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Jane Eyre by Charlotte BRONTË Chapter 23

Jane Eyre by Charlotte BRONTË Chapter 23


CHAPTER TWENTY THREE of Jane Eyre
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Jane Eyre by Charlotte BRONTË Chapter Twenty Three A splendid Midsummer shone over England: skies
so pure, suns so radiant as were then seen in long succession, seldom
favour even singly, our wave- girt land. It was as if a band of Italian
days had come from the South, like a flock of glorious passenger birds,
and lighted to rest them on the cliffs of Albion. The hay was all got in;
the fields round Thornfield were green and shorn; the roads white and
baked; the trees were in their dark prime; hedge and wood, full-leaved and
deeply tinted, contrasted well with the sunny hue of the cleared meadows
between. On Midsummer-eve, Adele, weary with gathering
wild strawberries in Hay Lane half the day, had gone to bed with the
sun. I watched her drop asleep, and when I left her, I sought the
garden. It was now the sweetest hour of the twenty-four:–“Day
its fervid fires had wasted,” and dew fell cool on panting
plain and scorched summit. Where the sun had gone down in simple state–pure
of the pomp of clouds–spread a solemn purple, burning with
the light of red jewel and furnace flame at one point, on one hill-peak,
and extending high and wide, soft and still softer, over half heaven.
The east had its own charm or fine deep blue, and its own modest
gem, a casino and solitary star: soon it would boast the moon; but she
was yet beneath the horizon. I walked a while on the pavement; but a subtle,
well-known scent–that of a cigar–stole from some window; I saw the
library casement open a handbreadth; I knew I might be watched thence;
so I went apart into the orchard. No nook in the grounds more sheltered
and more Eden-like; it was full of trees, it bloomed with flowers:
a very high wall shut it out from the court, on one side; on the other,
a beech avenue screened it from the lawn. At the bottom was a sunk fence;
its sole separation from lonely fields: a winding walk, bordered with
laurels and terminating in a giant horse-chestnut, circled at the base
by a seat, led down to the fence. Here one could wander unseen. While
such honey-dew fell, such silence reigned, such gloaming gathered, I
felt as if I could haunt such shade for ever; but in threading the flower
and fruit parterres at the upper part of the enclosure, enticed there
by the light the now rising moon cast on this more open quarter, my step
is stayed–not by sound, not by sight, but once more by a warning fragrance. Sweet-briar and southernwood, jasmine, pink,
and rose have long been yielding their evening sacrifice of incense:
this new scent is neither of shrub nor flower; it is–I know it well–it
is Mr. Rochester’s cigar. I look round and I listen. I see trees laden
with ripening fruit. I hear a nightingale warbling in a wood half a mile
off; no moving form is visible, no coming step audible; but that
perfume increases: I must flee. I make for the wicket leading to the shrubbery,
and I see Mr. Rochester entering. I step aside into the ivy recess;
he will not stay long: he will soon return whence he came, and if I
sit still he will never see me. But no–eventide is as pleasant to him as
to me, and this antique garden as attractive; and he strolls on, now lifting
the gooseberry-tree branches to look at the fruit, large as plums,
with which they are laden; now taking a ripe cherry from the wall; now
stooping towards a knot of flowers, either to inhale their fragrance
or to admire the dew-beads on their petals. A great moth goes humming by
me; it alights on a plant at Mr. Rochester’s foot: he sees it, and bends
to examine it. “Now, he has his back towards me,” thought
I, “and he is occupied too; perhaps, if I walk softly, I can slip away
unnoticed.” I trode on an edging of turf that the crackle
of the pebbly gravel might not betray me: he was standing among the beds
at a yard or two distant from where I had to pass; the moth apparently
engaged him. “I shall get by very well,” I meditated. As I crossed his
shadow, thrown long over the garden by the moon, not yet risen high,
he said quietly, without turning– “Jane, come and look at this fellow.” I had made no noise: he had not eyes behind–could
his shadow feel? I started at first, and then I approached him. “Look at his wings,” said he, “he reminds
me rather of a West Indian insect; one does not often see so large and
gay a night-rover in England; there! he is flown.” The moth roamed away. I was sheepishly retreating
also; but Mr. Rochester followed me, and when we reached
the wicket, he said– “Turn back: on so lovely a night it is a shame
to sit in the house; and surely no one can wish to go to bed while
sunset is thus at meeting with moonrise.” It is one of my faults, that though my tongue
is sometimes prompt enough at an answer, there are times when it sadly
fails me in framing an excuse; and always the lapse occurs at some
crisis, when a facile word or plausible pretext is specially wanted to get
me out of painful embarrassment. I did not like to walk at this
hour alone with Mr. Rochester in the shadowy orchard; but I could
not find a reason to allege for leaving him. I followed with lagging step,
and thoughts busily bent on discovering a means of extrication; but
he himself looked so composed and so grave also, I became ashamed of feeling
any confusion: the evil–if evil existent or prospective there was–seemed
to lie with me only; his mind was unconscious and quiet. “Jane,” he recommenced, as we entered the
laurel walk, and slowly strayed down in the direction of the sunk fence and
the horse-chestnut, “Thornfield is a pleasant place in summer,
is it not?” “Yes, sir.” “You must have become in some degree attached
to the house,–you, who have an eye for natural beauties, and a good
deal of the organ of Adhesiveness?” “I am attached to it, indeed.” “And though I don’t comprehend how it is,
I perceive you have acquired a degree of regard for that foolish little child
Adele, too; and even for simple dame Fairfax?” “Yes, sir; in different ways, I have an affection
for both.” “And would be sorry to part with them?” “Yes.” “Pity!” he said, and sighed and paused. “It
is always the way of events in this life,” he continued presently: “no
sooner have you got settled in a pleasant resting-place, than a voice calls
out to you to rise and move on, for the hour of repose is expired.” “Must I move on, sir?” I asked. “Must I leave
Thornfield?” “I believe you must, Jane. I am sorry, Janet,
but I believe indeed you must.” This was a blow: but I did not let it prostrate
me. “Well, sir, I shall be ready when the order
to march comes.” “It is come now–I must give it to-night.” “Then you _are_ going to be married, sir?” “Ex-act-ly–pre-cise-ly: with your usual acuteness,
you have hit the nail straight on the head.” “Soon, sir?” “Very soon, my–that is, Miss Eyre: and you’ll
remember, Jane, the first time I, or Rumour, plainly intimated to you
that it was my intention to put my old bachelor’s neck into the sacred
noose, to enter into the holy estate of matrimony–to take Miss Ingram to
my bosom, in short (she’s an extensive armful: but that’s not to the point–one
can’t have too much of such a very excellent thing as my beautiful
Blanche): well, as I was saying–listen to me, Jane! You’re not turning
your head to look after more moths, are you? That was only a lady-clock,
child, ‘flying away home.’ I wish to remind you that it was you
who first said to me, with that discretion I respect in you–with that
foresight, prudence, and humility which befit your responsible and
dependent position–that in case I married Miss Ingram, both you and little
Adele had better trot forthwith. I pass over the sort of slur conveyed
in this suggestion on the character of my beloved; indeed, when
you are far away, Janet, I’ll try to forget it: I shall notice only its
wisdom; which is such that I have made it my law of action. Adele must
go to school; and you, Miss Eyre, must get a new situation.” “Yes, sir, I will advertise immediately: and
meantime, I suppose–” I was going to say, “I suppose I may stay here,
till I find another shelter to betake myself to:” but I stopped, feeling
it would not do to risk a long sentence, for my voice was not quite under
command. “In about a month I hope to be a bridegroom,”
continued Mr. Rochester; “and in the interim, I shall myself look out
for employment and an asylum for you.” “Thank you, sir; I am sorry to give–” “Oh, no need to apologise! I consider that
when a dependent does her duty as well as you have done yours, she has
a sort of claim upon her employer for any little assistance he can
conveniently render her; indeed I have already, through my future mother-in-law,
heard of a place that I think will suit: it is to undertake the education
of the five daughters of Mrs. Dionysius O’Gall of Bitternutt Lodge,
Connaught, Ireland. You’ll like Ireland, I think: they’re such warm-hearted
people there, they say.” “It is a long way off, sir.” “No matter–a girl of your sense will not
object to the voyage or the distance.” “Not the voyage, but the distance: and then
the sea is a barrier–” “From what, Jane?” “From England and from Thornfield: and–” “Well?” “From _you_, sir.” I said this almost involuntarily, and, with
as little sanction of free will, my tears gushed out. I did not cry so
as to be heard, however; I avoided sobbing. The thought of Mrs. O’Gall
and Bitternutt Lodge struck cold to my heart; and colder the thought of
all the brine and foam, destined, as it seemed, to rush between me
and the master at whose side I now walked, and coldest the remembrance of
the wider ocean–wealth, caste, custom intervened between me and what
I naturally and inevitably loved. “It is a long way,” I again said. “It is, to be sure; and when you get to Bitternutt
Lodge, Connaught, Ireland, I shall never see you again, Jane:
that’s morally certain. I never go over to Ireland, not having myself
much of a fancy for the country. We have been good friends, Jane;
have we not?” “Yes, sir.” “And when friends are on the eve of separation,
they like to spend the little time that remains to them close to
each other. Come! we’ll talk over the voyage and the parting quietly half-an-hour
or so, while the stars enter into their shining life up in
heaven yonder: here is the chestnut tree: here is the bench at its old
roots. Come, we will sit there in peace to-night, though we should
never more be destined to sit there together.” He seated me and himself. “It is a long way to Ireland, Janet, and I
am sorry to send my little friend on such weary travels: but if I can’t
do better, how is it to be helped? Are you anything akin to me, do you
think, Jane?” I could risk no sort of answer by this time:
my heart was still. “Because,” he said, “I sometimes have a queer
feeling with regard to you–especially when you are near me, as now:
it is as if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly and
inextricably knotted to a similar string situated in the corresponding
quarter of your little frame. And if that boisterous Channel, and
two hundred miles or so of land come broad between us, I am afraid that
cord of communion will be snapt; and then I’ve a nervous notion I should
take to bleeding inwardly. As for you,–you’d forget me.” “That I _never_ should, sir: you know–” Impossible
to proceed. “Jane, do you hear that nightingale singing
in the wood? Listen!” In listening, I sobbed convulsively; for I
could repress what I endured no longer; I was obliged to yield, and I was
shaken from head to foot with acute distress. When I did speak, it
was only to express an impetuous wish that I had never been born,
or never come to Thornfield. “Because you are sorry to leave it?” The vehemence of emotion, stirred by grief
and love within me, was claiming mastery, and struggling for full
sway, and asserting a right to predominate, to overcome, to live, rise, and
reign at last: yes,–and to speak. “I grieve to leave Thornfield: I love Thornfield:–I
love it, because I have lived in it a full and delightful life,–momentarily
at least. I have not been trampled on. I have not been
petrified. I have not been buried with inferior minds, and excluded from
every glimpse of communion with what is bright and energetic and high.
I have talked, face to face, with what I reverence, with what I delight
in,–with an original, a vigorous, an expanded mind. I have known you,
Mr. Rochester; and it strikes me with terror and anguish to feel
I absolutely must be torn from you for ever. I see the necessity of departure;
and it is like looking on the necessity of death.” “Where do you see the necessity?” he asked
suddenly. “Where? You, sir, have placed it before me.” “In what shape?” “In the shape of Miss Ingram; a noble and
beautiful woman,–your bride.” “My bride! What bride? I have no bride!” “But you will have.” “Yes;–I will!–I will!” He set his teeth. “Then I must go:–you have said it yourself.” “No: you must stay! I swear it–and the oath
shall be kept.” “I tell you I must go!” I retorted, roused
to something like passion. “Do you think I can stay to become nothing to
you? Do you think I am an automaton?–a machine without feelings? and
can bear to have my morsel of bread snatched from my lips, and my drop of
living water dashed from my cup? Do you think, because I am poor, obscure,
plain, and little, I am soulless and heartless? You think wrong!–I
have as much soul as you,–and full as much heart! And if God had
gifted me with some beauty and much wealth, I should have made it as
hard for you to leave me, as it is now for me to leave you. I am not talking
to you now through the medium of custom, conventionalities, nor even
of mortal flesh;–it is my spirit that addresses your spirit; just as
if both had passed through the grave, and we stood at God’s feet, equal,–as
we are!” “As we are!” repeated Mr. Rochester–“so,”
he added, enclosing me in his arms. Gathering me to his breast, pressing
his lips on my lips: “so, Jane!” “Yes, so, sir,” I rejoined: “and yet not so;
for you are a married man–or as good as a married man, and wed to one inferior
to you–to one with whom you have no sympathy–whom I do not believe
you truly love; for I have seen and heard you sneer at her. I would
scorn such a union: therefore I am better than you–let me go!” “Where, Jane? To Ireland?” “Yes–to Ireland. I have spoken my mind, and
can go anywhere now.” “Jane, be still; don’t struggle so, like a
wild frantic bird that is rending its own plumage in its desperation.” “I am no bird; and no net ensnares me; I am
a free human being with an independent will, which I now exert to leave
you.” Another effort set me at liberty, and I stood
erect before him. “And your will shall decide your destiny,”
he said: “I offer you my hand, my heart, and a share of all my possessions.” “You play a farce, which I merely laugh at.” “I ask you to pass through life at my side–to
be my second self, and best earthly companion.” “For that fate you have already made your
choice, and must abide by it.” “Jane, be still a few moments: you are over-excited:
I will be still too.” A waft of wind came sweeping down the laurel-walk,
and trembled through the boughs of the chestnut: it wandered away–away–to
an indefinite distance–it died. The nightingale’s song
was then the only voice of the hour: in listening to it, I again wept. Mr.
Rochester sat quiet, looking at me gently and seriously. Some time passed
before he spoke; he at last said– “Come to my side, Jane, and let us explain
and understand one another.” “I will never again come to your side: I am
torn away now, and cannot return.” “But, Jane, I summon you as my wife: it is
you only I intend to marry.” I was silent: I thought he mocked me. “Come, Jane–come hither.” “Your bride stands between us.” He rose, and with a stride reached me. “My bride is here,” he said, again drawing
me to him, “because my equal is here, and my likeness. Jane, will you marry
me?” Still I did not answer, and still I writhed
myself from his grasp: for I was still incredulous. “Do you doubt me, Jane?” “Entirely.” “You have no faith in me?” “Not a whit.” “Am I a liar in your eyes?” he asked passionately.
“Little sceptic, you _shall_ be convinced. What love have I for
Miss Ingram? None: and that you know. What love has she for me? None:
as I have taken pains to prove: I caused a rumour to reach her that
my fortune was not a third of what was supposed, and after that I presented
myself to see the result; it was coldness both from her and her mother.
I would not–I could not–marry Miss Ingram. You–you strange,
you almost unearthly thing!–I love as my own flesh. You–poor and obscure,
and small and plain as you are–I entreat to accept me as a husband.” “What, me!” I ejaculated, beginning in his
earnestness–and especially in his incivility–to credit his sincerity: “me
who have not a friend in the world but you–if you are my friend: not a
shilling but what you have given me?” “You, Jane, I must have you for my own–entirely
my own. Will you be mine? Say yes, quickly.” “Mr. Rochester, let me look at your face:
turn to the moonlight.” “Why?” “Because I want to read your countenance–turn!” “There! you will find it scarcely more legible
than a crumpled, scratched page. Read on: only make haste, for I suffer.” His face was very much agitated and very much
flushed, and there were strong workings in the features, and strange
gleams in the eyes. “Oh, Jane, you torture me!” he exclaimed.
“With that searching and yet faithful and generous look, you torture me!” “How can I do that? If you are true, and your
offer real, my only feelings to you must be gratitude and devotion–they
cannot torture.” “Gratitude!” he ejaculated; and added wildly–“Jane
accept me quickly. Say, Edward–give me my name–Edward–I will
marry you.” “Are you in earnest? Do you truly love me?
Do you sincerely wish me to be your wife?” “I do; and if an oath is necessary to satisfy
you, I swear it.” “Then, sir, I will marry you.” “Edward–my little wife!” “Dear Edward!” “Come to me–come to me entirely now,” said
he; and added, in his deepest tone, speaking in my ear as his cheek was
laid on mine, “Make my happiness–I will make yours.” “God pardon me!” he subjoined ere long; “and
man meddle not with me: I have her, and will hold her.” “There is no one to meddle, sir. I have no
kindred to interfere.” “No–that is the best of it,” he said. And
if I had loved him less I should have thought his accent and look of
exultation savage; but, sitting by him, roused from the nightmare
of parting–called to the paradise of union–I thought only of the bliss
given me to drink in so abundant a flow. Again and again he said,
“Are you happy, Jane?” And again and again I answered, “Yes.” After which
he murmured, “It will atone–it will atone. Have I not found her
friendless, and cold, and comfortless? Will I not guard, and cherish,
and solace her? Is there not love in my heart, and constancy in my
resolves? It will expiate at God’s tribunal. I know my Maker sanctions
what I do. For the world’s judgment–I wash my hands thereof. For man’s
opinion–I defy it.” But what had befallen the night? The moon
was not yet set, and we were all in shadow: I could scarcely see my master’s
face, near as I was. And what ailed the chestnut tree? it writhed and
groaned; while wind roared in the laurel walk, and came sweeping over
us. “We must go in,” said Mr. Rochester: “the
weather changes. I could have sat with thee till morning, Jane.” “And so,” thought I, “could I with you.” I
should have said so, perhaps, but a livid, vivid spark leapt out of a cloud
at which I was looking, and there was a crack, a crash, and a close rattling
peal; and I thought only of hiding my dazzled eyes against Mr. Rochester’s
shoulder. The rain rushed down. He hurried me up the
walk, through the grounds, and into the house; but we were quite wet
before we could pass the threshold. He was taking off my shawl in the
hall, and shaking the water out of my loosened hair, when Mrs. Fairfax
emerged from her room. I did not observe her at first, nor did Mr. Rochester.
The lamp was lit. The clock was on the stroke of twelve. “Hasten to take off your wet things,” said
he; “and before you go, good- night–good-night, my darling!” He kissed me repeatedly. When I looked up,
on leaving his arms, there stood the widow, pale, grave, and amazed.
I only smiled at her, and ran upstairs. “Explanation will do for another
time,” thought I. Still, when I reached my chamber, I felt a pang at
the idea she should even temporarily misconstrue what she had seen.
But joy soon effaced every other feeling; and loud as the wind blew,
near and deep as the thunder crashed, fierce and frequent as the lightning
gleamed, cataract-like as the rain fell during a storm of two hours’
duration, I experienced no fear and little awe. Mr. Rochester came thrice
to my door in the course of it, to ask if I was safe and tranquil:
and that was comfort, that was strength for anything. Before I left my bed in the morning, little
Adele came running in to tell me that the great horse-chestnut at the bottom
of the orchard had been struck by lightning in the night, and half
of it split away. End of Twenty Three

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