'Do as I do: trust in God and yourself. Believe in heaven. Hope

to meet again there.'

   'Then you will not yield?'

   'No.'

   'Then you condemn me to live wretched and to die accursed?' His

voice rose.

   'I advise you to live sinless, and I wish you to die tranquil.'

   'Then you snatch love and innocence from me? You fling me back on

lust for a passion- vice for an occupation?'

   'Mr. Rochester, I no more assign this fate to you than I grasp at

it for myself. We were born to strive and endure- you as well as I: do

so. You will forget me before I forget you.'

   'You make me a liar by such language: you sully my honour. I

declared I could not change: you tell me to my face I shall change

soon. And what a distortion in your judgment, what a perversity in

your ideas, is proved by your conduct! Is it better to drive a

fellow-creature to despair than to transgress a mere human law, no man

being injured by the breach? for you have neither relatives nor

acquaintances whom you need fear to offend by living with me?'

   This was true: and while he spoke my very conscience and reason

turned traitors against me, and charged me with crime in resisting

him. They spoke almost as loud as Feeling: and that clamoured

wildly. 'Oh, comply!' it said. 'Think of his misery; think of his

danger- look at his state when left alone; remember his headlong

nature; consider the recklessness following on despair- soothe him;

save him; love him; tell him you love him and will be his. Who in

the world cares for you? or who will be injured by what you do?'

   Still indomitable was the reply- 'I care for myself. The more

solitary, the more friendless, the more unsustained I am, the more I

will respect myself. I will keep the law given by God; sanctioned by

man. I will hold to the principles received by me when I was sane, and

not mad- as I am now. Laws and principles are not for the times when

there is no temptation: they are for such moments as this, when body

and soul rise in mutiny against their rigour; stringent are they;

inviolate they shall be. If at my individual convenience I might break

them, what would be their worth? They have a worth- so I have always

believed; and if I cannot believe it now, it is because I am insane-

quite insane: with my veins running fire, and my heart beating

faster than I can count its throbs. Preconceived opinions, foregone

determinations, are all I have at this hour to stand by: there I plant

my foot.'

   I did. Mr. Rochester, reading my countenance, saw I had done so.

His fury was wrought to the highest: he must yield to it for a moment,

whatever followed; he crossed the floor and seized my arm and

grasped my waist. He seemed to devour me with his flaming glance:

physically, I felt, at the moment, powerless as stubble exposed to the

draught and glow of a furnace: mentally, I still possessed my soul,

and with it the certainty of ultimate safety. The soul, fortunately,

has an interpreter- often an unconscious, but still a truthful

interpreter- in the eye. My eye rose to his; and while I looked in his

fierce face I gave an involuntary sigh; his gripe was painful, and

my overtaxed strength almost exhausted.

   'Never,' said he, as he ground his teeth, 'never was anything at

once so frail and so indomitable. A mere reed she feels in my hand!'

(And he shook me with the force of his hold.) 'I could bend her with

my finger and thumb: and what good would it do if I bent, if I uptore,

if I crushed her? Consider that eye: consider the resolute, wild, free

thing looking out of it, defying me, with more than courage- with a

stern triumph. Whatever I do with its cage, I cannot get at it- the

savage, beautiful creature! If I tear, if I rend the slight prison, my

outrage will only let the captive loose. Conqueror I might be of the

house; but the inmate would escape to heaven before I could call

myself possessor of its clay dwelling-place. And it is you, spirit-

with will and energy, and virtue and purity- that I want: not alone

your brittle frame. Of yourself you could come with soft flight and

nestle against my heart, if you would: seized against your will, you

will elude the grasp like an essence- you will vanish ere I inhale

your fragrance. Oh! come, Jane, come!'

   As he said this, he released me from his clutch, and only looked at

me. The look was far worse to resist than the frantic strain: only

an idiot, however, would have succumbed now. I had dared and baffled

his fury; I must elude his sorrow: retired to the door.

   'You are going, Jane?'

   'I am going, sir.'

   'You are leaving me?'

   'Yes.'

   'You will not come? You will not be my comforter, my rescuer? My

deep love, my wild woe, my frantic prayer, are all nothing to you?'

   What unutterable pathos was in his voice! How hard it was to

reiterate firmly, 'I am going.'

   'Jane!'

   'Mr. Rochester!'

   'Withdraw, then,- I consent; but remember, you leave me here in

anguish. Go up to your own room; think over all I have said, and,

Jane, cast a glance on my sufferings- think of me.'

   He turned away; he threw himself on his face on the sofa. 'Oh,

Jane! my hope- my love- my life!' broke in anguish from his lips. Then

came a deep, strong sob.

   I had already gained the door; but, reader, I walked back- walked

back as determinedly as I had retreated. I knelt down by him; I turned

his face from the cushion to me; I kissed his cheek; I smoothed his

hair with my hand.

   'God bless you, my dear master!' I said. 'God keep you from harm

and wrong- direct you, solace you- reward you well for your past

kindness to me.'

   'Little Jane's love would have been my best reward,' he answered;

'without it, my heart is broken. But Jane will give me her love:

yes- nobly, generously.'

   Up the blood rushed to his face; forth flashed the fire from his

eyes; erect he sprang; he held his arms out; but I evaded the embrace,

and at once quitted the room.

   'Farewell!' was the cry of my heart as I left him. Despair added,

'Farewell for ever!'
 
 

                   .    .    .    .    .    .
 
 

   That night I never thought to sleep; but a slumber fell on me as

soon as I lay down in bed. I was transported in thought to the

scenes of childhood: I dreamt I lay in the red-room at Gateshead; that

the night was dark, and my mind impressed with strange fears. The

light that long ago had struck me into syncope, recalled in this

vision, seemed glidingly to mount the wall, and tremblingly to pause

in the centre of the obscured ceiling. I lifted up my head to look:

the roof resolved to clouds, high and dim; the gleam was such as the

moon imparts to vapours she is about to sever. I watched her come-

watched with the strangest anticipation; as though some word of doom

were to be written on her disk. She broke forth as never moon yet

burst from cloud: a hand first penetrated the sable folds and waved

them away; then, not a moon, but a white human form shone in the

azure, inclining a glorious brow earthward. It gazed and gazed on

me. It spoke to my spirit: immeasurably distant was the tone, yet so

near, it whispered in my heart-

   'My daughter, flee temptation.'

   'Mother, I will.'

   So I answered after I had waked from the trancelike dream. It was

yet night, but July nights are short: soon after midnight, dawn comes.

'It cannot be too early to commence the task I have to fulfil,'

thought I. I rose: I was dressed; for I had taken off nothing but my

shoes. I knew where to find in my drawers some linen, a locket, a

ring. In seeking these articles, I encountered the beads of a pearl

necklace Mr. Rochester had forced me to accept a few days ago. I

left that; it was not mine: it was the visionary bride's who had

melted in air. The other articles I made up in a parcel; my purse,

containing twenty shillings (it was all I had), I put in my pocket:

I tied on my straw bonnet, pinned my shawl, took the parcel and my

slippers, which I would not put on yet, and stole from my room.

   'Farewell, kind Mrs. Fairfax!' I whispered, as I glided past her

door. 'Farewell, my darling Adele! I said, as I glanced towards the

nursery. No thought could be admitted of entering to embrace her. I

had to deceive a fine ear: for aught I knew it might now be listening.

   I would have got past Mr. Rochester's chamber without a pause;

but my heart momentarily stopping its beat at that threshold, my

foot was forced to stop also. No sleep was there: the inmate was

walking restlessly from wall to wall; and again and again he sighed

while I listened. There was a heaven- a temporary heaven- in this room

for me, if I chose: I had but to go in and to say-

   'Mr. Rochester, I will love you and live with you through life till

death,' and a fount of rapture would spring to my lips. I thought of

this.

   That kind master, who could not sleep now, was waiting with

impatience for day. He would send for me in the morning; I should be

gone. He would have me sought for: vainly. He would feel himself

forsaken; his love rejected: he would suffer; perhaps grow

desperate. I thought of this too. My hand moved towards the lock: I

caught it back, and glided on.

   Drearily I wound my way downstairs: I knew what I had to do, and

I did it mechanically. I sought the key of the side-door in the

kitchen; I sought, too, a phial of oil and a feather; I oiled the

key and the lock. I got some water, I got some bread: for perhaps I

should have to walk far; and my strength, sorely shaken of late,

must not break down. All this I did without one sound. I opened the

door, passed out, shut it softly. Dim dawn glimmered in the yard.

The great gates were closed and locked; but a wicket in one of them

was only latched. Through that I departed: it, too, I shut; and now

I was out of Thornfield.

   A mile off, beyond the fields, lay a road which stretched in the

contrary direction to Millcote; a road I had never travelled, but

often noticed, and wondered where it led: thither I bent my steps.

No reflection was to be allowed now: not one glance was to be cast

back; not even one forward. Not one thought was to be given either

to the past or to the future. The first was a page so heavenly

sweet- so deadly sad- that to read one line of it would dissolve my

courage and break down my energy. The last was an awful blank:

something like the world when the deluge was gone by.

   I skirted fields, and hedges, and lanes till after sunrise. I

believe it was a lovely summer morning: I know my shoes, which I had

put on when I left the house, were soon wet with dew. But I looked

neither to rising sun, nor smiling sky, nor wakening nature. He who is

taken out to pass through a fair scene to the scaffold, thinks not

of the flowers that smile on his road, but of the block and

axe-edge; of the disseverment of bone and vein; of the grave gaping at

the end: and I thought of drear flight and homeless wandering- and oh!

with agony I thought of what I left. I could not help it. I thought of

him now- in his room- watching the sunrise; hoping I should soon

come to say I would stay with him and be his. I longed to be his; I

panted to return: it was not too late; I could yet spare him the

bitter pang of bereavement. As yet my flight, I was sure, was

undiscovered. I could go back and be his comforter- his pride; his

redeemer from misery, perhaps from ruin. Oh, that fear of his

self-abandonment- far worse than my abandonment- how it goaded me!

It was a barbed arrow-head in my breast; it tore me when I tried to

extract it; it sickened me when remembrance thrust it farther in.

Birds began singing in brake and copse: birds were faithful to their

mates; birds were emblems of love. What was I? In the midst of my pain

of heart and frantic effort of principle, I abhorred myself. I had

no solace from self-approbation: none even from self-respect. I had

injured- wounded- left my master. I was hateful in my own eyes.

Still I could not turn, nor retrace one step. God must have led me on.

As to my own will or conscience, impassioned grief had trampled one

and stifled the other. I was weeping wildly as I walked along my

solitary way: fast, fast I went like one delirious. A weakness,

beginning inwardly, extending to the limbs, seized me, and I fell: I

lay on the ground some minutes, pressing my face to the wet turf. I

had some fear- or hope- that here I should die: but I was soon up;

crawling forwards on my hands and knees, and then again raised to my

feet- as eager and as determined as ever to reach the road.

   When I got there, I was forced to sit to rest me under the hedge;

and while I sat, I heard wheels, and saw a coach come on. I stood up

and lifted my hand; it stopped. I asked where it was going: the driver

named a place a long way off, and where I was sure Mr. Rochester had

no connections. I asked for what sum he would take me there; he said

thirty shillings; I answered I had but twenty; well, he would try to

make it do. He further gave me leave to get into the inside, as the

vehicle was empty: I entered, was shut in, and it rolled on its way.

   Gentle reader, may you never feel what I then felt! May your eyes

never shed such stormy, scalding, heart-wrung tears as poured from

mine. May you never appeal to Heaven in prayers so hopeless and so

agonised as in that hour left my lips; for never may you, like me,

dread to be the instrument of evil to what you wholly love.