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JANE EYR-E. 
 
 &n ^utobtograpSg. 
 
 EDITED BY 
 
 CUKEEE BELL. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 
 VOL. III. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 SMITH, ELDER AND CO., CORNHILL. 
 
 1847. 
 
London : 
 
 Printed by Stewart and Murray, 
 
 Old Bailey. 
 
1/.3 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Some time in the afternoon I raised my head, and 
 looking round and seeing the westering sun gild- 
 ing the sign of its decline on the wall, I asked, 
 "What am I to do?" 
 
 But the answer my mind gave — " Leave Thorn- 
 field at once" — was so prompt, so dread, that I 
 stopped my ears: I said, I could not bear such 
 w T ords 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 force 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 
 
 VOL. III. B 
 
A JANE EYRE. 
 
 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 un- 
 drew the bolt and passed out. I stumbled over 
 
JANE EYRE. 6 
 
 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 out-stretched 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 up- 
 braided 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 ? No- 
 thing 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. 
 
 u Jane, I never meant to wound you thus. If 
 
 b2 
 
4 JANE EYRE. 
 
 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 un- 
 changed love in his whole look and mein — I for- 
 gave 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 down stairs. 
 At first I did not know to what room he had borne 
 me ; all was cloudjr 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. 
 
JANE EYRE. O 
 
 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 rae," 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 w r ant to 
 leave him — I cannot leave him." 
 
 " How are you now, Jane T 
 
 (e Much better, sir : I shall be well soon." 
 
 " Taste the w T ine again, Jane." 
 
 I obeyed him; then he put the glass on the 
 table, stood before me, and looked at me atten- 
 tively. Suddenly he turned away, with an inarti- 
 culate 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 forbid- 
 den. 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 ? " 
 
 ie At any rate, there is neither room nor claim 
 for me, sir." 
 
 i( Why, Jane ? I will spare you the trouble of 
 
§ JANE EYRE. 
 
 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 mar- 
 ried man you will shun me, keep out of my way : 
 j ust now you have refused to kiss me. You intend 
 
JANE EYRE. 7 
 
 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 : iC All 
 is changed about me, sir ; I must change too — 
 there is no doubt of that ; and, to avoid fluctua- 
 tions of feeling, and continual combats with recol- 
 lections 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 ghastli- 
 ness 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 a haunted. I charged them to con- 
 ceal from you, before I ever saw you, all know- 
 ledge 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 
 
8 JANE EYRE. 
 
 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 ; 
 1 11 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 
 
JANE EYRE. 9 
 
 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." 
 
 u 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 
 w T ould 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, 
 
10 JANE EYRE. 
 
 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 un- 
 welcome 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 irri- 
 tation. " I see I must come to an explanation. 
 I don't know what sphynx-like expression is form- 
 ing in your countenance. You are to share my 
 solitude. Do you understand?" 
 
 I shook my head : it required a degree of cou- 
 rage, 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 
 
JANE EYRE. 11 
 
 hard : I turned ray eyes from him, fixed them on 
 the fire, and tried to assume and maintain, a quiet, 
 collected aspect. 
 
 u 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 frac- 
 tion of Samson's strength, and break the entan- 
 glement like tow!" 
 
 He recommenced his walk: but soon again 
 stopped, and this time just before me. 
 
 f Jane ! will you hear reason ?" (he stooped and 
 approached his lips to my ear) "because, if you 
 won't, I '11 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 licence. 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 pass- 
 ing second of time — was all I had in which to 
 control and restrain him: a movement of repul- 
 sion, 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 
 
12 JANE EYRE, 
 
 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 '11 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 sub- 
 dued ; 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 EYRE. 13 
 
 "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 
 1 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 dis- 
 tant?" 
 
 " 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 1 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 
 
14 JANE EYRE. 
 
 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 amongst 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 white-walled villa on the shores of the Mediter- 
 ranean. 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 do 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, 1 dared to speak : — 
 
 " Sir, your wife is living : that is a fact ac- 
 knowledged 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 EYRE. 15 
 
 " 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 ques- 
 tion. 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 V 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 circum- 
 stances 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, 
 
16 JANE EYRE. 
 
 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 
 jkeep 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, Russell. 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. 
 
JANE EYRE. 17 
 
 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. 1 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 under- 
 stood she was dead. The honey-moon over, I 
 learned my mistake : she was only mad ; and shut 
 up in a lunatic asylum. There was a younger 
 
 VOL. III. c 
 
18 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 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 Russell, knew 
 all this ; but they thought only of the thirty thou- 
 sand 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 ; 
 lier tastes obnoxious to me ; her cast of mind com- 
 mon, low, narrow, and singularly incapable of 
 being led to anything higher, expanded to any- 
 thing larger — when I found that 1 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, what- 
 ever 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 ser- 
 vant would bear the continued outbreaks of her 
 violent and unreasonable temper, or the vexations 
 of her absurd, contradictory, exacting orders — 
 
JANE EYRE. 19 
 
 even then I restrained myself: I eschewed up- 
 braiding, I curtailed remonstrance ; I tried to 
 devour my repentance and disgust in secret; I 
 repressed the deep antipathy I felt. 
 
 u Jane, I will not trouble you with abominable 
 details : some strong words shall express what I 
 have to say. I lived with that woman up-stairs 
 four years, and before that time she had tried me 
 indeed : her character ripened and developed with 
 frightful rapidity; her vices sprung 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 propensi- 
 ties ! How fearful were the curses those propen- 
 sities 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 indi- 
 gence : 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 
 
 c2 
 
20 JANE EYRE. 
 
 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 w^hich 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 dis- 
 honour : but I resolved to be clean in my own 
 
JANE EYRE. 21 
 
 sight — and to the last I repudiated the contamina- 
 tion of her crimes, and wrenched myself from 
 connexion 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 my 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. 
 
 16 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 sul- 
 phur-steams — I could find no refreshment any- 
 where. 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 
 
22 JANE EYRE. 
 
 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 tem- 
 pest. I was physically influenced by the atmo- 
 sphere 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 while 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. 
 
 (i A wind fresh from Europe blew over the ocean 
 
JANE EYRE. 23 
 
 and rushed through the open casement : the 
 storm broke, streamed, thundered, blazed, and the 
 air grew pure. I then framed and fixed a resolu- 
 tion. While I walked under the dripping orange- 
 trees of my wet garden, and amongst its drenched 
 pomegranates and pine-apples, and while the reful- 
 gent 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 whis- 
 pering 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 Regenera- 
 tion 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 }^ou. 
 You may take the maniac with you to England ; 
 confine her with due attendance and precautions 
 at Thornfleld : then travel yourself to what clime 
 you will, and form what new tie you like. That 
 
24 JANE EYRE. 
 
 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 ex- 
 treme 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, 
 
JANE EYRE. 25 
 
 and saw her safely lodged in that third story 
 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 Re- 
 treat. 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 tem- 
 porary lapses : once to secrete the knife, with 
 which she stabbed her brother, and twice to pos- 
 sess 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 
 
26 JANE EYRE. 
 
 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 en- 
 dure 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 inten- 
 tion 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 
 
JANE EYRE. 27" 
 
 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?" 
 
 f* 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 rest- 
 less 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 pro- 
 ceed? What came of such an event IV 
 
 " 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 
 
28 JANE EYHE. 
 
 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 
 rind her. Sometimes, for a fleeting moment, I 
 thought I caught a glance, heard a tone, beheld a 
 form, which announced the realization 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. 
 
JANE EYRE. 29 
 
 You already know what she was, and how my 
 liaison with her terminated. She had two suc- 
 cessors : 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, 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 some- 
 times, 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 wish to return to it. Hiring a mistress is 
 the next worst 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 
 
30 JANE EYREv 
 
 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 pre- 
 text — with any justification — through any temp- 
 tation — 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 con- 
 viction : 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 disap- 
 pointment, 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. 
 
 ei 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 
 
JANE EYRE. 31 
 
 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 acci- 
 dent, 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 ob- 
 served 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 awhile; yet 
 
23 JANE EYRE. 
 
 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 pleasureable 
 illumination in your eye occasionally, a soft 
 excitement in your aspect, which told of no bitter, 
 bilious, hypochondriac brooding: your look re- 
 vealed 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 
 down-stairs and demanded of Mrs. Fairfax some 
 
JANE EYRE. 33 
 
 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 inter- 
 locutor's face : there was penetration and power in 
 each glance you gave ; when plied by close ques- 
 tions, 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 tranquillized your manner : snarl as I would, 
 you showed no surprise, fear, annoyance, or dis- 
 pleasure at my moroscness ; you watched me, and 
 now and then smiled at me with a simple yet 
 
 vol. in. D 
 
34 JANE EYRE. 
 
 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 epi- 
 cure, and wished to prolong the gratification of 
 making this novel and piquant acquaintance : be- 
 sides, 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 tran- 
 sitory 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 
 school-room 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 con- 
 sistent 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: 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 school-room — it was the tedium 
 of your life that made you mournful. I permitted 
 myself the delight of being kind to you; kindness 
 
JANE EYRE. 35 
 
 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 all 
 these reminiscences, and these revelations of his 
 feelings, only made my work more difficult. 
 
 ie 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 man- 
 hood, 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 
 
 d2 
 
36 JANE EYRE. 
 
 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, kind- 
 ling 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 exis- 
 tence — 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 
 
JANE EYRE. 37 
 
 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 intoler- 
 able duty — " Depart ! " 
 
 " Jane, you understand what I want of you ? 
 Just this promise — ' I will be yours, Mr. Ro- 
 chester.'" 
 
 " 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) 
 M 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 fea- 
 tures : he rose ; but he forbore yet. I laid my 
 
38 JANE EYRE. 
 
 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 up-stairs: 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. Be- 
 lieve 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. 
 
 ■f 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 per- 
 versity in your ideas, is proved by your conduct ! 
 Is it better to drive a fellow- creature to despair 
 
JANE EYRE. 39 
 
 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 head- 
 long 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 ; sanc- 
 tioned 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, 
 
40 JANE EYRE. 
 
 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 counte- 
 nance, 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 over-tasked 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, defy- 
 
JANE EYRE. 41 
 
 ing 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, how- 
 ever, would have succumbed now. I had dared 
 and baffled his fury ; I must elude his sorrow : 
 I retired to the door. 
 
 " You are going, Jane?" 
 
 u 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 ! 
 
42 .JANE EYRE, 
 
 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. (i 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." 
 
 6i 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 
 
JANE EYRE. 43 
 
 I left him. Despair added, i — " Farewell for 
 ever ! " 
 
 #aa. ' ^l ■ a; ju- aim 
 
 *?r "n* "ft* "7v* *A* 
 
 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, in- 
 clining a glorious brow earthward. It gazed and 
 gazed on me. It spoke, to my spirit : immeasure- 
 ably 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 
 trance-like dream. It was yet night, but July 
 
44 JANE EYRE. 
 
 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 dar- 
 ling 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 stop- 
 ping 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, 
 
JANE EYRE. 45 
 
 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 rap- 
 ture 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 down stairs : 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 ; 
 
46 JANE EYRE. 
 
 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 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 morn- 
 ing : 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 wan- 
 dering — 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 re- 
 turn : 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 
 
JANE EYRE. 47 
 
 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 Re- 
 membrance thrust it further 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 in- 
 wardly, extending to the limbs, seized me, and 
 I fell : I lay on the ground some minutes, pres- 
 sing 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 
 
48 JANE EYRE. 
 
 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 
 connexions. I asked for what sum he would 
 take me there ; he said thirty shillings ; I an- 
 swered 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 agonized 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. 
 
JANE EYRE. 49 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Two days are passed. It is a summer evening; 
 the coachman has set me down at a place called 
 Whitcross : he could take me no farther for the 
 sum I had given, and I was not possessed of 
 another shilling in the world. The coach is a 
 mile off by this time ; I am alone. At this mo- 
 ment I discover that I forgot to take my parcel 
 out of the pocket of the coach, where I had 
 placed it for safety: there it remains, there it 
 must remain ; and now I am absolutely destitute* 
 
 Whitcross is no town, nor even a hamlet ; it is 
 but a stone pillar set up where four roads meet : 
 white-washed, I suppose, to be more obvious at a 
 distance and in darkness. Four arms spring 
 from its summit : the nearest town to which these 
 point is, according to the inscription, distant ten 
 miles; the farthest, above twenty. From the 
 well-known names of these towns I learn in what 
 county I have lighted; a north-midland shire, 
 dusk with moorland, ridged with mountain : this 
 
 vol. in. E 
 
50 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 I see. There are great moors behind and on 
 each hand of me ; there are waves of mountains 
 far beyond that deep valley at my feet. The 
 population here must be thin, and I see no pas- 
 sengers on these roads : they stretch out east, 
 west, north and south — white, broad, lonely ; they 
 are all cut in the moor, and the heather grows 
 deep and wild to their very verge. Yet a chance 
 traveller might pass by ; and I wish no eye to see 
 me now : strangers would wonder what I am 
 doing, lingering here at the sign-post, evidently 
 objectless and lost. I might be questioned: I 
 could give no answer but what would sound 
 'incredible and excite suspicion. Not a tie holds 
 ,me to human society at this moment — not a 
 -charm or hope calls me where my fellow-creatures 
 are — none that saw me would have a kind thought 
 or a good wish for me. I have no relative but the 
 universal mother, Nature : I will seek her breast 
 and ask repose. 
 
 1 struck straight into the heath : I held on to a 
 iiollow I saw deeply furrowing the brown moor- 
 side ; I waded, knee-deep in its dark growth ; I 
 ■turned with its turnings, and finding a moss- 
 blackened granite crag in a hidden angle, I sat 
 down under it. High banks of moor were about 
 me ; the crag protected my head : the sky was 
 over that. 
 
 Some time passed before I felt tranquil even 
 liere : I had a vajme dread that wild cattle might 
 
JANE EYRE. 51 
 
 oe near, or that some sportsman or poacher might 
 discover me. If a gust of wind swept the waste, 
 I looked up, fearing it was the rush of a bull ; if 
 aplover whistled, I imagined it a man. Finding 
 my apprehensions unfounded, however, and 
 calmed by the deep silence that reigned as even- 
 ing declined to night-fall, I took confidence. As 
 yet I had not thought; I had only listened, 
 watched, dreaded : now I regained the faculty of 
 reflection. 
 
 What was I to do ? Where to go ? Oh, in- 
 tolerable questions, when I could do nothing and 
 go nowhere ! — when a long way must yet be 
 measured by my weary, trembling limbs, before 
 I could reach human habitation — when cold 
 charity must be entreated before I could get a 
 lodging : reluctant sympathy importuned ; almost 
 certain repulse incurred ; before my tale could be 
 listened to, or one of my wants relieved ! 
 
 I touched the heath : it was dry, and yet warm 
 with the heat of the summer day. I looked at 
 the sky ; it was pure : a kindly star twinkled just 
 above the chasm ridge. The dew fell, but with 
 propitious softness ; no breeze whispered. Nature 
 seemed to me benign and good : I thought she 
 loved me, outcast as I was; and I, who from 
 man could anticipate only mistrust, rejection, 
 insult, clung to her with filial fondness. To 
 night, at least, I would be her guest — as I was her 
 child : my mother would lodge me without 
 
 e 2 
 
52 JANE EYRE. 
 
 money and without price. I had one morsel of 
 bread yet: the remnant of a roll I had bought in 
 a town we passed through at noon with a stray 
 penny — my last coin. I saw ripe bilberries 
 gleaming here and there, like jet beads in the 
 heath : I gathered a handful and eat them with 
 the bread. My hunger, sharp before, was, if not 
 satisfied, appeased by this hermit's meal. I said 
 my evening prayers at its conclusion, and then 
 chose my couch. 
 
 Beside the crag, the heath was very deep : 
 when I lay down my feet were buried in it ; rising 
 high on each side, it left only a narrow space for 
 the night-air to invade. I folded my shawl 
 double, and spread it over me for a coverlet ; a 
 low, mossy swell was my pillow. Thus lodged, I 
 was not, at least at the commencement of the 
 night, cold. 
 
 My rest might have been blissful enough, only 
 a sad heart broke it. It plained of its gaping 
 wounds, its inward bleeding, its riven chords. 
 It trembled for Mr. Rochester and his doom : it 
 bemoaned him with bitter pity; it demanded him 
 "with ceaseless longing ; and, impotent as a bird 
 with both wings broken, it still quivered its 
 shattered pinions in vain attempts to seek him. 
 
 Worn out with this torture of thought, I rose to 
 my knees. Night was come, and her planets 
 were risen : a safe, still night ; too serene for the 
 companionship of fear. We know that God is 
 
JANE EYRE. 53 
 
 everywhere ; but certainly we feel His presence 
 most when His works are on the grandest scale 
 spread before us : and it is in the unclouded night- 
 sky, where His worlds wheel their silent course, 
 that we read clearest His infinitude, His omni- 
 potence, His omnipresence. I had risen to my 
 knees to pray for Mr. Rochester. Looking up, 
 I, with tear-dimmed eyes, saw the mighty milky- 
 way. Remembering what it was — what countless 
 systems there swept space like a soft trace of 
 light — I felt the might and strength of God. 
 Sure was I of His efficiency to save what He 
 had made : convinced I grew that neither earth 
 should perish, nor one of the souls it treasured. 
 I turned my prayer to thanksgiving : the Source 
 of Life was also the Saviour of Spirits. Mr. 
 Rochester was safe : he was God's, and by God 
 would he be guarded. I again nestled to the 
 breast of the hill ; and erelong, in sleep, forgot 
 sorrow. 
 
 But next day, Want came to me, pale and bare. 
 Long after the little birds had left their nests; 
 long after bees had come in the sweet prime of 
 day to gather the heath honey before the dew was 
 dried — when the long morning shadows were cur- 
 tailed, and the sun filled earth and sky — I got up, 
 and I looked round me. 
 
 What a still, hot, perfect day ! What a golden 
 desert this spreading moor ! Everywhere sun- 
 shine. I wished I could live in it and on it. I 
 
54 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 saw a lizard rim over the crag ; I saw a bee busy 
 among the sweet bilberries. I would fain at the 
 moment have become bee or lizard, that I might 
 have found fitting nutriment, permanent shelter 
 here. But I was a human being, and had a human 
 being's wants : I must not linger where there was 
 nothing to supply them. I rose ; I looked back 
 at the bed I had left. Hopeless of the future, I 
 wished but this — that my Maker had that night 
 thought good to require my soul of me while I 
 slept; and that this weary frame, absolved by 
 death from further conflict with fate, had now but 
 to decay quietly, and mingle in peace with the 
 soil of this wilderness. Life, however, was yet 
 in my possession ; with all its requirements, and 
 pains, and responsibilities. The burden must be 
 carried ; the want provided for ; the suffering 
 endured ; the responsibility fulfilled. I set out. 
 
 Whitcross regained, I followed a road which 
 led from the sun, now fervent and high. By no 
 other circumstance had I will to decide my choice. 
 I walked a long time, and when I thought I had 
 nearly done enough, and might conscientiously 
 yield to the fatigue that almost overpowered me — 
 might relax this forced action, and, sitting down 
 on a stone I saw near, submit resistlessly to the 
 apathy that clogged heart and limb — I heard a 
 bell chime— a church bell. 
 
 I turned in the direction of the sound, and 
 there, amongst the romantic hills, whose changes 
 
J AXE EYRE. 55 
 
 and aspect I had ceased to note an hour ago, I 
 saw a hamlet and a spire. All the valley at my 
 right hand was full of pasture-fields, and corn^ 
 fields, and wood ; and a glittering stream ran 
 zig-zag through the varied shades of green, the 
 mellowing grain, the sombre wood-land, the clear 
 and sunny lea. Recalled by the rumbling of 
 wheels to the road before me, I saw a heavily- 
 laden waggon labouring up the hill ; and not far 
 beyond were two cows and their drover. Human 
 life and human labour were near. I must strus;o;le 
 on : strive to live and bend to toil like the rest. 
 
 About two o'clock, p. m., I entered the village. 
 At the bottom of its one street, there was a little 
 shop with some cakes of bread in the window. 
 I coveted a cake of bread. With that refresh- 
 ment I could perhaps regain a degree of energy ; 
 without it, it would be difficult to proceed. The 
 wish to have some strength and some vigour re- 
 turned to me as soon as I was amongst my fellow- 
 beings. I felt it would be degrading to faint with 
 hunger on the causeway of a hamlet. Had I 
 nothing about me I could offer in exchange for 
 one of these rolls ? I considered. I had a small 
 silk handkerchief tied round my throat ; I had 
 my gloves. I could hardly tell how men and 
 women in extremities of destitution proceeded. 
 I did not know whether either of these articles 
 would be accepted : probably they would not ; but 
 I must try. 
 
5Q JANE EYRE. 
 
 I entered the shop : a woman was there. See- 
 ing a respectably-dressed person, a lady as she 
 supposed, she came forward with civility. How 
 could she serve me ? I was seized with shame : 
 my tongue would not utter the request I had 
 prepared. I dared not offer her the half-worn 
 gloves, the creased handkerchief: besides, I felt 
 it would be absurd. I only begged permission to 
 sit down a moment, as I was tired. Disappointed 
 in the expectation of a customer, she coolly ac- 
 ceded to my request. She pointed to a seat ; I 
 sank into it. I felt sorely urged to weep; but 
 conscious how unseasonable such a manifestation 
 would be, I restrained it. Soon I asked her " if 
 there were any dressmaker or plain-work-woman in 
 the village ?" 
 
 " Yes ; two or three. Quite as many as there 
 was employment for." 
 
 I reflected. I was driven to the point now. 
 I was brought face to face with Necessity. I 
 stood in the position of one without a resource : 
 without a friend ; without a coin. I must do 
 something. What ? I must apply somewhere. 
 Where ? 
 
 " Did she know of any place in the neighbour- 
 hood where a servant was wanted?" 
 
 " Nay ; she couldn't say." 
 
 " What was the chief trade in this place ? What 
 did most of the people do ?" 
 
 " Some were farm labourers; a good deal 
 
JANE EYRE. 57 
 
 worked at Mr. Oliver's needle-factory, and at the 
 foundry." 
 
 "Did Mr. Oliver employ women?" 
 
 " Nay ; it was men's work." 
 
 " And what do the women do?" 
 
 " I knaw n't," was the answer. " Some does 
 one thing, and some another. Poor folk mun get 
 on as they can." 
 
 She seemed to be tired of my questions : and* 
 indeed, what claim had I to importune her ? A 
 neighbour or two came in ; my chair was evidently 
 wanted. I took leave. 
 
 I passed up the street, looking as I went at all 
 the houses to the right hand and to the left : but 
 I could discover no pretext, nor see an induce- 
 ment, to enter any. I rambled round the hamlet, 
 going sometimes to a little distance and returning 
 again, for an hour or more. Much exhausted, 
 and suffering greatly now for want of food, I 
 turned aside into a lane and sat down under the 
 hedge. Ere many minutes had elapsed, I was 
 again on my feet, however, and again searching 
 something — a resource, or at least an informant. 
 A pretty little house stood at the top of the lane, 
 with a garden before it; exquisitely neat, and 
 brilliantly blooming. I stopped at it. What 
 business had I to approach the white door, or 
 touch the glittering knocker ? In what way 
 could it possibly be the interest of the inhabitants 
 of that dwelling to serve me ? Yet I drew near 
 
58 JANE EYRE. 
 
 and knocked. A mild-looking, cleanly-attired 
 young woman opened the door. In such a voice 
 as might be expected from a hopeless heart and 
 fainting frame — a voice wretchedly low and 
 faltering — I asked if a servant was wanted 
 here ? 
 
 " No," said she ; " we do not keep a servant." 
 
 " Can you tell me where I could get employ- 
 ment of any kind," I continued. **■ I am a 
 stranger, without acquaintance, in this place. I 
 want some work : no matter what." 
 
 But it was not her business to think for me, or 
 to seek a place for me : besides, in her eyes, how 
 doubtful must have appeared my character, po- 
 sition, tale. She shook her head, she " was sorry 
 she could give me no information," and the white 
 door closed, quite gently and civilly : but it shut 
 me out. If she had held it open a little longer, I 
 believe I should have begged a piece of bread ; for 
 I was now brought low. 
 
 I could not bear to return to the sordid village ; 
 where, besides, no prospect of aid was visible. I 
 should have longed rather to deviate to a wood 
 I saw not far off, which appeared in its thick 
 shade to offer inviting shelter ; but I was so sick, 
 so weak, so gnawed with nature's cravings, in- 
 stinct kept me roaming round abodes where 
 there was a chance of food. Solitude would 
 be no solitude — rest no rest — while the vulture, 
 hunger, thus sunk beak and talons in my side. 
 
JANE EYRE. 59 
 
 I drew near houses ; I left them, and came hack 
 again, and again I wandered away : always re- 
 pelled by the consciousness of having no claim to 
 ask — no right to expect interest in my isolated 
 lot. Meantime, the afternoon advanced, while I 
 thus wandered about like a lost and starving dog. 
 In crossing a field, I saw the church-spire before 
 me : I hastened towards it. Near the church- 
 yard, and in the middle of a garden, stood a well- 
 built though small house, which I had no doubt 
 was the parsonage. I remembered that strangers 
 who arrive at a place where they have no friends, 
 and who want employment, sometimes apply to 
 the clergyman for introduction and aid. It is 
 the clergyman's function to help — at least with 
 advice — those who wish to help themselves. I 
 seemed to have something like a right to seek 
 counsel here. Renewing then, my courage, and 
 gathering my feeble remains of strength, I pushed 
 on. I reached the house, and knocked at the 
 kitchen-door. An old woman opened ; I asked 
 was this the parsonage ? 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Was the clergyman in?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Would he be in soon ?" 
 
 " No, he was gone from home." 
 
 "To a distance?" 
 
 " Not so far — happen three mile. He had 
 been called away by the sudden death of his 
 
60 JANE EYRE. 
 
 father: he was at Marsh End now, and would 
 very likely stay there a fortnight longer." 
 " Was there any lady of the house?" 
 " Nay, there was naught but her, and she was 
 housekeeper;" and of her, reader, I could not 
 bear to ask the relief for want of which I was 
 sinking : I could not yet beg ; and again I crawled 
 away. 
 
 Once more I took off my handkerchief — once 
 more I thought of the cakes of bread in the little 
 shop. Oh, for but a crust ! for but one mouthful 
 to allay the pang of famine! Instinctively I 
 turned my face again to the village: I found the 
 shop again, and I went in ; and though others 
 were there besides the woman, I ventured the 
 request, "Would she give me a roll for this 
 handkerchief?" 
 
 She looked at me with evident suspicion : 
 " Nay, she never sold stuff i' that way." 
 
 Almost desperate, I asked for half a cake : she 
 again refused. a How could sjae tell where I had 
 got the handkerchief," she said. 
 " Would she take my gloves ?" 
 " No ; what could she do with them ? " 
 Reader, it is not pleasant to dwell on these 
 details. Some say there is enjoyment in looking 
 back to painful experience past ; but at this day I 
 can scarcely bear to review the times to which I 
 allude : the moral degradation, blent with the 
 physical suffering, form too distressing a recollec- 
 
JANE EYRE. 61 
 
 tion ever to be willingly dwelt on. I blamed 
 none of those who repulsed me. I felt it was 
 what was to be expected, and what could not be 
 helped : an ordinary beggar is frequently an 
 object of suspicion ; a well-dressed beggar in- 
 evitably so. To be sure, what I begged was 
 employment : but whose business was it to pro- 
 vide me with employment ? Not, certainly that 
 of persons who saw me then for the first time, 
 and who knew nothing about my character. And 
 as to the woman who would not take my hand- 
 kerchief in exchange for her bread, why, she 
 was right ; if the offer appeared to her sinister, or 
 the exchange unprofitable. Let me condense 
 now. I am sick of the subject. 
 
 A little before dark I passed a farm-house, at 
 the open door of which the farmer was sitting, 
 eating his supper of bread and cheese : I stopped 
 and said : — 
 
 " Will you give me a piece of bread ? for I am 
 very hungry." He cast on me a glance of sur- 
 prise ; but without answering, he cut a thick slice 
 from his loaf, and gave it to me. I imagine he 
 did not think I was a beggar, but only an eccen- 
 tric sort of lady who had taken a fancy to his 
 brown loaf. As soon as I was out of sight of his 
 house, I sat down and ate it. 
 
 I could not hope to get a lodging under a roofi 
 and sought it in the wood I have before alluded 
 to. But my night was wretched, my rest broken : 
 
62 JANE EYRE. 
 
 the ground was damp, the air cold : besides, in- 
 truders passed near me more than once, and I 
 had again and again to change my quarters : no 
 sense of safety or tranquillity befriended me. 
 Towards morning it rained ; the whole of the 
 following day was wet. Do not ask me, reader* 
 to give a minute account of that day : as before, I 
 sought work ; as before, I was repulsed ; as before, I 
 starved : but once did food pass my lips. At the 
 door of a cottage I saw a little girl about to 
 throw a mess of cold porridge into a pig-trough. 
 te Will you give me that ?" I asked. 
 
 She stared at me. " Mother !" she exclaimed ; 
 " there is a woman wants me to give her these 
 porridge." 
 
 " Well, lass," replied a voice within, " give it 
 her if she 's a beggar. T' pig doesn't want it." 
 
 The girl emptied the stiffened mould into my 
 hand, and I devoured it ravenously. 
 
 As the wet twilight deepened, I stopped in a 
 solitary bridle-path, which I had been pursuing an 
 hour or more. 
 
 " My strength is quite failing me," I said, in 
 soliloquy. " I feel I cannot go much further. 
 Shall I be an outcast again this night ? While 
 the rain descends so, must I lay my head on the 
 cold, drenched ground ? I fear I cannot do 
 otherwise : for who will receive me ? But it 
 will be very dreadful : with this feeling of hunger, 
 faintness, chill, and this sense of desolation — this 
 
JANE EYRE. 63 
 
 total prostration of hope. In all likelihood, 
 though, I should die before morning. And why 
 cannot I reconcile myself to the prospect of 
 death ? Why do I struggle to retain a valueless 
 life ? Because I know, or believe, Mr. Rochester 
 is still living : and then, to die of want and cold, 
 is a fate to which nature cannot submit passively. 
 Oh, Providence ! sustain me a little longer ! Aid 
 — direct me ! " 
 
 My glazed eye wandered over the dim and 
 misty landscape. I saw I had strayed far from 
 the village: it was quite out of sight. The very 
 cultivation surrounding it had disappeared. I 
 had, by cross-ways and by-paths, once more 
 drawn near the tract of moorland; and now, 
 only a few fields, almost as wild and unproductive 
 as the heath from which they were scarcely re- 
 claimed, lay between me and the dusky hill. 
 
 " Well ; I would rather die yonder than in a 
 street, or on a frequented road," I reflected. 
 " And far better that crows and ravens — if any 
 ravens there be in these regions — should pick my 
 flesh from my bones, than that they should be 
 prisoned in a workhouse coffin, and moulder in a 
 pauper's grave." 
 
 To the hill, then, I turned. I reached it. It 
 remained now only to find a hollow where I 
 could lie down, and feel at least hidden, if not 
 secure : but all the surface of the waste looked 
 level. It showed no variation but of tint : green, 
 
64 JANE EYRE. 
 
 where rush and moss overgrew the marshes ; black, 
 where the dry soil bore only heath. Dark as it was 
 getting, I could still see these changes ; though 
 but as mere alternations of light and shade : for 
 colour had faded with the daylight. 
 
 My eye still roved over the sullen swell, and along 
 the moor -edge, vanishing amidst the wildest 
 scenery; when, at one dim point, far in among 
 the marshes and the ridges, a light sprung up. 
 " That is an ignis-fatuus" was my first thought ; 
 and I expected it would soon vanish. It burnt 
 on, however, quite steadily; neither receding nor 
 advancing. u Is it then a bonfire just kindled ?" 
 I questioned. I watched to see whether it would 
 spread : but no ; as it did not diminish, so it did 
 not enlarge. " It may be a candle in a house," I 
 then conjectured : " but if so, I can never reach 
 it. It is much too far away : and were it within 
 a yard of me, what would it avail? I should 
 but knock at the door to have it shut in my 
 face." 
 
 And I sank down where I stood, and hid my 
 face against the ground. I lay still awhile : the 
 night- wind swept over the hill and over me, and 
 died moaning in the distance ; the rain fell fast, 
 wetting me afresh to the skin. Could I but have 
 stiffened to the still frost — the friendly numbness 
 of death — it might have pelted on : I should not 
 have felt it ; but my yet living flesh shuddered to 
 its chilling influence. I rose ere long. 
 
JANE EYRE. 65 
 
 The light was yet there ; shining dim, but con- 
 stant, through the rain. I tried to walk again : I 
 dragged my exhausted limbs slowly towards it. 
 It led me aslant over the hill, through a wide bog; 
 which would have been impassable in winter, and 
 was splashy and shaking even now, in the height 
 of summer. Here I fell twice ; but as often I rose 
 and rallied my faculties. This light was my for- 
 lorn hope : I must gain it. 
 
 Having crossed the marsh, I saw a trace of 
 white over the moor. I approached it ; it was a 
 road or a track : it led straight up to the light, 
 which now beamed from a sort of knoll, amidst a 
 clump of trees — firs, apparently, from what I could 
 distinguish of the character of their forms and 
 foliage through the gloom. My star vanished as 
 I drew near : some obstacle had intervened be- 
 tween me and it. I put out my hand to feel the 
 dark mass before me : I discriminated the rough 
 stones of a low wall — above it, something like 
 palisades, and within, a high and prickly hedge. 
 I groped on. Again a whitish object gleamed 
 before me : it was a gate — a wicket ; it moved on 
 its hinges as I touched it. On each side stood a 
 sable bush — holly or yew. 
 
 Entering the gate and passing the shrubs, the 
 silhouette of a house rose to view ; black, low, and 
 rather long : but the guiding light shone nowhere. 
 All was obscurity. Were the inmates retired to rest? 
 I feared it must be so. In seeking the door, I turned 
 
 VOL. III. f 
 
66 JANE EYRE. 
 
 an angle : there shot out the friendly gleam again, 
 from the lozenged panes of a very small latticed 
 window, within a foot of the ground; made still 
 smaller by the growth of ivy or some other creep- 
 ing plant, whose leaves clustered thick over the 
 portion of the house wall in which it was set. 
 The aperture was so screened and narrow, that 
 curtain or shutter had been deemed unnecessary ; 
 and when I stooped down and put aside the spray 
 of foliage shooting over it, I could see all within. 
 I could see clearly a room with a sanded floor, 
 clean scoured ; a dresser of walnut, with pewter 
 plates ranged in rows, reflecting the redness and 
 radiance of a glowing peat-fire. I could see a 
 clock, a white deal table, some chairs. The 
 candle, whose ray had been my beacon, burnt on 
 the table ; and by its light an elderly woman, 
 somewhat rough-looking, but scrupulously clean, 
 like all about her, was knitting a stocking. 
 
 I noticed these objects cursorily only — in them 
 there was nothing extraordinary. A group of 
 more interest appeared near the hearth, sitting still 
 amidst the rosy peace and warmth suffusing it. 
 Two young, graceful women — ladies in every 
 point — sat, one in a low rocking-chair, the other 
 on a lower stool; both wore deep mourning of 
 crape and bombazeen, which sombre garb singularly 
 set off their very fair necks and faces : a large old 
 pointer dog rested its massive head on the knee of 
 one girl — in the lap of the other was cushioned a 
 black cat. 
 
JANE EYRE. 67 
 
 A strange place was this humble kitchen for 
 such occupants ! Who were they ? They could 
 not be the daughters of the elderly person at the 
 table ; for she looked like a rustic, and they were 
 all delicacy and cultivation. I had nowhere seen 
 such faces as theirs : and yet, as I gazed on them, 
 I seemed intimate with every lineament. I cannot 
 call them handsome — they were too pale and grave 
 for the word : as they each bent over a book, they 
 looked thoughtful almost to severity. A stand 
 between them supported a second candle and two 
 great volumes, to which they frequently referred ; 
 comparing them seemingly with the smaller books 
 they held in their hands, like people consulting a 
 dictionary to aid them in the task of translation. 
 This scene was as silent as if all the figures had 
 been shadows, and the fire -lit apartment a picture : 
 so hushed was it, I could hear the cinders fall 
 from the grate, the clock tick in its obscure cor- 
 ner ; and I even fancied I could distinguish the 
 click-click of the woman's knitting-needles. When, 
 therefore, a voice broke the strange stillness at last, 
 it was audible enough to me. 
 
 " Listen, Diana," said one of the absorbed stu- 
 dents ; " Franz and old Daniel are together in the 
 night-time, and Franz is telling a dream from 
 which he has wakened in terror — listen!" And 
 in a low voice she read something, of which not 
 one word was intelligible to me ; for it was in an 
 unknown tongue — neither French nor Latin. 
 
 F 2 
 
68 JANE EYRE. 
 
 Whether it were Greek or German I could not 
 tell. 
 
 "That is strong," she said, when she had finished : 
 " I relish it." The other girl, who had lifted her 
 head to listen to her sister, repeated, while she 
 gazed at the fire, a line of what had been read. At 
 a later day, I knew the language and the book ; 
 therefore I will here quote the line : though, when 
 I first heard it, it was only like a stroke on sound- 
 ing brass to me — conveying no meaning : 
 
 '"Da trat hervor Einer, anzusehen wie die 
 Sternen Nacht.' Good! good!" she exclaimed, 
 while her dark and deep eye sparkled. "There 
 you have a dim and mighty archangel fitly set 
 before you ! The line is worth a hundred pages 
 of fustian. c Ich wage die Gedanken in der 
 Schale meines Zornes und die Werke mit dem 
 Gewichte meines Grimms.' I like it !" 
 
 Both were again silent. 
 
 " Is there ony country where they talk i' that 
 way ?" asked the old woman, looking up from her 
 knitting. 
 
 " Yes, Hannah — a far larger country than Eng- 
 land ; where they talk in no other way." 
 
 " Well, for sure case, I knawn't how they can 
 understand t' one t' other : and if either o' ye went 
 there, ye could tell what they said, I guess ? " 
 
 " We could probably tell something of what 
 they said, but not all — for we are not as clever as 
 you think us, Hannah. We don't speak German, 
 
JANE EYRE. 69 
 
 and we cannot read it without a dictionary to help 
 us." 
 
 " And what good does it do you?" 
 
 " We mean to teach it some time— or at least 
 the elements, as they say ; and then we shall get 
 more money than we do now." 
 
 " Yarry like : but give ower studying ; ye've 
 done enough for to-night." 
 
 " I think we have : at least, I'm tired. Mary, 
 are you?" 
 
 " Mortally : after all, it's tough work fagging 
 away at a language with no master but a lexicon.' 
 
 " It is : especially such a language as this crab- 
 bed but glorious Deutsch. I wonder when St. 
 John will come home." 
 
 " Surely he will not be long now : it is just ten" 
 (looking at a little gold watch she drew from her 
 girdle). (e It rains fast. Hannah, will you have the 
 goodness to look at the fire in the parlour ? " 
 
 The woman rose ; she opened a door, through 
 which I dimly saw a passage : soon I heard her 
 stir a fire in an inner room ; she presently came 
 back. 
 
 u Ah, childer ! " said she, " it fair troubles me 
 to go into yond' room now : it looks so lonesome 
 wi' the chair empty and set back in a corner." 
 
 She wiped her eyes with her apron : the two 
 girls, grave before, looked sad now. 
 
 " But he is in a better place," continued 
 Hannah : " we shouldn't wish him here again. 
 
70 JANE EYRE. 
 
 And then, nobody need to have a quieter death no 
 he had." 
 
 "You say he never mentioned us?" inquired 
 one of the ladies. 
 
 " He hadn't time, bairn : he was gone in a 
 minute — was your father. He had been a bit ail- 
 ing like the day before, but naught to signify ; and 
 when Mr. St. John asked if he would like either 
 o' ye to be sent for, he fair laughed at him. He 
 began again with a bit of a heaviness in his head 
 the next day — that is, a fortnight sin' — and he 
 went to sleep and niver wakened : he wor a'most 
 stark when your brother went into t' chamber and 
 fand him. Ah, childer ! that's t' last o' t' old stock 
 — for ye and Mr. St. John is like of a different 
 soart to them 'at's gone ; for all your mother wor 
 mich i'your way, and a'most as book- learned. She 
 wor the pictur' o' ye, Mary : Diana is more like 
 your father." 
 
 I thought them so similar I could not tell where 
 the old servant (for such I now concluded her to 
 be) saw the difference. Both were fair com- 
 plexioned and slenderly made ; both possessed 
 faces full of distinction and intelligence. One, to 
 be sure, had hair a shade darker than the other, 
 and there was a difference in their style of wear- 
 ing it : Mary's pale brown locks were parted and 
 braided smooth; Diana's duskier tresses covered 
 her neck with thick curls. The clock struck 
 ten. 
 
JANE EYRE. 71 
 
 " Ye '11 want your supper, I 'm sure," observed 
 Hannah; "and so will Mr. St. John when he 
 comes in." 
 
 And she proceeded to prepare the meal. The 
 ladies rose : they seemed about to withdraw to 
 the parlour. Till this moment, I had been so 
 intent on watching them, their appearance and 
 conversation had excited in me so keen an in- 
 terest, I had half- forgotten my own wretched 
 position : now it recurred to me. More desolate, 
 more desperate than ever, it seemed from contrast. 
 And how impossible did it appear to touch the 
 inmates of this house with concern on my behalf: 
 to make them believe in the truth of my wants 
 and woes — to induce them to vouchsafe a rest for 
 ray w r anderings ! As I groped out the door, and 
 knocked at it hesitatingly, I felt that last idea to 
 be indeed a mere chimera. Hannah opened. 
 
 "What do you want?" she inquired, in a voice 
 of surprise, as she surveyed me by the light of the 
 candle she held. 
 
 " May I speak to your mistresses ?" X said. 
 
 " You had better tell me what you have to say 
 to them. Where do you come from?" 
 
 " I am a stranger." 
 
 " What is your business here at this hour ?" 
 
 " I want a night's shelter in an out-house or 
 anywhere, and a morsel of bread to eat." 
 
 Distrust, the very feeling I dreaded, appeared 
 in Hannah's face. " I '11 give you a piece of 
 
72 JANE EYRE. 
 
 bread," she said, after a pause ; " but we 'can't 
 
 take in a vagrant to lodge. It isn't likely." 
 " Do let me speak to your mistresses." 
 " No ; not I. What can they do for you ? 
 
 You should not be roving about now : it looks 
 
 very ill." 
 
 " But where shall I go if you drive me away ? 
 
 What shall I do?" 
 
 " Oh, I '11 warrant you know where to go, and 
 
 what to do. Mind you don't do wrong, that 's all. 
 
 Here is a penny ; now go ." 
 
 " A penny cannot feed me, and I have no 
 
 strength to go farther. Don't shut the door !— oh, 
 
 don't, for God's sake!" 
 
 " I must ; the rain is driving in ." 
 
 " Tell the young ladies. — Let me see them — ." 
 " Indeed I will not. You are not what you 
 
 ought to be, or you wouldn't make such a noise. 
 
 Hove off!" 
 
 "But I must die if I am turned away." 
 
 " Not you. I 'm feard you have some ill plans 
 
 agate, that bring you about folk's houses at this time 
 
 o' night. If you've any followers — housebreakers 
 
 or such like — anywhere near, you may tell them 
 
 we are not by ourselves in the house : we have a 
 
 gentleman, and dogs, and guns." Here the honest 
 
 but inflexible servant clapped the door to and 
 
 bolted it within. 
 
 This was the climax. A pang of exquisite 
 
 .suffering — a throe of true despair — rent and heaved 
 
JANE EYRE. 73 
 
 my heart. Worn out, indeed, I was : not another 
 step could I stir. I sank on the wet door-step : 
 J groaned — I wrung my hands — I wept in utter 
 anguish. Oh, this spectre of death! Oh, this 
 last hour, approaching in such horror ! Alas, this 
 isolation — this banishment from my kind! Not 
 only the anchor of hope, but the footing of forti- 
 tude was gone — at least for a moment : but the last 
 I soon endeavoured to regain. 
 
 " I can but die," I said, " and I believe in God. 
 Let me try to wait His will in silence." 
 
 These words I not only thought but uttered ; 
 and thrusting back all my misery into my heart, I 
 made an effort to compel it to remain there — 
 dumb and still. 
 
 " All men must die," said a voice quite close at 
 hand ; " but all are not condemned to meet a 
 lingering and premature doom, such as yours 
 would be if you perished here of want." 
 
 "Who or what speaks?" I asked, terrified at 
 the unexpected sound, and incapable now of 
 deriving from any occurrence a hope of aid. A 
 form was near — what form, the pitch-dark night 
 and my enfeebled vision prevented me from dis- 
 tinguishing. With a loud, long knock, the new 
 comer appealed to the door. 
 
 " Is it you, Mr. St. John?" cried Hannah. 
 
 " Yes — yes ; open quickly." 
 
 K Well, how wet and cold you must be, such a 
 wild night as it is! Come in — your sisters are 
 
74 JANE EYRE. 
 
 quite uneasy about you, and I believe there are 
 bad folks about. There has been a beggar-woman 
 — I declare she is not gone yet ! — laid down there. 
 Get up ! for shame ! Move off, I say !" 
 
 " Hush, Hannah ! I have a word to say to the 
 woman. You have done your duty in excluding, 
 now let me do mine in admitting her. I was 
 near, and listened to both you and her. I think 
 this is a peculiar case — I must at least examine 
 into it. Young woman, rise, and pass before me 
 into the house." 
 
 With difficulty I obeyed him. Presently I 
 stood within that clean, bright kitchen — on the very 
 hearth — trembling, sickening ; conscious of an as- 
 pect in the last degree ghastly, wild, and weather- 
 beaten. The two ladies, their brother, Mr. St. 
 John, the old servant, were all gazing at me. 
 
 "St. John, who is it?" I heard one ask. 
 
 " I cannot tell : I found her at the door," was 
 the reply. 
 
 " She does look white," said Hannah. 
 
 "As white as clay or death," was responded* 
 ' 'She will fall: let her sit." 
 
 And indeed my head swam : I dropped ; but a 
 chair received me. I still possessed my senses ; 
 though just now I could not speak. 
 
 "Perhaps a little water would restore her. 
 Hannah, fetch some. But she is worn to nothing. 
 How very thin, and how very bloodless ! " 
 
 " A mere spectre ! " 
 
JANE EYRE. 75 
 
 " Is she ill, or only famished ? " 
 
 " Famished, I think. Hannah, is that milk ? 
 Give it me, and a piece of bread." 
 
 Diana (I knew her by the long curls which I 
 saw drooping between me and the fire as she bent 
 over me) broke some bread, dipped it in milk, and 
 put it to my lips. Her face was near mine : I saw 
 there was pity in it, and I felt sympathy in her 
 hurried breathing. In her simple words, too, the 
 same balm-like emotion spoke : " Try to eat." 
 
 " Yes — try/' repeated Mary gently ; and Mary's 
 hand removed my sodden bonnet and lifted my 
 head. I tasted what they offered me : feebly at 
 first, eagerly soon. 
 
 " Not too much at first — restrain her," said the 
 brother ; " she has had enough." And he with- 
 drew the cup of milk and the plate of bread. 
 
 " A little more, St. John — look at the avidity in 
 her eyes." 
 
 " No more at present, sister. Try if she can. 
 speak now — ask her her name." 
 
 I felt I could speak, and I answered — " My name 
 is Jane Elliott." Anxious as ever to avoid dis- 
 covery, I had before resolved to assume an alias. 
 
 " And where do you live ? Where are your 
 friends?" 
 
 I was silent. 
 
 " Can we send for any one you know?" 
 
 I shook my head. 
 
 m What account can you give of yourself I " 
 
76 JANE EYRE. 
 
 Somehow, now that I had once crossed the 
 threshold of this house, and once was brought face 
 to face with its owners, I felt no longer outcast, 
 vagrant, and disowned by the wide world. I 
 dared to put off the mendicant — to resume my 
 natural manner and character. I began once more 
 to know myself; and when Mr. St. John demanded 
 an account — which at present I was far too weak 
 to render — I said, after a brief pause — 
 
 " Sir, I can give you no details to-night." 
 
 le But what, then," said he, " do you expect me 
 to do for you ? " 
 
 " Nothing," I replied. My strength sufficed for 
 but short answers. Diana took the word : 
 
 " Do you mean," she asked, " that we have now 
 given you what aid you require ; and that we may 
 dismiss you to the moor and the rainy night?" 
 
 I looked at her. She had, I thought, a remarkable 
 countenance ; instinct both with power and good- 
 ness. I took sudden courage. Answering her 
 compassionate gaze with a smile, I said : " I will 
 trust you. If I were a masterless and stray dog, I 
 know that you would not turn me from your hearth 
 to-night : as it is, I really have no fear. Do with 
 me and for me as you like ; but excuse me from 
 much discourse — my breath is short — I feel a 
 spasm when I speak." All three surveyed me, and 
 all three were silent. 
 
 " Hannah," said Mr. St. John, at last, " let her 
 sit there at present, and ask her no questions ; in 
 
JANE EYRE. 77 
 
 ten minutes more, give her the remainder of that 
 milk and bread. Mary and Diana, let us go into 
 the parlour and talk the matter over." 
 
 They withdrew. Very soon one of the ladies 
 returned — I could not tell which. A kind of plea- 
 sant stupor was stealing over me as I sat by the 
 genial fire. In an under tone, she gave some direc- 
 tions to Hannah. Erelong, with the servant's aid, 
 I contrived to mount a staircase : my dripping 
 clothes were removed; soon a warm, dry bed 
 received me. I thanked God — experienced amidst 
 unutterable exhaustion a glow of grateful joy — and 
 slept. 
 
78 JANE EYRE. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 The recollection of about three days and nights 
 succeeding this is very dim in my mind. I 
 can recall some sensations felt in that interval; 
 but few thoughts framed, and no actions per- 
 formed. I knew I was in a small room, and in a 
 narrow bed. To that bed I seemed to have 
 grown : I lay on it motionless as a stone; and to 
 have torn me from it would have been almost to 
 kill me. I took no note of the lapse of time — of 
 the change from morning to noon, from noon to 
 evening. I observed when any one entered or 
 left the apartment ; I could even tell who they 
 were; I could understand what was said when 
 the speaker stood near me ; but I could not an- 
 swer: to open my lips or move my limbs was 
 equally impossible. Hannah, the servant, was my 
 most frequent visitor. Her coming disturbed me. 
 I had a feeling that she wished me away ; that 
 she did not understand me or my circumstances ; 
 
JANE EYRE. 7$ 
 
 that she was prejudiced against me. Diana and 
 Mary appeared in the chamber once or twice a 
 day. They would whisper sentences of this sort 
 at my bed-side : — 
 
 " It is very well we took her in." 
 
 " Yes ; she would certainly have been found 
 dead at the door in the morning, had she been 
 left out all night. I wonder what she has gone 
 through?" 
 
 " Strange hardships, I imagine — poor, emaciated, 
 pallid wanderer ! " 
 
 " She is not an uneducated person, I should 
 think, by her manner of speaking : her accent was 
 quite pure ; and the clothes she took off, though 
 splashed and wet, were little worn, and fine." 
 
 " She has a peculiar face; fleshless and haggard 
 as it is : I rather like it ; and when in good health 
 and animated, I can fancy her physiognomy would 
 be agreeable." 
 
 Never once in their dialogues did I hear a 
 syllable of regret at the hospitality they had ex- 
 tended to me ; or of suspicion of, or aversion to, 
 myself. I was comforted. 
 
 Mr. St. John came but once : he looked at me, 
 and said my state of lethargy was the result of 
 reaction from excessive and protracted fatigue. 
 He pronounced it needless to send for a doctor : 
 nature, he was sure, would manage best, left to 
 
80 JANE EYRE. 
 
 herself. He said every nerve had been over- 
 strained in some way, and the whole system must 
 sleep torpid awhile. There was no disease. He 
 imagined my recovery would be rapid enough 
 when once commenced. These opinions he de- 
 livered in few words, in a quiet, low voice; and 
 added, after a pause, in the tone of a man little 
 accustomed to expansive comment, " rather an 
 unusual physiognomy : certainly, not indicative 
 of vulgarity or degradation." 
 
 " Far otherwise," responded Diana. " To speak 
 truth, St. John, my heart rather warms to the 
 poor little soul. I wish we may be able to bene- 
 fit her permanently." 
 
 " That is hardly likely," was the reply. " You 
 will find she is some young lady who has had a mis- 
 understanding with her friends, and has probably 
 injudiciously left them. We may, perhaps, suc- 
 ceed in restoring her to them, if she is not obsti- 
 nate : but I trace lines of force in her face which 
 make me sceptical of her tractability." He stood 
 considering me some minutes ; then added, " She 
 looks sensible, but not at all handsome." 
 
 " She is so ill, St. John." 
 
 " 111 or well, she would always be plain. The 
 grace and harmony of beauty are quite wanting in 
 those features." 
 
 On the third da}', I was better ; on the fourth, 
 
JANE EYRE.. 81 
 
 I could speak, move, rise in bed, and turn. 
 Hannah had brought me some gruel and dry 
 toast, about, as I supposed, the dinner hour. I 
 had eaten with relish : the food was good — void 
 of the feverish flavour which had hitherto poisoned 
 what I had swallowed. When she left me, I felt 
 comparatively strong and revived ; erelong satiety 
 of repose, and desire for action stirred me. I 
 wished to rise : but what could I put on ? Only 
 my damp and bemired apparel ; in which I had. 
 slept on the ground and fallen in the marsh. I 
 felt ashamed to appear before my benefactors so 
 clad. I was spared the humiliation. 
 
 On a chair by the bedside were all my own 
 things, clean and dry. My black silk frock hung 
 against the wall. The traces of the bog were 
 removed from it ; the creases left by the wet, 
 smoothed out : it was quite decent. My very 
 shoes and stockings were purified and rendered 
 presentable. There were the means of washing 
 in the room, and a comb and brush to smooth my 
 hair. After a weary process, and resting every 
 five minutes, I succeeded in dressing myself. My 
 clothes hung loose on me ; for I was much wasted : 
 but I covered deficiencies with a shawl, and once 
 more, clean and respectable-looking — no speck of 
 the dirt, no trace of the disorder I so hated, and 
 which seemed so to degrade me, left — I crept 
 
 VOL. III. G 
 
82 JANE EYRE. 
 
 down a stone staircase, with the aid of the ban- 
 nisters, to a narrow, low passage, and found my 
 way presently to the kitchen. 
 
 It was full of the fragrance of new bread, and 
 the warmth of a generous fire. Hannah was 
 baking. Prejudices, it is well known, are most 
 difficult to eradicate from the heart whose soil has 
 never been loosened or fertilized by education : 
 they grow there, firm as weeds among stones. 
 Hannah had been cold and stiff, indeed, at the 
 first: latterly, she had begun to relent a little; 
 and when she saw me come in tidy and well- 
 dressed, she even smiled. 
 
 ct What, you have got up ?" she said. " You are 
 better, then. You may sit you down in my chair 
 on the hearthstone, if you will." 
 
 She pointed to the rocking chair : I took it. 
 She bustled about, examining me every now and 
 then with the corner of her eye. Turning to me, 
 as she took some loaves from the oven, she asked, 
 bluntly, — 
 
 " Did you ever go a-begging afore you came 
 here?" 
 
 I was indignant for a moment : but remember- 
 ing that anger was out of the question, and that I 
 had indeed appeared as a beggar to her, I answered 
 quietly; but still not without a certain marked 
 firmness, — 
 
JANE EYRE. 83 
 
 " You are mistaken, in supposing me a beggar. 
 I am no beggar ; any more than yourself or your 
 young ladies." 
 
 After a pause, she said, " I dunnut understand 
 that : you 've like no house, nor no brass, I 
 guess?" 
 
 " The want of house or brass (by which I sup- 
 pose you mean money) does not make a beggar in 
 your sense of the word." * 
 
 " Are you book-learned ? " she inquired, pre- 
 sently. 
 
 " Yes, very." 
 
 " But you 've never been to boarding-school ?" 
 
 " I was at a boarding-school eight years." 
 
 She opened her eyes wide. " Whatever cannot 
 ye keep yourseln for, then ? " 
 
 " I have kept myself; and, I trust, shall keep 
 myself again. What are you going to do with 
 these gooseberries?" I inquired, as she brought 
 out a basket of the fruit. 
 
 " Mak' em into pies." 
 
 " Give them to me and I '11 pick them." 
 
 " Nay ; I dunnut want ye to do nought." 
 
 " But I must do something. Let me have 
 them." 
 
 She consented ; and she even brought me a 
 clean towel to spread over my dress, " lest," as 
 she said, " I should mucky it." 
 
 g 2 
 
84 JANE EYRE. 
 
 " Ye 've not been used to sarvant's wark, I see 
 by your hands," she remarked. " Happen ye 've 
 been a dressmaker?" 
 
 " No, you are wrong. And now, never mind 
 what I have been : don't trouble your head fur- 
 ther about me ; but tell me the name of the house 
 where we are." 
 
 " Some calls it Marsh-End, and some calls it 
 Moor House." 
 
 "And the gentleman who lives here is called 
 Mr. St. John?" 
 
 •* Nay ; he doesn't live here : he is only staying 
 awhile. When he is at home, he is in his own 
 parish at Morton." 
 
 u That village a few miles off?" 
 
 "Aye." 
 
 "And what is he ?" 
 
 " He is a parson." 
 
 I remembered the answer of the old house- 
 keeper at the parsonage, when I had asked to see 
 the clergyman. "This, then, was his father's 
 residence ?" 
 
 " Aye ; old Mr. Rivers lived here, and his 
 father, and grandfather, and gurt (great) grand- 
 father afore him." 
 
 "The name, then, of that gentleman, is Mr. St. 
 John Rivers?" 
 
 " Aye ; St. John is like his kirstened name." 
 
JANE EYRE. 89 
 
 " And his sisters are called Diana and Mary 
 Rivers?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Their father is dead?" 
 
 <f Dead three weeks sin', of a stroke." 
 
 " They have no mother ?" 
 
 " The mistress has been dead this mony a 
 year." 
 
 11 Have you lived with the family long ?" 
 
 " I Ve lived here thirty year. I nursed them all 
 three." 
 
 " That proves you must have been an honest 
 and faithful servant. I will say so much for you, 
 though you have had the incivility to call me a 
 beggar." 
 
 She again regarded me with a surprised stare. 
 "I believe," she said, "I was quite mista'en in 
 my thoughts of you : but there is so mony cheats 
 goes about, you mun forgie me." 
 
 u And though," I continued, rather severely, 
 "you wished to turn me from the door, on a 
 night when you should not have shut out a 
 dog." 
 
 " Well, it was hard : but what can a body do ? 
 I thought more o' th' childer nor of mysel : poor 
 things ! They 've like nobody to tak' care on 'em 
 but me. I 'm like to look sharpish." 
 
 I maintained a grave silence for some minutes. 
 
86 JANE EYRE. 
 
 " You munnut think too hardly of me," she again 
 remarked. 
 
 " But I do think hardly of you," I said ; " and 
 I'll tell you why — not so much because you refused 
 to give me shelter, or regarded me as an impostor, 
 as because you just now made it a species of re- 
 proach that I had no " brass" and no house. Some 
 of the best people that ever lived have been as 
 destitute as I am; and if you are a Christian, you 
 ought not to consider poverty a crime." 
 
 " No more I ought," said she : " Mr. St. John 
 tells me so too ; and I see I wor wrang — but I've 
 clear a different notion on you now to what I had. 
 You look a raight down dacent little crater." 
 
 " That will do — I forgive you now. Shake 
 Jiands." 
 
 She put her floury and horny hand into mine ; 
 another and heartier smile illumined her rough 
 face : and from that moment we were friends. 
 , Hannah was evidently fond of talking. While 
 I picked the fruit, and she made the paste for the 
 pies, she proceeded to give me sundry details 
 about her deceased master and mistress, and " the 
 childer," as she called the young people. 
 
 Old Mr. Rivers, she said, was a plain man 
 enough ; but a gentleman, and of as ancient a family 
 as could be found. Marsh-End had belonged to 
 the Rivers' ever since it was a house : and it was, 
 
JANE EYRE. 87 
 
 she affirmed, "aboon two hundred year old — for 
 all it looked but a small, humble place, naught to 
 compare wi' Mr. Oliver's grand hall down i' Mor- 
 ton Vale. But she could remember Bill Oliver's 
 father a journeyman needle-maker; and th' Rivers' 
 wor gentry i' th' owd days o' th' Henrys, as ony- 
 body might see by looking into th' registers i' 
 Morton Church vestry." Still, she allowed, " the 
 owd maister was like other folk — naught mich out 
 «' t' common way: stark mad o' shooting, and 
 farming, and sich like." The mistress was differ- 
 ent. She was a great reader, and studied a deal ; 
 and the " bairns " had taken after her. There was 
 nothing like them in these parts, nor ever had been: 
 they had liked learning, all three, almost from 
 the time they could speak ; and they had always 
 been " of a mak' of their own." Mr. St. John, 
 when he grew up, would go to college and be a 
 parson ; and the girls, as soon as they left school, 
 would seek places as governesses : for they had 
 told her their father had some years ago lost a 
 great deal of money, by a man he had trusted turn- 
 ing bankrupt; and as he was now not rich enough 
 to give them fortunes, they must provide for 
 themselves. They had lived very little at home 
 for a long while, and were only come now to stay 
 a few weeks on account of their father's death : 
 but they did so like Marsh-End and Morton, and 
 
88 JANE EYRE. 
 
 all these moors and hills about. They had been 
 in London, and many other grand towns ; but they 
 always said there was no place like home: and 
 then they were so agreeable with each other — 
 never fell out nor "threaped." She did not know 
 where there was such a family for being united. 
 
 Having finished my task of gooseberry picking, 
 I asked where the two ladies and their brother 
 were now. 
 
 " Gone over to Morton for a walk ; but they 
 would be back in half an hour to tea." 
 
 They returned within the time Hannah had 
 allotted them : they entered by the kitchen doon 
 Mr. St. John, when he saw me, merely bowed and 
 passed through ; the two ladies stopped : Mary, 
 in a few words, kindly and calmly expressed the 
 pleasure she felt in seeing me well enough to be 
 able to come down ; Diana took my hand : she 
 shook her head at me. 
 
 "You should have w r aited for my leave to 
 descend," she said. " You still look very pale — • 
 and so thin ! Poor child ! — poor girl ! " 
 
 Diana had a voice toned, to my ear, like the 
 cooing of a dove. She possessed eyes whose gaze 
 I delighted to encounter. Her whole face seemed 
 to me full of charm. Mary's countenance was 
 equally intelligent — her features equally pretty : 
 but her expression was more reserved ; and her 
 
JANE EYRE. 89 
 
 manners, though gentle, more distant. Diana 
 looked and spoke with a certain authority : she 
 had a will evidently. It was my nature to feel 
 pleasure in yielding to an authority supported like 
 hers ; and to bend, where my conscience and self- 
 respect permitted, to an active will. 
 
 " And what business have you here ?" she con- 
 tinued. " It is not your place. Mary and I sit in 
 the kitchen sometimes, because at home we like to 
 be free, even to license — but you are a visitor, and 
 must go into the parlour." 
 
 " I am very well here." 
 
 " Not at all— with Hannah bustling about and 
 covering you with flour." 
 
 " Besides, the fire is too hot for you," interposed 
 Mary. 
 
 " To be sure," added her sister. " Come, you 
 must be obedient." And still holding my hand, 
 she made me rise, and led me into the inner 
 room. 
 
 " Sit there," she said, placing me on the sofa, 
 " while we take our things off and get the tea 
 ready : it is another privilege we exercise in our 
 little moorland home — to prepare our own meals 
 when we are so inclined ; or when Hannah is bak- 
 ing, brewing, washing, or ironing." 
 
 She closed the door, leaving me solus with Mr. 
 St. John, who sat opposite ; a book or newspaper 
 
90 JANE EYRE, 
 
 in his hand. I examined, first, the parlour, and 
 then its occupant. 
 
 The parlour was rather a small room, very 
 plainly furnished ; yet comfortable, because clean 
 and neat. The old-fashioned chairs were very 
 bright, and the walnut- wood table was like a look- 
 ing-glass. A few strange, antique portraits of the 
 men and women of other days decorated the 
 stained walls ; a cupboard with glass doors con- 
 tained some books and an ancient set of china. 
 There was no superfluous ornament in the room — 
 not one modern piece of furniture, save a brace of 
 work-boxes and a lady's desk in rosewood, which 
 stood on a side-table : every thing — including the 
 carpet and curtains — looked at once well worn and 
 well saved. 
 
 Mr. St. John — sitting as still as one of the 
 dusky pictures on the walls ; keeping his eyes 
 fixed on the page he perused, and his lips mutely 
 sealed — was easy enough to examine. Had he been 
 a statue instead of a man, he could not have been 
 easier. He was young — perhaps from twenty- 
 eight to thirty — tall, slender ; his face riveted the 
 eye : it was like a Greek face, very pure in out- 
 line ; quite a straight, classic nose ; quite an Athe- 
 nian mouth and chin. It is seldom, indeed, an 
 English face comes so near the antique models as 
 did his. He might well be a little shocked at the 
 
JANE EYRE. 91 
 
 irregularity of my lineaments, his own being so 
 harmonious. His eyes were large and blue, with 
 brown lashes ; his high forehead, colourless as 
 ivory, was partially streaked over by careless locks 
 of fair hair. 
 
 This is a gentle delineation, is it not, reader ? 
 Yet he whom it describes scarcely impressed one 
 with the idea of a gentle, a yielding, an impres- 
 sible, or even of a placid nature. Quiescent as 
 he now sat, there was something about his nostril, 
 his mouth, his brow, which, to my perceptions, 
 indicated elements within either restless, or hard, 
 or eager. He did not speak to me one word, nor 
 even direct to me one glance, till his sisters re- 
 turned. Diana, as she passed in and out, in the 
 course of preparing tea, brought me a little cake, 
 baked on the top of the oven. 
 
 te Eat that now," she said: " you must be 
 hungry. Hannah says you have had nothing but 
 some gruel since breakfast. " 
 
 I did not refuse it, for my appetite was awakened 
 and keen. Mr. Rivers now closed his book, ap- 
 proached the table, and, as he took a seat, fixed 
 his blue, pictorial-looking eyes full on me. There 
 was an unceremonious directness, a searching, de- 
 cided steadfastness in his gaze now, which told 
 that intention, and not diffidence, had hitherto 
 kept it averted from the stranger. 
 
92 JANE EYRE. 
 
 €C You are very hungry," lie said. 
 
 " I am, sir." It is my way — it always was my 
 way, by instinct — ever to meet the brief with bre- 
 vity, the direct with plainness. 
 
 " It is well for you that a low fever has forced 
 you to abstain for the last three days : there 
 would have been danger in yielding to the cravings 
 of your appetite at first. Now you may eat; 
 though still not immoderately." 
 
 " I trust I shall not eat long at your expense, 
 sir," was my very clumsily-contrived, unpolished 
 answer. 
 
 " No," he said, coolly : u when you have in- 
 dicated to us the residence of your friends, we 
 can write to them, and you may be restored to 
 home." 
 
 " That, I must plainly tell you, it is out of my 
 power to do ; being absolutely without home and 
 friends." 
 
 The three looked at me : but not distrustfully. 
 I felt there was no suspicion in their glances : 
 there was more of curiosity. I speak particularly 
 of the young ladies. St. John's eyes, though 
 clear enough in a literal sense, in a figurative one 
 were difficult to fathom. He seemed to use them 
 rather as instruments to search other people's 
 thoughts, than as agents to reveal his own: the 
 which combination of keenness and reserve was 
 
JANE EYRE. 93 
 
 considerably more calculated to embarrass than to 
 encourage. 
 
 " Do you mean to say," he asked, " that you 
 are completely isolated from every connection?" 
 
 " I do. Not a tie links me to any living thing : 
 not a claim do I possess to admittance under any 
 roof in England." 
 
 " A most singular position at your age !" 
 
 Here I saw his glance directed to my hands, 
 which were folded on the table before me. I 
 wondered what he sought there : his words soon 
 explained the quest. 
 
 " You have never been married ? You are a 
 spinster ? " 
 
 Diana laughed. " Why, she can't be above 
 seventeen or eighteen years old, St. John," said 
 she. 
 
 " I am near nineteen : but I am not married. 
 No." 
 
 I felt a burning glow mount to my face ; for 
 bitter and agitating recollections were awakened 
 by the allusion to marriage. They all saw the 
 embarrassment, and the emotion. Diana and 
 Mary relieved me by turning their eyes elsewhere 
 than to my crimsoned visage ; but the colder and 
 sterner brother continued to gaze, till the trouble 
 he had excited forced out tears as well as 
 colour. 
 
94 JANE EYRE. 
 
 " Where did you last reside ? " he now- 
 asked. 
 
 " You are too inquisitive, St. John," murmured 
 Mary, in a low voice : but he leaned over the 
 table and required an answer, by a second firm and 
 piercing look. 
 
 " The name of the place where, and of the 
 person with whom I lived, is my secret," I re- 
 plied, concisely. 
 
 " Which, if you like, you have, in my opinion, 
 aright to keep, both from St. John and every 
 other questioner," remarked Diana. 
 
 " Yet if I know nothing about you or your 
 history, I cannot help you," he said. " And you 
 need help : do you not ?" 
 
 " I need it, and I seek it ; so far, sir, that some 
 true philanthropist will put me in the way of get- 
 ting work which I can do, and the remuneration 
 for which will keep me : if but in the barest neces- 
 saries of life." 
 
 " I know not whether I am a true philanthropist; 
 yet I am willing to aid you to the utmost of my 
 power, in a purpose so honest. First, then, tell 
 me what you have been accustomed to do, and 
 what you can do." 
 
 I had now swallowed my tea. I was mightily 
 refreshed by the beverage ; as much so as a 
 giant with w 7 ine : it gave new tone to my unstrung 
 
JANE EYRE. 95 
 
 nerves, and enabled me to address this penetrating 
 young judge steadily. 
 
 " Mr. Rivers," I said, turning to him, and looking 
 at him as he looked at me, openly and without 
 diffidence, u you and your sisters have done me a 
 great service — the greatest man can do his fellow- 
 being : you have rescued me, by your noble hospi- 
 tality, from death. This benefit conferred gives 
 you an unlimited claim on my gratitude ; and a 
 claim, to a certain extent, on my confidence. I 
 will tell you as much of the history of the wanderer 
 you have harboured, as I can tell without compro- 
 mising my own peace of mind — my own security, 
 moral and physical, and that of others. 
 
 " I am an orphan ; the daughter of a clergy- 
 man. My parents died before I could know 
 them. I was brought up a dependent ; educated in 
 a charitable institution. I will even tell you the 
 name of the establishment, where I passed six years 
 as a pupil, and two as a teacher — Lowood Orphan 
 
 Asylum, shire : you will have heard of it, 
 
 Mr. Rivers ? — the Rev. Robert Brocklehurst is the 
 treasurer." 
 
 " I have heard of Mr. Brocklehurst, and I have 
 seen the school." 
 
 " I left Lowood nearly a year since to become a 
 private governess. I obtained a good situation, 
 and was happy. This place I was obliged to leave 
 
96 JANE EYRE. 
 
 four days before I came here. The reason of my 
 departure I cannot and ought not to explain: it 
 would be useless — dangerous; and would sound 
 incredible. No blame attached to me : I am as 
 free from culpability as any one of you three. 
 Miserable I am, and must be for a time ; for the 
 catastrophe which drove me from a house I had 
 found a paradise was of a strange and direful 
 nature. I observed but two points in planning 
 my departure — speed, secrecy : to secure these, I 
 had to leave behind me every thing I possessed, 
 except a small parcel ; which, in my hurry and 
 trouble of mindj I forgot to take out of the coach 
 that brought me to Whitcross. To this neighbour- 
 nood, then, I came, quite destitute. I slept two 
 nights in the open air, and wandered about two 
 days without crossing a threshold: but twice in 
 that space of time did I taste food; and it was 
 when brought by hunger, exhaustion, and despair, 
 almost to the last gasp, that you, Mr. Rivers, for- 
 bad me to perish of want at your door, and took 
 me under the shelter of your roof. I know all 
 your sisters have done for me since — for I have not 
 been insensible during my seeming torpor — and I 
 owe to their spontaneous, genuine, genial compas- 
 sion, as large a debt as to your evangelical charity." 
 " Don't make her talk any more now, St. John," 
 said Diana as I paused ; " she is evidently not yet 
 
JANE EYRE. 97 
 
 fit for excitement. Come to the sofa, and sit down 
 now, Miss Elliott." 
 
 I gave an involuntary half-start at hearing the 
 alias : I had forgotten my new name. Mr. Rivers, 
 whom nothing seemed to escape, noticed it at once. 
 
 "You said your name was Jane Elliott?" he 
 observed. 
 
 " I did say so ; and it is the name by which I 
 think it expedient to be called at present : but it 
 is not my real name, and when I hear it, it sounds 
 strange to me." 
 
 "Your real name you will not give ?" 
 
 " No : I fear discovery above all things ; and 
 whatever disclosure would lead to it I avoid." 
 
 " You are quite right, I am sure," said Diana. 
 " Now, do, brother, let her be at peace a while." 
 
 But when St. John had mused a few moments, 
 he recommenced, as imperturbably, and with as 
 much acumen as ever. 
 
 " You would not like to be long dependent on 
 our hospitality — you would wish, I see, to dispense 
 as soon as may be with my sisters' compassion ; 
 and, above all, with my charity (I am quite sensible 
 of the distinction drawn, nor do I resent it — it is 
 just): you desire to be independent of us ?" 
 
 " I do : I have already said so. Show me how 
 to work, or how to seek work : that is all I now 
 ask ; then let me go, if it be but to the meanest 
 
 VOL. III. h 
 
98 JANE EYRE. 
 
 cottage — but till then, allow me to stay here : I 
 dread another essay of the horrors of homeless 
 destitution." 
 
 " Indeed, you shall stay here," said Diana, put- 
 ting her white hand on my head. " You shall? 
 repeated Mary, in the tone of undemonstrative 
 sincerity, which seemed natural to her. 
 
 " My sisters, you see, have a pleasure in keep- 
 ing you," said Mr. St. John," as they would have 
 a pleasure in keeping and cherishing a half-frozen 
 bird, some wintry wind might have driven through 
 their casement. / feel more inclination to put 
 you in the way of keeping yourself; and shall 
 endeavour to do so: but observe, my sphere is 
 narrow. I am but the incumbent of a poor country 
 parish : my aid must be of the humblest sort. And 
 if you are inclined to despise the day of small 
 things, seek some more efficient succour than such 
 as I can offer." 
 
 * She has already said that she is willing to do 
 anything honest she can do," answered Diana, for 
 me ; " and you know, St. John, she has no choice 
 of helpers : she is forced to put up with such crusty 
 people as you." 
 
 " I will be a dressmaker : I will be a plain-work- 
 woman ; I will be a servant, a nurse-girl, if I can 
 be no better," I answered. 
 
 " Right," said Mr. St. John, quite coolly. "If 
 
JANE EYRE. ■ 99 
 
 such is your spirit, I promise to aid you ; in my 
 own time and way." 
 
 He now resumed the book with which he had 
 been occupied before tea. I soon withdrew; for I 
 had talked as much, and sat up as long, as my 
 present strength would permit. 
 
 H 2 
 
100 JANE EYRE, 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 The more I knew of the inmates of Moor- House, 
 the better I liked them. In a few days I had so 
 far recovered my health that I could sit up all 
 day, and walk out sometimes. I could join with 
 Diana and Mary in all their occupations ; converse 
 with them as much as they wished, and aid them 
 when and where they would allow me. There was 
 a reviving pleasure in this intercourse, of a kind 
 now tasted by me for the first time — the pleasure 
 arising from perfect congeniality of tastes, senti- 
 ments, and principles. 
 
 I liked to read what they liked to read : what 
 they enjoyed, delighted me ; what they approved, 
 I reverenced. They loved their sequestered home. 
 I, too, in the gray, small, antique structure, with 
 its low roof, its latticed casements, its mouldering 
 walls, its avenue of aged firs — all grown aslant 
 under the stress of mountain winds ; its garden, 
 dark with yew and holly — and where no flowers 
 
JANE EYRE. 101 
 
 but of the hardiest species would bloom — found a 
 charm, both potent and permanent. They clung 
 to the purple moors behind and around their 
 dwelling — to the hollow vale into which the pebbly 
 bridle-path leading from their gate descended; 
 and which wound between fern-banks first, and 
 then amongst a few of the wildest little pasture- 
 fields that ever bordered a wilderness of heath, or 
 gave sustenance to a flock of gray moorland sheep, 
 with their little mossy-faced lambs : — they clung 
 to this scene, I say, with a perfect enthusiasm of 
 attachment. I could comprehend the feeling, and 
 share both its strength and truth. I saw the fasci- 
 nation of the locality. I felt the consecration of 
 its loneliness : my eye feasted on the outline of 
 swell and sweep — on the wild colouring commu- 
 nicated to ridge and dell, by moss, by heath-bell, 
 by flower-sprinkled turf, by brilliant bracken, and 
 mellow granite crag. These details were just to 
 me what they were to them — so many pure and 
 sweet sources of pleasure. The strong blast and 
 the soft breeze ; the rough and the halcyon day ; 
 the hours of sunrise and sunset ; the moonlight 
 and the clouded night, developed for me, in these 
 regions, the same attraction as for them — wound 
 round my faculties the same spell that entranced 
 theirs. 
 
 In-doors we agreed equally well. They were 
 
102 JANE EYRE. 
 
 both more accomplished and better read than I 
 was : but with eagerness I followed in the path of 
 knowledge they had trodden before me. I de- 
 voured the books they lent me : then it was full 
 satisfaction to discuss with them in the evening 
 what I had perused during the day. Thought 
 fitted thought ; opinion met opinion : we coin- 
 cided, in short, perfectly. 
 
 If in our trio there was a superior and a leader, 
 it was Diana. Physically, she far excelled me : 
 she was handsome; she was vigorous. In her 
 animal spirits, there was an affluence of life, and 
 certainty of flow, such as excited my wonder, 
 while it baffled my comprehension. I could talk 
 a while when the evening commenced: but the 
 first gush of vivacity and fluency gone, I was fain 
 to sit on a stool at Diana's feet, to rest my head 
 on her knee, and listen alternately to her and 
 Mary ; while they sounded thoroughly the topic 
 on which I had but touched. Diana offered to 
 teach me German. I liked to learn of her: I 
 saw the part of instructress pleased and suited 
 her ; that of scholar pleased and suited me no 
 less. Our natures dovetailed: mutual affection 
 —of the strongest kind — was the result. They 
 discovered I could draw : their pencils and colour- 
 boxes were immediately at my service. My skill, 
 greater in this one point than theirs, surprised 
 
JANE EYRE. 103 
 
 and charmed them. Mary would sit and watch 
 me by the hour together : then she would take 
 lessons ; and a docile, intelligent, assiduous pupil, 
 she made. Thus occupied, and mutually enter- 
 tained, days passed like hours, and weeks like 
 days. 
 
 As to Mr. St. John, the intimacy which had 
 arisen so naturally and rapidly between me and 
 his sisters, did not extend to him. One reason of 
 the distance yet observed between us was, that he 
 was comparatively seldom at home : a large pro- 
 portion of his time appeared devoted to visiting 
 the sick and poor among the scattered population 
 of his parish. 
 
 No weather seemed to hinder him in these 
 pastoral excursions : rain or fair, he would, when 
 his hours of morning study were over, take his 
 hat, and, followed by his father's old pointer, 
 Carlo, go out on his mission of love, or duty — I 
 scarcely know in which light he regarded it. 
 Sometimes, when the day was very unfavourable, 
 his sisters would expostulate. He would then say, 
 with a peculiar smile, more solemn than cheerful, — 
 " And if I let a gust of wind or a sprinkling of 
 rain turn me aside from these easy tasks, what 
 preparation would such sloth be for the future I 
 propose to myself?" 
 
 Diana and Mary's general answer to this ques. 
 
104 JANE EYRE. 
 
 tion was a sigh, and some minutes of apparently 
 mournful meditation. 
 
 But besides his frequent absences, there was 
 another barrier to friendship with him : he seemed 
 of a reserved, an abstracted, and even of a brood- 
 ing nature. Zealous in his ministerial labours, 
 blameless in his life and habits, he yet did not 
 appear to enjoy that mental serenity, that inward 
 content, which should be the reward of every 
 sincere Christian and practical philanthropist. 
 Often, of an evening, when he sat at the window, 
 his desk and papers before him, he would cease 
 reading or writing, rest his chin on his hand, and 
 deliver himself up to I know not what course of 
 thought : but that it was perturbed and exciting 
 might be seen in the frequent flash and changeful 
 dilation of his eye. 
 
 I think, moreover, that Nature was not to him 
 that treasury of delight it was to his sisters. He 
 expressed once, and but once in my hearing, a 
 strong sense of the rugged charm of the hills, and 
 an inborn affection for the dark roof and hoary 
 walls he called his home : but there was more of 
 gloom than pleasure in the tone and words in 
 which the sentiment was manifested; and never 
 did he seem to roam the moors for the sake of their 
 soothing silence — never seek out or dwell upon the 
 thousand peaceful delights they could yield. 
 
JANE EYRE. 105 
 
 Incommunicative as he was, some time elapsed 
 before I had an opportunity of gauging his mind. 
 I first got an idea of its calibre when I heard him 
 preach in his own church at Morton. I wish I 
 could describe that sermon : but it is past my 
 power. I cannot even render faithfully the effect 
 it produced on me. 
 
 It began calm — and indeed, as far as delivery 
 and pitch of voice went, it was calm to the end : 
 an earnestly felt, yet strictly restrained zeal breathed 
 soon in the distinct accents, and prompted the 
 nervous language. This grew to force — com- 
 pressed, condensed, controlled. The heart was 
 thrilled, the mind astonished, by the power of the 
 preacher : neither were softened. Throughout 
 there was a strange bitterness ; an absence of con- 
 solatory gentleness : stern allusions to Calvinistic 
 doctrines — election, predestination, reprobation — 
 were frequent ; and each reference to these points 
 sounded like a sentence pronounced for doom. 
 When he had done, instead of feeling better, 
 calmer, more enlightened by his discourse, I ex- 
 perienced an inexpressible sadness ; for it seemed 
 to me — I know not whether equally so to others — 
 that the eloquence to which I had been listening 
 had sprung from a depth where lay turbid dregs of 
 disappointment — where moved troubling impulses 
 of insatiate yearnings and disquieting aspirations. 
 
106 JANE EYRE. 
 
 I was sure St. John Rivers — pure-lived, conscien- 
 tious, zealous as he was— had not yet found that 
 peace of God which passeth all understanding : he 
 had no more found it, I thought, than had I ; with 
 my concealed and racking regrets for my broken 
 idol and lost elysium — regrets to which I have 
 latterly avoided referring ; but which possessed me 
 and tyrannized over me ruthlessly. 
 
 Meantime, a month was gone. Diana and Mary 
 were soon to leave Moor-House, and return to the 
 far different life and scene which awaited them, as 
 governesses in a large, fashionable, south-of-Eng- 
 land city ; where each held a situation in families, 
 by whose wealthy and haughty members they were 
 regarded only as humble dependants, and who 
 neither knew nor sought one of their innate ex- 
 cellences, and appreciated only their acquired 
 accomplishments as they appreciated the skill of 
 their cook, or the taste of their waiting woman. 
 Mr. St. John had said nothing to me yet about the 
 employment he had promised to obtain for me : yet 
 it became urgent that I should have a vocation 
 of some kind. One morning, being left alone 
 with him a few minutes in the parlour, I ventured 
 to approach the window-recess — which his table, 
 chair, and desk consecrated as a kind of study — and 
 I was going to speak ; though not very well know* 
 ing in what words to frame my inquiry — for it is at 
 
JANE EYRE. 107 
 
 all times difficult to break the ice of reserve glass- 
 ing over such natures as his — when he saved me 
 the trouble, by being the first to commence a 
 dialogue. 
 
 Looking up as I drew near — " You have a ques- 
 tion to ask of me?" he said. 
 
 " Yes ; I wish to know whether you have heard 
 of any service I can offer myself to undertake." 
 
 " I found or devised something for you three 
 weeks ago; but as you seemed both useful and 
 happy here — as my sisters had evidently become 
 attached to you, and your society gave them un- 
 usual pleasure — I deemed it inexpedient to break 
 in on your mutual comfort, till their approaching 
 departure from Marsh-End should render yours 
 necessary." 
 
 "And they will go in three days now?" I said. 
 " Yes ; and when they go, I shall return to the 
 parsonage at Morton : Hannah will accompany 
 me ; and this old house will be shut up." 
 
 I waited a few moments, expecting he would go 
 on with the subject first broached ; but he seemed 
 to have entered another train of reflection : his 
 look denoted abstraction from me and my business. 
 I was obliged to recall him to a theme which was 
 of necessity one of close and anxious interest to 
 me. 
 
 "What is the employment you had in view 
 
108 JANE EYRE. 
 
 Mr. Rivers ? I hope this delay will not have in- 
 creased the difficulty of securing it." 
 
 " Oh, no ; since it is an employment which 
 depends only on me to give, and you to accept." 
 
 He again paused : there seemed a reluctance to 
 continue. I grew impatient : a restless movement 
 or two, and an eager and exacting glance fastened 
 on his face, conveyed the feeling to him as effec- 
 tually as words could have done, and with less 
 trouble. 
 
 " You need be in no hurry to hear," he said : 
 " let me frankly tell you, I have nothing eligible or 
 profitable to suggest. Before I explain, recall, if 
 you please, my notice, clearly given, that if I helped 
 you, it must be as the blind man would help the 
 lame. I am poor; for I find that, when I have 
 paid my father's debts, all the patrimony remaining 
 to me will be this crumbling grange, the row of 
 scathed firs behind, and the patch of moorish soil, 
 with the yew-trees and holly-bushes in front. I 
 am obscure : Rivers is an old name ; but of the 
 three sole descendants of the race, two earn the 
 dependant's crust among strangers, and the third 
 considers himself an alien from his native country 
 — not only for life, but in death. Yes, and deems, 
 and is bound to deem himself honoured by the lot ; 
 and aspires but after the day when the cross of 
 separation from fleshly ties shall be laid on his 
 
JANE EYRE. 109 
 
 shoulders, and when the Head of that church- 
 militant of whose humblest members he is one, 
 shall give the word, i Rise, follow me!' r 
 
 St. John said these words as he pronounced his 
 sermons, with a quiet, deep voice ; with an unflushed 
 cheek, and a coruscating radiance of glance. He 
 resumed : — 
 
 " And since I am myself poor and obscure, lean 
 offer you but a service of poverty and obscurity. 
 You may even think it degrading — for I see now 
 your habits have been what the world calls refined : 
 your tastes lean to the ideal ; and your society has 
 at least been amongst the educated — but / con- 
 sider that no service degrades which can better our 
 race. I hold that the more arid and unreclaimed 
 the soil where the Christian labourer's task of til- 
 lage is appointed him — the scantier the meed his 
 toil brings — the higher the honour. His, under 
 such circumstances, is the destiny of the pioneer : 
 and the first pioneers of the Gospel were the 
 Apostles — their captain was Jesus, the Redeemer, 
 himself." 
 
 " Well ?" I said, as he again paused — " proceed.'* 
 
 He looked at me before he proceeded : indeed, 
 he seemed leisurely to read my face, as if its 
 features and lines were characters on a page. The 
 conclusions drawn from this scrutiny he partially 
 expressed in his succeeding observations. 
 
110 JANE EYRE. 
 
 " I believe you will accept the post I offer you," 
 said he; "and hold it for a while : not permanently, 
 though : any more than I could permanently keep 
 the narrow and narrowing — the tranquil, hidden 
 office of English country incumbent : for in your 
 nature is an alloy as detrimental to repose as that 
 in mine ; though of a different kind." 
 
 " Do explain ? " I urged, when he halted once 
 more. 
 
 " I will ; and you shall hear how poor the pro- 
 posal is — how trivial — how cramping. I shall not 
 stay long at Morton, now that my father is dead, 
 and that I am my own master. I shall leave the 
 place probably in the course of a twelvemonth : 
 but while I do stay, I will exert myself to the 
 utmost for its improvement. Morton, when I 
 came to it two years ago, had no school : the chil- 
 dren of the poor were excluded from every hope of 
 progress. I established one for boys : I mean now 
 to open a second school for girls. I have hired a 
 building for the purpose, with a cottage of two 
 rooms attached to it for the mistress's house. Her 
 salary will be thirty pounds a year : her house is 
 already furnished, very simply, but sufficiently, by 
 the kindness of a lady, Miss Oliver; the only daugh- 
 ter of the sole rich man in my parish — Mr. Oliver, 
 the proprietor of a needle-factory and iron-foundry 
 in the valley. The same lady pays for the education 
 
JANE EYRE. Ill 
 
 and clothing of an orphan from the workhouse ; on 
 condition that she shall aid the mistress in such 
 menial offices connected with her own house and 
 the school, as her occupation of teaching will pre- 
 vent her having time to discharge in person. Will 
 you be this mistress ?" 
 
 He put the question rather hurriedly ; he seemed 
 half to expect an indignant, or at least a disdainful 
 rejection of the offer : not knowing all my thoughts 
 and feelings, though guessing some, he could not 
 tell in what light the lot would appear to me. In 
 truth it was humble— but then it was sheltered, 
 and I wanted a safe asylum : it was plodding — but 
 then, compared with that of a governess in a rich 
 house, it was independent ; and the fear of servi- 
 tude with strangers entered my soul like iron : it 
 was not ignoble — not unworthy — not mentally 
 degrading. I made my decision. 
 
 " I thank you for the proposal, Mr. Rivers ; and 
 I accept it with all my heart." 
 
 "But you comprehend me?" he said. " It is 
 a village-school : your scholars will be only poor 
 girls — cottagers' children — at the best, farmers* 
 daughters. Knitting, sewing, reading, writing, 
 cyphering, will be all you will have to teach. 
 What will you do with your accomplishments? 
 What, with the largest portion of your mind-^- 
 sentiments — tastes ?" 
 
112 JANE EYRE. 
 
 "Save them till they are "wanted. They will 
 Keep." 
 
 " You know what you undertake, then ?" 
 
 "I do." 
 
 He now smiled: and not a bitter or a sad 
 smile ; but one w^ell pleased and deeply gratified. 
 
 " And when w 7 ill you commence the exercise of 
 your function ? " 
 
 " I will go to my house to-morrow ; and open 
 the school, if you like, next week." 
 
 " Very well : so be it." 
 
 He rose and walked through the room. Stand- 
 ing still, he again looked at me. He shook his 
 head. 
 
 " What do you disapprove of, Mr. Rivers ? " I 
 asked. 
 
 " You will not stay at Morton long : no, no ! " 
 
 tt Why ? What is your reason for saying 
 so : 
 
 " I read it in your eye : it is not of that 
 description which promises the maintenance of an 
 even tenor in life." 
 
 " I am not ambitious." 
 
 He started at the word " ambitious." He re- 
 peated, " No. What made you think of ambition ? 
 Who is ambitious ? I know I am: but how did 
 you find it out?" 
 
 " I was speaking of myself." 
 
JANE EYRE. 113 
 
 " Well, if you are not ambitious, you are * 
 
 He paused. 
 "What?" 
 
 " I was going to say, impassioned : but perhaps 
 you would have misunderstood the word, and been 
 displeased. I mean, that human affections and 
 sympathies have a most powerful hold on you. I 
 am sure you cannot long be content to pass your 
 leisure in solitude, and to devote your working 
 hours to a monotonous labour wholly void of sti- 
 mulus; any more than I can be content," he 
 added, with emphasis, " to live here buried in 
 morass, pent in with mountain — my nature, that 
 God gave me, contravened; my faculties, heaven- 
 bestowed, paralyzed — made useless. You hear 
 now how I contradict myself. I, who preached 
 contentment with a humble lot, and justified the 
 vocation even of hewers of wood, and drawers of 
 water, in God's service — I, his ordained minister, 
 almost rave in my restlessness. Well, propensities 
 and principles must be reconciled by some 
 means." 
 
 He left the room. In this brief hour I had 
 learnt more of him than in the whole previous 
 month : yet still he puzzled me. 
 
 Diana and Mary Rivers became more sad 
 and silent as the day approached for leaving 
 their brother, and their home. They both tried 
 vol. in. I 
 
114 JANE EYRE. 
 
 to appear as usual ; but the sorrow they had to 
 struggle against was one that could not be entirely 
 conquered or concealed. Diana intimated that 
 this would be a different parting from any they 
 had ever yet known. It would probably, as far as 
 St. John was concerned, be a parting for years : 
 it might be a parting for life. 
 
 " He will sacrifice all to his long-framed re- 
 solves," she said : " natural affection and feelings 
 more potent still. St. John looks quiet, Jane, 
 but he hides a fever in his vitals. You would 
 think him gentle, yet in some things he is in- 
 exorable as death; and the worst of it is, my 
 conscience will hardly permit me to dissuade him 
 from his severe decision: certainly, I cannot 
 for a moment blame him for it. It is right, noble, 
 Christian : yet it breaks my heart." And the 
 tears gushed to her fine eyes. Mary bent her 
 head low over her work. 
 
 " We are now without father : we shall soon be 
 without home and brother," she murmured. 
 
 At that moment a little accident supervened, 
 which seemed decreed by fate, purposely to prove 
 the truth of the adage, that " misfortunes never 
 come singly ; " and to add to their distresses the 
 vexing one of the slip between the cup and the 
 lip. St. John passed the window reading a letter. 
 He entered. 
 
JANE EYRE. 115 
 
 " Our uncle John is dead/' said he. 
 
 Both the sisters seemed struck : not shocked or 
 appalled : the tidings appeared in their eyes rather 
 momentous than afflicting. 
 
 " Dead ?" repeated Diana, 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 She riveted a searching gaze on her brother's face. 
 " And what then ?" she demanded, in a low voice. 
 
 "What then, Die?" he replied, maintaining 
 a marble immobility of feature. " What then ? 
 Why — nothing. Read." 
 
 He threw the letter into her lap. She glanced 
 over it, and handed it to Mary. Mary perused 
 it in silence, and returned it to her brother. 
 All three looked at each other, and all three 
 smiled— a dreary, pensive smile enough. 
 
 " Amen ! We can yet live," said Diana, at last. 
 
 " At any rate, it makes us no worse off than we 
 were before," remarked Mary. 
 
 " Only it forces rather strongly on the mind the 
 picture of what might have been" said Mr. Rivers ; 
 " and contrasts it somewhat too vividly with what 
 is? 
 
 He folded the letter, locked it in his desk, and 
 again went out. 
 
 For some minutes no one spoke. Diana then 
 turned to me. 
 
 " Jane, you will wonder at us and our mys- 
 
 i 2 
 
116 JANE EYBE. 
 
 teries," she said ; " and think us hard-hearted 
 beings not to be more moved at the death of so 
 near a relation as an uncle : but we have never 
 seen him or known him. He was my mother^ 
 brother. My father and he quarrelled long ago. 
 It was by his advice that my father risked most 
 of his property in the speculation that ruined him. 
 Mutual recriminations passed between them : they 
 parted in anger, and were never reconciled. My 
 uncle engaged afterwards in more prosperous 
 undertakings : it appears he realised a fortune of 
 twenty thousand pounds. He was never married, 
 and had no near kindred but ourselves, and one 
 other person, not more closely related than we. 
 My father always cherished the idea that he would 
 atone for his error, by leaving his possessions to 
 us : that letter informs us that he has bequeathed 
 every penny to the other relation ; with the ex- 
 ception of thirty guineas, to be divided between 
 St. John, Diana, and Mary Rivers, for the pur- 
 chase of three mourning rings. He had a right, 
 of course, to do as he pleased : and yet a mo- 
 mentary damp is cast on the spirits by the receipt 
 of such news. Mary and I would have esteemed 
 ourselves rich with a thousand pounds each ; and 
 to St. John such a sum would have been valuable, 
 for the good it would have enabled him to do." 
 This explanation given, the subject was dropped, 
 
JANE EYRE. 117 
 
 and no further reference made to it, by either Mr. 
 Rivers or his sisters. The next day, I left Marsh 
 End for Morton. The day after, Diana and Mary 
 quitted it for distant B — . In a week, Mr. Rivers 
 and Hannah repaired to the parsonage : and so 
 the old grange was abandoned. 
 
118 JANE EYRE. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 My home, then — when I at last find a home, — is 
 a cottage : a little room with white-washed walls, 
 and a sanded floor; containing four painted chairs 
 and a table, a clock, a cupboard, with two or 
 three plates and dishes, and a set of tea-things in 
 delf. Above, a chamber of the same dimensions 
 as the kitchen, with a deal bedstead, and chest of 
 drawers ; small, yet too large to be filled with my 
 scanty wardrobe : though the kindness of my 
 gentle and generous friends has increased that, 
 by a modest stock of such things as are ne- 
 cessary. 
 
 It is evening. I have dismissed, with the fee 
 of an orange, the little orphan who serves me as 
 a handmaid. I am sitting alone on the hearth. 
 This morning, the village school opened. I had 
 twenty scholars. But three of the number can 
 read : none write or cypher. Several knit, and 
 a few sew a little. They speak with the broadest 
 
JANE EYRE. 119 
 
 accent of the district. At present, they and I 
 have a difficulty in understanding each other's 
 language. Some of them are unmannered, rough, 
 intractable, as well as ignorant; but others are 
 docile, have a wish to learn, and evince a dispo- 
 sition that pleases me. I must not forget that 
 these coarsely-clad little peasants are of flesh and 
 blood as good as the scions of gentlest genealogy ; 
 and that the germs of native excellence, refine- 
 ment, intelligence, kind feeling, are as likely to 
 exist in their hearts as in those of the best-born. 
 My duty will be to develope these germs : surely 
 I shall find some happiness in discharging that 
 office. Much enjoyment I do not expect in the 
 life opening before me : yet it will, doubtless, if I 
 regulate my mind, and exert my powers as I 
 ought, yield me enough to live on from day to 
 day. 
 
 Was I very gleeful, settled, content, during the 
 hours I passed in yonder bare, humble school- 
 room this morning and afternoon ? Not to deceive 
 myself, I must reply — No : I felt desolate to a 
 degree. I felt — yes, idiot that I am — I felt de- 
 graded. I doubted I had taken a step which sank 
 instead of raising me in the scale of social existence. 
 I was weakly dismayed at the ignorance, the 
 poverty, the coarseness of all I heard and saw 
 round me. But let me not hate and despise my- 
 
120 JANE EfRE. 
 
 self too much for these feelings : I know them to 
 be wrong — that is a great step gained ; I shall 
 strive to overcome them. To-morrow, I trust* I 
 shall get the better of them partially ; and in a few 
 weeks, perhaps, they will be quite subdued. In a 
 few months, it is possible, the happiness of seeing 
 progress, and a change for the better in my scholars,, 
 may substitute gratification for disgust. 
 
 Meantime, let me ask myself one question — - 
 Which is better ? — To have surrendered to tempta- 
 tion ; listened to passion ; made no painful effort 
 — no struggle ; — but to have sunk down in the 
 silken snare ; fallen asleep on the flowers covering 
 it; wakened in a southern clime, amongst the 
 luxuries of a pleasure-villa : to have been now living 
 in r ratice, Mr.- Rochester's mistress ; delirious with 
 his love half my time — for ne w6iild— oh, yes, he 
 would have loved me well for a while. He did love 
 me — no one will ever love me so again. I shall 
 never more know the sweet homage given to 
 beauty, youth, and grace— for never to any else 
 shall I seem to possess these charms. He was 
 fond and proud of me — it is what no man besides 
 will ever be. — But where am I wandering, and 
 what am I saying : and, above all, feeling ? Whe- 
 ther is it better, I ask, to be a slave in a fool's 
 paradise at Marseilles — fevered with delusive bliss 
 one hour— suffocating with the bitterest tears of 
 
JANE EYRE, 121 
 
 remorse and shame the next — or to be a village- 
 schoolmistress, free and honest, in a breezy moun- 
 tain nook in the healthy heart of England ? 
 
 Yes ; I feel now that I was right when I adhered 
 to principle and law, and scorned and crushed the 
 insane promptings of a frenzied moment. God 
 directed me to a correct choice : I thank His pro- 
 vidence for the guidance ! 
 
 Having brought my eventide musings to this 
 point, I rose, went to my door, and looked at the 
 sunset of the harvest-day, and at the quiet fields 
 before my cottage ; which, with the school, was 
 distant half a mile from the village. The birds 
 were singing their last strains — 
 
 " The air was mild ; the dew was balm," 
 While I looked, I thought myself happy, and was" 
 surprised to find myself erelong weeping — and 
 why? For the doom which had reft me from 
 adhesion to my master : for him I was no more to 
 see ; for the desperate grief and fatal fury- — conse- 
 quences of my departure — which might now, per- 
 haps, be dragging him from the path of right, too 
 far to leave hope of ultimate restoration thither. 
 At this thought, I turned my face aside from the 
 lovely sky of eve and lonely vale of Morton — I 
 say lonely, for in that bend of it visible to me, there 
 was no building apparent save the church and the 
 parsonage, half-hid in trees; and, quite at the 
 
122 JANE EYRE. 
 
 extremity, the roof of Vale- Hall, where the rich 
 Mr. Oliver and his daughter lived. I hid my eyes, 
 and leant my head against the stone frame of my 
 door : but soon a slight noise near the wicket which 
 shut in my tiny garden from the meadow beyond 
 it, made me look up. A dog — old Carlo, Mr. 
 Rivers' pointer, as I saw in a moment— was pushing 
 the gate with his nose, and St. John himself leant 
 upon it with folded arms ; his brow knit, his gaze, 
 grave almost to displeasure, fixed on me. I asked 
 him to come in. 
 
 6e No, I cannot stay : I have only brought you a 
 little parcel my sisters left for you. I think it con- 
 tains a colour-box, pencils, and paper." 
 
 I approached to take it : a welcome gift it was. 
 He examined my face, I thought, with austerity, 
 as I came near : the traces of tears were doubtless 
 very visible upon it. 
 
 " Have you found your first day's work harder 
 than you expected?" he asked. 
 
 " Oh, no ! On the contrary, I think in time I 
 shall get on with my scholars very well." 
 
 " But perhaps your accommodations — your cot- 
 tage — your furniture — have disappointed your 
 expectations ? They are, in truth, scanty enough 
 but" 1 interrupted : 
 
 "My cottage is clean and weather-proof; my 
 furniture sufficient and commodious. All I see 
 
JANE EYRE. 123 
 
 has made me thankful, not despondent. I am not 
 absolutely such a fool and sensualist as to regret 
 the absence of a carpet, a sofa, and silver plate : 
 besides, five weeks ago I had nothing — I was an 
 outcast, a beggar, a vagrant ; now I have acquaint- 
 ance, a home, a business. I wonder at the good- 
 ness of God ; the generosity of my friends ; the 
 bounty of my lot. I do not repine." 
 
 " But you feel solitude an oppression ? The 
 little house there behind you is dark and empty ?" 
 
 " I have hardly had time yet to enjoy a sense of 
 tranquillity, much less to grow impatient under 
 one of loneliness." 
 
 " Very well ; I hope you feel the content you 
 express : at any rate, your good sense will tell you 
 that it is too soon yet to yield to the vacillating 
 fears of Lot's wife. What you had left before I 
 saw you, of course I do not know ; but I counsel 
 you to resist, firmly, every temptation which 
 would incline you to look back : pursue your 
 present career steadily, for some months at least." 
 
 * It is what I mean to do," I answered. St. 
 John continued: — 
 
 " It is hard work to control the workings of 
 inclination, and turn the bent of nature : but that 
 it may be done, I know from experience. God 
 has given us, in a measure, the power to make 
 our own fate; and when our energies seem to 
 
124 JANE EYRE. 
 
 demand a sustenance they cannot get — when our 
 will strains after a path we may not follow — we 
 need neither starve from inanition, nor stand still 
 in despair : we have but to seek another nourish- 
 ment for the mind, as strong as the forbidden 
 food it longed to taste — and perhaps purer ; and to 
 hew out for the adventurous foot a road as direct 
 and broad as the one Fortune has blocked up 
 against us, if rougher than it. 
 
 * A year ago, I was myself intensely miserable, 
 because I thought I had made a mistake in enter- 
 ing the ministry : its uniform duties wearied me 
 to death. I burnt for the more active life of the 
 world — for the more exciting toils of a literary 
 career — for the destiny of an artist, author, orator ; 
 anything, rather than that of a priest : yes, the 
 heart of a politician, of a soldier, of a votary of 
 glory, a lover of renown, a luster after power, 
 beat under my curate's surplice. I considered 
 my life was so wretched, it must be changed, or I 
 must die. After a season of darkness and strug- 
 gling, light broke and relief fell : my cramped 
 existence all at once spread out to a plain without 
 bounds — my powers heard a call from heaven to 
 rise, gather their full strength, spread their wings 
 and mount beyond ken. God had an errand for 
 me ; to bear which afar, to deliver it well, skill 
 and strength, courage and eloquence, the best 
 
JANE EYRE. 125 
 
 qualifications of soldier, statesman and orator, 
 were all needed : for these all centre in the good 
 missionary. 
 
 " A missionary I resolved to be. From that mo- 
 ment my state of mind changed : the fetters dissolv- 
 ed and dropped from every faculty, leaving nothing 
 of bondage but its galling soreness — which time 
 only can heal. My father, indeed, opposed the 
 determination; but since his death, I have not a 
 legitimate obstacle to contend with : some affairs 
 settled, a successor for Morton provided, an en- 
 tanglement or two of the feelings broken through 
 or cut asunder — a last conflict with human weak- 
 ness, in which I know I shall overcome, because 
 I have vowed that I will overcome — and I leave 
 Europe for the East." 
 
 He said this in his peculiar, subdued yet em- 
 phatic voice ; looking, when he had ceased speak- 
 ing, not at me, but at the setting sun : at which I 
 looked too. Both he and I had our backs towards 
 the path leading up the field to the wicket. We 
 had heard no step on that grass-grown track ; the 
 water running in the vale was the one lulling 
 sound of the hour and scene : we might well 
 then start, when a gay voice, sweet as a silver 
 bell, exclaimed : — 
 
 " Good eveniug, Mr. Rivers. And good even- 
 ing, old Carlo. Your dog is quicker to recognize 
 
126 JANE EYRE. 
 
 his friends than you are, sir : he pricked his ears 
 and wagged his tail when I was at the bottom of 
 the field, and you have your back towards me 
 now." 
 
 It was true. Though Mr. Rivers had started 
 at the first of those musical accents, as if a 
 thunderbolt had split a cloud over his head, he 
 stood yet, at the close of the sentence, in the 
 same attitude in which the speaker had surprised 
 him : his arm resting on the gate, his face directed 
 towards the west. He turned at last, with mea- 
 sured deliberation. A vision, as it seemed to me, 
 had risen at his side. There appeared, within 
 three feet of him, a form clad in pure white — a 
 youthful, graceful form : full, yet fine in contour ; 
 and when, after bending to caress Carlo, it lifted 
 up its head, and threw back a long veil, there 
 bloomed under his glance a face of perfect beauty. 
 Perfect beauty is a strong expression; but I do 
 not retrace or qualify it: as sweet features as 
 ever the temperate clime of Albion moulded ; as 
 pure hues of rose and lily as ever her humid 
 gales and vapoury skies generated and screened, 
 justified, in this instance, the term. No charm 
 was wanting, no defect was perceptible : the 
 young girl had regular and delicate lineaments ; 
 eyes shaped and coloured as we see them in 
 lovely pictures, large, and dark, and full; the 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 127 
 
 long and shadowy eyelash which encircles a fine 
 eye with so soft a fascination ; the pencilled brow 
 which gives such clearness ; the white, smooth 
 forehead, which adds such repose to the livelier 
 beauties of tint and ray ; the cheek, oval, fresh 
 and smooth ; the lips fresh too, ruddy, healthy, 
 sweetly formed; the even and gleaming teeth 
 without flaw ; the small, dimpled chin ; the orna- 
 ment of rich, plenteous tresses, — all advantages, in 
 short, which combined, realize the ideal of beauty, 
 were fully hers. I wondered, as I looked at this 
 fair creature : I admired her with my whole heart. 
 Nature had surely formed her in a partial mood ; 
 and forgetting her usual stinted step-mother dole 
 of gifts, had endowed this, her darling, with a 
 granddame's bounty. 
 
 What did St. John Rivers think of this earthly 
 angel ? I naturally asked myself that question as 
 I saw him turn to her and look at her; and, as 
 naturally, I sought the answer to the inquiry in 
 his countenance. He had already withdrawn his 
 eye from the Peri, and was looking at a humble 
 tuft of daisies which grew by the wicket. 
 
 " A lovely evening ; but late for you to be out 
 alone," he said, as he crushed the snowy heads of 
 the closed flowers with his foot. 
 
 " Oh, I only came home from S (she men- 
 tioned the name of a large town some twenty 
 
128 JANE EYRE. 
 
 miles distant) this afternoon. Papa told me you 
 had opened your school, and that the new mis- 
 tress was come ; and so I put on my bonnet after 
 tea and ran up the valley to see her : this is she ?" 
 pointing to me. 
 
 " It is," said St. John. 
 
 "Do you think you shall like Morton?" she 
 asked of me ; with a direct and naive simplicity of 
 tone and manner, pleasing, if child-like. 
 
 "I hope I shall. I have many inducements to 
 do so." 
 
 " Did you find your scholars as attentive as you 
 expected?" 
 
 " Quite." 
 
 " Do you like your house ?" 
 
 " Very much." 
 
 " Have I furnished it nicely ? " 
 
 " Very nicely indeed." 
 
 " And made a good choice of an attendant for 
 you in Alice Wood?" 
 
 " You have indeed. She is teachable and 
 handy." (This, then, I thought, is Miss Oliver, 
 the heiress : favoured, it seems, in the gifts fo 
 fortune, as well as in those of nature ! What 
 happy combination of the planets presided over 
 her birth, I wonder ?) 
 
 " I shall come up and help you to teach some- 
 times" she added. " It will be a change for me 
 
JANE EYRE. 129 
 
 to visit you now and then : and I like a 
 change. Mr. Rivers, I have been so gay- 
 daring my stay at S — . Last night, or rather 
 this morning, I was dancing till two o'clock. 
 
 The th regiment are stationed there, 
 
 since the riots ; and the officers are the most 
 agreeable men in the world : they put all our 
 young knife-grinders and scissar merchants to 
 shame." 
 
 It seemed to me that Mr. St. John's under 
 lip protruded, and his upper lip curled a mo- 
 ment. His mouth certainly looked a good 
 deal compressed, and the lower part of his face 
 unusually stern and square, as the laughing 
 girl gave him this information. He lifted his 
 gaze, too, from the daisies, and turned it on 
 her. An unsmiling, a searching, a meaning 
 gaze it was. She answered it with a second 
 laugh : and laughter well became her youth, 
 her roses, her dimples, her bright eyes. 
 
 As he stood, mute and grave, she again fell 
 to caressing Carlo. " Poor Carlo loves me," 
 said she. " He is not stern and distant to his 
 friends ; and if he could speak, he would not 
 be silent." 
 
 As she patted the dog's head, bending with 
 native grace before his young and austere 
 master, I saw a glow rise to that master's face. 
 
 VOL. III. K 
 
130 JANE EYRE. 
 
 I saw his solemn eye melt with sudden fire, 
 and flicker with resistless emotion. Flushed 
 and kindled thus, he looked nearly as beau- 
 tiful for a man as she for a woman. His 
 chest heaved once, as if his large heart, weary 
 of despotic constriction, had expanded, de- 
 spite the will, and made a vigorous bound for 
 the attainment of liberty. But he curbed it, 
 I think, as a resolute rider would curb a 
 rearing steed. He responded neither by 
 word nor movement to the gentle advances 
 made him. 
 
 " Papa says you never come to see us now," 
 continued Miss Oliver, looking up. " You are 
 quite a stranger at Vale Hall. He is alone 
 this evening, and not very well : will you re- 
 turn with me and visit him ?" 
 
 " It is not a seasonable hour to intrude on 
 Mr. Oliver," answered St. John. 
 
 " Not a seasonable hour ! But, I declare, 
 it is. It is just the hour when papa most 
 wants company : when the works are closed, 
 and he has no business to occupy him. Now, 
 Mr. Rivers, do come. Why are you so very shy, 
 and so very sombre ?" She filled up the 
 hiatus his silence left by a reply of her own. 
 
 " I forgot," she exclaimed, shaking her 
 beautiful curled head, as if shocked at herself. 
 
JANE EYRE. 131 
 
 11 1 am so giddy and thoughtless ! Do excuse 
 me. It had slipped my memory that you have 
 good reasons to be indisposed for joining in 
 my chatter. Diana and Mary have left you, 
 and Moor House is shut up, and you are so 
 lonely. I am sure I pity you. Do come and 
 see papa." 
 
 " Not to - night, Miss Rosamond, not to- 
 night." 
 
 Mr. St. John spoke almost like an automaton : 
 himself only knew the effort it cost him thus to 
 refuse. 
 
 " Well, if you are so obstinate, I will leave 
 you ; for I dare not stay any longer : the dew 
 begins to fall. Good-evening ! " 
 
 She held out her hand. He just touched 
 it. " Good-evening ! " he repeated, in a voice 
 low and hollow as an echo. She turned ; but 
 in a moment returned. 
 
 "Are you well?" she asked. Well might 
 she put the question : his face was blanched as 
 her gown. 
 
 " Quite well," he enunciated; and, with a 
 bow, he left the gate. She went one way ; he 
 another. She turned twice to gaze after him, 
 as she tripped fairy-like down the field; he, 
 as he strode firmly across, never turned at 
 all. 
 
 k 2 
 
132 JANE EYRE, 
 
 This spectacle of another's suffering and 
 sacrifices, rapt my thoughts from exclusive 
 meditation on my own. Diana Rivers had 
 designated her brother " inexorable as death ." 
 She had not exaggerated. 
 
JANE EYRE. 133 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 I continued the labours of the village school 
 as actively and faithfully as I could. It was 
 truly hard work at first. Some time elapsed 
 before, with all my efforts, I could comprehend 
 my scholars and their nature. Wholly un- 
 taught, with faculties quite torpid, they seemed 
 to me hopelessly dull; and, at first sight, all 
 dull alike : but I soon found I was mistaken. 
 There was a difference amongst them as amongst 
 the educated ; and when I got to know them, 
 and they me, this difference rapidly developed 
 itself. Their amazement at me, my language, 
 my rules and ways, once subsided, I found 
 some of these heavy-looking, gaping rustics 
 wake up into sharp-witted girls enough. Many 
 showed themselves obliging, and amiable too ; 
 and I discovered amongst them not a few 
 examples of natural politeness, and innate self- 
 respect, as well as of excellent capacity, that 
 
134 JANE EYRE. 
 
 won both my good will and my admiration. 
 These soon took a pleasure in doing their work 
 well ; in keeping their persons neat ; in learn- 
 ing their tasks regularly; in acquiring quiet 
 and orderly manners. The rapidity of their 
 progress, in some instances, was even surpris- 
 ing ; and an honest and happy pride I took in 
 it : besides, I began personally to like some of 
 the best girls ; and they liked me. I had 
 amongst my scholars several farmers' daughters : 
 young women grown, almost. These could 
 already read, write, and sew ; and to them I 
 taught the elements of grammar, geography, 
 history, and the finer kinds of needlework. I 
 found estimable characters amongst them — cha- 
 racters desirous of information, and disposed 
 for improvement — with whom I passed many a 
 pleasant evening hour in their own homes. 
 Their parents then (the farmer and his wife) 
 loaded me with attentions. There was an 
 enjoyment in accepting their simple kindness, 
 and in repaying it by a consideration — a scru- 
 pulous regard to their feelings — to which they 
 were not, perhaps, at all times accustomed, 
 and which both charmed and benefited them ; 
 because, while it elevated them in their own 
 eyes, it made them emulous to merit the defe- 
 rential treatment they received. 
 
JANE EYRE. 135 
 
 I felt I became a favourite in the neighbour- 
 hood. Whenever I went out, I heard on all 
 sides cordial salutations, and was welcomed 
 with friendly smiles. To live amidst general 
 regard, though it be but the regard of working- 
 people, is like "sitting in sunshine, calm and 
 sweet :" serene inward feelings bud and bloom 
 under the ray. At this period of my life, my 
 heart far oftener swelled with thankfulness than 
 sunk with dejection : and yet, reader, to tell 
 you all, in the midst of this calm, this useful 
 existence — after a day passed in honourable 
 exertion amongst my scholars, an evening spent 
 in drawing or reading contentedly alone — I 
 used to rush into strange dreams at night : 
 dreams many coloured, agitated, full of the 
 ideal, the stirring, the stormy — dreams where, 
 amidst unusual scenes, charged with adventure, 
 with agitating risk and romantic chance, I still 
 again and again met Mr. Rochester, always at 
 some exciting crisis; and then the sense of 
 being in his arms, hearing his voice, meeting 
 his eye, touching his hand and cheek, loving 
 him, being loved by him — the hope of passing 
 a lifetime at his side, would be renewed, with 
 all its first force and fire. Then I awoke. 
 Then I recalled where I was, and how situated. 
 Then I rose up on my curtainless bed, trem- 
 
136 JANE EYRE. 
 
 bling and quivering; and then the still, dark 
 night witnessed the convulsion of despair, and 
 heard the burst of passion. By nine o'clock 
 the next morning, I was punctually opening the 
 school ; tranquil, settled, prepared for the steady 
 duties of the day. 
 
 Rosamond Oliver kept her word in coming 
 to visit me. Her call at the school was gene- 
 rally made in the course of her morning ride. 
 She would canter up to the door on her pony, 
 followed by a mounted livery servant. Any- 
 thing more exquisite than her appearance, in 
 her purple habit, with her Amazon's cap of 
 black velvet placed gracefully above the long 
 curls that kissed her cheek and floated to her 
 shoulders, can scarcely be imagined : and it was 
 thus she would enter the rustic building, and 
 glide through the dazzled ranks of the village 
 children. She generally came at the hour 
 when Mr. Rivers was engaged in giving his 
 daily catechising lesson. Keenly, I fear, did 
 the eye of the visitress pierce the young pas- 
 tor's heart. A sort of instinct seemed to warn 
 him of her entrance, even when he did not see 
 it ; and when he was looking quite away from 
 the door, if she appeared at it, his cheek w r ould 
 glow, and his marble-seeming features, though 
 they refused to relax, changed indescribably ; 
 
JANE EYRE. 137 
 
 and in their very quiescence became expres- 
 sive of a repressed fervour, stronger than 
 working muscle or darting glance could indi- 
 cate. 
 
 Of course, she knew her power : indeed, 
 he did not, because he could not, conceal it 
 from her. In spite of his Christian stoicism, 
 when she went up and addressed him, and 
 smiled gaily, encouragingly, even fondly in his 
 face, his hand would tremble, and his eye 
 burn. He seeme*d to say, with his sad and 
 resolute look, if he did not say it with his lips, 
 fS I love you, and I know you prefer me. It 
 is not despair of success that keeps me dumb. 
 If I offered my heart, I believe you would 
 accept it. But that heart is already laid on a 
 sacred altar : the fire is arranged round it. 
 It will soon be no more than a sacrifice con- 
 sumed." 
 
 And then she would pout like a disappointed 
 child ; a pensive cloud would soften her ra- 
 diant vivacity; she would withdraw her hand 
 hastily from his, and turn in transient petulance 
 from his aspect, at once so heroic and so 
 martyr-like. St. John, no doubt, would have 
 given the world to follow, recall, retain her, when 
 she thus left him : but he would not give one 
 chance of Heaven ; nor relinquish, for the ely- 
 
138 JANE EYRE. 
 
 \ 
 
 sium of her love, one hope of the true, eternal 
 Paradise. Besides, he could not bound all that 
 he had in his nature — the rover, the aspirant, 
 the poet, the priest — in the limits of a single 
 passion. He could not — he would not — re- 
 nounce his wild field of mission warfare for the 
 parlours and the peace of Vale Hall. I learnt 
 so much from himself, in an inroad I once, 
 despite his reserve, had the daring to make on 
 his confidence. 
 
 Miss Oliver already honoured me with fre- 
 quent visits to my cottage. I had learnt her 
 whole character; which was without mystery or 
 disguise : she was coquettish, but not heartless ; 
 exacting, but not worthlessly selfish. She had 
 been indulged from her birth, but was not 
 absolutely spoilt. She was hasty, but good- 
 humoured; vain (she could not help it, when 
 every glance in the glass showed her such a 
 flush of loveliness), but not affected ; liberal- 
 handed ; innocent of the pride of wealth ; in- 
 genuous; sufficiently intelligent; gay, lively, 
 and unthinking : she was very charming, in 
 short, even to a cool observer of her own sex 
 like me ; but she was not profoundly interest- 
 ing or thoroughly impressive. A very different 
 sort of mind was hers from that, for instance, of 
 the sisters of St. John. Still, I liked her almost 
 
JANE EYRE. 139 
 
 as I liked my pupil A dele : except that, for a child 
 whom we have watched over and taught, a 
 closer affection is engendered than we can give 
 an equally attractive adult acquaintance. 
 
 She had taken an amiable caprice to me. 
 She said I was like Mr. Rivers (only, certainly, 
 she allowed, " not one-tenth so handsome ; 
 though I was a nice, neat little soul enough : 
 but he was an angel"). I was, however, good, 
 clever, composed, and firm, like him. I was a 
 lusus naturcBj she affirmed, as a village-school- 
 mistress : she was sure my previous history, if 
 known, would make a delightful romance. 
 
 One evening, while with her usual child-like 
 activity, and thoughtless yet not offensive in- 
 quisitiveness, she was rummaging the cupboard 
 and the table-drawer of my little kitchen, she 
 discovered first two French books, a volume of 
 Schiller, a German grammar and dictionary; 
 and then my drawing-materials and some 
 sketches, including a pencil-head of a pretty 
 little cherub-like girl, one of my scholars, and 
 sundry views from nature, taken in the Vale of 
 Morton and on the surrounding moors. She 
 was first transfixed ,with surprise, and then 
 electrified with delight. 
 
 " Had I done these pictures ? Did I know 
 French and German? What a love — what a 
 
140 JANE EYRE. 
 
 miracle I was ! I drew better than her master 
 
 in the first school in S . Would I sketch a 
 
 portrait of her to show to papa?" 
 
 " With pleasure," I replied ; and I felt a thrill 
 of artist-delight at the idea of copying from so 
 perfect and radiant a model. She had then 
 on a dark-blue silk dress; her arms and her 
 neck were bare ; her only ornament was her 
 chestnut tresses, which waved over her shoulders 
 with all the wild grace of natural curls. I took 
 a sheet of fine card-board, and drew a careful 
 outline. I promised myself the pleasure of 
 colouring it ; and, as it was getting late then, I 
 told her she must come and sit another day. 
 
 She made such a report of me to her father, 
 that Mr. Oliver himself accompanied her next 
 evening — a tall, massive-featured, middle-aged, 
 and grey-headed man, at whose side his lovely 
 daughter looked like a bright flower near a 
 hoary turret. He appeared a taciturn, and per- 
 haps a proud personage ; but he was very kind 
 to me. The sketch of Rosamond's portrait 
 pleased him highly: he said I must make a 
 finished picture of it. He insisted, too, on my 
 coming the next day to spend the evening at 
 Vale-Hall. 
 
 I went. I found it a large, handsome resi- 
 dence, shewing abundant evidences of wealth in 
 
JANE EYRE. 141 
 
 the proprietor. Rosamond was full of glee and 
 pleasure all the time I stayed. Her father was 
 affable ; and when he entered into conversation 
 with me after tea, he expressed in strong terms 
 his approbation of what I had done in Morton 
 school ; and said he only feared, from what he 
 saw and heard, I was too good for the place, and 
 would soon quit it for one more suitable. 
 
 "Indeed!" cried Rosamond, "she is clever 
 enough to be a governess in a high family, 
 papa." 
 
 I thought — I would for rather be where I am 
 than in any high family in the land. Mr. 
 Oliver spoke of Mr. Rivers — of the Rivers' 
 family — with great respect. He said it was a 
 very old name in that neighbourhood ; that the 
 ancestors of the house were wealthy ; that all 
 Morton had once belonged to them ; that even 
 now he considered the representative of that 
 house might, if he liked, make an alliance with 
 the best. He accounted it a pity that so fine 
 and talented a young man should have formed 
 the design of going out as a missionary : it was 
 quite throwing a valuable life away. It appeared, 
 then, that her father would throw no obstacle 
 in the way of Rosamond's union with St. John. 
 Mr. Oliver evidently regarded the young 
 clergyman's good birth, old name, and sacred 
 
142 JANE EYRE. 
 
 profession, as sufficient compensation for the 
 want of fortune. 
 
 It was the fifth of November, and a holiday. 
 My little servant, after helping me to clean my 
 house, was gone ; well satisfied with the fee of a 
 penny for her aid. All about me was spotless 
 and bright — scoured floor, polished grate, and 
 well-rubbed chairs. I had also made myself 
 neat, and had now the afternoon before me to 
 spend as I would. 
 
 The translation of a few pages of German 
 occupied an hour ; then I got my palette and 
 pencils, and fell to the more soothing, because 
 easier occupation, of completing Rosamond 
 Oliver's miniature. The head was finished 
 already : there was but the background to tint, 
 and the drapery to shade off; a touch of car- 
 mine, too, to add to the ripe lips — a soft curl 
 here and there to the tresses — a deeper tinge to 
 the shadow of the lash under the azured eyelid. 
 I was absorbed in the execution of these nice 
 details, when, after one rapid tap, my door 
 unclosed, admitting St. John Rivers. 
 
 f I am come to see how you are spending 
 your holiday," he said. * Not, I hope, in 
 thought ? No, that is well : while you draw 
 you will not feel lonely. You see, I mistrust 
 you still : though you have borne up wonder- 
 
JANE EYRE. 143 
 
 fully so far. I have brought you a book for 
 evening solace," and he laid on the table a new 
 publication — a poem : one of those genuine 
 productions so often vouchsafed to the for- 
 tunate public of those days — the golden age of 
 modern literature. Alas ! the readers of our 
 era are less favoured. But, courage ! I will 
 not pause either to accuse or repine. I know 
 poetry is not dead, nor genius lost; nor has 
 Mammon gained power over either, to bind or 
 slay : they will both assert their existence, 
 their presence, their liberty, and strength again 
 one day. Powerful angels, safe in heaven ! 
 they smile when sordid souls triumph, and 
 feeble ones weep over their destruction. 
 Poetry destroyed ? Genius banished ? No ! 
 Mediocrity, no : do not let envy prompt you 
 to the thought. No ; they not only live, but 
 reign, and redeem : and without their divine 
 influence spread everywhere, you would be in 
 hell — the hell of your own meanness. 
 
 While I was eagerly glancing at the bright 
 pages of Marmion (for Marmion it was), St. 
 John stooped to examine my drawing. His 
 tall figure sprang erect again with a start : he 
 said nothing. I looked up at him : he shunned 
 my eye. I knew his thoughts well, and could 
 read his heart plainly ; at the moment I felt 
 
144 JANE EYRE. 
 
 calmer and cooler than he : I had then tem- 
 porarily the advantage of him ; and I conceived 
 an inclination to do him some good, if I could. 
 
 "With all his firmness and self-control," 
 thought I, " he tasks himself too far : locks 
 every feeling and pang within — expresses, con- 
 fesses, imparts nothing. I am sure it would 
 benefit him to talk a little about this sweet 
 Rosamond, whom he thinks he ought not to 
 marry : I will make him talk." 
 
 I said first : " Take a chair, Mr. Rivers." 
 But he answered, as he always did, that he 
 could not stay. " Very well," I responded, 
 mentally, " stand, if you like ; but you shall 
 not go just yet, I am determined : solitude is 
 at least as bad for you as it is for me. I '11 try 
 if I cannot discover the secret spring of your 
 confidence, and find an aperture in that 
 marble breast through which I can shed one 
 drop of the balm of sympathy." 
 
 "Is this portrait like?" I asked, bluntly. 
 
 " Like ! Like whom ? I did not observe it 
 closely." 
 
 " You did, Mr. Rivers." 
 
 He almost started at my sudden and strange 
 abruptness: he looked at me astonished. 
 " Oh, that is nothing yet," I muttered within. 
 I don't mean to be baffled by a little stiffness 
 
JANE EYRE. 145 
 
 on your part : I 'm prepared to go to considerable 
 lengths/' I continued, "You observed it 
 closely and distinctly : but I have no objection 
 to your looking at it again," and I rose and 
 placed it in his hand. 
 
 " A well-executed picture," he said; "very 
 soft, clear colouring ; very graceful and correct 
 drawing." 
 
 " Yes, yes ; I know all that. But what of 
 the resemblance? Who is it like?" 
 
 Mastering some hesitation, he answered, 
 " Miss Oliver, I presume." 
 
 " Of course. And now, sir, to reward you 
 for the accurate guess, I will promise to paint 
 you a careful and faithful duplicate of this very 
 picture, provided you admit that the gift would 
 be acceptable to you. I don't wish to throw 
 away my time and trouble on an offering you 
 would deem worthless." 
 
 He continued to gaze at the picture : the 
 longer he looked, the firmer he held it, the more 
 he seemed to covet it. "It is like!" he mur- 
 mured ; " the eye is well managed : the colour, 
 light, expression, are perfect. It smiles!" 
 
 " Would it comfort, or would it wound you 
 to have a similar painting ? Tell me that. 
 When you are at Madagascar, or at the Cape, 
 or in India, would it be a consolation to have 
 
 VOL. III. L 
 
146 JANE EYRE. 
 
 that memento in your possession ; or would the 
 sight of it bring recollections calculated to 
 enervate and distress ? " 
 
 He now furtively raised his eyes : he glanced 
 at me irresolute, disturbed : he again surveyed 
 the picture. 
 
 " That I should like to have it is certain : 
 whether it would be judicious or wise is another 
 question." 
 
 Since I had ascertained that Rosamond really 
 preferred him, and that her father was not 
 likely to oppose the match, I — less exalted in 
 my views than St. John — had been strongly 
 disposed in my own heart to advocate their 
 union. It seemed to me that, should he become 
 the possessor of Mr. Oliver's large fortune, he 
 might do as much good with it as if he went 
 and laid his genius out to wither, and his 
 strength to waste, under a tropical sun. With 
 this persuasion, I now answered : — 
 
 " As far as I can see, it would be wiser and 
 more judicious if you were to take to yourself 
 the original at once." 
 
 By this time he had sat down : he had laid 
 the picture on the table before him, and, with 
 his brow supported on both hands, hung fondly 
 over it. I discerned he was now neither angry 
 nor shocked at my audacity. I saw even that 
 
JANE EYRE. 147 
 
 to be thus frankly addressed on a subject he 
 had deemed unapproachable — to hear it thus 
 freely handled — was beginning to be felt by 
 him as a new pleasure — an unhoped-for relief. 
 Reserved people often really need the frank 
 discussion of their sentiments and griefs more 
 than the expansive. The sternest-seeming 
 stoic is human after all; and to "burst" with 
 boldness and good will into " the silent sea" of 
 their souls, is often to confer on them the first of 
 obligations. 
 
 " She likes you, I am sure," said I, as I stood 
 behind his chair, " and her father respects you. 
 Moreover, she is a sweet girl — rather thought- 
 less ; but you would have sufficient thought for 
 both yourself and her. You ought to marry 
 her." 
 
 "Does she like me?" he asked. 
 
 " Certainly ; better than she likes any one 
 else. She talks of you continually : there is no 
 subject she enjoys so much, or touches upon so 
 often." 
 
 " It is very pleasant to hear this," he said — 
 " very : go on for another quarter of an hour." 
 And he actually took out his watch and laid it 
 upon the table to measure the time. 
 
 " But where is the use of going on," I asked, 
 " when you are probably preparing some iron 
 
 l2 
 
148 JANE EYRE. 
 
 blow of contradiction, or forging a fresh chain 
 to fetter your heart ? " 
 
 "Don't imagine such hard things. Fancy 
 me yielding and melting, as I am doing : human 
 love rising like a freshly opened fountain in my 
 mind, and overflowing with sweet inundation 
 all the field I have so carefully, and with such 
 labour, prepared — so assiduously sown with the 
 seeds of good intentions, of self-denying plans. 
 And now it is deluged with a nectarous flood 
 — the young germs swamped — delicious poison 
 cankering them : now I see myself stretched on 
 an ottoman in the drawing-room at Vale Hall, 
 at my bride Rosamond Oliver's feet : she is 
 talking to me with her sweet voice — gazing 
 down on me with those eyes your skilful hand 
 has copied so well — smiling at me with these 
 coral lips. She is mine — I am hers— this pre- 
 sent life and passing world suffice to me. Hush ! 
 say nothing — my heart is full of delight — my 
 senses are entranced — let the time I marked 
 pass in peace." 
 
 I humoured him :the watch ticked on : he 
 breathed fast and low : I stood silent. Amidst 
 this hush the quarter sped: he replaced the 
 watch, laid the picture down, rose, and stood on 
 the hearth. 
 
 " Now," said he, " that little space was given 
 
JANE EYRE. 149 
 
 to delirium and delusion. I rested my temples 
 on the breast of temptation, and put my neck 
 voluntarily under her yoke of flowers ; I tasted 
 her cup. The pillow was burning : there is an 
 asp in the garland : the wine has a bitter taste: 
 her promises are hollow — her offers false : I see 
 and know all this." 
 
 I gazed at him in wonder. 
 
 " It is strange," pursued he, " that while I 
 love Rosamond Oliver so wildly — with all the 
 intensity, indeed, of a first passion, the object 
 of which is exquisitely beautiful, graceful, and 
 fascinating — I experience at the same time a 
 calm, unwarped consciousness, that she would 
 not make me a good w T ife ; that she is not the 
 partner suited to me; that I should discover 
 this within a year after marriage ; and that to 
 twelve months' rapture would succeed a lifetime 
 of regret. This I know." 
 
 "Strange, indeed!" I could not help ejacu- 
 lating. 
 
 " While something in me," he went on, " is 
 acutely sensible to her charms, something else 
 is as deeply impressed with her defects : they 
 are such that she could sympathize in nothing I 
 aspired to — co-operate in nothing I undertook. 
 Rosamond a sufferer, a labourer, a female 
 apostle? Rosamond a missionary's wife? No!" 
 
150 JANE EYRE. 
 
 "But you need not be a missionary. You 
 might relinquish that scheme." 
 
 "Relinquish! What — my vocation? My 
 great work ? My foundation laid on earth for 
 a mansion in heaven? My hopes of being 
 numbered in the band who have merged all 
 ambitions in the glorious one of bettering their 
 race — of carrying knowledge into the realms of 
 ignorance — of substituting peace for war — free- 
 dom for bondage — religion for superstition — the 
 hope of heaven for the fear of hell ? Must I 
 relinquish that ? It is dearer than the blood in 
 my veins. It is what I have to look forward to, 
 and to live for." 
 
 After a considerable pause, I said — "And 
 Miss Oliver? Are her disappointment and 
 sorrow of no interest to you ?" 
 
 " Miss Oliver is ever surrounded by suitors 
 and flatterers : in less than a month, my image 
 will be effaced from her heart. She will forget 
 me ; and will marry, probably, some one who 
 will make her far happier than I should do." 
 
 " You speak coolly enough ; but you suffer 
 in the conflict. You are wasting away." 
 
 " No. If I get a little thin, it is with an- 
 xiety about my prospects, yet unsettled — my 
 departure, continually procrastinated. Only 
 this morning, I received intelligence that the 
 
JANE EYRE. 151 
 
 successor, whose arrival I have been so long 
 expecting, cannot be ready to replace me for 
 three months to come yet : and perhaps the 
 three months may extend to six." 
 
 " You tremble and become flushed whenever 
 Miss Oliver enters the schoolroom." 
 
 Again the surprised expression crossed his 
 face. He had not imagined that a woman 
 would dare to speak so to a man. For me, I 
 felt at home in this sort of discourse. I could 
 never rest in communication with strong, dis- 
 creet, and refined minds, whether male or fe- 
 male, till I had passed the outworks of con- 
 ventional reserve, and crossed the threshold of 
 confidence, and won a place by their heart's 
 very hearthstone. 
 
 " You are original," said he, " and not timid. 
 There is something brave in your spirit, as well as 
 penetrating in your eye : but allow me to assure 
 you that you partially misinterpret my emotions. 
 You think them more profound and potent than 
 they are. You give me a larger allowance of 
 sympathy than I have a just claim to. When 
 I colour, and when I shake before Miss Oliver, 
 I do not pity myself. I scorn the weakness. 
 I know it is ignoble ; a mere fever of the flesh : 
 not, I declare, a convulsion of the soul. That 
 is just as fixed as a rock, firm set in the depths 
 
152 JANE EYRE. 
 
 of a restless sea. Know me to be what I am — 
 a cold, hard man." 
 
 I smiled incredulously. 
 
 " You have taken my confidence by storm," 
 he continued ; tc and now it is much at your 
 service. I am simply, in my original state — 
 stripped of that blood -bleached robe with 
 which Christianity covers human deformity — -a 
 cold, hard, ambitious man. Natural affection 
 only, of all the sentiments, has permanent 
 power over me. Reason, and not Feeling, is 
 my guide : my ambition is unlimited ; my de- 
 sire to rise higher, to do more than others, 
 insatiable. I honour endurance, perseverance, 
 industry, talent; because these are the means 
 by which men achieve great ends, and mount 
 to lofty eminence. I watch your career with 
 interest, because I consider you a specimen of 
 a diligent, orderly, energetic woman : not be- 
 cause I deeply compassionate what you have 
 gone through, or what you still suffer." 
 
 "You would describe yourself as a mere 
 pagan philosopher," I said. 
 
 (e No. There is this difference between me 
 and deistic philosophers : I believe ; and I 
 believe the Gospel. You missed your epithet. 
 I am not a pagan, but a Christian philosopher 
 — a follower of the sect of Jesus. As his 
 
JANE EYRE. 153 
 
 disciple, I adopt his pure, his merciful, his 
 benignant doctrines. I advocate them : I am 
 sworn to spread them. Won in youth to re- 
 ligion, she has cultivated my original qualities 
 thus: — From the minute germ, natural affec- 
 tion, she has developed the overshadowing 
 tree, philanthropy. From the wild, stringy 
 root of human uprightness, she has reared a 
 due sense of the Divine justice. Of the am- 
 bition to win power and renown for my 
 wretched self, she has formed the ambition to 
 spread my Master's kingdom ; to achieve vic- 
 tories for the standard of the cross. So much 
 has religion done for me ; turning the original 
 materials to the best account : pruning and 
 training nature. But she could not eradicate 
 nature : nor will it be eradicated " till this 
 mortal shall put on immortality." 
 
 Having said this, he took his hat, which lay 
 on the table beside my palette. Once more he 
 looked at the portrait. 
 
 " She is lovely," he murmured. " She is 
 well named the Rose of the World, indeed !" 
 
 " And may I not paint one like it for you ?" 
 
 " Cut bono ? No." 
 
 He drew over the picture the sheet of thin 
 paper on which I was accustomed to rest my 
 hand in painting to prevent the card-board 
 
154 JANE EYRE. 
 
 from being sullied. What he suddenly saw- 
 on this blank paper, it was impossible for me 
 to tell : but something had caught his eye. 
 He took it up with a snatch ; he looked at the 
 edge ; then shot a glance at me, inexpressibly 
 peculiar, and quite incomprehensible : a glance 
 that seemed to take and make note of every 
 point in my shape, face, and dress ; for it tra- 
 versed all, quick, keen as lightning. His lips 
 parted, as if to speak : but he checked the 
 coming sentence, whatever it was. 
 
 " What is the matter?" I asked. 
 
 " Nothing in the world," was the reply ; 
 and, replacing the paper, I saw him dexterously 
 tear a narrow slip from the margin. It disap- 
 peared in his glove ; and, with one hasty nod 
 and " good-afternoon," he vanished. 
 
 " Well ! " I exclaimed, using an expression 
 of the district; "that caps the globe, how T - 
 ever !" 
 
 I, in my turn, scrutinized the paper; but 
 saw nothing on it, save a few dingy stains of 
 paint, where I had tried the tint in my pencil. 
 I pondered the mystery a minute or two ; but 
 finding it insolvable, and being certain it could 
 not be of much moment, I dismissed, and soon 
 forgot it. 
 
JANE EYRE. 155 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 When Mr. St. John went, it was beginning 
 to snow : the whirling storm continued all 
 night. The next day a keen wind brought 
 fresh and blinding falls : by twilight the valley 
 was drifted up and almost impassable. I had 
 closed my shutter, laid a mat to the <loor to 
 prevent the snow from blowing in under it, 
 trimmed my fire, and after sitting nearly an 
 hour on the hearth listening to the muffled 
 fury of the tempest, I lit a candle, took down 
 Marmion and beginning — 
 
 " Day set on Norham's castled steep, 
 And Tweed's fair river broad and deep, 
 
 And Cheviot mountains lone ; 
 The massive towers, the donjon keep, 
 The flanking walls that round them sweep, 
 
 In yellow lustre shone." 
 
 I soon forgot storm in music. 
 
 I heard a noise : the wind, I thought, shook 
 the door. No ; it was St, John Rivers, who, 
 
156 JANE EYRE. 
 
 lifting the latch, came in out of the frozen 
 hurricane — the howling darkness — and stood 
 before me ; the cloak that covered his tall 
 figure all white as a glacier. I was almost in 
 consternation ; so little had I expected any 
 guest from the blocked-up vale that night. 
 
 " Any ill news?" I demanded. "Has any- 
 thing happened?" 
 
 " "No. How very easily alarmed you are !" 
 he answered, removing his cloak and hanging 
 it up against the door : towards which he again 
 coolly pushed the mat which his entrance had 
 deranged. He stamped the snow from his 
 boots. 
 
 " I shall sully the purity of your floor ;" said 
 he, " but you must excuse me for once." Then 
 he approached the fire : " I have had hard 
 work to get here, I assure you," he observed, 
 as he warmed his hands over the flame. " One 
 drift took me up to the waist : happily the 
 snow is quite soft yet." 
 
 " But why are you come?" I could not for- 
 bear saying. 
 
 " Rather an inhospitable question to put to 
 a visitor ; but since you ask it, I answer, simply 
 to have a little talk with you : I got tired of 
 my mute books and empty rooms. Besides, 
 since yesterday, I have experienced the excite- 
 
JANE EYRE. 157 
 
 ment of a person to whom a tale has been 
 half-told, and who is impatient to hear the 
 sequel." 
 
 He sat down. I recalled his singular con- 
 duct of yesterday, and really I began to fear 
 his wits were touched. If he were insane, 
 however, his was a very cool and collected 
 insanity : I had never seen that handsome- 
 featured face of his, look more like chiselled 
 marble than it did just now; as he put aside 
 his snow-wet hair from his forehead and let 
 the fire-light shine free on his pale brow and 
 cheek as pale : where it grieved me to discover 
 the hollow trace of care or sorrow now so 
 plainly graved. I waited, expecting he would 
 say something I could at least comprehend ; but 
 his hand was now at his chin, his finger on his 
 lip : he was thinking. It struck me that his 
 hand looked wasted like his face. A perhaps 
 uncalled-for gush of pity came over my heart : 
 I was moved to say : — 
 
 "I wish Diana or Mary would come and 
 live with you : it is too bad that you should 
 be quite alone ; and you are recklessly rash 
 about your own health." 
 
 "Not at all," said he: "I care for mysel 
 when necessary : I am well now. What do 
 you see amiss in me ? " 
 
158 JANE EYRE. 
 
 This was said with a careless, abstracted in- 
 difference, which showed that my solicitude 
 was, at least in his opinion, wholly superfluous. 
 I was silenced. 
 
 He still slowly moved his finger over his 
 upper lip, and still his eye dwelt dreamily on 
 the glowing grate : thinking it urgent to say 
 something, I asked him presently if he felt 
 any cold draught from the door, which was 
 behind him. 
 
 " 'No, no ;" he responded shortly and some- 
 what testily. 
 
 " Well," I reflected ; " if you won't talk, 
 you may be still : I '11 let you alone now and 
 return to my book." 
 
 So I snuffed the candle, and resumed 
 the perusal of Marmion. He soon stirred ; 
 my eye was instantly drawn to his move- 
 ments: he only took out a morocco pocket- 
 book, thence produced a letter which he read 
 in silence, folded it, put it back, relapsed into 
 meditation. It was vain to try to read with 
 such an inscrutable fixture before me ; nor 
 could I, in my impatience, consent to be dumb : 
 he might rebuff me if he liked, but talk I 
 would. 
 
 " Have you heard from Diana and Mary 
 lately?" 
 
JANE EYRE. 159 
 
 " Not since the letter I showed you a week 
 ago." 
 
 " There has not been any change made 
 about your own arrangements ? You will not 
 be summoned to leave England sooner than 
 you expected ?" 
 
 " I fear not, indeed : such chance is too 
 good to befall me." Baffled so far, I changed 
 my ground — I bethought myself to talk about 
 the school and my scholars. 
 
 " Mary Garrett's mother is better, and Mary 
 came back to the school this morning, and I 
 shall have four new girls next week from the 
 Foundry Close — they would have come to-day 
 but for the snow." 
 
 "Indeed?" 
 
 " Mr. Oliver pays for two." 
 
 "Does he?" 
 
 " He means to give the whole school a treat 
 at Christmas." 
 
 " I know." 
 
 " Was it your suggestion ?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Whose then?" 
 
 " His daughter's, I think." 
 
 " It is like her : she is so good-natured.''^ 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 Again came the blank of a pause : the clock 
 
160 JANE EYRE. 
 
 struck eight strokes. It aroused him ; he un- 
 crossed his legs, sat erect, turned to me. 
 
 " Leave your book a moment, and come a 
 little nearer the fire," he said. 
 
 Wondering, and of my wonder finding no 
 end, I complied. 
 
 " Half an hour ago," he pursued, " I spoke 
 of my impatience to hear the sequel of a tale : 
 on reflection, I find the matter will be better 
 managed by my assuming the narrator's part, 
 and converting you into a listener. Before 
 commencing, it is but fair to warn you that the 
 story will sound somewhat hackneyed in your 
 ears : but stale details often regain a degree of 
 freshness when they pass through new lips. 
 For the rest, whether trite or novel, it is 
 short. 
 
 d Twenty years ago, a poor curate — never mind 
 his name at this moment — fell in love with a 
 rich man's daughter: she fell in love with him, 
 and married him, against the advice of all her 
 friends ; who consequently disowned her imme- 
 diately after the wedding. Before two years 
 passed, the rash pair were both dead, and laid 
 quietly side by side under one slab. (I have 
 seen their grave ; it formed part of the pave- 
 ment of a huge churchyard surrounding the 
 grim, soot-black old cathedral of an overgrown 
 
JANE EYRE. 161 
 
 manufacturing town in shire.) They left 
 
 a daughter, which, at its very birth, Charity 
 received in her lap — cold as that of the snow- 
 drift I almost stuck fast in to-night. Charity 
 carried the friendless thing to the house of its 
 rich, maternal relations ; it was reared by an 
 aunt-in-law, called (I come to names now) 
 Mrs. Reed of Gateshead — you start — did you 
 hear a noise? I daresay it is only a rat 
 scrambling along the rafters of the adjoining 
 schoolroom : it was a barn before I had it re- 
 paired and altered, and barns are generally 
 haunted by rats. To proceed. Mrs. Reed 
 kept the orphan ten years: whether it was 
 happy or not with her, I cannot say, never 
 having been told ; but at the end of that time 
 she transferred it to a place you know — being 
 no other than Lowood school, where you so 
 long resided yourself. It seems her career 
 there was very honourable : from a pupil, she 
 became a teacher, like yourself — really it 
 strikes me there are parallel points in her his- 
 tory and yours — she left it to be a governess : 
 there, again, your fates were analogous; she 
 undertook the education of the ward of a cer- 
 tain Mr. Rochester." 
 
 " Mr. Rivers !" I interrupted. 
 
 " I can guess your feelings," he said, " but 
 
 VOL. III. M 
 
162 JANE EYRE. 
 
 restrain them for a while : I have nearly finished ; 
 hear me to the end. Of Mr. Rochester's cha- 
 racter I know nothing, but the one fact that he 
 professed to offer honourable marriage to this 
 young girl, and that at the very altar she dis- 
 covered he had a wife yet alive, though a 
 lunatic. What his subsequent conduct and pro- 
 posals were is a matter of pure conjecture; 
 but when an event transpired which rendered 
 inquiry after the governess necessary, it was 
 discovered she was gone — no one could tell 
 when, where, or how. She had left Thornfield 
 Hall in the night; every research after her 
 course had been vain: the country had been 
 scoured far and wide ; no vestige of informa- 
 tion could be gathered respecting her. Yet 
 that she should be found is become a matter 
 of serious urgency : advertisements have been 
 put in all the papers ; I myself have received 
 a letter from one Mr. Briggs, a solicitor, com- 
 municating the details I have just imparted. 
 Is it not an odd tale ?" 
 
 " Just tell me this," said I, " and since you 
 know so much, you surely can tell it me — 
 what of Mr. Rochester ? How and where is 
 lie? What is he doing 1 Is he well?" 
 
 " I am ignorant of all concerning Mr. Ro- 
 chester : the letter never mentions him but to 
 
JANE EYRE. 163 
 
 narrate the fraudulent and illegal attempt I 
 have adverted to. You should rather ask the 
 name of the governess — the nature of the event 
 which requires her appearance." 
 
 " Did no one go to Thornfield Hall then ? 
 Did no one see Mr. Rochester?" 
 
 " I suppose not/ ' 
 
 " But they wrote to him?" 
 
 "Of course." 
 
 " And what did he say ? Who has his 
 letters?" 
 
 " Mr. Briggs intimates that the answer to 
 his application was not from Mr. Rochester 
 hut from a lady : it is signed l Alice Fairfax."' 
 
 I felt cold and dismayed ; my worst fears 
 then were probably true : he had in all pro- 
 bability left England and rushed in reckless 
 desperation to some former haunt on the con- 
 tinent. And what opiate for his severe suffer- 
 ings — what object for his strong passions — had 
 he sought there? I dared not answer the 
 question. Oh, my poor master — once almost 
 my husband — whom I had often called " my 
 dear Edward ! " 
 
 " He must have been a bad man," observed 
 Mr. Rivers. 
 
 " You don't know him — don't pronounce an 
 opinion upon him," I said with warmth. 
 
 m 2 
 
164 JANE EYRE. 
 
 " Very well," lie answered quietly ; " and 
 indeed my head is otherwise occupied than 
 with him : I have my tale to finish. Since you 
 won't ask the governess's name, I must tell it 
 of my own accord — stay — I have it here — it is 
 always more satisfactory to see important 
 points written down, fairly committed to black 
 and white." 
 
 And the pocket-book was again deliberately 
 produced, opened, sought through ; from one 
 of its compartments was extracted a shabby 
 slip of paper, hastily torn off: I recognised in 
 its texture and its stains of ultra-marine, and 
 lake, and vermilion, the ravished margin of 
 the portrait-cover. He got up, held it close to 
 my eyes ; and I read, traced in Indian ink, in 
 my own handwriting, the words " Jane 
 Eyre" — the work doubtless of some moment 
 of abstraction. 
 
 " Briggs wrote to me of a Jane Eyre ;" he 
 said, "the advertisements demanded a Jane 
 Eyre : I knew a Jane Elliot. — I confess T had 
 my suspicions, but it was only yesterday after- 
 noon they were at once resolved into certainty. 
 You own the name and renounce the alias?" 
 
 " Yes — yes — but where is Mr. Briggs? He 
 perhaps knows more of Mr. Eoch ester than 
 you do." 
 
JANE EYRE. 165 
 
 " Briggs is in London; I should doubt his 
 knowing anything at all about Mr. Rochester : 
 it is not in Mr. Rochester he is interested. 
 Meantime, you forget essential points in pur- 
 suing trifles: you do not inquire why Mr. 
 Briggs sought after you — what he wanted 
 with you." 
 
 " Well, what did he want?" 
 
 " Merely to tell you that your uncle, Mr. 
 Eyre of Madeira, is dead ; that he has left you 
 ail his property, and that you are now rich — 
 merely that — nothing more." 
 
 "I! rich?" 
 
 " Yes, you, rich — quite an heiress." 
 
 Silence succeeded. 
 
 " You must prove your identity of course," 
 resumed St. John presently : " a step which 
 will offer no difficulties ; you can then enter 
 on immediate possession. Your fortune is 
 vested in the English funds : Briggs has the 
 will and the necessary documents." 
 
 Here was a new card turned up ! It is a 
 fine thing, reader, to be lifted in a moment 
 from indigence to wealth — a very fine thing : 
 but not a matter one can comprehend, or con- 
 sequently enjoy, all at once. And then there 
 are other chances in life far more thrilling 
 and rapture-giving : this is solid, an affair of 
 
166 JANE EYRE. 
 
 the actual world, nothing ideal about it : all 
 its associations are solid and sober, and its 
 manifestations are the same. One does not. 
 jump, and spring, and shout hurrah ! at hearing- 
 one has got a fortune; one begins to consider 
 responsibilities, and to ponder business: on a 
 base of steady satisfaction rise certain grave 
 cares — and we contain ourselves, and brood 
 over our bliss with a solemn brow. 
 
 Besides, the words Legacy, Bequest, go side 
 by side with the words Death, Funeral. My 
 uncle I had heard was dead — my only relative ; 
 ever since being made aware of his existence, 
 I had cherished the hope of one day seeing 
 him : now, I never should. And then this 
 money came only to me : not to me and a re- 
 joicing family, but to my isolated self. It was 
 a grand boon doubtless; and independence 
 would be glorious — yes, I felt that — that 
 thought swelled my heart." 
 
 " You unbend your forehead at last," said 
 Mr. Rivers : " I thought Medusa had looked 
 at you, and that you were turning to stone — 
 perhaps now you will ask how much you are 
 worth?" 
 
 " How much am I worth?" 
 
 " Oh, a trifle ! Nothing of course to speak 
 of— twenty thousand pounds, I think they say 
 — but what is that?" 
 
JANE EYRE. 167 
 
 " Twenty thousand pounds ! " 
 
 Here was a new stunner — I had been cal- 
 culating on four or five thousand. This news 
 actually took my breath for a moment : Mr. 
 St. John, whom I had never heard laugh, 
 before, laughed now. 
 
 " Well," said he, " if you had committed a 
 murder, and I had told you your crime was 
 discovered, you could scarcely look more 
 aghast.'* 
 
 B< It is a large sum — don't you think there 
 is a mistake ? " 
 
 " No mistake at all." 
 
 " Perhaps you have read the figures wrong 
 —it may be 2000?" 
 
 " It is written in letters, not figures, — twenty 
 thousand." 
 
 I again felt rather like an individual of but 
 average gastronomical powers, sitting down to 
 feast alone at a table spread with provisions 
 for a hundred. Mr. Rivers rose now and put 
 his cloak on. 
 
 " If it were not such a very wild night," he 
 said, " I would send Hannah down to keep 
 you company : you look too desperately miser- 
 able to be left alone. But Hannah, poor 
 woman ! could not stride the drifts so well as 
 
168 JANE EYRE. 
 
 I ; her legs are not quite so long : so I must 
 e'en leave you to your sorrows. Good-night." 
 
 He was lifting the latch : a sudden thought 
 occurred to 'me. 
 
 " Stop one minute !" I cried. 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "It puzzles me to know why Mr. Briggs 
 wrote to you about me ; or how he knew you, 
 or could fancy that you, living in such an out- 
 of-the-way place, had the power to aid in my 
 discovery." 
 
 " Oh ! I am a clergyman," he said ; " and 
 the clergy are often appealed to about odd 
 matters." Again the latch rattled. 
 
 " No : that does not satisfy me ! " I exclaim- 
 ed : and, indeed, there was something in the 
 hasty and unexplanatory reply, which, instead 
 of allaying, piqued my curiosity more than ever. 
 
 " It is a very strange piece of business," I 
 added : " I must know more about it." 
 
 " Another time." 
 
 "No: to-night! — to-night!" and as he 
 turned from the door, I placed myself between 
 it and him. He looked rather embarrassed. 
 
 "You certainly shall not go till you have 
 told me all!" I said. 
 
 " I would rather not, just now." 
 
 " You shall ! — you must ! " 
 
JANE EYRE. 169 
 
 "I would rather Diana or Mary informed 
 you." 
 
 Of course these objections wrought my 
 eagerness to a climax : gratified it must be, 
 and that without delay ; and I told him so. 
 
 " But I apprised you that I was a hard man," 
 said he ; " difficult to persuade." 
 
 "And I am a hard woman, — impossible to 
 put off." 
 
 " And then," he pursued, " I am cold : no 
 fervour infects me." 
 
 " Whereas I am hot, and fire dissolves ice. 
 The blaze there has thawed all the snow from 
 your cloak ; by the same token, it has streamed 
 on to my floor, and made it like a trampled 
 street. As you hope ever to be forgiven, 
 Mr. Rivers, the high crime and misdemeanor of 
 spoiling a sanded kitchen, tell me what I wish 
 to know." 
 
 "Well, then," he said, "I yield; if not to 
 your earnestness, to your perseverance : as 
 stone is worn by continual dropping. Besides, 
 you must know some day, — as well now as 
 later. Your name is Jane Eyre?" 
 
 " Of course : that was all settled before." 
 
 " You are not, perhaps, aware that I am 
 your namesake? — that I was christened St. 
 John Eyre Rivers?" 
 
170 JANE EYRE. 
 
 " No, indeed ! I remember now seeing the 
 letter E comprised in your initials written in 
 books you have at different times lent me; 
 but I never asked for what name it stood. 
 But what then ? Surely " 
 
 I stopped : I could not trust myself to enter- 
 tain, much less to express, the thought that 
 rushed upon me — that embodied itself, — that, 
 in a second, stood out a strong, solid proba- 
 bility. Circumstances knit themselves, fitted 
 themselves, shot into order : the chain that had 
 been lying hitherto a formless lump of links, 
 was drawn out straight, — every ring was per- 
 fect, the connection complete. I knew, by 
 instinct, how the matter stood, before St. John 
 had said another word : but I cannot expect 
 the reader to have the same intuitive percep- 
 tion, so I must repeat his explanation. 
 
 "My mother's name was Eyre: she had 
 two brothers ; one a clergyman, who married 
 Miss Jane Reed, of Gateshead; the other, 
 John Eyre, Esq., merchant, late of Funchal, 
 Madeira. Mr. Briggs, being Mr. Eyre's soli- 
 citor, wrote to us last August to inform us of 
 our uncle's death ; and to say that he had left 
 his property to his brother the clergyman's 
 orphan daughter; overlooking us, in conse- 
 quence of a quarrel, never forgiven, between 
 
JANE EYRE. 171 
 
 him and my father. He wrote again a few- 
 weeks since, to intimate that the heiress was 
 lost ; and asking if we knew anything of her. 
 A name casually written on a slip of paper 
 has enahled me to find her out. You know 
 the rest." Again he was going, but I set my 
 back against the door. 
 
 " Do let me speak," I said; " let me have one 
 moment to draw breath and reflect." I paused 
 — he stood before me, hat in hand, looking 
 composed enough. I resumed : — 
 
 " Your mother was my father's sister." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " My aunt, consequently ? " 
 
 He bowed, 
 
 " My uncle John was your uncle John ? 
 You, Diana, and Mary, are his sister's children ; 
 as I am his brother's child?" 
 
 " Undeniably." 
 
 "You three, then, are my cousins: half 
 our blood on each side flows from the same 
 source?" 
 
 " We are cousins : yes." 
 
 I surveyed him. It seemed I had found a 
 brother : one I could be proud of, — one I could 
 love ; and two sisters, whose qualities were 
 such, that when I knew them but as mere 
 strangers, they had inspired me with genuine 
 
172 JANE EYRE. 
 
 affection and admiration. The two girls, on 
 whom, kneeling down on the wet ground, and 
 looking through the low, latticed window of 
 Moor House kitchen, I had gazed with so 
 bitter a mixture of interest and despair, were 
 my near kinswomen; and the young and 
 stately gentleman who had found me almost 
 dying at his threshold, was my blood relation. 
 Glorious discovery to a lonely wretch ! This 
 was wealth indeed ! — wealth to the heart ! — a 
 mine of pure, genial affections. This was a 
 blessing, bright, vivid, and exhilarating ! — not 
 like the ponderous gift of gold : rich and 
 welcome enough in its way, but sobering 
 from its weight. I now clapped my hands 
 in sudden joy— my pulse bounded, my veins 
 thrilled. 
 
 " Oh, I am glad ! — I am glad ! " I ex- 
 claimed. 
 
 St. John smiled. " Did I not say you 
 neglected essential points to pursue trifles V 
 he asked. "You were serious when I told 
 you you had got a fortune ; and now, for a 
 matter of no moment, you are excited." 
 
 " What can you mean ? It may be of no 
 moment to you: you have sisters, and don't 
 care for a cousin ; but I had nobody ; and now 
 three relations, — or two, if you don't choose to 
 
JANE EYRE. 173 
 
 be counted, — are born into my world, full 
 grown. I say again, I am glad !" 
 
 I walked fast through the room: I stopped, 
 half suffocated with the thoughts that rose 
 faster than I could receive, comprehend, settle 
 them : — thoughts of what might, could, would, 
 and should be, and that ere long. I looked at 
 the blank wall : it seemed a sky, thick with 
 ascending stars, — every one lit me to a purpose 
 or delight. Those who had saved my life, 
 whom, till this hour, I had loved barrenly, I 
 could now benefit. They were under a yoke : 
 I could free them; they were scattered, — I 
 could reunite them — the independence, the 
 affluence which was mine, might be theirs too. 
 Were we not four 1 Twenty thousand pounds 
 shared equally, would be five thousand each, — 
 enough and to spare : justice would be done, — 
 mutual happiness secured. Now the wealth 
 did not weigh on me : now it was not a mere 
 bequest of coin, — it was a legacy of life, hope, 
 enjoyment. 
 
 How I looked while these ideas were taking 
 my spirit by storm, I cannot tell ; but I per- 
 ceived soon that Mr. Rivers had placed a chair 
 behind me, and was gently attempting to make 
 me sit down on it. He also advised me to 
 
174 JANE EYRE. 
 
 "be composed. I scorned the insinuation of 
 helplessness and distraction, shook off his 
 hand, and began to walk about again. 
 
 " Write to Diana and Mary to-morrow," I 
 said, " and tell them to come home directly : 
 Diana said they would both consider them- 
 selves rich with a thousand pounds, so with five 
 thousand, they will do very well." 
 
 " Tell me where I can get you a glass of 
 water," said St. John; "you must really make 
 an effort to tranquillize your feelings." 
 
 " Nonsense ! and what sort of an effect will 
 the bequest have on you ? Will it keep you 
 in England, induce you to marry Miss Oliver, 
 and settle down like an ordinary mortal?" 
 
 " You wander : your head becomes confused. 
 I have been too abrupt in communicating 
 the news : it has excited you beyond your 
 strength." 
 
 " Mr. Rivers ! you quite put me out of 
 patience ; I am rational enough ; it is you 
 who misunderstand ; or rather, who affect to 
 misunderstand." 
 
 " Perhaps if you explained yourself a little 
 more fully, I should comprehend better." 
 
 " Explain ! What is there to explain ? You 
 cannot fail to see that twenty thousand pounds, 
 the sum in question, divided equally between 
 
JANE EYRE. 175 
 
 the nephew and three nieces of our uncle, will 
 give five thousand to each 1 What I want 
 is, that you should write to your sisters and 
 tell them of the fortune that has accrued to 
 them." 
 
 " To you, you mean." 
 
 " I have intimated my view of the case : I 
 am incapable of taking any other. I am not 
 brutally selfish, blindly unjust, or fiendishly 
 ungrateful. Besides, I am resolved I will 
 have a home and connections. I like Moor- 
 House, and I will live at Moor-House ; I like 
 Diana, and Mary, and I will attach myself for 
 life to Diana and Mary. It would please and 
 benefit me to have five thousand pounds ; it 
 would torment and oppress me to have twenty 
 thousand: which, moreover, could never be 
 mine in justice, though it might in law. I 
 abandon to you, then, what is absolutely super- 
 fluous to me. Let there be no opposition, and 
 no discussion about it : let us agree amongst 
 each other, and decide the point at once." 
 
 " This is acting on first impulses : you must 
 take days to consider such a matter, ere your 
 word can be regarded as valid." 
 
 " Oh ! if all you doubt is my sincerity, I am 
 easy : you see the justice of the case V* 
 
 " I do see a certain justice ; but it is contrary 
 
176 JANE EYRE. 
 
 to all custom. Besides the entire fortune is your 
 right : my uncle gained it by his own efforts ; 
 he was free to leave it to whom he would : he 
 left it to you. After all, justice permits you to 
 keep it : you may, with a clear conscience, con- 
 sider it absolutely your own." 
 
 " With me," said I, " it is fully as much a 
 matter of feeling as of conscience : I must in- 
 dulge my feelings ; I so seldom have had an 
 opportunity of doing so. Were you to argue, 
 object, and annoy me for a year, I couhLnot 
 forego the delicious pleasure of which I have 
 caught a glimpse — that of repaying, in part, a 
 mighty obligation, and winning to myself life- 
 long friends." 
 
 " You think so now," rejoined St. John ; 
 " because you do not know what it is to pos- 
 sess, nor consequently to enjoy wealth : you 
 cannot form a notion of the importance twenty 
 thousand pounds would give you ; of the place 
 it would enable you to take in society ; of the 
 prospects it would open to you: you can- 
 not " 
 
 " And you," I interrupted, " cannot at all 
 imagine the craving I have for fraternal and 
 sisterly love. I never had a home, I never had 
 brothers or sisters ; I must and will have them 
 now : you are not reluctant to admit me and 
 own me, are you ? " 
 
JANE EYRE. 177 
 
 " Jane : I will be your brother — my sisters 
 will be your sisters — without stipulating for this, 
 sacrifice of your just rights." 
 
 " Brother ? Yes ; at the distance of a 
 thousand leagues ! Sisters ? Yes ; slaving 
 amongst strangers ! I, wealthy — gorged with 
 gold I never earned and do not merit ! You, 
 pennyless ! Famous equality and fraterniza- 
 tion ! Close union ! Intimate attachment!" 
 
 "But, Jane, your aspirations after family 
 ties and domestic happiness may be realized 
 otherwise than by the means you contemplate : 
 you may marry." 
 
 " Nonsense again ! Marry ! I don't want 
 to marry, and never shall marry." 
 
 " That is saying too much : such hazardous 
 affirmations are a proof of the excitement 
 under which you labour." 
 
 " It is not saying too much : I know what I 
 feel, and how averse are my inclinations to the 
 bare thought of marriage. No one would 
 take me for love ; and I will not be regarded in 
 the light of a mere money-speculation. And 
 I do not want a stranger — unsympathizing, 
 alien, different from me ; I want my kindred : 
 those with whom I have full fellow-feeling. 
 Say again you will be my brother : when you 
 uttered the words I was satisfied, happy; 
 
 VOL. III. N 
 
178 JANE EYRE. 
 
 repeat them, if you can, repeat them sin- 
 cerely." 
 
 " I think I can. I know I have always 
 loved my own sisters ; and I know on what 
 my affection for them is grounded, — respect 
 for their worth, and admiration of their talents. 
 You too have principle and mind : your tastes 
 and habits resemble Diana's and Mary's ; your 
 presence is always agreeable to me; in your 
 conversation I have already for some time 
 found a salutary solace. I feel I can easily 
 and naturally make room in my heart for you, 
 as my third and youngest sister." 
 
 " Thank you : that contents me for to-night. 
 Now you had better go ; for if you stay longer, 
 you will perhaps irritate me afresh by some 
 mistrustful scruple." 
 
 " And the school, Miss Eyre ? It must now 
 be shut up, I suppose?" 
 
 " No. I will retain my post of mistress till 
 you get a substitute." 
 
 He smiled approbation : we shook hands, 
 and he took leave. 
 
 I need not narrate in detail the further 
 struggles I had, and arguments I used, to 
 get matters regarding the legacy settled as 
 I wished. My task was a very hard one: 
 but, as I was absolutely resolved — as my cousins 
 
JANE EYRE. 179 
 
 saw at length that ray mind was really and 
 immutably fixed on making a just division 
 of the property — as they must in their own 
 hearts have felt the equity of the intention ; 
 and must, besides, have been innately conscious 
 that in my place they would have done pre- 
 cisely what I wished to do — they yielded at 
 length so far as to consent to put the affair 
 to arbitration. The judges chosen were Mr. 
 Oliver and an able lawyer: both coincided 
 in my opinion : I carried my point. The in- 
 struments of transfer were drawn out: St. 
 John, Diana, Mary, and I, each became pos- 
 sessed of a competency. 
 
180 JANE EYRE. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 It was near Christmas by the time all was 
 settled : the season of general holiday ap- 
 proached. I now closed Morton-school ; taking- 
 care that the parting should not be barren 
 on my side. Good fortune opens the hand 
 as well as the heart wonderfully ; and to give 
 somewhat when we have largely received, 
 is but to afford a vent to the unusual ebullition 
 of the sensations. I had long felt with 
 pleasure that many of my rustic scholars 
 liked me, and when we parted, that conscious- 
 ness was confirmed: they manifested their 
 affection plainly and strongly. Deep was my 
 gratification to find I had really a place in 
 their unsophisticated hearts : I promised them 
 that never a week should pass in future that 
 I did not visit them, and give them an hour's 
 teaching in their school. 
 
 Mr. Rivers came up, as, — having seen the 
 
JANE EYRE. 181 
 
 classes, now numbering sixty girls, file out 
 before me, and locked tlie door, — I stood 
 with the key in my hand, exchanging a few 
 words of special farewell with some half-dozen 
 of my best scholars : as decent, respectable, 
 modest, and well-informed young women as 
 could be found in the ranks of the British 
 peasantry. And that is saying a great deal ; 
 for after all, the British peasantry are the 
 best taught, best mannered, most self-re- 
 specting of any in Europe : since those days I 
 have seen paysannes and Bauerinnen ; and the 
 best of them seemed to me ignorant, coarse, 
 and besotted, compared with my Morton 
 girls. 
 
 " Do you consider you have got your re- 
 ward for a season of exertion?" asked Mr. 
 Rivers when they were gone. " Does not the 
 consciousness of having done some real good 
 in your day and generation give pleasure V 
 
 " Doubtless." 
 
 " And you have only toiled a few months ! 
 Would not a life devoted to the task of re- 
 generating your race be well spent?" 
 
 " Yes," I said ; " but I could not go on for 
 ever so : I want to enjoy my own faculties 
 as well as to cultivate those of other people. 
 I must enjoy them now : don't recall either 
 
182 JANE EYRE. 
 
 my mind or body to the school ; I am out 
 of it and disposed for full holiday." 
 
 He looked grave. " What now ? What 
 sudden eagerness is this you evince ? What 
 are you going to do ? " 
 
 " To be active : as active as I can. And first 
 I must beg you to set Hannah at liberty, and 
 get somebody else to wait on you." 
 
 " Do you want her V 
 
 " Yes, to go with me to Moor-House : 
 Diana and Mary will be at home in a week, 
 and I want to have everything in order against 
 their arrival." 
 
 " I understand : I thought you were for 
 flying off on some excursion. It is better so : 
 Hannah shall go with you." 
 
 " Tell her to be ready by to-morrow then ; 
 and here is the school-room key : I will give 
 you the key of my cottage in the morning." 
 
 He took it. "You give it up very glee- 
 fully," said he : "I don't quite understand 
 your light-heartedness ; because I cannot tell 
 what employment you propose to yourself as 
 a substitute for the one you are relinquishing. 
 What aim, what purpose, what ambition in 
 life have you now ?" 
 
 " My first aim will be to clean down (do you 
 comprehend the full force of the expression ?) 
 
JANE EYRE. 183 
 
 to clean down Moor-House from chamber 
 to cellar; my next to rub it up with bees- 
 wax, oil, and an indefinite number of cloths, 
 till it glitters again ; my third, to arrange 
 every chair, table, bed, carpet, with mathe- 
 matical precision ; afterwards I shall go near 
 to ruin you in coals and peat to keep up good 
 fires in every room ; and lastly, the two days 
 preceding that on which your sisters are ex- 
 pected, will be devoted by Hannah and me 
 to such a beating of eggs, sorting of currants, 
 grating of spices, compounding of Christmas 
 cakes, chopping up of materials for mince-pies, 
 and solemnizing of other culinary rites, as words 
 can convey but an inadequate notion of to 
 the uninitiated like you. My purpose, in short, 
 is to have all things in an absolutely perfect 
 state of readiness for Diana and Mary, before 
 next Thursday; and my ambition is to give 
 them a beau ideal of a welcome when they 
 come." 
 
 St. John smiled slightly: still he was dis- 
 satisfied. 
 
 " It is all very well for the present," said 
 he: "but seriously, I trust that when the 
 first flush of vivacity is over, you will look 
 a little higher than domestic endearments and 
 household joys." 
 
184 JANE EYRE. 
 
 " The "best things the world has ! " I inter- 
 rupted. 
 
 " No, Jane, no : this world is not the scene 
 of fruition ; do not attempt to make it so : 
 nor of rest ; do not turn slothful." 
 
 " I mean, on the contrary, to be busy." 
 
 " Jane, I excuse you for the present : two 
 months' grace I allow you for the full enjoyment 
 of your new position, and for pleasing yourself 
 with this late-found charm of relationship ; 
 but then, I hope you will begin to look beyond 
 Moor-House and Morton, and sisterly society, 
 and the selfish calm and sensual comfort 
 of civilized affluence. I hope your energies 
 will then once more trouble you with their 
 strength." 
 
 I looked at him with surprise. " St. John," 
 I said, " I think you are almost wicked to 
 talk so. I am disposed to be as content as a 
 queen, and you try to stir me up to restless- 
 ness! To what end?" 
 
 ** To the end of turning to profit the talents 
 which God has committed to your keeping; 
 and of which he will surely one day demand a 
 strict account. Jane, I shall watch you closely 
 and anxiously — I warn you of that. And try 
 to restrain the disproportionate fervour with 
 which you throw yourself into common-place 
 
JANE EYRE. 185 
 
 Lome pleasures. Don't cling so tenaciously 
 to ties of the flesh ; save your constancy and 
 ardour for an adequate cause: forbear to 
 waste them on trite transient objects. Do you 
 hear, Jane?" 
 
 " Yes; just as if you were speaking Greek. 
 I feel I have adequate cause to be happy, and 
 I will be happy. Good-bye ! " 
 
 Happy at Moor-House I was, and hard I 
 worked ; and so did Hannah: she was charmed 
 to see how jovial I could be amidst the bustle 
 of a house turned topsy-turvy — how I could 
 brush, and dust, and clean, and cook. And 
 really after a day or two of confusion worse 
 confounded, it was delightful, by degrees, to 
 invoke order from the chaos ourselves had 
 made. I had previously taken a journey to 
 
 S , to purchase some new furniture : my 
 
 cousins having given me carte blanche to effect 
 what alterations I pleased, and a sum having 
 been set aside for that purpose. The ordinary 
 sitting-room and bed-rooms I left much as 
 they were ; for I knew Diana and Mary would 
 derive more pleasure from seeing again the 
 old homely tables, and chairs, and beds, than 
 from the spectacle of the smartest innovations. 
 Still some novelty was necessary, to give to 
 their return the piquancy with which I wished 
 
186 JANE EYRE. 
 
 it to be invested. Dark handsome new car- 
 pets and curtains, an arrangement of some 
 carefully selected antique ornaments in porce- 
 lain and bronze, new coverings, and mirrors, 
 and dressing-cases for the toilet tables, answer- 
 ed the end : they looked fresh without being 
 glaring. A spare parlour and bed-room I 
 refurnished entirely, with old mahogany and 
 crimson upholstery : I laid canvass on the 
 passage, and carpets on the stairs. When all 
 was finished, I thought Moor-House as com- 
 plete a model of bright modest snugness 
 within, as it was, at this season, a specimen 
 of wintry waste and desert dreariness without. 
 
 The eventful Thursday at length came. 
 They were expected about dark, and ere dusk, 
 fires were lit up stairs and below ; the kitchen 
 was in perfect trim ; Hannah and I were 
 dressed, and all was in readiness. 
 
 St. John arrived first. I had entreated him 
 to keep quite clear of the house till everything 
 was arranged: and, indeed, the bare idea of the 
 commotion, at once sordid and trivial, going 
 on within its walls sufficed to scare him to 
 estrangement. He found me in the kitchen, 
 watching the progress of certain cakes for tea, 
 then baking. Approaching the hearth, he 
 asked, " If I was at last satisfied with house- 
 
JANE EYRE. 187 
 
 maid's work?" I answered by inviting him 
 to accompany me on a general inspection of the 
 result of my labours. With some difficulty, I 
 got him to make the tour of the house. He 
 just looked in at the doors I opened; and 
 when he had wandered up stairs and down 
 stairs, he said I must have gone through a 
 great deal of fatigue and trouble to have 
 effected such considerable changes in so short 
 a time : but not a syllable did he utter indicat- 
 ing pleasure in the improved aspect of his 
 abode. 
 
 This silence damped me. I thought per- 
 haps the alterations had disturbed some old 
 associations he valued. I inquired whether 
 this was the case: no doubt in a somewhat 
 crest-fallen tone. 
 
 " Not at all ; he had, on the contrary, 
 remarked that I had scrupulously respected 
 every association: he feared, indeed, I must 
 have bestowed more thought on the matter 
 than it was worth. How many minutes, for 
 instance, had I devoted to studying the ar- 
 rangement of this very room? — By-the-bye, 
 could I tell him where such a book was ? " 
 
 I showed him the volume on the shelf : he 
 took it down; and withdrawing to his accus- 
 tomed window recess, he began to read it. 
 
188 JANE EYRE. 
 
 Now, I did not like this, reader. St. John 
 was a good man ; but I began to feel he had 
 spoken truth of himself, when he said he was 
 hard and cold. The humanities and amenities 
 of life had no attraction for him — its peaceful 
 enjoyments no charm. Literally, he lived 
 only to aspire — after what was good and 
 great, certainly : but still he would never rest ; 
 nor approve of others resting round him. As 
 I looked at his lofty forehead, still and pale as 
 a white stone — at his fine lineaments fixed in 
 study — I comprehended all at once that he 
 would hardly make a good husband : that it 
 would be a trying thing to be his wife, I 
 understood, as by inspiration, the nature of 
 his love for Miss Oliver: I agreed with him 
 that it was but a love of the senses. I com- 
 prehended how he should despise himself for 
 the feverish influence it exercised over him ; 
 how he should wish to stifle and destroy it ; 
 how he should mistrust its ever conducing 
 permanently to his happiness, or hers. I saw 
 he was of the material from which nature 
 hews her heroes — Christian and Pagan — -her 
 lawgivers, her statesmen, her conquerors : a 
 steadfast bulwark for great interests to rest 
 upon ; but, at the fireside, too often a cold 
 cumbrous column, gloomy and out of place. 
 
JANE EYRE. 189 
 
 " This parlour is not his sphere," I reflected : 
 " the Himalayan ridge, or Caffre bush, even the 
 plague-cursed Guinea coast swamp, would suit 
 him better. Well may he eschew the calm of 
 domestic life ; it is not his element : there bis 
 faculties stagnate — they cannot develope or 
 appear to advantage. It is in scenes of strife 
 and danger — where courage is proved, and 
 energy exercised, and fortitude tasked — that he 
 will speak and move, the leader and superior. 
 A merry child would have the advantage of 
 him on this hearth. He is right to choose a 
 missionary's career — I see it now." 
 
 " They are coming ! they are coming ! " 
 cried Hannah, throwing open the parlour 
 door. At the same moment old Carlo barked 
 joyfully. Out I ran. It was now dark ; but a 
 rumbling of wheels was audible. Hannah 
 soon had a lantern lit. The vehicle had 
 stopped at the wicket ; the driver opened the 
 door : first one well-known form, then another, 
 stepped out. In a minute I had my face under 
 their bonnets, in contact, first with Mary's 
 soft cheek, then with Diana's flowing curls. 
 They laughed — kissed me — then Hannah : 
 patted Carlo, who was half wild with delight, 
 asked eagerly if all was well; and being 
 assured in the affirmative, hastened into the 
 house. 
 
190 JANE EYRE. 
 
 They were stiff with their long and jolting 
 drive from Whitcross, and chilled with the 
 frosty night air; but their pleasant counte- 
 nances expanded to the cheering fire light. 
 While the driver and Hannah brought in the 
 boxes, they demanded St. John. At this mo- 
 ment he advanced from the parlour. They 
 both threw their arms round his neck at once. 
 He gave each one quiet kiss, said in a low 
 tone a few words of welcome, stood awhile to 
 be talked to, and then, intimating that he sup- 
 posed they would soon rejoin him in the par- 
 lour, withdrew there as to a place of refuge. 
 
 I had lit their candles to go up stairs, but 
 Diana had first to give hospitable orders re- 
 specting the driver; this done, both followed 
 me. They were delighted with the renovation 
 and decoration of their rooms ; with the new 
 drapery, and fresh carpets, and rich tinted 
 china vases : they expressed their gratification 
 ungrudgingly. I had the pleasure of feeling 
 that my arrangements met their wishes ex- 
 actly ; and that what I had done added a 
 vivid charm to their joyous return home. 
 
 Sweet was that evening. My cousins, full 
 of exhilaration, were so eloquent in narrative 
 and comment, that their fluency covered St. 
 John's taciturnity : he was sincerely glad to 
 
JANE EYRE. 191 
 
 see his sisters; but in their glow of fervour 
 and flow of joy he could not sympathize. 
 The event of the day — that is, the return of 
 Diana and Mary — pleased him; but the ac- 
 companiments of that event, the glad tumult, 
 the garrulous glee of reception, irked him: 
 I saw he wished the calmer morrow was come. 
 In the very meridian of the night's enjoyment, 
 about an hour after tea, a rap was heard at 
 the door. Hannah entered, with the intima- 
 tion that "" a poor lad was come, at that un- 
 likely time, to fetch Mr. Rivers to see his 
 mother, who was drawing away." 
 
 u Where does she live, Hannah 1 " 
 
 " Clear up at Whitcross Brow, almost four 
 miles off; and moor and moss all the way." 
 
 " Tell him I will go." 
 
 " I 'm sure, sir, you had better not. It 's 
 the worst road to travel after dark that can 
 be : there 's no track at all over the bog. 
 And then it is such a bitter night — the keenest 
 wind you ever felt. You had better send 
 word, sir, that you will be there in the 
 morning." 
 
 But he was already in the passage, putting 
 on his cloak ; and without one objection, one 
 murmur, he departed. It was then nine 
 o'clock : he did not return till midnight. 
 
192 JANE EYRE. 
 
 Starved and tired enough he was : but he 
 looked happier than when he set out. He 
 had performed an act of duty ; made an exer- 
 tion ; felt his own strength to do and deny, 
 and was on better terms with himself. 
 
 I am afraid the whole of the ensuing week 
 tried his patience. It was Christmas week : 
 we took to no settled employment, but spent 
 it in a sort of merry domestic dissipation. 
 The air of the moors, the freedom of home, 
 the dawn of prosperity, acted on Diana's and 
 Mary's spirits like some life-giving elixir : they 
 were gay from morning till noon, and from 
 noon till night. They could always talk ; and 
 their discourse, witty, pithy, original, had such 
 charms for me, that I preferred listening to, 
 and sharing in it, to doing anything else. St. 
 John did not rebuke our vivacity ; but he 
 escaped from it : he was seldom in the house : 
 his parish was large, the population scattered, 
 and he found daily business in visiting the sick 
 and poor in its different districts. 
 
 One morning, at breakfast, Diana, after 
 looking a little pensive for some minutes, 
 asked him " If his plans were yet un- 
 changed ?" 
 
 " Unchanged and unchangeable," was the 
 reply. And he proceeded to inform us that 
 
JANE EYRE. 193 
 
 his departure from England was now defi- 
 nitively fixed for the ensuing year. 
 
 " And Rosamond Oliver ?" suggested Mary : 
 the words seeming to escape her lips involun- 
 tarily; for no sooner had she uttered them, 
 than she made a gesture as if wishing to recall 
 them. St. John had a book in his hand — it 
 was his unsocial custom to read at meals — he 
 closed it, and looked up. 
 
 " Rosamond Oliver," said he, " is about to 
 be married to Mr. Granby ; one of the best 
 connected and most estimable residents in 
 
 S , grandson and heir to Sir Frederic 
 
 Granby : I had the intelligence from her father 
 yesterday." 
 
 His sisters looked at each other, and at me; we 
 all three looked at him : he was serene as glass. 
 
 " The match must have been got up hastily," 
 said Diana : " they cannot have known each 
 other long." 
 
 " But two months : they met in October 
 at the county ball at S — - — . But where there 
 are no obstacles to a union, as in the present 
 case, where the connection is in every point 
 desirable, delays are unnecessary: they will 
 
 be married as soon as S Place, which Sir 
 
 Frederic gives up to them, can be refitted for 
 their reception." 
 
 VOL. III. o 
 
194 JANE EYRE. 
 
 The first time I found St. John alone after 
 this communication, I felt tempted to inquire 
 if the event distressed him : but he seemed 
 so little to need sympathy, that, so far from 
 venturing to offer him more, I experienced 
 some shame at the recollection of what I had 
 already hazarded. Besides, I was out of 
 practice in talking to him : his reserve was 
 again frozen over, and my frankness was con- 
 gealed beneath it. He had not kept his 
 promise of treating me like his sisters ; he 
 continually made little, chilling differences 
 between us, which did not at all tend to the 
 development of cordiality : in short, now that 
 I was acknowledged his kinswoman, and lived 
 under the same roof with him, I felt the dis- 
 tance between us to be far greater than when 
 he had known me only as the village school- 
 mistress. When I remembered how far I 
 had once been admitted to his confidence, I 
 could hardly comprehend his present frigidity. 
 
 Such being the case, I felt not a little sur- 
 prised when he raised his head suddenly from 
 the desk over which he was stooping, and said : 
 
 " You see, Jane, the battle is fought and 
 the victory won." 
 
 Startled at being thus addressed, I did not 
 immediately reply ; after a moment's hesitation 
 I answered :- — 
 
JANE EYRE. 195 
 
 " But are you sure you are not in the posi- 
 tion of those conquerors whose triumphs have 
 cost them too dear ? Would not such another 
 ruin you ? " 
 
 " I think not ; and if I were, it does not 
 much signify : I shall never be called upon 
 to contend for such another. The event of the 
 conflict is decisive : my way is now clear ; I 
 thank God for it!" So saying, he returned 
 to his papers and his silence. 
 
 As our mutual happiness (*. e. Diana's, 
 Mary's, and mine) settled into a quieter cha- 
 racter, and we resumed our usual habits and 
 regular studies, St. John stayed more at home : 
 he sat with us in the same room, sometimes 
 for hours together. While Mary drew, Diana 
 pursued a course of Encyclopaedic reading she 
 had (to my awe and amazement) undertaken, 
 and I fagged away at German, he pondered 
 a mystic lore of his own : that of some Eastern 
 tongue, the acquisition of which he thought 
 necessary to his plans. 
 
 Thus engaged, he appeared, sitting in his 
 own recess, quiet and absorbed enough; but 
 that blue eye of his had a habit of leaving the 
 outlandish-looking grammar, and wandering 
 over, and sometimes fixing upon us, his fellow- 
 students, with a curious intensity of observation : 
 
 o 2 
 
196 JANE EYRE. 
 
 if caught, it would be instantly withdrawn ; 
 yet ever and anon, it returned searchingly to 
 our table. I wondered what it meant : I 
 wondered, too, at the punctual satisfaction he 
 never failed to exhibit on an occasion that 
 seemed to me of small moment, namely, — my 
 weekly visit to Morton school ; and still more 
 was I puzzled when, if the day was unfavour- 
 able, if there was snow, or rain, or high wind, 
 and his sisters urged me not to go, he would 
 invariably make light of their solicitude, and 
 encourage me to accomplish the task without 
 regard to the elements. 
 
 " Jane is not such a weakling as you would 
 make her," he would say ; " she can bear a 
 mountain blast, or a shower, or a few flakes of 
 snow, as well as any of us. Her constitution 
 is both sound and elastic; — better calculated 
 to endure variations of climate than many more 
 robust." 
 
 And when I returned, sometimes a good 
 deal tired, and not a little weather-beaten, I 
 never dared complain, because I saw that to 
 murmur would be to vex him : on all occasions 
 fortitude pleased him; the reverse was a 
 special annoyance. 
 
 One afternoon, however, I got leave to stay 
 at home, because I really had a cold. His 
 
JANE EYRE. 197 
 
 sisters were gone to Morton in my stead : I sat 
 reading Schiller ; he, deciphering his crabbed 
 Oriental scrolls. As I exchanged a translation 
 for an exercise, I happened to look his way : 
 there I found myself under the influence of 
 the ever- watchful blue eye. How long it had 
 been searching me through and through, and 
 oyer and over, I cannot tell : so keen was it, 
 and yet so cold, I felt for the moment super- 
 stitious — as if I were sitting in the room with 
 something uncanny. 
 
 " Jane, what are you doing ? " 
 
 " Learning German." 
 
 " I want you to give up German, and learn 
 Hindostanee." 
 
 " You are not in earnest?" 
 
 "In such earnest that I must have it so: 
 and I will tell you why." 
 
 He then went on to explain that Hindostanee 
 was the language he was himself at present 
 studying ; that as he advanced, he was apt to 
 forget the commencement ; that it would assist 
 him greatly to have a pupil with whom he might 
 again and again go over the elements, and so 
 fix them thoroughly in his mind; that his 
 choice had hovered for some time between me 
 and his sisters ; but that he had fixed it on me, 
 because he saw I could sit at a task the 
 
198 JANE EYRE. 
 
 longest of the three. Would I do him this 
 favour ? I should not, perhaps, have to make 
 the sacrifice long; as it wanted now "barely 
 three months to his departure. 
 
 St. John was not a man to be lightly re- 
 fused : you felt that every impression made on 
 him, either for pain or pleasure, was deep- 
 graved and permanent. I consented. When 
 Diana and Mary returned, the former 
 found her scholar transferred from her to her 
 brother: she laughed; and both she and 
 Mary agreed that St. John should never have 
 persuaded them to such a step. He answered, 
 quietly : — 
 
 " I knew it." 
 
 I found him a very patient, very forbearing, 
 and yet an exacting master : he expected me 
 to do a great deal; and when I fulfilled his 
 expectations he, in his own way, fully testified 
 his approbation. By degrees, he acquired a 
 certain influence over me that took away my 
 liberty of mind: his praise and notice were 
 more restraining than his indifference. I could 
 no longer talk or laugh freely when he was 
 by ; because a tiresomely importunate instinct 
 reminded me that vivacity (at least in me) was 
 distasteful to him. I was so fully aware that 
 only serious moods and occupations were ac- 
 
JANE EYRE. 199 
 
 ceptable; that in his presence every effort to 
 sustain or follow any other, became vain: I 
 fell under a freezing spell. When he said 
 " go," I went ; " come," I came ; " do this," 
 I did it. But I did not love my servitude : I 
 wished, many a time, he had continued to 
 neglect me. 
 
 One evening when, at bed-time, his sisters 
 and I stood round him, bidding him good- 
 night, he kissed each of them, as was his 
 custom ; and, as was equally his custom, he 
 gave me his hand. Diana, who chanced to be 
 in a frolicksome humour {she was not painfully 
 controlled by his will ; for hers, in another way, 
 was as strong), exclaimed : — 
 
 "St. John! you used to call Jane your 
 third sister, but you don't treat her as such : 
 you should kiss her too." 
 
 She pushed me towards him. I thought 
 Diana very provoking, and felt uncomfortably 
 confused ; and while I was thus thinking and 
 feeling, St. John bent his head, his Greek 
 face was brought to a level with mine, his 
 eyes questioned my eyes piercingly — he kissed 
 me. There are no such things as marble 
 kisses, or ice kisses, or I should say, my ec- 
 clesiastical cousin's salute belonged to one 
 of these classes ; but there may be experiment 
 
200 JANE EYRE. 
 
 ;, and his was an experiment kiss. When 
 given, he viewed me to learn the result; it 
 was not striking : I am sure I did not blush ; 
 perhaps I might have turned a little pale, for 
 I felt as if this kiss were a seal affixed to my 
 fetters. He never omitted the ceremony after- 
 wards, and the gravity and quiescence with 
 which I underwent it, seemed to invest it 
 for him with a certain charm. 
 
 As for me, I daily wished more to please 
 him : but to do so, I felt daily more and more 
 that I must disown half my nature, stifle 
 half my faculties, wrest my tastes from their 
 original bent, force myself to the adoption 
 of pursuits for which I had no natural vo- 
 cation. He wanted to train me to an ele- 
 vation I could never reach : it racked me 
 hourly to aspire to the standard he uplifted. 
 The thing was as impossible as to mould my 
 irregular features to his correct and classic 
 pattern, to give to my changeable green eyes 
 the sea blue tint and solemn lustre of his own. 
 
 Not his ascendancy alone, however, held me 
 in thrall at present. Of late it had been easy 
 enough for me to look sad : a cankering evil 
 sat at my heart and drained my happiness 
 at its source — the evil of suspense. 
 
 Perhaps you think I had forgotten Mr. 
 
JANE EYRE. 201 
 
 Rochester, reader, amidst these changes of 
 place and fortune. Not for a moment. His 
 idea was still with me ; because it was not a 
 vapour sunshine could disperse; nor a sand- 
 traced effigy storms could wash away : it was 
 a name graven on a tablet, fated to last as 
 long as the marble it inscribed. The craving 
 to know what had become of him followed 
 me everywhere : when I was at Morton, I 
 re-entered my cottage every evening to think 
 of that; and now at Moor-House, I sought 
 my bedroom each night to brood over it. 
 
 In the course of my necessary correspon- 
 dence with Mr Briggs about the will, I had 
 inquired if he knew anything of Mr. Ro- 
 chester's present residence and state of 
 health: but, as St. John had conjectured, 
 he was quite ignorant of all concerning him. 
 I then wrote to Mrs. Fairfax, entreating in- 
 formation on the subject. I had calculated 
 with certainty on this step answering my end : 
 I felt sure it would elicit an early answer. I was 
 astonished when a fortnight passed without re- 
 ply ; but when two months wore away, and day 
 after day the post arrived and brought nothing 
 for me, I fell a prey to the keenest anxiety. 
 
 I wrote again : there was a chance of my 
 first letter having missed. Renewed hope fol- 
 
202 JANE EYRE. 
 
 lowed renewed effort ; it shone like the former 
 for some weeks, then, like it, it faded, flick- 
 ered : not a line, not a word reached me. 
 When half a year wasted in vain expectancy, 
 my hope died out ; and then I felt dark indeed. 
 
 A fine spring shone round me, which I could 
 not enjoy. Summer approached ; Diana tried 
 to cheer me : she said I looked ill, and wished 
 to accompany me to the sea-side. This St. 
 John opposed; he said I did not want dis- 
 sipation, I wanted employment : my present 
 life was too purposeless, I required an aim; 
 and, I suppose, by way of supplying defi- 
 ciencies, he prolonged still further my lessons 
 in Hindostanee, and grew more urgent in 
 requiring their accomplishment : and I, like 
 a fool, never thought of resisting him — I could 
 not resist him. 
 
 One day I had come to my studies in lower 
 spirits than usual ; the ebb was occasioned by a 
 poignantly felt disappointment : Hannah had 
 told me in the morning there was a letter for 
 me, and when I went down to take it, almost 
 certain that the long looked-for tidings were 
 vouchsafed me at last, I found only an un- 
 important note from Mr. Briggs on business. 
 The bitter check had wrung from me some 
 tears ; and now as I sat poring over the crab- 
 
JANE EYRE. 203 
 
 bed characters and flourishing tropes of an 
 Indian scribe, my eyes filled again. 
 
 St. John called me to his side to read ; in 
 attempting to do this my voice failed me : words 
 were lost in sobs. He and I were the only 
 occupants of the parlour : Diana was prac- 
 tising her music in the drawing-room, Mary 
 was gardening — it was a very fine May-day, 
 clear, sunny, and breezy. My companion ex- 
 pressed no surprise at this emotion, nor did 
 he question me as to its cause; he only 
 said : — 
 
 " We will wait a few minutes, Jane, till 
 you are more composed. And while I smo- 
 thered the paroxysm with all haste, he sat calm 
 and patient, leaning on his desk and looking 
 like a physician watching with the eye of 
 science an expected and fully-understood 
 crisis in a patient's malady. Having stifled 
 my sobs, wiped my eyes, and muttered some- 
 thing about not being very well that morning, 
 I resumed my task, and succeeded in com- 
 pleting it. St. John put away my books and 
 his, locked his desk, and said : — 
 
 " Now, Jane, you shall take a walk ; and 
 with me." 
 
 " I will call Diana and Mary." 
 
 " No. I want only one companion this 
 
204 JANE EYRE. 
 
 morning, and that must be you : put on your 
 things ; go out by the kitchen door ; take the 
 road towards the head of Marsh- Glen : I will 
 join you in a moment." 
 
 I know no medium : I never in my life have 
 known any medium in my dealings with posi- 
 tive, hard characters, antagonistic to my own, 
 between absolute submission and determined 
 revolt. I have always faithfully observed the 
 one, up to the very moment of bursting, some- 
 times with volcanic vehemence, into the other ; 
 and as neither present circumstances war- 
 ranted, nor my present mood inclined me 
 to mutiny, I observed careful obedience to 
 St. John's directions; and in ten minutes I 
 was treading the wild track of the glen, side by 
 side with him. 
 
 The breeze was from the west : it came over 
 the hills, sweet with scents of heath and rush ; 
 the sky was of stainless blue ; the stream 
 descending the ravine, swelled with past spring 
 rains, poured along plentiful and clear, catching 
 golden gleams from the sun, and sapphire tints 
 from the firmament. As we advanced and 
 left the track, we trod a soft turf, mossy fine 
 and emerald green, minutely enamelled with a 
 tiny white flower, and spangled with a star- 
 like yellow blossom : the hills, meantime, shut 
 
JANE EYRE. 205 
 
 us quite in; for the glen, towards its head, 
 wound to their very core. 
 
 " Let us rest here,'* said St. John, as we 
 reached the first stragglers of a battalion of 
 rocks, guarding a sort of pass, beyond which 
 the beck rushed down, a waterfall ; and where, 
 still a little further, the mountain shook off 
 turf and flower, had only heath for raiment, 
 and crag for gem — where it exaggerated the 
 wild to the savage, and exchanged the fresh 
 for the frowning — where it guarded the forlorn 
 hope of solitude, and a last refuge for silence. 
 
 I took a seat : St. John stood near me. He 
 looked up the pass and down the hollow ; his 
 glance wandered away with the stream, and re- 
 turned to traverse the unclouded heaven which 
 coloured it : he removed his hat, let the breeze 
 stir his hair and kiss his brow. He seemed in 
 communion with the genius of the haunt : with 
 his eye he bade farewell to something. 
 
 "And I shall see it again," he said aloud, 
 " in dreams, when I sleep by the Ganges : and 
 again, in a more remote hour — when another 
 slumber overcomes me — on the shore of a 
 darker stream." 
 
 Strange words of a strange love! An 
 austere patriot's passion for his fatherland I 
 He sat down : for half an hour we never 
 
206 JANE EYRE. 
 
 spoke ; neither he to me nor I to him : tha 
 interval past, he recommenced : — 
 
 " Jane, I go in six weeks ; I have taken my 
 berth in an East Indiaman which sails on the 
 twentieth of June." 
 
 " God will protect you ; for you have under- 
 taken his work," I answered. 
 
 "Yes," said he, "there is my glory and joy. 
 I am the servant of an infallible master. I am 
 not going out under human goidance, subject 
 to the defective laws and erring control of my 
 feeble fellow-worms: my king, my lawgiver, 
 my captain, is the All-perfect. It seems 
 strange to me that all round me do not burn to 
 enlist under the same banner — to join in the 
 same enterprise." 
 
 " All have not your powers ; and it would be 
 folly for the feeble to wish to march with the 
 strong," 
 
 " I do not speak to the feeble, or think of 
 them: I address only such as are worthy of 
 the work, and competent to accomplish it." 
 
 " Those are few in number, and difficult to 
 discover." 
 
 " You say truly : but when found, it is right 
 to stir them up — to urge and exhort them to 
 the effort — to show them what their gifts are, 
 and why they were given — to speak Heaven's 
 
JANE EYRE. 207 
 
 message in their ear, — to offer them, direct 
 from God, a place in the ranks of his chosen." 
 
 " If they are really qualified for the task, 
 will not their own hearts be the first to inform 
 them of it?" 
 
 I felt as if an awful charm was framing 
 round and gathering over me : I trembled to 
 hear some fatal word spoken which would at 
 once declare and rivet the gpell. 
 
 " And what does your heart say ?" demanded 
 St. John. 
 
 "My heart is mute, — my heart is mute," I 
 answered, struck and thrilled. 
 
 " Then I must speak for it," continued the 
 deep, relentless voice. " Jane, come with me to 
 India : come as my help-meet and fellow- 
 labourer." 
 
 The glen and sky spun round: the hills 
 heaved ! It was as if I had heard a summons 
 from Heaven — as if a visionary messenger, like 
 him of Macedonia, had enounced " Come over 
 and help us ! " But I was no apostle, — I could 
 not behold the herald, — I could not receive his 
 call. 
 
 " Oh, St. John !" I cried, " have some 
 mercy!" 
 
 I appealed to one, who, in the discharge of 
 
208 JANE EYRE. 
 
 what he believed his duty, knew neither mercy 
 nor remorse. He continued : — 
 
 " God and nature intended you for a mis- 
 sionary's wife. It is not personal, but mental 
 endowments they have given you : you are 
 formed for labour, not for love. A mission- 
 ary's wife you must — shall be. You shall be 
 mine : I claim you — not for my pleasure, but 
 for my Sovereign's service." 
 
 " I am not fit for it : I have no vocation," I 
 said. 
 
 He had calculated on these first objections : 
 he was not irritated by them. Indeed, as he 
 leaned back against the crag behind him, 
 folded his arms on his chest, and fixed his 
 countenance, I saw he was prepared for a 
 long and trying opposition, and had taken in 
 a stock of patience to last him to its close — 
 resolved, however, that that close should be 
 conquest for him. 
 
 " Humility, Jane," said he, " is the ground- 
 work of Christian virtues : you say right that 
 you are not fit for the work. Who is fit for 
 it? Or who, that ever was truly called, be- 
 lieved himself worthy of the summons? I, 
 for instance, am but dust and ashes. With 
 St. Paul I acknowledge myself the chiefest of 
 sinners : but I do not suffer this sense of my 
 
JANE EYRE. 209 
 
 personal vileness to daunt me. I know my 
 Leader : that He is just as well as mighty ; and 
 while He has chosen a feeble instrument to 
 perform a great task, He will, from the bound- 
 less stores of His providence, supply the inade- 
 quacy of the means to the end. Think like 
 me, Jane — trust like me. It is the Hock of 
 Ages I ask you to lean on : do not doubt but 
 it will bear the weight of your human weak- 
 ness." 
 
 " I do not understand a missionary life : I 
 have never studied missionary labours." 
 
 " There, I, humble as I am, can give you 
 the aid you want : I can set you your task 
 from hour to hour ; stand by you always ; help 
 you from moment to moment. This I could 
 do in the beginning : soon (for I know your 
 powers) you would be as strong and apt as 
 myself, and would not require my help." 
 
 " But my powers — where are they for this 
 undertaking ? I do not feel them. Nothing 
 speaks or stirs in me while you talk. I am 
 sensible of no light kindling — no life quicken- 
 ing — no voice counselling or cheering. Oh, I 
 wish I could make you see how much my 
 mind is at this moment like a rayless dungeon, 
 with one shrinking fear fettered in its depths 
 
 VOL. III. p 
 
210 JANE EYRE. 
 
 — the fear of being persuaded by you to at- 
 tempt what I cannot accomplish ! " 
 
 " I have an answer for you — hear it. I 
 have watched you ever since we first met : I 
 have made you my study for ten months. I 
 have proved you in that time by sundry tests: 
 and what have I seen and elicited ? In the 
 village school I found you could perform well, 
 punctually, uprightly, labour uncongenial to 
 your habits and inclinations ; I saw you could 
 perform it with capacity and tact: you could 
 win while you controlled. In the calm with 
 which you learnt you had become suddenly 
 rich, I read a mind clear of the vice of Demas: 
 < — lucre had no undue power over you. In the 
 resolute readiness with which you cut your 
 wealth into four shares, keeping but one to 
 yourself, and relinquishing the three others to 
 the claim of abstract justice, I recognised a 
 soul that revelled in the flame and excitement 
 of sacrifice. In the tractability with which, 
 at my wish, you forsook a study in which 
 you were interested, and adopted another, be- 
 cause it interested me ; in the untiring assiduity 
 with which you have since persevered in it — 
 in the unflagging energy and unshaken tem- 
 per with which you have met its difficulties — I 
 acknowledge the complement of the qualities 
 

 JANE EYRE. 211 
 
 I seek. Jane, you are docile, diligent, disin- 
 terested, faithful, constant, and courageous; 
 very gentle, and very heroic : cease to mis- 
 trust yourself — I can trust you unreservedly. 
 As a conductress of Indian schools, and a 
 helper amongst Indian women, your assistance 
 will be to me invaluable." 
 
 My iron shroud contracted round me : per- 
 suasion advanced with slow sure step. Shut 
 my eyes as I would, these last words of his suc- 
 ceeded in making the way, which had seemed 
 blocked up, comparatively clear. My work, 
 which had appeared so vague, so hopelessly 
 diffuse, condensed itself as he proceeded, and 
 assumed a definite form under his shaping 
 hand. He waited for an answer. I de- 
 manded a quarter of an hour to think, before 
 I again hazarded a reply. 
 
 " Very willingly," he rejoined ; and rising, 
 he strode a little distance up the pass, threw 
 himself down on a swell of heath, and there 
 lay still. 
 
 " I can do what he wants me to do : I am 
 forced to see and acknowledge that," I medi- 
 tated — " that is, if life be spared me. But I feel 
 mine is not the existence to be long protracted 
 under an Indian sun. — What then ? He does 
 not care for that : when my time came to die 
 
 p 2 
 
212 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 he would resign me, in all serenity and sanctity, 
 to the God who gave me. The case is very 
 plain before me. In leaving England, I should 
 leave a loved but empty land — Mr. Rochester is 
 not there : and if he were, what is, what can that 
 ever be to me ? My business is to live without 
 him now : nothing so absurd, so weak as to 
 drag on from day to day, as if I were waiting 
 some impossible change in circumstances, which 
 might reunite me to him. Of course (as St. 
 John once said) I must seek another interest 
 in life to replace the one lost : is not the 
 occupation he now offers me truly the most 
 glorious man can adopt or God assign ? Is it 
 not, by its noble cares and sublime results, the 
 one best calculated to fill the void left by 
 uptorn affections and demolished hopes? I 
 believe I must say, yes — and yet I shudder. 
 Alas ! If I join St. John, I abandon half my- 
 self: if I go to India, I go to premature death. 
 And how will the interval between leaving 
 England for India, and India for the grave, be 
 filled ? Oh, I know well ! That, too, is very 
 clear to my vision. By straining to satisfy 
 St. John till my sinews ache, I shall satisfy 
 him — to the finest central point and farthest 
 outward circle of his expectations. If I do go 
 with him — if I do make the sacrifice he urges, 
 
JANE EYRE. 213 
 
 I will make it absolutely : I will throw all on 
 the altar — heart, vitals, the entire victim. He 
 will never love me ; but he shall approve me : I 
 will show him energies he has not yet seen, 
 resources he has never suspected. Yes : I can 
 work as hard as he can ; and with as little 
 grudging. 
 
 " Consent, then, to his demand is possible : 
 but for one item — one dreadful item. It is — 
 that he asks me to be his wife, and has no 
 more of a husband's heart for me than that 
 frowning giant of a rock, down which the 
 stream is foaming in yonder gorge. He prizes 
 me as a soldier would a good weapon ; and that 
 is all. Unmarried to him, this would never 
 grieve me ; but can I let him complete his cal- 
 culations — coolly put into practice his plans — 
 go through the wedding ceremony ? Can I re- 
 ceive from him the bridal ring, endure all the 
 forms of love (which I doubt not he would 
 scrupulously observe) and know that the spirit 
 was quite absent 1 Can I bear the conscious- 
 ness that every endearment he bestows is a 
 sacrifice made on principle ? No : such a 
 martyrdom would be monstrous. I will never 
 undergo it : As his sister, I might accompany 
 him — not as his wife : I will tell him so." 
 
 I looked towards the knoll : there he lay, 
 
214 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 still as a prostrate column ; his face turned 
 to me : his eye beaming watchful, and keen. 
 He started to his feet and approached me. 
 
 " I am ready to go to India, if I may go 
 free.'; 
 
 " Your answer requires a commentary," he 
 said ; " it is not clear." 
 
 " You have hitherto been my adopted 
 brother : I, your adopted sister ; let us con- 
 tinue as such: you and I had better not 
 marry." 
 
 He shook his head. " Adopted fraternity 
 will not do in this case. If you were my real 
 sister it would be different : I should take you, 
 and seek no wife. But, as it is, either our 
 union must be consecrated and sealed by mar- 
 riage, or it cannot exist : practical obstacles 
 oppose themselves to any other plan. Do you 
 see it, Jane? Consider a moment — your 
 strong sense will guide you." 
 
 I did consider : and still my sense, such as it 
 was, directed me only to the fact that we did 
 not love each other as man and wife should ; 
 and therefore it inferred we ought not to 
 marry. I said so. " St. John," I returned, 
 <e I regard you as a brother — you, me as a 
 sister : so let us continue." 
 
 " We cannot — we cannot," he answered with, 
 
JANE EYRE. 215 
 
 short, sharp determination : " it would not do. 
 You have said you will go with me to India : 
 remember — you have said that." 
 " Conditionally ." 
 
 " Well — well. To the main point — the de- 
 parture with me from England, the co-opera- 
 tion with me in my future labours — you do 
 not object. You have already as good as put 
 your hand to the plough : you are too consis- 
 tent to withdraw it. You have but one end to 
 keep in view — how the work you have under- 
 taken can best be done. Simplify your com- 
 plicated interests, feelings, thoughts, wishes, 
 aims ; merge all considerations in one purpose . 
 that of fulfilling with effect — with power — the 
 mission of your great Master. To do so, you 
 must have a coadjutor — not a brother ; that is 
 a loose tie : but a husband. I, too, do not 
 want a sister : a sister might any day be taken 
 from me. I want a wife : the sole helpmeet I 
 can influence efficiently in life, and retain 
 absolutely till death." 
 
 I shuddered as he spoke : I felt his in- 
 fluence in my marrow — his hold on my limbs. 
 
 " Seek one elsewhere than in me, St. John ; 
 seek one fitted to you." 
 
 " One fitted to my purpose, you mean — 
 fitted to my vocation. Again I tell you it is 
 
216 JANE EYRE. 
 
 not the insignificant private individual — the 
 mere man, with the man's selfish senses — I 
 wish to mate : it is the missionary." 
 
 " And I will give the missionary my ener- 
 gies — it is all he wants — but not myself : that 
 would be only adding the husk and shell to 
 the kernel. For them he has no use : I retain 
 them." 
 
 " You cannot — you ought not. Do you 
 think God will be satisfied with half an obla- 
 tion ? Will He accept a mutilated sacrifice ? 
 It is the cause of God I advocate : it is under 
 His standard I enlist you. I cannot accept on 
 His behalf a divided allegiance ; it must be 
 entire." 
 
 " Oh ! I will give my heart to God," I said. 
 " You do not want it." 
 
 I will not swear, reader, that there was not 
 something of repressed sarcasm both in the 
 tone in which I uttered this sentence, and in 
 the feeling that accompanied it. I had silently 
 feared St. John till now, because I had not 
 understood him. He had held me in awe, 
 because he had held me in doubt. How much 
 of him was saint, how much mortal, I could 
 not heretofore tell ; but revelations were being 
 made in this conference : the analysis of his 
 nature was proceeding before my eyes. I saw 
 
JANE EYRE. 217 
 
 his fallibilities : I comprehended them. I 
 understood that, sitting there where I did, on 
 the bank of heath, and with that handsome 
 form before me, I sat at the feet of a man, 
 erring as I. The veil fell from his hardness 
 and despotism. Having felt in him the pre- 
 sence of these qualities, I felt his imperfection, 
 and took courage. I was with an equal — one 
 with whom I might argue — one whom, if I 
 saw good, I might resist. 
 
 He was silent after I had uttered the last 
 sentence, and I presently risked an upward 
 glance at his countenance. His eye, bent on 
 me, expressed at once stern surprise and keen 
 inquiry. " Is she sarcastic, and sarcastic to 
 me ?" it seemed to say. " What does this 
 signify ? " 
 
 " Do not let us forget that this is a solemn 
 matter," he said, ere long ; u one of which we 
 may neither think nor talk lightly without sin. 
 I trust, Jane, you are in earnest when you say 
 you will give your heart to God: it is all I 
 want. Once wrench your heart from man, 
 and fix it on your Maker, the advancement of 
 that Maker's spiritual kingdom on earth will 
 be your chief delight and endeavour : you will 
 be ready to do at once whatever furthers that 
 end. You will see what impetus would be 
 
218 JANE EYRE. 
 
 given to your efforts and mine by our physical 
 and mental union in marriage : the only union 
 that gives a character of permanent conformity 
 to the destinies and designs of human beings ; 
 and, passing over all minor caprices — all trivial 
 difficulties and delicacies of feeling — all scruple 
 about the degree, kind, strength, or tenderness 
 of mere personal inclination — you will hasten 
 to enter into that union at once." 
 
 "Shall I?" I said briefly; and I looked at 
 his features, beautiful in their harmony, but 
 strangely formidable in their still severity : at 
 his brow, commanding but not open ; at his 
 eyes, bright, and deep, and searching, but never 
 soft ; at his tall, imposing figure ; and fancied 
 myself in idea, his wife. Oh ! it would never 
 do ! As his curate, his comrade, all would be 
 right : I would cross oceans with him in that 
 capacity ; toil under eastern suns, in Asian 
 deserts with him in that office ; admire and 
 emulate his courage, and devotion, and vigour ; 
 accommodate quietly to his masterhood ; smile 
 undisturbed at his ineradicable ambition ; dis- 
 criminate the Christian from the man; pro- 
 foundly esteem the one, and freely forgive the 
 other. I should suffer often, no doubt, attached 
 to him only in this capacity : my body would 
 be under rather a stringent yoke, but my 
 
JANE EYRE. 219 
 
 heart and mind would be free. I should still 
 have my unblighted self to turn to : my 
 natural unenslaved feelings with which to 
 communicate in moments of loneliness. There 
 would be recesses in my mind which would be 
 only mine, to which he never came ; and sen- 
 timents growing there fresh and sheltered, 
 which his austerity could never blight, nor his 
 measured warrior-march trample down : but 
 as his wife — at his side always, and always re- 
 strained, and always checked — forced to keep 
 the fire of my nature continually low, to com- 
 pel it to burn inwardly and never utter a cry, 
 though the imprisoned flame consumed vital 
 after vital — this would be unendurable. 
 
 " St. John !" I exclaimed, when I had got 
 so far in my meditation. 
 
 " Well ? " he answered, icily. 
 
 " I repeat : I freely consent to go with you 
 as your fellow-missionary ; but not as your 
 wife : I cannot marry you and become a part 
 of you." 
 
 " A part of me you must become," he an- 
 swered, steadily ; " otherwise the whole bar- 
 gain is void. How can I, a man not yet 
 thirty, take out with me to India a girl of 
 nineteen, unless she is married to me? How- 
 can we be for ever together — sometimes in soli- 
 
220 JANE EYRE. 
 
 tudes, sometimes amidst savage tribes — and 
 unwed ? " 
 
 « Very well," I said shortly ; " under the 
 circumstances ; quite as well as if I were either 
 your real sister ; or a man and a clergyman^ 
 like yourself." 
 
 " It is known that you are not my sister ; I 
 cannot introduce you as such: to attempt it 
 would be to fasten injurious suspicions on us 
 both. And for the rest, though you have a 
 man's vigorous brain, you have a woman's 
 heart, and — it would not do." 
 
 " It would do," I affirmed, with some dis- 
 dain, " perfectly well. I have a woman's 
 heart; but not where you are concerned: for 
 you I have only a comrade's constancy ; a fel- 
 low-soldier's frankness, fidelity, fraternity, if 
 you like ; a neophyte's respect and submission 
 to his hierophant : nothing more — don't fear." 
 
 "It is what I want," he said, speaking to 
 himself; " it is just what I want. And there 
 are obstacles in the way : they must be hewn 
 down. Jane, you would not repent marrying 
 me ; be certain of that : we must be married. 
 I repeat it : there is no other way ; and un- 
 doubtedly enough of love would follow upon 
 marriage to render the union right even in 
 your eyes." 
 
JANE EYRE. 221 
 
 " I scorn your idea of love," I could not 
 help saying ; as I rose up and stood before 
 him, leaning my back against the rock. " I 
 scorn the counterfeit sentiment you offer : yes, 
 St. John, and I scorn you when you offer it.'' 
 
 He looked at me fixedly : compressing his 
 well-cut lips while he did so. Whether he was 
 incensed or surprised, or what, it was not easy 
 to tell : he could command his countenance 
 thoroughly. 
 
 " I scarcely expected to hear that expression 
 from you," he said : " I think I have done and 
 uttered nothing to deserve scorn." 
 
 I was touched by his gentle tone, and over- 
 awed by his high, calm mien. 
 
 " Forgive me the words, St. John : but it is 
 your own fault that I have been roused to 
 speak so unguardedly. You have introduced 
 a topic on which our natures are at variance — a 
 topic we should never discuss : the very name 
 of love is an apple of discord between us — if 
 the reality were required, what should we do 1 
 How should we feel? My dear cousin, aban- 
 don your scheme of marriage — forget it." 
 
 " No," said he ; " it is a long-cherished 
 scheme, and the only one which can secure 
 my great end : but I shall urge you no further 
 at present. To-morrow I leave home for 
 
222 JANE EYRE. 
 
 Cambridge : I have many friends there to 
 whom I should wish to say farewell. I shall 
 be absent a fortnight — take that space of time 
 to consider my offer : and do not forget that if 
 you reject it, it is not me you deny, but God. 
 Through my means, He opens to you a noble 
 career : as my wife only can you enter upon 
 it. Refuse to be my wife, and you limit your- 
 self for ever to a track of selfish ease and 
 barren obscurity. Tremble, lest in that case 
 you should be numbered with those who have 
 denied the faith and are worse than infidels !" 
 He had done. Turning from me, he once 
 more — 
 
 " Looked to river, looked to hill :" 
 
 But this time his feelings were all pent in his 
 heart : I w r as not worthy to hear them uttered. 
 As I walked by his side homeward, I read 
 well in his iron silence all he felt towards 
 me : the disappointment of an austere and 
 despotic nature, which has met resistance where 
 it expected submission— the disapprobation of 
 a cool, inflexible judgment, which has detected 
 in another feelings and views in which it has 
 no power to sympathize : in short, as a man, 
 he would have wished to coerce me into obe- 
 dience : it was only as a sincere Christian he 
 
JANE EYRE. 223 
 
 bore so patiently with my perversity, and 
 allowed so long a space for reflection and 
 repentance. 
 
 That night, after he had kissed his sisters, 
 he thought proper to forget even to shake 
 hands with me ; but left the room in silence. 
 I — who, though I had no love, had much friend- 
 ship for him — was hurt by the marked omis- 
 sion : so much hurt that tears started to my 
 eyes. 
 
 " I see you and St. John have been quar- 
 relling, Jane," said Diana, " during your walk 
 on the moor. But go after him ; he is now 
 lingering in the passage, expecting you — he 
 will make it up." 
 
 I have not much pride under such circum- 
 stances : I would always rather be happy than 
 dignified ; and I ran after him — he stood at the 
 foot of the stairs. 
 
 " Good-night, St. John," said I. 
 
 " Good-night, Jane," he replied, calmly. 
 
 " Then shake hands," I added. 
 
 What a cold, loose touch he impressed on 
 my fingers ! He was deeply displeased by 
 what had occurred that day: cordiality would 
 not warm, nor tears move him. No happy 
 reconciliation was to be had with him — no 
 cheering smile or generous word : but still the 
 
224 JANE EYRE. 
 
 Christian was patient and placid ; and when I 
 asked him if he forgave me, he answered that 
 he was not in the habit of cherishing the re- 
 membrance of vexation ; that he had nothing 
 to forgive ; not having been offended. 
 
 And with that answer, he left me. I would 
 much rather he had knocked me down. 
 
JANE EYRE. 252 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 He did not leave for Cambridge the next day, 
 as he had said he would. He deferred his de- 
 parture a whole week ; and during that time he 
 made me feel what severe punishment a good, 
 yet stern, a conscientious, yet implacable man 
 can inflict on one who has oifended him. 
 Without one overt act of hostility, one up- 
 braiding word, he contrived to impress me 
 momently with the conviction that I was put 
 beyond the pale of his favour. 
 
 Not that St. John harboured a spirit of un- 
 christian vindictiveness — not that he would 
 have injured a hair of my head, if it had been 
 fully in his power to do so. Both by nature 
 and principle he was superior to the mean 
 gratification of vengeance : he had forgiven 
 me for saying I scorned him and his love, but 
 he had not forgotten the words ; and as long as 
 he and I lived he never would forget them. 
 
 VOL. III. Q 
 
226 JANE EYRE. 
 
 I saw by his look, when turned to me, that they 
 were always written on the air between me 
 and him : whenever I spoke, they sounded in 
 my voice to his ear; and their echo toned every 
 answer he gave me. 
 
 He did not abstain from conversing with 
 me : he even called me as usual each morning 
 to join him at his desk ; and I fear the corrupt 
 man within him had a pleasure unimparted to, 
 and unshared by, the pure Christian, in evinc- 
 ing with what skill he could, while acting and 
 speaking apparently just as usual, extract from 
 every deed and every phrase the spirit of in- 
 terest and approval which had formerly com- 
 municated a certain austere charm to his lan- 
 guage and manner. To me, he was in reality 
 become no longer flesh, but marble : his eye 
 was a cold, bright, blue gem; his tongue, a 
 speaking instrument — nothing more. 
 
 All this was torture to me — refined, linger- 
 ing torture. It kept up a slow fire of indig- 
 nation, and a trembling trouble of grief, which 
 harassed and crushed me altogether. I felt 
 how — if I were his wife — this good man, pure 
 as the deep sunless source, could soon kill me ; 
 without drawing from my veins a single drop 
 of blood, or receiving on his own crystal con- 
 science the faintest stain of crime. Especially 
 
JANE EYRE. 227 
 
 I felt this, when I made any attempt to pro- 
 pitiate him. No rath met my rath. He ex- 
 perienced no suffering from estrangement — no 
 yearning after reconciliation ; and though, 
 more than once, my fast falling tears blistered 
 the page over which we both bent, they pro- 
 duced no more effect on him than if his heart had 
 been really a matter of stone or metal. To his 
 sisters, meantime, he was somewhat kinder 
 than usual : as if afraid that mere coldness 
 would not sufficiently convince me how com- 
 pletely I was banished and banned, he added 
 the force of contrast ; and this I am sure he 
 did, not by malice, but on principle. 
 
 The night before he left home, happening 
 to see him walking in the garden about sunset, 
 and remembering, as I looked at him, that this 
 man, alienated as he now was, had once saved 
 my life, and that we were near relations, I was 
 moved to make a last attempt to regain his 
 friendship. I went out and approached him, 
 as he stood leaning over the little gate : I 
 spoke to the point at once. 
 
 " St. John, I am unhappy, because you are 
 still angry with me. Let us be friends." 
 
 " I hope we are friends," was the unmoved 
 reply ; while he still watched the rising of the 
 
 Q2 
 
228 JANE EYRE. 
 
 moon, which he had been contemplating as I 
 approached. 
 
 " No, St. John, we are not friends as we 
 were. You know that." 
 
 " Are we not ? That is wrong. For my 
 part, I wish you no ill and all good." 
 
 " I believe you, St. John ; for I am sure you 
 are incapable of wishing any one ill : but, as I 
 am your kinswoman, I should desire somewhat 
 more of affection than that sort of general phi- 
 lanthropy you extend to mere strangers." 
 
 H Of course," he said. " Your wish is rea- 
 sonable ; and I am far from regarding you as a 
 stranger." 
 
 This, spoken in a cool, tranquil tone, w T as 
 mortifying and baffling enough. Had I at- 
 tended to the suggestions of pride and ire, I 
 should immediately have left him : but some- 
 thing worked within me more strongly than 
 those feelings could. I deeply venerated my 
 cousin's talent and principle. His friendship 
 was of value to me : to lose it tried me severely. 
 I would not so soon relinquish the attempt to 
 reconquer it. 
 
 " Must we part in this way, St. John ? 
 And when you go to India, will you leave me 
 so, without a kinder word than you have yet 
 spoken?" 
 
JANE EYRE. 229 
 
 He now turned quite from the moon, and 
 faced me. 
 
 " When I go to India, Jane, will I leave 
 you ? What ! do you not go to India ? " 
 
 " You said I could not, unless I married 
 
 you." 
 
 " And you will not marry me ? You adhere 
 to that resolution ?" 
 
 Reader, do you know, as I do, what terror 
 those cold people can put into the ice of their 
 questions ? How much of the fall of the aval- 
 anche is in their anger ? of the breaking up of 
 the frozen sea in their displeasure ? 
 
 "No, St. John, I will not marry you. I 
 
 adhere to mv resolution." 
 
 «/ 
 
 The avalanche had shaken and slid a little 
 forward; but it did not yet crash down. 
 
 " Once more, why this refusal?" he asked. 
 
 " Formerly," I answered, " because you did 
 not love me ; now, I reply, because you almost 
 hate me. If I were to marry you, you would 
 kill me. You are killing me now." 
 
 His lips and cheeks turned white — quite 
 white. 
 
 " I should kill — I am killing you ? Your 
 words are such as ought not to be used : 
 violent, unfeminine, and untrue. They betray 
 an unfortunate state of mind : they merit se- 
 
230 JANE EYRE. 
 
 vere reproof : they would seem inexcusable ; 
 but that it is the duty of man to forgive his 
 fellow, even until seventy-and-seven times." 
 
 I had finished the business now. While 
 earnestly wishing to erase from his mind the 
 trace of my former offence, I had stamped on 
 that tenacious surface, another and far deeper 
 impression : I had burnt it in. 
 
 " Now you will indeed hate me," I said. 
 " It is useless to attempt to conciliate you : I 
 see I have made an eternal enemy of you/' 
 
 A fresh wrong did these words inflict : the 
 worse, because they touched on the truth. 
 That bloodless lip quivered to a temporary 
 spasm. I knew the steelly ire I had whetted. 
 I was heart-wrung. 
 
 " You utterly misinterpret my words," I 
 said, at once seizing his hand : " I have no 
 intention to grieve or pain you — indeed, I have 
 not." 
 
 Most bitterly he smiled — most decidedly he 
 withdrew his hand from mine. " And now 
 you recall your promise, and will not go to 
 India at all, I presume?" said he, after a con- 
 siderable pause. 
 
 I will, as your assistant," I answered. 
 
 A very long silence succeeded. What 
 struggle there was in him between Nature 
 
JANE EYRE. 231 
 
 and Grace in this interval, I cannot tell : only 
 singular gleams scintillated in his eyes, and 
 strange shadows passed over his face. He 
 spoke at last. 
 
 (C I before proved to you the absurdity of a 
 single woman of your age proposing to accom- 
 pany abroad a single man of mine. I proved 
 it to you in such terms as, I should have 
 thought, would have prevented your ever again 
 alluding to the plan. That you have done so, 
 I regret — for your sake." 
 
 I interrupted him. Anything like a tangible 
 reproach gave me courage at once. " Keep 
 to common sense, St. John : you are verging 
 on nonsense. You pretend to be shocked by 
 what I have said. You are not really shocked ; 
 for, with your superior mind, you cannot be 
 either so dull or so conceited as to misunder- 
 stand my meaning. I say again, I will be 
 your curate, if you like, but never your wife." 
 
 Again he turned lividly pale ; but, as before, 
 controlled his passion perfectly. He answered 
 emphatically, but calmly : — 
 
 a A female curate, who is not my wife, 
 would never suit me. With me, then, it 
 seems, you cannot go : but if you are sincere 
 in your offer, I will, while in town, speak to a 
 married missionary, whose wife needs a coad- 
 
232 JANE EYRE. 
 
 jutor. Your own fortune will make you inde- 
 pendent of the Society's aid ; and thus you 
 may still be spared the dishonour of breaking 
 your promise, and deserting the band you 
 engaged to join." 
 
 Now I never had, as the reader knows, 
 either given any formal promise, or entered 
 into any engagement; and this language was 
 all much too hard, and much too despotic for 
 the occasion. I replied : — 
 
 " There is no dishonour ; no breach of pro- 
 mise ; no desertion in the case. I am not 
 under the slightest obligation to go to India : 
 especially with strangers. With you, I would 
 have ventured much; because I admire, con- 
 fide in, and, as a sister, I love you : but I am 
 convinced that, go when and with whom I 
 would, I should not live long in that climate." 
 
 " Ah ! you are afraid of yourself," he said, 
 curling his lip. 
 
 "I am. God did not give me my life to 
 throw away ; and to do as you wish me, would, 
 I begin to think, be almost equivalent to com- 
 mitting suicide. Moreover, before 1 definitively 
 resolve on quitting England, I will know for 
 certain, whether I cannot be of greater use by 
 remaining in it than by leaving it." 
 
 " What do you mean ?" 
 
JANE EYRE. 233 
 
 " It would be fruitless to attempt to explain : 
 but there is a point on which I have long 
 endured painful doubt ; and I can go nowhere 
 till by some means that doubt is removed." 
 
 "I know where your heart turns, and to 
 what it clings. The interest you cherish is 
 lawless and unconsecrated. Long since you 
 ought to have crushed it: now you should 
 blush to allude to it. You think of Mr. 
 Rochester?" 
 
 It was true. I confessed it by silence. 
 
 "Are you going to seek Mr. Rochester?" 
 
 " I must find out what is become of him. " 
 
 " It remains for me, then," he said, u to 
 remember you in my prayers ; and to entreat 
 God for you, in all earnestness, that you may 
 not indeed become a castaway. I had thought 
 I recognised in you one of the chosen. But 
 God sees not as man sees : His will be 
 done." 
 
 He opened the gate, passed through it, and 
 strayed away down the glen. He was soon 
 out of sight. 
 
 On re-entering the parlour, I found Diana 
 standing at the window, looking very thought- 
 ful. Diana was a great deal taller than I : she 
 put her hand on my shoulder, and, stooping, 
 examined my face. 
 
234 JANE EYRE. 
 
 se Jane," she said, " you are always agitated 
 and pale now. I am sure there is something 
 the matter. Tell me what business St. John and 
 you have on hands. I have watched you this 
 half hour from the window : you must forgive 
 my being such a spy, but for a long time I 
 have fancied I hardly know what. St. John is 
 a strange being " 
 
 She paused — I did not speak : soon she re- 
 sumed : — 
 
 " That brother of mine cherishes peculiar 
 views of some sort respecting you, I am sure : 
 he has long distinguished you by a notice and 
 interest he never showed any one else — to 
 what end? I wish he loved you— does he, 
 Jane?" 
 
 I put her cool hand to my hot forehead : 
 " No, Die, not one whit." 
 
 " Then why does he follow you so with his 
 eyes — and get you so frequently alone with 
 him, and keep you so continually at his side ? 
 Mary and I had both concluded he wished you 
 to marry him." 
 
 " He does — he has asked me to be his wife." 
 
 Diana clapped her hands. " That is just 
 what we hoped and thought ! And you will 
 marry him, Jane, won't you? And then he 
 will stay in England." 
 
JANE EYRE. 235 
 
 " Far from that Diana ; his sole idea in pro- 
 posing to me is to procure a fitting fellow- 
 labourer in his Indian toils." 
 
 " What! He wishes you to go to India?" 
 
 * Yes." 
 
 " Madness !" she exclaimed. " You would 
 not live three months there, I am certain. You 
 never shall go : you have not consented — have 
 you, Jane?" 
 
 " I have refused to marry him " 
 
 "And have consequently displeased him?" 
 she suggested. 
 
 " Deeply : he will never forgive me, I fear : 
 yet I offered to accompany him as his sister." 
 
 "It was frantic folly to do so, Jane. Think 
 of the task you undertook — one of incessant 
 fatigue : where fatigue kills even the strong ; 
 and you are weak. St. John — you know him 
 —would urge you to impossibilities : with him 
 there would be no permission to rest during 
 the hot hours ; and unfortunately, I have no- 
 ticed, whatever he exacts, you force yourself 
 to perform. I am astonished you found courage 
 to refuse his hand. You do not love him then, 
 Jane?" 
 
 " Not as a husband." 
 
 " Yet he is a handsome fellow." 
 
236 JANE EYRE. 
 
 " And I am so plain you see, Die. We 
 should never suit." 
 
 " Plain ! You ? Not at all. You are 
 much too pretty, as well as too good, to be 
 grilled alive in Calcutta." And again she 
 earnestly conjured me to give up all thoughts 
 of going out with her brother. 
 
 " I must, indeed," I said ; " for when just 
 now I repeated the offer of serving him for a 
 deacon, he expressed himself shocked at my 
 want of decency. He seemed to think I had 
 committed an impropriety in proposing to 
 accompany him unmarried : as if I had not 
 from the first hoped to find in him a brother ; 
 and habitually regarded him as such." 
 
 " What makes you say he does not love you, 
 Jane?" 
 
 "You should hear himself on the subject. 
 He has again and again explained that it is 
 not himself, but his office he wishes to mate. 
 He has told me I am formed for labour — not 
 for love : which is true, no doubt. But, in my 
 opinion, if I am not formed for love, it follows 
 that I am not formed for marriage. Would 
 it not be strange, Die, to be chained for life 
 to a man who regarded one but as a useful 
 tool?" 
 
JANE EYRE. 237 
 
 " Insupportable — unnatural — out of the 
 question ! " 
 
 " And then," I continued ; " though I have 
 only sisterly affection for him now, yet, if 
 forced to be his wife, I can imagine the possi- 
 bility of conceiving an inevitable, strange, 
 torturing kind of love for him : because he is 
 so talented ; and there is often a certain heroic 
 grandeur in his look, manner, and conversation. 
 In that case, my lot would become unspeakably 
 wretched. He would not want me to love 
 him ; and if I showed the feeling, he would 
 make me sensible that it was a superfluity, 
 unrequired by him, unbecoming in me. I 
 know he would." 
 
 "And yet, St. John is a good man," said 
 Diana. 
 
 " He is a good and a great man : but he 
 forgets, pitilessly, the feelings and claims of 
 little people, in pursuing his own large views. 
 It is better, therefore, for the insignificant to 
 keep out of his way ; lest, in his progress, he 
 should trample them down. Here he comes ! 
 I will leave you, Diana." And I hastened up 
 stairs, as I saw him entering the garden. 
 
 But I was forced to meet him again at 
 supper. During that meal he appeared just as 
 composed as usual. I had thought he would 
 
238 JANE EYRE. 
 
 hardly speak to me, and I was certain he had 
 given up the pursuit of his matrimonial scheme : 
 the sequel showed I was mistaken on both 
 points. He addressed me precisely in his 
 ordinary manner; or what had, of late, 
 been his ordinary manner: one scrupulously 
 polite. No doubt he had invoked the help of 
 the Holy Spirit to subdue the anger I had 
 roused in him, and now believed he had for- 
 given me once more. 
 
 For the evening reading before prayers, he 
 selected the twenty-first chapter of Revelations. 
 It was at all times pleasant to listen, while from 
 his lips fell the words of the Bible : never did 
 his fine voice sound at once so sweet and full — 
 never did his manner become so impressive in 
 its noble simplicity, as when he delivered the 
 oracles of God ; and to-night that voice took a 
 more solemn tone — that manner a more thrill- 
 ing meaning — as he sat in the midst of his 
 household circle (the May moon shining in 
 through the uncurtained window, and render- 
 ing almost unnecessary the light of the candle 
 on the table) : as he sat there, bending over the 
 great old Bible, and described from its page the 
 vision of the new heaven and the new earth — 
 told how God would come to dwell w r ith men, 
 how he would wipe away all tears from their 
 
JAKE EYRE. 23 9 
 
 eyes, and promised that there should be no 
 more death, neither sorrow nor crying, nor any 
 more pain, because the former things were 
 passed away. 
 
 The succeeding words thrilled me strangely 
 as he spoke them : especially as I felt, by the 
 slight, indescribable alteration in sound, that in 
 uttering them, his eye had turned on me. 
 
 " He that overcometh shall inherit all things ; 
 and I will be his God, and he shall be my 
 son. But," was slowly, distinctly read, " the 
 fearful, the unbelieving, &c, shall have their 
 part in the lake which burneth with fire and 
 brimstone, which is the second death." 
 
 Henceforward, I knew what fate St. John 
 feared for me. 
 
 A calm, subdued triumph, blent with a long- 
 ing earnestness, marked his enunciation of the 
 last glorious verses of that chapter. The 
 reader believed his name was already written 
 in the Lamb's book of life, and he yearned 
 after the hour which should admit him to th*. 
 city to which the kings of the earth bring then 
 glory and honour ; which has no need of sup 
 or moon to shine in it, because the glory of 
 God lightens it, and the Lamb is the light 
 thereof. 
 
 In the prayer following the chapter, all his 
 
240 JANE EYRE. 
 
 energy gathered — all his stern zeal woke : he 
 was in deep earnest, wrestling with God, and 
 resolved on a conquest. He supplicated strength 
 for the weak-hearted ; guidance for wanderers 
 from the fold : a return, even at the eleventh 
 hour, for those whom the temptations of the 
 world and the flesh were luring from the 
 narrow path. He asked, he urged, he claimed 
 the boon of a brand snatched from the burn- 
 ing. Earnestness is ever deeply solemn : first, 
 as I listened to that prayer, I wondered at his ; 
 then, when it continued and rose, I was 
 touched by it, and at last awed. He felt the 
 greatness and goodness of his purpose so sin- 
 eerely : others who heard him plead for it, 
 could not but feel it too. 
 
 The prayer over, we took leave of him : he 
 was to go at a very early hour in the morning. 
 Diana and Mary having kissed him, left the 
 room — in compliance, I think, with a whispered 
 hint from him : I tendered my hand, and wished 
 him a pleasant journey. 
 
 " Thank you, Jane. As I said, I shall return 
 from Cambridge in a fortnight : that space, 
 then, is yet left you for reflection. If I listened 
 to human pride, I should say no more to you of 
 marriage with me ; but I listen to my duty, and 
 
JANE EYRE. 241 
 
 keep steadily in view my first aim — to do all 
 things to the glory of God. My Master was 
 long-suffering : so will I be. I cannot give 
 you up to perdition as a vessel of wrath : repent 
 — resolve ; while there is yet time. Remember, 
 we are bid to work while it is day — warned that 
 16 the night cometh when no man shall work." 
 Remember the fate of Dives, who had his 
 good things in this life. God give you strength 
 to choose that better part which shall not be 
 taken from you ! " 
 
 He laid his hand on my head as he uttered 
 the last words. He had spoken earnestly, 
 mildly : his look was not, indeed, that of a lover 
 beholding his mistress; but it was that of a 
 pastor recalling his wandering sheep — or better, 
 of a guardian angel watching the soul for which 
 he is responsible. All men of talent, whether 
 they be men of feeling or not ; whether they be 
 zealots, or aspirants, or despots — provided only 
 they be sincere — have their sublime moments : 
 when they subdue and rule. I felt veneration 
 for St. John— veneration so strong that its im- 
 petus thrust me at once to the point I had so 
 long shunned. I was tempted to cease strug- 
 gling with him — to rush down the torrent of 
 his will into the gulf of his existence, and there 
 lose my own. I was almost as hard beset by 
 
 vol. in. a 
 
242 JANE EYRE. 
 
 him now as I had been once before, in a dif- 
 ferent way, by another. I was a fool both times. 
 To have yielded then would have been an error 
 of principle ; to have yielded now would have 
 been an error of judgment. So I think at this 
 hour, when I look back to the crisis through the 
 quiet medium of time : I was unconscious of 
 folly at the instant. 
 
 I stood motionless under my hierophant's 
 touch. My refusals were forgotten — my fears 
 overcome — my wrestlings paralyzed. The Im- 
 possible — i. e. my marriage with St. John — was 
 fast becoming the Possible. All was changing 
 utterly, with a sudden sweep. Religion called 
 — Angels beckoned — God commanded — life 
 rolled together like a scroll — death's gates open- 
 ing, shewed eternity beyond : it seemed, that for 
 safety and bliss there, all here might be sacri- 
 ficed in a second. The dim room was full of 
 visions. 
 
 " Could you decide now?" asked the mission- 
 ary. The inquiry was put in gentle tones : he 
 drew me to him as gently. Oh, that gentle- 
 ness ! how far more potent is it than force ! I 
 could resist St. John's wrath : I grew pliant as 
 a reed under his kindness. Yet I knew all the 
 time, if I yielded now, I should not the less be 
 made to repent, some day, of my former rebel- 
 
JANE EYRE. 243 
 
 lion. His nature was not changed by one hour 
 of solemn prayer : it was only elevated. 
 
 " I could decide if I were but certain," I 
 answered : " were I but convinced that it is 
 God's will I should marry you, I could vow to 
 marry you here and now — come afterwards 
 what would ! " 
 
 "My prayers are heard!" ejaculated St. 
 John. He pressed his hand firmer on my head, 
 as if he claimed me : he surrounded me with 
 his arm, almost as if he loved me (I say almost 
 — I knew the difference — for I had felt what it 
 was to be loved ; but, like him, I had now put 
 love out of the question, and thought only of 
 duty) : I contended with my inward dimness 
 of vision, before which clouds yet rolled. I 
 sincerely, deeply, fervently longed to do what 
 was right ; and only that. " Shew me — shew 
 me the path!" I entreated of Heaven. I was 
 excited more than I had ever been ; and whether 
 what followed was the effect of excitement, the 
 reader shall judge. 
 
 All the house was still ; for I believe all, ex- 
 cept St. John and myself, were now retired to i 
 rest. The one candle was dying out : the room 
 was full of moonlight. My heart beat fast and 
 thick: I heard its throb. Suddenly it stood 
 still to an inexpressible feeling that thrilled it 
 
 r 2 
 
244 JANE EYRE. 
 
 through, and passed at once to my head and 
 extremities. The feeling was not like an elec- 
 tric shock ; but it was quite as sharp, as strange, 
 as startling : it acted on my senses as if their 
 utmost activity hitherto had been but torpor ; 
 from which they were now summoned, and 
 forced to wake. They rose expectant : eye 
 and ear waited, while the flesh quivered on my 
 bones. 
 
 " What have you heard ? What do you see ?" 
 asked St. John. I saw nothing : but I heard a 
 voice somewhere cry — 
 
 " Jane ! Jane ! Jane ! " Nothing more. 
 " Oh, God ! what is it?" I gasped. 
 I might have said, " Where is it ? " for it did 
 not seem in the room — nor in the house — nor 
 in the garden : it did not come out of the air — 
 nor from under the earth — nor from overhead. 
 I had heard it — where, or whence, for ever im- 
 possible to know ! And it was the voice of a 
 human being — a known, loved, well-remembered 
 voice — that of Edward Fairfax Rochester ; and 
 it spoke in pain and woe — wildly, eerily, 
 urgently. 
 
 " I am coming ! " I cried. " Wait for me ! 
 Oh, I will come !" I flew to the door, and 
 looked into the passage: it was dark. I ran 
 out into the garden : it was void. 
 
JANE EYRE. 245 
 
 " Where are you ?" I exclaimed. 
 
 The hills beyond Marsh-Glen sent the answer 
 faintly back — "Where are you!" I listened. 
 The wind sighed low in the firs : all was moor- 
 land loneliness and midnight hush. 
 
 "Down superstition !" I commented, as that 
 spectre rose up black by the black yew at the 
 gate. " This is not thy deception, nor thy witch- 
 craft: it is the work of nature. She was roused, 
 and did — no miracle — but her best." 
 
 I broke from St. John ; who had followed, 
 and would have detained me. It was my turn 
 to assume ascendancy. My powers were in 
 play, and in force. I told him to forbear ques- 
 tion or remark ; I desired him to leave me : I 
 must, and would be alone. He obeyed at once. 
 Where there is energy to command well enough, 
 obedience never fails. I mounted to my cham- 
 ber ; locked myself in ; fell on my knees ; and 
 prayed in my way — a different way to St. 
 John's, but effective in its own fashion. I 
 seemed to penetrate very near a Mighty Spirit ; 
 and my soul rushed out in gratitude at His feet. 
 I rose from the thanksgiving — took a resolve — 
 and lay down, unscared, enlightened — eager bu t 
 for the daylight. 
 
246 JANE EYRE. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 The daylight came. I rose at dawn. I busied 
 myself for an hour or two with arranging my 
 things in my chamber, drawers and wardrobe, 
 in the order wherein I should wish to leave them 
 during a brief absence. Meantime, I heard St. 
 John quit his room. He stopped at my door : 
 I feared he would knock — no, but a slip of 
 paper was passed under the door. I took it up. 
 It bore these w 7 ords : — 
 
 " You left me too suddenly last night. Had 
 you stayed but a little longer, you would have 
 laid your hand on the Christian's cross and 
 the angel's crown. I shall expect your clear 
 decision when 1 return this day fortnight. 
 Meantime, watch and pray that you enter not 
 into temptation : the spirit, I trust, is willing, 
 but the flesh, I see, is weak. I shall pray for 
 you hourly. — Yours, St. John." 
 
 "My spirit," I answered mentally, " is willing 
 
JANE EYRE. 247 
 
 to do what is right ; and my flesh, I hope, is 
 strong enough to accomplish the will of 
 Heaven, when once that will is distinctly known 
 to me. At any rate, it shall be strong enough 
 to search — inquire — to grope an outlet from this 
 cloud of doubt, and find the open day of cer- 
 tainty. " 
 
 It was the first of June ; yet the morning was 
 overcast and chilly : rain beat fast on my case- 
 ment. I heard the front-door open, and St. 
 John pass out. Looking through the window, 
 I saw him traverse the garden. He took the 
 way over the misty moors in the direction of 
 Whitcross — there he would meet the coach. 
 
 " In a few more hours I shall succeed you in 
 that track, cousin," thought I : " I too have a 
 coach to meet at Whitcross. I too have some to 
 see and ask after in England, before I depart 
 for ever." 
 
 It wanted yet two hours of breakfast-time. 
 I filled the interval in walking softly about my 
 room, and pondering the visitation which had 
 given my plans their present bent. I recalled 
 that inward sensation I had experienced : for I 
 could recall it, with all its unspeakable strange- 
 ness. I recalled the voice I had heard ; again I 
 questioned whence it came, as vainly as before : 
 it seemed in me — not in the external world. I 
 
248 JANE EYRE. 
 
 asked, was it a mere nervous impression — a 
 delusion ? I could not conceive or believe it : 
 it was more like an inspiration. The wondrous 
 shock of feeling had come like the earthquake 
 which shook the foundations of Paul and 
 Silas's prison : it had opened the doors of the 
 soul's cell, and loosed its bands — it had wakened 
 it out of its sleep, whence it sprang trembling, 
 listening, aghast ; then vibrated thrice a cry on 
 my startled ear, and in my quaking heart, and 
 through my spirit ; which neither feared nor 
 shook, but exulted as if in joy over the success 
 of one effort it had been privileged to make, 
 independent of the cumbrous body. 
 
 f? Ere many days," I said, as I terminated my 
 musings, " I will know something of him whose 
 voice seemed last night to summon me. Letters 
 have proved of no avail — personal inquiry shall 
 replace them." 
 
 At breakfast, I announced to Diana and Mary 
 that I was going a journey, and should be absent 
 at least four days. 
 
 "Alone, Jane?" they asked. 
 
 " Yes ; it was to see, or hear news of, a friend 
 about whom I had for some time been uneasy." 
 
 They might have said, as I have no doubt 
 they thought, that they had believed me to be 
 without any friends save them : for, indeed, j 
 
JANE EYRE. 249 
 
 had often said so ; but with their true, natural 
 delicacy, they abstained from comment : except 
 that Diana asked me if I was sure I was well 
 enough to travel. I looked very pale, she 
 observed. I replied that nothing ailed me save 
 anxiety of mind, which I hoped soon to alle- 
 viate. 
 
 It was easy to make my further arrangements ; 
 for I was troubled with no inquiries — no sur- 
 mises. Having once explained to them that I 
 could not now be explicit about my plans, they 
 kindly and wisely acquiesced in the silence with 
 which I pursued them ; according to me the 
 privilege of free action I should, under similar 
 circumstances, have accorded them. 
 
 I left Moor-House at three o'clock, p. m., and 
 soon after four, I stood at the foot of the sign- 
 post of Whitcross, waiting the arrival of the 
 coach which was to take me to distant Thorn- 
 field. Amidst the silence of those solitarv 
 roads and desert hills, I heard it approach from 
 a great distance. It was the same vehicle 
 whence, a year ago, I had alighted one summer 
 evening on this very spot — how desolate, and 
 hopeless, and objectless ! It stopped as I 
 beckoned. I entered — not now obliged to part 
 with my whole fortune as the price of its accom- 
 modation. Once more on the road to Thorn- 
 
250 JANE EYRE. 
 
 field, I felt like the messenger-pigeon flying 
 home. 
 
 It was a journey of six-and-thirty hours. I 
 had set out from Whitcross on a Tuesday after- 
 noon, and early on the succeeding Thursday 
 morning the coach stopped to water the horses 
 at a wayside inn, situated in the midst of scenery 
 whose green hedges and large fields, and low, 
 pastoral hills (how mild of feature and verdant 
 of hue compared with the stern north-midland 
 moors of Morton !) met my eye like the linea- 
 ments of a once familiar face. Yes, I knew the 
 character of this landscape : I was sure we were 
 near my bourne. 
 
 "How far is Thornfield-Hall from here?" I 
 asked of the ostler. 
 
 " Just two miles, ma'am, across the fields." 
 
 " My journey is closed," I thought to myself. 
 I got out of the coach, gave a box I had into the 
 ostler's charge, to be kept till I called for it ; 
 paid my fare ; satisfied the coachman, and was 
 going : the brightening day gleamed on the 
 sign of the inn, and I read in gilt letters " The 
 Rochester Arms." My heart leapt up : I was 
 already on my master's very lands. It fell 
 again : the thought struck it : — 
 
 " Your master himself may be beyond the 
 . British Channel, for aught you know : and then, 
 
JANE EYRE. 251 
 
 if he is at Thornfi eld-Hall, towards which you 
 hasten, who besides him is there ? His lunatic 
 wife ; and you have nothing to do with him : 
 you dare not speak to him or seek his presence. 
 You have lost your labour — you had better go 
 no farther," urged the monitor. "Ask infor- 
 mation of the people at the inn ; they can give 
 you all you seek : they can solve your doubts at 
 once. Go up to that man, and inquire if Mr. 
 Rochester be at home." 
 
 The suggestion was sensible ; and yet I could 
 not force myself to act on it. I so dreaded 
 a reply that would crush me with despair. To 
 prolong doubt was to prolong hope. I might 
 yet once more see the Hall under the ray of her 
 star. There was the stile before me — the very 
 fields through which I had hurried, blind, deaf, 
 distracted, with a revengeful fury tracking and 
 scourging me, on the morning I fled from 
 Thornfield : ere I well knew what course I had 
 resolved to take, I was in the midst of them. 
 How fast I walked ! How I ran sometimes ! 
 How I looked forward to catch the first view of 
 the well-known woods ! With what feelings T 
 welcomed single trees I knew, and familiar 
 glimpses of meadow and hill between them ! 
 
 At last the woods rose ; the rookery clustered 
 dark ; a loud cawing broke the morning stillness* 
 
252 JANE EYRE. 
 
 Strange delight inspired me : on I hastened. 
 Another field crossed — a lane threaded — and 
 there were the court-yard walls — the back- 
 offices : the house itself, the rookery still hid. 
 
 "My first view of it shall be in front/' I 
 determined, "where its bold battlements will 
 strike the eye nobly at once, and where I can 
 single out my master's very window: perhaps 
 he will be standing at it — he rises early: per- 
 haps he is now walking in the orchard, or on 
 the pavement in front. Could I but see him ! 
 — but a moment ! Surely, in that case, I should 
 not be so mad as to run to him ? I cannot tell 
 — I am not certain, And if I did — what then ? 
 God bless him ! What then ? Who would be 
 hurt by my once more tasting the life his glance 
 can give me ? — I rave : perhaps at this moment 
 he is watching the sun rise over the Pyrenees, 
 or on the tideless sea of the south." 
 
 I had coasted along the lower wall of the 
 orchard — turned its angle : there was a gate 
 just there, opening into the meadow, between 
 two stone pillars, crowned by stone balls. From 
 behind one pillar, I could peep round quietly 
 at the full front of the mansion. I advanced 
 my head with precaution, desirous to ascertain 
 if any bedroom window-blinds were yet drawn 
 up : battlements, windows, long front — all 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 25* 
 
 from this sheltered station were at my com- 
 mand. 
 
 The crows sailing- overhead perhaps watched 
 me while I took this survey. I wonder what 
 they thought: they must have considered I 
 was very careful and timid at first, and that 
 gradually I grew very bold and reckless. A 
 peep, and then a long stare ; and then a de- 
 parture from my niche and a straying out 
 into the meadow; and a sudden stop full in 
 front of the great mansion, and a protracted, 
 hardy gaze towards it. " What affectation 
 of diffidence was this at first !" they might 
 have demanded, " What stupid regardlessness 
 now?" 
 
 Hear an illustration, reader. 
 
 A lover finds his mistress asleep on a mossy 
 bank ; he wishes to catch a glimpse of her 
 fair face without waking her. He steals softly 
 over the grass, careful to make no sound ; 
 he pauses — fancying she has stirred : he with- 
 draws ; not for worlds would he be seen. 
 All is still : he again advances : he bends 
 above her ; a light veil rests on her features : 
 he lifts it, bends lower; now his eyes anti- 
 cipate the vision of beauty — warm and bloom- 
 ing and lovely in rest. How hurried was 
 their first glance ! But how they fix ! How 
 
254 JANE EYRE. 
 
 he starts ! How lie suddenly and vehemently 
 clasps in both arms the form he dared not, 
 a moment since, touch with his finger ! How 
 he calls aloud a name, and drops his burden, 
 and gazes on it wildly ! He thus grasps and 
 cries, and gazes, because he no longer fears 
 to waken by any sound he can utter — by 
 any movement he can make. He thought 
 his love slept sweetly: he finds she is stone- 
 dead. 
 
 I looked with timorous joy towards a stately 
 house : I saw a blackened ruin. 
 
 No need to cower behind a gate-post, indeed ! 
 — to peep up at chamber lattices, fearing life 
 was astir behind them ! No need to listen 
 for doors opening — to fancy steps on the pave- 
 ment or the gravel-walk! The lawn, the 
 grounds were trodden and waste : the portal 
 yawned void. The front was, as I had once 
 seen it in a dream, but a shell-like wall, 
 very high and very fragile looking, per- 
 forated with paneless windows : no roof, no 
 battlements, no chimneys — all had crashed in. 
 
 And there was the silence of death about 
 it : the solitude of a lonesome wild. ~No wonder 
 that letters addressed to people here had never 
 received an answer : as well despatch epistles 
 to a vault in a church-aisle. The grim black- 
 
JANE EYRE. 255 
 
 ness of the stones told by what fate the Hall had 
 fallen — by conflagration: but how kindled? 
 What story belonged to this disaster ? What 
 loss, besides mortar, and marble, and wood- 
 work, had followed upon it? Had life been 
 wrecked, as well as property ? If so, whose ? 
 Dreadful question : there was no one here 
 to answer it — not even dumb sign, mute token. 
 
 In wandering round the shattered walls and 
 through the devastated interior, I gathered 
 evidence that the calamity was not of late 
 occurrence. Winter snows, I thought, had 
 drifted through that void arch, winter rains 
 beaten in at those hollow casements ; for, 
 amidst the drenched piles of rubbish, spring 
 had cherished vegetation : grass and weed 
 grew here and there between the stones and 
 fallen rafters. And, oh! where, meantime, 
 was the hapless owner of this wreck? In 
 what land ? Under what auspices ? My eye 
 involuntarily wandered to the grey church 
 tower near the gates, and I asked, " Is he 
 with Darner de Rochester, sharing the shelter 
 of his narrow marble house?" 
 
 Some answer must be had to these ques- 
 tions. I could find it nowhere but at the 
 inn; and thither, ere long, I returned. The 
 host himself brought my breakfast into the 
 
256 JANE EYRE, 
 
 parlour. I requested him lo shut the door 
 and sit down : I had some questions to ask 
 him. But when he complied, I scarcely knew 
 how to begin ; such horror had I of the possible 
 answers. And yet the spectacle of desolation 
 I had just left, prepared me in a measure 
 for a tale of misery. The host was a re- 
 spectable-looking, middle-aged man. 
 
 "You know Thornfield Hall, of course?" I 
 managed to say at last. 
 
 " Yes, ma'am ; I lived there once." 
 
 " Did you ? " Not in my time, I thought : 
 you are a stranger to me. 
 
 " I was the late Mr. Rochester's butler," he 
 added. 
 
 The late ! I seemed to have received with 
 full force the blow I had been trying to 
 evade. 
 
 " The late !" I gasped. " Is he dead V 
 
 " I mean the present gentleman, Mr. Ed- 
 ward's father," he explained. I breathed 
 again : my blood resumed its flow. Fully as- 
 sured by these words that Mr. Edward — my 
 Mr. Rochester (God bless him, wherever he 
 was !) — was at least alive : was, in short, "the 
 present gentleman," (gladdening words !) it 
 seemed I could hear all that was to come — 
 whatever the disclosures might be — with com- 
 
JANE EYRE. 257 
 
 • 
 
 parative tranquillity. Since he was not in the 
 grave, I could bear, I thought, to learn that he 
 was at the Antipodes. 
 
 " Is Mr. Rochester living at Thornfield 
 Hall now ? " I asked : knowing, of course, 
 what the answer would be, but yet desirous of 
 deferring the direct question as to where he 
 really was. 
 
 " No, ma'am — oh, no ! No one is living 
 there. I suppose you are a stranger in these 
 parts, or you would have heard what hap- 
 pened last autumn. Thornfield Hall is quite 
 a ruin : it was burnt down just about harvest 
 time — A dreadful calamity ! such an immense 
 quantity of valuable property destroyed: 
 hardly any of the furniture could be saved. 
 The fire broke out at dead of night, and before 
 the engines arrived from Millcote, the building 
 was one mass of flame. It was a terrible 
 spectacle : I witnessed it myself." 
 
 "At dead of night!" I muttered. Yes, 
 that was ever the hour of fatality at Thorn- 
 field. "Was it known how it originated?" I 
 demanded. 
 
 " They guessed, ma'am : they guessed. In- 
 deed, I should say it was ascertained beyond 
 a doubt. You are not perhaps aware," he 
 continued, edging his chair a little nearer the 
 
 VOL. III. s 
 
258 JANE EYRE. 
 
 « 
 
 table, and speaking low, " that there was lady 
 — a — a lunatic, kept in the house?" 
 
 " I have heard something of it." 
 
 "She was kept in very close confinement, 
 ma'am: people even for some years was not 
 absolutely certain of her existence. No one 
 saw her : they only knew by rumour that such 
 a person was at the Hall; and who or what 
 she was it was difficult to conjecture. They 
 said Mr. Edward had brought her from 
 abroad ; and some believed she had been his 
 mistress. But a queer thing happened a year 
 since — a very queer thing." 
 
 I feared now to hear my own story. I 
 endeavoured to recall him to the main fact. 
 
 "And this lady?" 
 
 " This lady, ma'am," he answered, " turned 
 out to be Mr. Rochester's wife ! The disco- 
 very was brought about in the strangest way. 
 There was a young lady, a governess at the 
 Hall, that Mr. Rochester fell in—" 
 
 " But the fire V I suggested. 
 
 " I 'm coming to that, ma'am — that Mr. 
 Edward fell in love with. The servants say 
 they never saw anybody so much in love as 
 he was : he was after her continually. They 
 used to watch him — servants will, you know, 
 ma'am — and he set store on her past every- 
 
JANE EYRE. 259 
 
 thing : for all, nobody but liini thought her so 
 very handsome. She was a little small thing, 
 they say, almost like a child. I never saw her 
 myself; but I Ve heard Leah, the housemaid, 
 tell of her. Leah liked her well enough. 
 Mr. Rochester was about forty, and this go- 
 verness not twenty ; and, you see, when gen- 
 tlemen of his age' fall in love with girls, they 
 are often like as if they were bewitched : well, 
 he would marry her." 
 
 " You shall tell me this part of the story 
 another time," I said ; but now I have a par- 
 ticular reason for wishing to hear all about the 
 fire. Was it suspected that this lunatic, Mrs. 
 Rochester, had any hand in it?" 
 
 " You 've hit it, ma'am : it 's quite certain 
 that it was her, and nobody but her, that set it 
 going. She had a woman to take care of her 
 called Mrs. Poole — an able woman in her 
 line, and very trustworthy; but for one fault 
 — a fault common to a deal of them nurses 
 and matrons — she kept a private bottle of gin by 
 her, and now and then took a drop over 
 much. It 's excusable, for she had a hard life 
 of it : but still it was dangerous ; for, when 
 Mrs. Poole was fast asleep, after the gin and 
 water, the mad lady, who was as cunning as a 
 witch, would take the keys out of her pocket, 
 
 s 2 
 
260 JANE EYRE. 
 
 let herself out of her chamber, and go roaming 
 about the house, doing any wild mischief that 
 came into her head. They say she had nearly 
 burnt her husband in his bed once : but I don't 
 know about that. However, on this night, 
 she set fire first to the hangings of the room 
 next her own ; and then she got down to a 
 lower story, and made her way to the cham- 
 ber that had been the governess's— (she was 
 like as if she knew somehow how matters 
 had gone on, and had a spite at her) — and 
 she kindled the bed there : but there was 
 nobody sleeping in it, fortunately. The gover- 
 ness had run away two months before ; and 
 for all Mr. Rochester sought her as if she 
 had been the most precious thing he had 
 in the world, he could never hear a word of 
 her ; and he grew savage — quite savage on his 
 disappointment: he never was a wild man, 
 but he got dangerous after he lost her. He 
 would be alone, too. He sent Mrs. Fairfax, 
 the housekeeper, away to her friends at a 
 distance; but he did it handsomely, for he 
 settled an annuity on her for life : and she de- 
 served it — she was a very good woman. Miss 
 Adele, a ward he had, was put to school. He 
 broke off acquaintance with all the gentry, 
 and shut himself up, like a hermit, at the Hall." 
 
JANE EYRE. 261 
 
 " What ! did he not leave England ?" 
 
 " Leave England ? Bless you, no ! He 
 would not cross the door-stones of the house ; 
 except at night, when he walked just like a 
 ghost about the grounds and in the orchard 
 as if he had lost his senses — which it is my 
 opinion he had ; for a more spirited, bolder, 
 keener gentleman than he was before that 
 midge of a governess crossed him, you never 
 saw, ma'am. He was not a man given to wine, 
 or cards, or racing, as some are, and he was 
 not so very handsome ; but he had a courage 
 and a will of his own, if ever man had. I 
 knew him from a boy, you see: and for my 
 part I have often wished that Miss Eyre had 
 been sunk in the sea before she came to Thorn- 
 field Hall.' , 
 
 " Then Mr. Rochester was at home when 
 the fire broke out?" 
 
 " Yes, indeed was he ; and he went up to the 
 attics when all was burning above and below, 
 and got the servants out of their beds and 
 helped them down himself — and went back to 
 get his mad wife out of her cell. And then 
 they called out to him that she was on the roof; 
 where she was standing, waving her arms, 
 above the battlements, and shouting out till 
 they could hear her a mile off: I saw her and 
 
262 JANE EYRE. 
 
 heard her with my own eyes. She was a big 
 woman, and had long, black hair : we could 
 see it streaming against the flames as she 
 stood. I witnessed, and several more wit- 
 nessed Mr. Rochester ascend through the sky- 
 light on to the roof: we heard him call 
 " Bertha V We saw him approach her; and 
 then, ma'am, she yelled, and gave a spring, 
 and the next minute she lay smashed on the 
 pavement." 
 
 "Dead?" 
 
 " Dead ? Aye, dead as the stones on which 
 her brains and blood were scattered." 
 
 "Good God!" 
 
 " You may well say so, ma'am : it was 
 frightful!" 
 
 He shuddered. 
 
 " And afterwards ?" I urged. 
 
 " Well, ma'am, afterwards the house was 
 burnt to the ground : there are only some bits 
 of walls standing now." 
 
 " Were any other lives lost?" 
 
 " No — perhaps it would have been better if 
 there had." 
 
 " What do you mean?" 
 
 "Poor Mr. Edward!" he ejaculated, "I 
 little thought ever to have seen it ! Some say 
 it was a just judgment on him for keeping his 
 
JANE EYRE. 263 
 
 first marriage secret, and wanting to take 
 another wife while he had one living : but I 
 pity him, for my part." 
 
 " You said he was alive ? " I exclaimed. 
 
 " Yes, yes : he is alive ; but many think he 
 had better be dead." 
 
 " Why ? How ? " My blood was again 
 running cold. 
 
 "Where is he?" I demanded. "Is he in 
 England?" 
 
 " Aye — aye — he 's in England ; he can't get 
 out of England, I fancy — he 's a fixture now." 
 
 What agony was this? And the man 
 seemed resolved to protract it ! 
 
 " He is stone-blind," he said at last. " Yes 
 — he is stone-blind — is Mr. Edward." 
 
 I had dreaded worse. I had dreaded he 
 was mad. I summoned strength to ask what 
 had caused this calamity. 
 
 " It was all his own courage, and a body 
 may say, his kindness, in a way, ma'am : he 
 wouldn't leave the house till every one else 
 was out before him. As he came down the 
 great stair-case at last, after Mrs. Rochester 
 had flung herself from the battlements, there 
 was a great crash — all fell. He was taken 
 out from under the ruins, alive, but sadly hurt : 
 a beam had fallen in such a way as to protect 
 
264 JANE EYRE. 
 
 him partly ; but one eye was knocked out, 
 and one hand so crushed that Mr. Carter, the 
 surgeon, had to amputate it directly. The 
 other eye inflamed : he lost the sight of that 
 also. He is now helpless, indeed — blind and a 
 cripple." 
 
 " Where is he ? Where does he now live ?•" 
 
 " At Ferndean, a manor-house on a farm 
 he has, about thirty miles off : quite a desolate 
 spot.*' 
 
 "Who is with him?" 
 
 " Old John and his wife : he would have 
 none else. He is quite broken down, they say." 
 
 " Have you any sort of conveyance?" 
 
 " We have a chaise, ma'am, a very handsome 
 chaise." 
 
 " Let it be got ready instantly ; and if your 
 post-boy can drive me to Ferndean before 
 dark this day, I'll pay both you and him twice 
 the hire you usually demand." 
 
JANE EYRE. 265 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 The manor-house of Ferndean was a building 
 of considerable antiquity, moderate size, and 
 no architectural pretensions, deep buried in a 
 wood. I had heard of it before. Mr. Roches- 
 ter often spoke of it, and sometimes went 
 there. His father had purchased the estate for 
 the sake of the game covers. He would have 
 let the house ; but could find no tenant, in con- 
 sequence of its ineligible and insalubrious site. 
 Ferndean then remained uninhabited and un- 
 furnished ; with the exception of some two or 
 three rooms fitted up for the accommodation 
 of the squire when he went there in the season 
 to shoot. 
 
 To this house I came, just ere dark, on an 
 evening marked by the characteristics of sad 
 sky, cold gale, and continued small, penetrat- 
 ing rain. The last mile I performed on foot, 
 having dismissed the chaise and driver with 
 
266 JANE EYRE. 
 
 the double remuneration I had promised. 
 Even when within a very short distance of the 
 manor-house, you could see nothing of it; so 
 thick and dark grew the timber of the gloomy 
 wood about it. Iron gates between granite 
 pillars showed me where to enter, and passing 
 through them, I found myself at once in the 
 twilight of close-ranked trees. There was a 
 grass-grown track descending the forest-aisle, 
 between hoar and knotty shafts and under 
 branched arches. I followed it, expecting soon 
 to reach the dwelling ; but it stretched on and 
 on, it wound far and farther : no sign of habi- 
 tation or grounds was visible. 
 
 I thought I had taken a wrong direction 
 and lost my way. The darkness of natural as 
 well as of sylvan dusk, gathered over me : I 
 looked round in search of another road. There 
 was none : all was interwoven stem, columnar 
 trunk, dense, summer foliage — no opening 
 anywhere. 
 
 I proceeded : at last my way opened, the 
 trees thinned a little ; presently I beheld a rail- 
 ing, then the house — scarce, by this dim light, 
 distinguishable from the trees; so dank and 
 green were its decaying walls. Entering a 
 portal, fastened only by a latch, I stood amidst 
 a space of enclosed ground, from which the 
 
JANE EYRE. 267 
 
 wood swept away in a semicircle. There were 
 no flowers, no garden-beds; only a broad 
 gravel-walk girdling a grass-plat, and this set 
 in the heavy frame of the forest. The house 
 presented two pointed gables in its front ; the 
 windows were latticed and narrow : the front- 
 door was narrow too, one step led up to it. 
 The whole looked, as the host of the Rochester 
 Arms had said, " quite a desolate spot." It 
 was as still as a church on a week-day : the pat- 
 tering rain on the forest leaves 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 — that narrow front-door 
 was unclosing, and some shape was about to 
 issue from the grange. 
 
 It opened slowly : a figure came out into the 
 twilight and stood on the step ; a man without 
 a hat : he stretched forth his hand as if to feel 
 whether it rained. Dusk as it was, I had re- 
 cognised him ; — it was my master, Edward 
 Fairfax Rochester, and no other. 
 
 I stayed my step, almost my breath, and 
 stood to watch him — to examine him, myself 
 unseen, and alas! to him invisible. It was 
 a sudden meeting, and one in which rapture 
 was kept well in check by pain. I had no 
 
268 JANE EYRE. 
 
 difficulty in restraining my voice from excla- 
 mation, my step from hasty advance. 
 
 His form was of the same strong and stal- 
 wart contour as ever : his port was still erect, 
 his hair was still raven-black ; nor were his 
 features altered or sunk: not in one year's 
 space, by any sorrow, could his athletic 
 strength be quelled, or his vigorous prime 
 blighted. But in his countenance, I saw a 
 change : that looked desperate and brooding — 
 that reminded me of some wronged and fet- 
 tered wild-beast or bird, dangerous to approach 
 in his sullen woe. The caged eagle, whose 
 gold-ringed eyes cruelty has extinguished, 
 might look as looked that sightless Samson. 
 
 And, reader, do you think I feared him in 
 his blind ferocity ? — if you do, you little know 
 me. A soft hope blent with my sorrow that 
 soon I should dare to drop a kiss on that brow 
 of rock, and on those lids so sternly sealed 
 beneath it: but not yet. I would not accost 
 him yet. 
 
 He descended the one step, and advanced 
 slowly and gropingly towards the 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 opened his eyelids ; 
 gazed blank, and with a straining effort, on 
 
JANE EYRE. 269 
 
 the sky, and towards the amphitheatre of trees : 
 one saw that all to him was void darkness. 
 He stretched his right hand (the left arm, the 
 mutilated one, he kept hidden in his bosom) ; 
 he seemed to wish by touch to gain an idea of 
 what lay round him : he met but vacancy still ; 
 for the trees were some yards off where he 
 stood. He relinquished the endeavour, folded 
 his arms, and stood quiet and mute in the 
 rain, now falling fast on his uncovered head. 
 At this moment John approached from some 
 quarter. 
 
 "Will you take my arm, sir?" he said; 
 " there is a heavy shower coming on : had you 
 not better go in ? " 
 
 " Let me alone," was the answer. 
 
 John withdrew, without having observed 
 me. Mr. Rochester now tried to walk about : 
 vainly, — all was too uncertain. He groped 
 his way back to the house, and, re-entering it, 
 closed the door. 
 
 I now drew near and knocked : John's wife 
 opened for me. " Mary," I said, " how are 
 you?" 
 
 She started as if she had seen a ghost : I 
 calmed her. To her hurried "Is it really you, 
 Miss, come at this late hour to this 'only 
 place?'' I answered by taking her hand ; and 
 
270 JANE EYRE. 
 
 then I followed her into the kitchen, where 
 John now sat by a good fire. I explained 
 to them, in few words, that I had heard 
 all which had happened since I left Thorn- 
 field, and that I was come to see Mr. 
 Rochester. I asked John to go down to the 
 turnpike-house, where I had dismissed the 
 chaise, and bring my trunk, which I had left 
 there ; and then, while I removed my bonnet 
 and shawl, I questioned Mary as to whether I 
 could be accommodated at the Manor House 
 for the night ; and finding that arrangements 
 to that effect, though difficult, 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 to speak to him : but 
 do not give my name." 
 
 "I don't think he will see you," she an- 
 swered ; " he refuses everybody." 
 
 When she returned, I inquired what he had 
 said. 
 
 " You are to send in your name and your 
 business," she replied. She then proceeded to 
 fill a glass with water, and place it on a tray, 
 together with candles. 
 
 " Is that what he rang for?" I asked. 
 
JANE EYRE. 271 
 
 " Yes : he always has candles brought in at 
 dark, though he is blind." 
 
 " Give the tray to me : I will carry it in." 
 
 I took it from her hand: she pointed me 
 out the parlour door. The tray shook as I held 
 it; ,the water spilt from the glass; my heart 
 struck my ribs loud and fast. Mary opened 
 the door for me, and shut it behind me. 
 
 This parlour looked gloomy : a neglected 
 handful of fire burnt low in the grate; and, 
 leaning over it, with his head supported against 
 the high, old-fashioned mantel-piece, appeared 
 the blind tenant of the room. His old dog, 
 Pilot, lay on one side, removed out of the way, 
 and coiled up as if afraid of being inadvertently 
 trodden on. Pilot pricked up his ears when I 
 came in ; then he jumped up with a yelp and 
 a whine, and bounded towards me : he almost 
 knocked the tray from my hands. I set it on 
 the table; then patted him, and said softly, 
 " Lie down ! " Mr. Rochester turned me- 
 chanically to see what the commotion was : but 
 as he saw nothing, he returned and sighed. 
 
 " Give me the water, Mary," he said. 
 
 I approached him with the now only half- 
 filled glass : Pilot followed me, still excited. 
 
 " What is the matter ? " he inquired. 
 
 " Down, Pilot!" I again said. He checked 
 
272 JANE EYKE. 
 
 the water on its way to his lips, 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 I stood, he did not touch 
 me. "Who is this? Who is this?" he de- 
 manded, trying, as it seemed, to see with those 
 sightless eyes, — unavailing and distressing at- 
 tempt ! " Answer me — speak again ! " he 
 ordered, imperiously and aloud. 
 
 " Will you have a little more water, sir ? I 
 spilt half of what was in 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 this evening," I 
 answered. 
 
 " Great God ! — what delusion has come 
 over me ? What sweet madness has seized 
 me?" 
 
 " No delusion — no madness : ypur mind, 
 sir, is too strong for delusion — your health too 
 sound for frenzy." 
 
 " And where is this 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 cannot live !" 
 
JAKE EYRE. 273 
 
 He groped : I arrested his wandering hand, 
 and prisoned it in both mine. 
 
 " Her very fingers ! " he cried ; " her small, 
 slight fingers ! If so, there must be more of 
 her." 
 
 The muscular hand broke from my custody ; 
 my arm was seized, my shoulder — 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 you out — 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 cold like a corpse, nor 
 vacant like air, am I?" 
 
 " My living darling ! These are certainly 
 her limbs, and these her features : but I cannot 
 be so blest after all my misery. It is a dream : 
 such dreams as I have had at night when I 
 have clasped her once more to my heart, as I 
 
 VOL. III. t 
 
274 JANE EYRE. 
 
 do now ; and kissed her, as thus — and felt that 
 she loved me, and trusted 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 an empty mockery; and I was 
 desolate and abandoned — my life dark, lonely, 
 hopeless — my soul athirst and forbidden to 
 drink — my heart famished and never to be fed. 
 Gentle, soft dream, nestling in my arms now, 
 you will fly, too ; as your sisters have all fled 
 before you : but kiss me before you go — em- 
 brace me, Jane." 
 
 " There, sir — and there ! " 
 
 I pressed my lips to his once brilliant and 
 now rayless eyes — I swept his hair from 
 his brow, and kissed that too. He suddenly 
 seemed to rouse himself: the conviction of the 
 reality of all this seized 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, un- 
 der some stream ? And you are not a pining 
 outcast amongst strangers ? " 
 
 " No, sir ; I am an independent woman 
 now." 
 
 " Independent ! What do you mean, Jane V* 
 
JANE EYRE. 275 
 
 " My uncle in Madeira is dead, and he left 
 me five thousand pounds." 
 
 " Ah, this is practical — this is real ! " he 
 cried : " I should never dream that. Besides, 
 there is that peculiar voice of hers, so ani- 
 mating and piquant, as well as soft : it cheers 
 my withered heart ; it puts life into it. — 
 What, Janet ! Are you an independent 
 woman ? A rich woman ? " 
 
 " Quite rich, sir. If you won't let me live 
 with you, I can build a house of my own close 
 up to your door, and you may come and sit in 
 my parlour when you want company of an 
 evening." 
 
 " But as you are rich, Jane, you have now, 
 no doubt, friends who will look after you, and 
 not suffer you to devote yourself to a blind 
 lameter like me?" 
 
 " I told you I am independent, sir, as well as 
 rich : I am my own mistress." 
 
 " And you will stay with me?" 
 
 " Certainly — unless you object. I will be 
 your neighbour, your nurse, your housekeeper. 
 I find you lonely : I will be your companion — 
 to read to you, to walk with you, to sit with 
 you, to wait on you, to be eyes and hands to 
 you. Cease to look so melancholy, my dear 
 
 t2 
 
276 JANE EYRE. 
 
 Master ; you shall not be left desolate, so long 
 as I live." 
 
 He replied not: he seemed serious — ab- 
 stracted: he sighed; he half-opened his lips 
 as if to speak; he closed them again. I felt 
 a little "embarrassed. Perhaps I had been too 
 officious in my offers of companionship and 
 aid : perhaps I had too rashly overleaped con- 
 ventionalities ; and he, like St. John, saw im- 
 propriety in my inconsiderateness. I had 
 indeed made my proposal from the idea that 
 he wished and would ask me to be his wife : 
 an expectation, not the less certain because 
 unexpressed, had buoyed me up, that he would 
 claim me at once as his own. But no hint to 
 that effect escaping him, and his countenance 
 becoming more overcast, I suddenly remem- 
 bered that I might have been all wrong, and 
 was perhaps playing the fool unwittingly ; and 
 I began gently to withdraw myself from his 
 arms — but he eagerly snatched me closer. 
 
 " No — no — Jane ; you must not go. No — 
 I have touched you, heard you, felt the com- 
 fort of your presence — the sweetness of your 
 consolation : I cannot give up these joys. I 
 have little left in myself — I must have you. 
 The world may laugh — may call me absurd, 
 selfish — but it does not signify. My very soul 
 
JANE EYRE. 277 
 
 demands you : it will 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 I understand another. 
 You, perhaps, could make up your mind to be 
 about my hand and chair — to wait on me as 
 a kind little nurse (for you have an affec- 
 tionate heart and a generous spirit, which 
 prompt you to make sacrifices for those you 
 pity), and that ought to suffice for me no 
 doubt. I suppose I should now entertain none 
 but fatherly feelings for you: do you think 
 so ? Come — tell me." 
 
 " I will think what you like, sir : I am con- 
 tent to be only your nurse, if you think it 
 better." 
 
 " But you cannot always be my nurse, 
 Janet : you are young — you must marry one 
 day." 
 
 " I don't care about being married." 
 
 " You should care Janet : if I were what I 
 once was, I would try to make you care — but 
 — a sightless block ! " 
 
 He relapsed again into gloom. I, on the 
 contrary, became more cheerful and took fresh 
 courage : these last words gave me an insight 
 
278 JANE EYRE. 
 
 as to where the difficulty lay ; and as it was no 
 difficulty with me, I felt quite relieved from 
 my previous embarrassment. I resumed a 
 livelier vein of conversation. 
 
 "It is time some one undertook to re- 
 humanize you," said I, parting his thick and 
 long-uncut locks ; " for I see you are being 
 metamorphosed into a lion, or something of 
 that sort. You have a ' faux air' of Nebuchad- 
 nezzar in the fields about you, that is certain : 
 your hair reminds me of eagle's feathers; 
 whether your nails are grown like bird's claws 
 or not, I have not yet noticed." 
 
 "On this arm, I have neither hand nor 
 nails;" he said, drawing the mutilated limb 
 from his breast, and shewing it to me. " It is 
 a mere stump — a ghastly sight! Don't you 
 think so, Jane 1 " 
 
 " It is a pity to see it ; and a pity to see 
 your eyes — and the scar of fire on your fore- 
 head : and the worst of it is, one is in danger 
 of 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 my cicatrized visage." 
 
 " Did you ? Don't tell me so — lest I should 
 say something disparaging to your judgment. 
 Now, let me leave you an instant, to make a 
 
JANE EYRE. 279 
 
 better fire and have the hearth swept up. 
 Can you tell when there is 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, I dare say, only you 
 forget." 
 
 Summoning Mary, I soon had the room in 
 more cheerful order : I prepared him, likewise, 
 a comfortable repast. My spirits were excited, 
 and with pleasure and ease I talked to him 
 during supper, and for a long time after. 
 There was no harassing restraint, no repress- 
 ing of glee and vivacity with him ; for with 
 him I was at perfect ease, because I knew I 
 suited him : all I said or did seemed either to 
 console or revive him. Delightful conscious- 
 ness ! It brought to life and light my whole 
 nature : in his presence I thoroughly lived ; 
 and he lived in mine. Blind as he was, smiles 
 
280 JANE EYRE. 
 
 played over his face, joy dawned on his fore- 
 head : his lineaments softened and warmed. 
 
 After supper, he began to ask me many 
 questions, of where I had been, what I had 
 been doing, how I had found him out ; but I 
 gave him only very partial replies : it was too 
 late to enter into particulars that night. Be- 
 sides, I wished to touch no deep -thrilling 
 chord — to open no fresh well of emotion in his 
 heart : my sole 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 con- 
 versation, he would turn restless, touch me, 
 then say, " Jane." 
 
 "You are altogether a human being, Jane ? 
 You are certain of that V 
 
 " I conscientiously believe so, Mr. Roches- 
 ter." 
 
 " Yet how, on this dark and doleful evening, 
 could you so suddenly rise on my lone hearth ? 
 I stretched my hand to take a glass of water 
 from a hireling, and it was given me by you : 
 I asked a question, expecting John's wife to 
 answer me, and your voice spoke at 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 with you. Who can tell 
 
JANE EYRE. 281 
 
 -what a dark, dreary, hopeless life I have 
 dragged on for months past ? Doing nothing, 
 expecting nothing ; merging night in day ; 
 feeling but the sensation of cold when I let 
 the fire go out, 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 my lost sight. How 
 can it be, that Jane is with me and says she 
 loves me? Will she not depart as suddenly 
 as she came ? To-morrow, I fear, I shall find 
 her no more." 
 
 A common-place, practical reply, out of the 
 train of his own disturbed ideas, was, I was 
 sure, the best and most re-assuring for him in 
 this frame of mind. I passed my finger over 
 his eyebrows, and remarked that they were 
 scorched, and that I would apply something 
 which should 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 a shadow, whither and how, to me un- 
 known ; and for me, remaining afterwards un- 
 discoverable ? " 
 
282 JANE EYRE. 
 
 "Have you a pocket-comb about you, sir?" 
 
 "What for, Jane?" 
 
 " Just to comb out this shaggy black mane. 
 I find you rather alarming, when I examine you 
 close at hand : you talk of my being a fairy ; 
 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 you have so- 
 journed." 
 
 " Yet I have been with good people ; far 
 better than you: a hundred times better; 
 people possessed of ideas and views you never 
 entertained 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 your head ; and then 
 I think you will cease to entertain doubts 
 of my substantiality." 
 
 " Who have you been with, Jane ?" 
 
 "You shall not get it out of me to-night, 
 sir ; you must wait till to-morrow : to leave 
 my tale half-told, will, you know, be a sort 
 of security that I shall appear at your break- 
 fast-table to finish it. By-the-by, I must mind 
 
JANE EYRE. 283 
 
 not to rise on your hearth with only a glass 
 of water, then : I must bring an egg at the 
 least, to say nothing of fried ham." 
 
 " You mocking changeling — fairy-born and 
 human-bred ! You make me feel as I have 
 not felt these twelve months. If Saul could 
 have had you for his David, the evil spirit 
 would have been exorcised without the 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 am tired. Good-night ! " 
 
 " Just one word, Jane : were there only 
 ladies in the house where you have been ? " 
 
 I laughed and made my escape, still laugh- 
 ing as I ran up stairs. " A good idea ! " 
 I thought, with glee. "I see I have the 
 means of fretting him out of his melancholy 
 for some time to come." 
 
 Very early the next morning, I heard him 
 up and astir, wandering from one room to 
 another. As soon as Mary came down, I 
 heard the question: "Is Miss Eyre here?" 
 Then : " Which room did you put her into ? 
 Was it dry ? Is she up ? Go and ask if she 
 wants anything ; and when she will come 
 down." 
 
284 JANE EYRE. 
 
 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 
 he discovered my presence. It was mournful, 
 indeed, to witness the subjugation of that vigor- 
 ous spirit to a corporeal infirmity. He sat in 
 his chair, — still, but not at rest: expectant 
 evidently ; the lines of now habitual sadness 
 marking his strong features. His counte- 
 nance reminded one of a lamp quenched, 
 waiting to be relit — and alas ! it was not him- 
 self that could now kindle the lustre of ani- 
 mated expression : he was dependent on another 
 for that office ! I had meant to be gay and 
 careless, but the powerlessness of the strong 
 man touched my heart to the quick : still I 
 accosted him with what vivacity I could : — 
 
 " It is a bright, sunny morning, sir," I said. 
 " The rain is over and gone, and there is 
 a tender shining after it: you shall have a 
 walk soon." 
 
 I had wakened the glow : his features 
 beamed. 
 
 " Oh, you are indeed there, my sky-lark ! 
 Come to me. You are not gone : not vanished ? 
 I heard one of your kind an hour ago, singing 
 high over the w r ood : but its song had no 
 music for me, any more than the rising sun 
 
JANE EYRE. 285 
 
 had rays. All the melody on earth is con- 
 centrated in my Jane's tongue to my ear : 
 (I am glad it is not naturally a silent 
 one), all the sunshine I can feel is in her pre- 
 sence." 
 
 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 
 to entreat a sparrow to become its purveyor 
 But I would not be lachrymose : I dashed off 
 the salt-drops, and busied myself with pre- 
 paring breakfast. 
 
 Most of the morning was spent in the open 
 air. I led him out of the wet and wild wood 
 into some cheerful fields : I described to him 
 how brilliantly green they were; how the 
 flowers and hedges looked refreshed; how 
 sparkingly blue was the sky. I sought a 
 seat for him in a hidden and lovely spot : a 
 dry stump of a tree ; nor did I refuse 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 beside us : all was 
 quiet. He broke out suddenly while clasping 
 me in his arms : — 
 
 i( Cruel, cruel deserter ! Oh, Jane, what 
 did I feel when I discovered you had fled 
 from Thornfield, and when I could nowhere 
 
286 JANE EYRE. 
 
 find you ; and, after examining your apart- 
 ment, ascertained that you had taken no 
 money, nor anything which could serve as 
 an equivalent ! A pearl necklace I had given 
 you lay untouched in its little casket ; your 
 trunks were left corded and locked as they 
 had been prepared for the bridal tour. What 
 could my darling do, I asked, left destitute 
 and pennyless ? And what did she do ? Let 
 me hear now." 
 
 Thus urged, I began the narrative of my 
 experience for the last year. I softened con- 
 siderably what related to the three days of 
 wandering and starvation, because to have 
 told him all would have been to inflict un- 
 necessary pain: the little I did say lacerated 
 his faithful heart deeper than I wished. 
 
 I should not have left him thus, he said, 
 without any means of making my way : I 
 should have told him my intention. I should 
 have confided 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 far too well and too tenderly to constitute 
 himself my tyrant : he would have given me 
 half his fortune, without demanding so much 
 as a kiss in return, rather than I should have 
 flung myself friendless on the wide world. I 
 
JANE EYRE. 287 
 
 had endured, he was certain, more than I had 
 confessed to him. 
 
 "Well, whatever my sufferings had been 
 they were very short," I answered : and then I 
 proceeded to tell him how I had been received 
 at Moor-House ; how I had obtained the office 
 of school-mistress, &c. The accession of for- 
 tune, the discovery of my relations, followed in 
 due order. Of course, St. John Rivers' name 
 came in frequently in the progress of my tale. 
 When I had done, that name was immediately 
 taken up. 
 
 "This St. John, then, is your cousin?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " You have spoken of him often : did 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 of fifty ? 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 in his guiltlessness of vice, than in his 
 prowess in virtue?" 
 
288 JANE EYRE. 
 
 " He is untiringly active. Great and exalted 
 deeds are what he lives to perform." 
 
 " But his brain ? That is probably rather 
 soft? He means well: but you shrug* your 
 shoulders to hear him talk ?" 
 
 " He talks little, sir : what he does say is 
 ever to the point. His brain is first rate, I 
 should think : not impressible, but vigorous." 
 
 " Is he an able man, then V* 
 
 " 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 and parsonic?" 
 
 " 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 descrip- 
 tion you gave of his appearance; — a sort of 
 raw curate, half strangled with his white neck- 
 cloth, and stilted up on his thick-soled high- 
 lows, eh?" 
 
 " St. John dresses well. He is a handsome 
 man : tall, fair, with blue eyes, and a Grecian 
 profile." 
 
 {Aside.) " Damn him!"— {To me) "Did 
 you like him, Jane?" 
 
JANE EYRE. 289 
 
 " Yes, Mr. Rochester, I liked him : but you 
 asked me that before." 
 
 I perceived, of course, the drift of my inter- 
 locutor. Jealousy had got hold of him : she 
 stung him ; but the sting was salutary : it gave 
 him respite from the gnawing fang of melan- 
 choly. 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 sug- 
 gestive of a rather too overwhelming contrast. 
 Your words have delineated very prettily a 
 graceful Apollo : he is present to your imagi- 
 nation, — tall, fair, blue-eyed, and with a 
 Grecian profile. Your eyes dwell on a 
 Vulcan, — a real blacksmith, brown, broad- 
 shouldered ; and blind and lame into the 
 bargain." 
 
 " I never thought of it before ; but you 
 certainly are rather like Vulcan, sir." 
 
 "Well, — you can leave me, ma'am: but 
 before you go (and he retained me by a firmer 
 grasp than ever), you will be pleased just to 
 answer me a question or two." He paused. 
 
 " What questions, Mr. Rochester?" 
 
 VOL. III. u 
 
290 JANE EYRE. 
 
 Then followed this cross-examination : — 
 
 " St. John made you school-mistress of 
 Morton before he knew you were his cousin?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " You would often see him ? He would 
 visit the school sometimes ? " 
 
 " Daily." 
 
 " He w r ould 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 to find? 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 ever come 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 the cousinship was disco- 
 vered?" 
 
 " Five months." 
 
 " Did Rivers spend much time with the 
 ladies of his family?" 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 291 
 
 " Yes ; the back parlour was both his study 
 and ours : he sat near the window, 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." 
 
 u 2 
 
292 JANE EYRE. 
 
 " Ah ! here I reach the root of the matter. 
 He wanted you to marry him?" 
 
 " 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 than once, 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 say the same thing ? Why 
 do you remain pertinaciously perched on my 
 knee, when I have given you notice to quit?" 
 
 w Because I am comfortable there." 
 
 " No, Jane, you are not comfortable there : 
 because your heart is not with me : it is with this 
 cousin — this St. John. Oh, till this moment, 
 I thought my little Jane was all mine ! I had 
 a belief she loved me even when she left me : 
 that was an atom of sweet in much bitter. 
 Long as we have been parted, hot tears as I 
 have wept over our separation, I never thought 
 that while I was mourning her, she was loving 
 another ! But it is useless grieving. Jane, 
 leave me : go and marry Rivers." 
 
 " Shake me off, then, sir — push me away ; 
 for I '11 not leave you of my own accord." 
 
 " Jane, I ever like your tone of voice : it 
 still renews hope, it sounds so truthful. When 
 
JANE EYRE. 293 
 
 I hear it, it carries me back a year. I forget 
 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 Bivers." 
 
 "He is not my husband, nor ever will be. 
 He does not love me : I do not love him. He 
 loves (as he can love, and that is not as you 
 love) a beautiful young lady called Rosa- 
 mond. He wanted to marry me only because 
 he thought I should make a suitable mis- 
 sionary'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 not happy at his side, nor near him, nor 
 with him. He has no indulgence for me — no 
 fondness. He sees nothing attractive in ms : 
 not even youth — only a few useful mental 
 points. Then, must I leave you, sir, to go to 
 him?" 
 
 I shuddered involuntarily, and clung in- 
 stinctively closer to my blind but beloved 
 master. He smiled. 
 
 " What, Jane ! Is this true ? Is such really 
 the state of matters between you and Rivers?" 
 
294 JANE EYRE. 
 
 " Absolutely, sir. Oh, you need not be 
 jealous ! I wanted to teaze you a little to 
 make you less sad : I thought anger would be 
 better than grief. But if you wish me to love 
 you, could you but see how much I do love 
 you, you would be proud and content. All 
 my heart is yours, sir : it belongs to you ; and 
 with you it would remain, were fate to exile 
 the rest of me from your presence for ever." 
 
 Again, as he kissed me, painful thoughts 
 darkened his aspect. 
 
 " My seared 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 
 his face a minute, I saw a tear slide from 
 under the sealed eyelid, and trickle down the 
 manly cheek. My heart swelled. 
 
 " I am no better than the old, lightning- 
 struck chestnut tree in Thornfield orchard ;" 
 he remarked, ere long. "And what right 
 would that ruin have to bid a budding wood- 
 bine cover its decay with freshness ?" 
 
 " You are no ruin, sir — no lightning-struck 
 tree : you are green and vigorous. Plants 
 will grow about your roots, whether you ask 
 them or not, because they take delight in your 
 
JANE EYRE. 295 
 
 bountiful shadow ; and as they grow they will 
 lean towards you, and wind round you, be- 
 cause your strength offers them so safe a prop." 
 
 Again he smiled : I gave him comfort. 
 
 " You sj)eak of friends, Jane ?" he asked. 
 
 " Yes ; of friends," I answered rather hesi- 
 tatingly : for I knew I meant more than friends, 
 but could not tell what other word to employ. 
 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, 
 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 V* 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " A crippled man, twenty years older than 
 you, whom you will have to wait on 1" 
 
296 JANE EYRE. 
 
 " 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 I thought a good thought 
 — if ever I prayed a sincere and blameless 
 prayer — if ever I wished a righteous wish, — I 
 am rewarded now. To be 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 for content. To be pri- 
 vileged to put my arms round what I value — 
 to press my lips to what I love — to repose on 
 what I trust : is that to make a sacrifice ? If 
 so, then certainly I delight in sacrifice." 
 
 " And to bear with my infirmities, Jane : to 
 overlook my deficiencies." 
 
 " Which are none, sir, to me. I love you 
 better now, when I can really be useful to you, 
 than I did in your state of proud independence, 
 when you disdained every part but that of the 
 giver and protector." 
 
 " Hitherto I have hated to be helped — to be 
 .ed : henceforth, I feel, I shall hate it no more. 
 I did not like to put my hand into a hireling's, 
 
JANE EYRE. 297 
 
 but it is pleasant to feel it circled by Jane's 
 little fingers. I preferred utter loneliness to 
 the constant attendance of servants ; but Jane's 
 soft ministry will be a perpetual joy. Jane 
 suits 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 : we must be married in- 
 stantly." 
 
 He looked and spoke with eagerness : his 
 old impetuosity was rising. 
 
 " We must become one flesh without any 
 delay, Jane : there is but the licence to get — 
 then we marry ." 
 
 " Mr. Rochester, I have just discovered the 
 sun is far declined from its meridian, and Pilot 
 is actually gone home to his dinner. Let me 
 look at your watch." 
 
 " Fasten it into your girdle, Janet, and keep 
 it henceforward : I have no use for it." 
 
 " It is nearly four o'clock in the afternoon, 
 sir. Don't you feel hungry ? " 
 
 " The third day from this must be our 
 wedding-day, Jane. Never mind fine 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." 
 
298 JANE EYRE. 
 
 " Do you know, Jane, I have your little 
 pearl necklace at this moment fastened round 
 my bronze scrag under my cravat? I have 
 worn it since 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 heed- 
 ing me. 
 
 " Jane ! you think me, I daresay, an irre- 
 ligious dog : but my heart swells 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 inno- 
 cent flower — breathed guilt on its purity : the 
 Omnipotent snatched it from me. I, in my 
 stiff-necked rebellion, almost cursed the dis- 
 pensation : instead of bending to the decree, 
 I defied it. Divine justice pursued its course ; 
 disasters came thick on me : I was forced to 
 pass through the valley of the shadow of 
 death. His chastisements are mighty ; and 
 one smote me which has humbled me for ever. 
 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 its weakness ? 
 Of late, Jane — only of late — I began to see 
 
JANB EYRE. 299 
 
 and acknowledge the hand of God in my doom, 
 I began to experience remorse, repentance ; the 
 wish for reconcilement to my Maker. I began 
 sometimes to pray : very brief prayers they 
 were, but very sincere. 
 
 " Some days since : nay, I can number 
 them — four : it was last Monday night, a sin- 
 gular mood came over me : one in which grief 
 replaced frenzy — sorrow, sullenness. I had 
 long had the impression that" since I could 
 nowhere find you, you must be dead. Late 
 that night — perhaps it might be between 
 eleven and twelve o'clock — ere I retired to 
 my dreary rest, I supplicated God, that, if it 
 seemed good to Him, I might soon be taken 
 from this life, and admitted to that world 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 
 no stars, and only by a vague, luminous haze, 
 knew the presence of a moon. I longed for 
 thee, Janet ! Ob, I longed for thee both with 
 soul and flesh! I asked of God, at once in 
 anguish and humility, if I had not been long 
 enough desolate, afflicted, tormented; and 
 might not soon taste bliss and peace once 
 
300 JANE EYRE. 
 
 more. That I merited all I endured, I ac- 
 knowledged — that I could scarcely endure 
 more, I pleaded ; and the alpha and omega of 
 my heart's wishes broke involuntarily 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 thought me mad : I pro- 
 nounced 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 the strange point. You will 
 think me superstitious — some superstition I 
 have in my blood, and always had : neverthe- 
 less, 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 whence the voice came, 
 but I know whose voice it was — replied, ' I am 
 coming: wait for me!' and a moment after, 
 went whispering on the wind, the words — 
 * Where are you ? ' 
 
 " I *il tell you, if I can, the idea, the picture 
 these words opened to 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 falls dull, and dies un- 
 
JANE EYRE. 301 
 
 reverberating. ' Where are you ? - seemed 
 spoken amongst mountains ; for I heard a 
 hill-sent echo repeat the words. Cooler and 
 fresher at the moment the gale seemed to visit 
 mj brow : I could have deemed that in some 
 wild, lone scene, I and Jane were meeting. 
 In spirit, I believe, we must have met. You 
 no doubt were, at that hour, in unconscious 
 sleep, Jane : perhaps your soul wandered 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 had received the mys- 
 terious summons : those were the very words 
 by which I had replied to it. I listened to 
 Mr. Rochester's narrative ; but made no disclo- 
 sure in return. The coincidence struck me 
 as too awful and inexplicable to be communi- 
 cated or discussed. If I told anything, my 
 tale would be such as must necessarily make 
 a profound impression on the mind of my 
 hearer ; and that mind, yet from its sufferings 
 too 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 rose upon me so 
 
302 ' JANE EYRE, 
 
 unexpectedly last night, I had difficulty in 
 believing you any other than a mere voice and 
 vision : something that would melt to silence 
 and annihilation, as the midnight whisper and 
 mountain echo had melted before. Now, I 
 thank God ! I know it to be otherwise. Yes, 
 I thank God ! " 
 
 He put me off his knee, rose, and reverently 
 lifting his hat from his brow, and bending his 
 sightless eyes to the earth, he stood in mute 
 devotion. Only the last words of the worship 
 were audible. 
 
 " I thank my Maker, that in the midst of 
 judgment he has remembered mercy. I hum- 
 bly entreat my Redeemer to give me strength 
 to lead henceforth 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 prop and guide. We entered the wood, 
 and wended homeward. 
 
JANE EYRE. 303 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 Reader, I married him. A quiet wedding we 
 had : he and I, the parson and clerk, were 
 alone present. When we got back from 
 church, I went into the kitchen of the manor- 
 house, where Mary was cooking the dinner^ 
 and John cleaning the knives, and I said: — 
 
 " Mary, I have been married to Mr. Ro- 
 chester this morning." The housekeeper and 
 her husband were both of that decent phleg- 
 matic order of people, to whom one may at 
 any time safely communicate a remarkable 
 piece of news without incurring the danger of 
 having one's ears pierced by some shrill ejacu- 
 lation, and subsequently stunned by a torrent 
 of wordy wonderment. Mary did look up, 
 and she did stare at me : the ladle with which 
 she was basting a pair of chickens roasting at 
 
304 JANE EYRE. 
 
 the fire, did for some three minutes hang sus- 
 pended in air ; and for the same space of time 
 John's knives also had rest from the polishing 
 process: but Mary, bending again over the 
 roast, said only : — 
 
 " Have you, miss? Well, for sure !" 
 
 A short time after she pursued : " I seed 
 you go out with the master, but I didn't know 
 you were gone to church to be wed ; " and she 
 basted away. John, when I turned to him, 
 was grinning from ear to ear. 
 
 " I telled Mary how it would be," he said : 
 " I knew what Mr. Edward" (John was an old 
 servant, and had known his master when he 
 was the cadet of the house, therefore, he often 
 gave him his christian name) — " I knew what 
 Mr. Edward would do ; and I was certain he 
 would not wait long neither : and he 's done 
 right, for aught I know. I wish you joy, 
 miss!" and he politely pulled his forelock. 
 
 " Thank you, John. Mr. Rochester told 
 me to give you and Mary this. J, I put into 
 his hand a five-pound note. Without waiting 
 to hear more, 1 left the kitchen. In passing 
 the door of that sanctum some time after, I 
 caught the words : — 
 
 "She'll happen do better for him nor ony 
 o' t' grand ladies." And again, "If she be n't 
 
JANE EYRE. 305 
 
 one o' th' handsomest, she's noan faal and 
 varry good-natured; and i' his een she's fair 
 beautiful, onybody may see that." 
 
 I wrote to Moor-House and to Cambridge 
 immediately, to say what I had done : fully 
 explaining also why I had thus acted. Diana 
 and Mary approved the step unreservedly. 
 Diana announced that she would just give me 
 time to get over the honey-moon, and then 
 she would come and see me. 
 
 " She had better not wait till then, Jane," 
 said Mr. Rochester, when I read her letter to 
 him; "if she does, she will be too late, for 
 our honey-moon will shine our life-long : its 
 beams will only fade over your grave or mine." 
 
 How St. John received the news, I don't 
 know ; he never answered the letter in which 
 I communicated it : yet six months after, he 
 wrote to me; without, however, mentioning 
 Mr. Rochester's name, or alluding to my mar- 
 riage. His letter was then calm ; and, though 
 very serious, kind. He has maintained a 
 regular, though not frequent correspondence 
 ever since : he hopes I am happy, and trusts I 
 am not of those who live without God in the 
 world, and only mind earthly things. 
 
 You have not quite forgotten little Adele, 
 have you, reader? I had not; I soon asked 
 
 vol. in. x 
 
306 JANE EYRE. 
 
 and obtained leave of Mr. Rochester, to go 
 and see her at the school where he had placed 
 her. Her frantic joy at beholding me again 
 moved me much. She looked pale and thin : 
 she said she was not happy. I found the rules 
 of the establishment were too strict, its course 
 of study too severe, for a child of her age: 
 I took her home with me. I meant to become 
 her governess once more ; but I soon found this 
 impracticable : my time and cares were now 
 required by another — my husband needed 
 them all. So I sought out a school conducted 
 on a more indulgent system; and near enough 
 to permit of my visiting her often, and bring- 
 ing her home sometimes. I took care she 
 should never want for anything that could 
 contribute to her comfort : she soon settled in 
 her new abode, became very happy there, and 
 made fair progress in her studies. As she 
 grew up, a sound, English education corrected 
 in a great measure her French defects ; and 
 when she left school, I found in her a pleasing 
 and obliging companion : docile, good-tem- 
 pered and well-principled. By her grateful 
 attention to me and mine, she has long since 
 well repaid any little kindness I ever had it in 
 my power to offer her. 
 
 My tale draws to its close : one word re- 
 
JANE EYRE. 307 
 
 specting my experience of married life, and 
 one brief glance at the fortunes of those whose 
 names have most frequently recurred in this 
 narrative, and I have done. 
 
 I have now been married ten years. I know 
 what it is to live entirely for and with what I 
 love best on earth. I hold myself supremely 
 blest — blest beyond what language can ex- 
 press ; because I am my husband's life as fully 
 as he is mine. No woman was ever nearer to 
 her mate than I am : ever more absolutely bone 
 of his bone, and flesh of his flesh. I know no 
 weariness of my Edward's society : he knows 
 none of mine, any more than we each do of 
 the pulsation of the heart that beats in our 
 separate bosoms ; consequently, we are ever 
 together. To be together is for us to be at 
 once as free as in solitude, as gay as in com- 
 pany. We talk, I believe, all day long: to 
 talk to each other is but a more animated and 
 an audible thinking. All my confidence is be- 
 stowed on him ; all his confidence is devoted to 
 me: we are precisely suited in character; 
 perfect concord is the result. 
 
 Mr. Rochester continued blind the first two 
 years of our union : perhaps it was that circum- 
 stance that drew us so very near — that knit us 
 so very close ; for I was then his vision, as I am 
 
308 JANE EYRE. 
 
 still his right hand. Literally, I was (what he 
 often called me) the apple of his eye. He saw 
 nature — he saw books through me ; and never 
 did I weary of gazing for his behalf, and of put- 
 ting into words the effect of field, tree, town, 
 river, cloud, sunbeam — of the landscape before 
 us; of the weather round us — and impressing 
 by sound on his ear what light could no longer 
 stamp on his eye. Never did I weary of read- 
 ing to him ; never did I weary of conducting 
 him where he wished to go : of doing for him 
 what he wished to be done. And there was a 
 pleasure in my services, most full, most exquisite, 
 even though sad — because he claimed these ser- 
 vices without painful shame or damping humi- 
 liation. He loved me so truly, that he knew no 
 reluctance in profiting by my attendance : he 
 felt I loved him so fondly, that to yield that 
 attendance was to indulge my sweetest wishes. 
 
 One morning at the end of the two years, as 
 I was writing a letter to his dictation, he came 
 and bent over me, and said — 
 
 " Jane, have you a glittering ornament round 
 your neck?" 
 
 I had a gold watch-chain : I answered, 
 "Yes." 
 
 " And have you a pale blue dress on ?" 
 
 I had. He informed me then, that for some 
 
JANE EYRE. 309 
 
 time he had fancied the obscurity clouding one 
 eye was becoming less dense ; and that now he 
 was sure of it. 
 
 He and I went up to London. He had the 
 advice of an eminent oculist ; and he eventually 
 recovered the sight of that one eye. He can- 
 not now see very distinctly : he cannot read or 
 write much ; but he can find his way without 
 being led by the hand : the sky is no longer a 
 blank to him — the earth no longer a void. 
 When his first-born was put into his arms, he 
 could see that the boy had inherited his own 
 eyes, as they once were — large, brilliant, and 
 black. On that occasion, he again, with a full 
 heart, acknowledged that God had tempered 
 judgment with mercy. 
 
 My Edward and I, then, are happy : and 
 the more so, because those we most love are 
 happy likewise. Diana and Mary Rivers are 
 both married : alternately, once every year, 
 they come to see us, and we go to see them. 
 Diana's husband is a captain in the navy : a 
 gallant officer, and a good man. Mary's is a 
 clergyman : a college friend of her brother's ; 
 and, from his attainments and principles, wor- 
 thy of the connexion. Both Captain Fitz- 
 james and Mr. Wharton love their wives, and 
 are loved by them. 
 
310 JANE EYRE. 
 
 As to St. John Rivers, he left England : he 
 went to India. He entered on the path he had 
 marked for himself; he pursues it still. A 
 more resolute, indefatigable pioneer never 
 wrought amidst rocks and dangers. Firm, 
 faithful, and devoted ; full of energy, and zeal, 
 and truth, he labours for his race : he clears 
 their painful way to improvement; he hews 
 down like a giant the prejudices of creed and 
 caste that encumber it. He may be stern ; he 
 may be exacting ; he may be ambitious yet : 
 but his is the sternness of the warrior. Great- 
 heart, who guards his pilgrim-convoy from the 
 onslaught of Apollyon. His is the exaction of 
 the apostle, who speaks but for Christ, when 
 he says — H Whosoever will come after me, let 
 him deny himself, and take up his cross and 
 follow me." His is the ambition of the high 
 master-spirit, which aims to fill a place in the 
 first rank of those who are redeemed from the 
 earth — who stand without fault before the 
 throne of God; who share the last mighty 
 victories of the lamb ; who are called, and 
 chosen, and faithful. 
 
 St. John is unmarried : he never will marry 
 now. Himself has hitherto sufficed to the 
 toil ; and the toil draws near its close : his 
 glorious sun hastens to its setting. The last 
 
JANE EYRE. 311 
 
 letter I received from him, drew from my eyes 
 human tears, and yet filled my heart with 
 Divine joy : he anticipated his sure reward, 
 his incorruptible crown. I know that a 
 stranger's hand will write to me next, to say 
 that the good and faithful servant has been 
 called at length into the joy of his Lord. 
 And why weep for this ? No fear of death 
 will darken St. John's last hour : his mind will 
 be unclouded; his heart will be undaunted; 
 his hope will be sure ; his faith steadfast. His 
 own words are a pledge of this : — 
 
 " My Master," he says, "has forewarned 
 me. Daily he announces more distinctly, — 
 * Surely I come quickly ; ' and hourly I more 
 eagerly respond, — ' Amen ; even so come, Lord 
 Jesus!'" 
 
 FINIS. 
 
London : 
 
 Printed by Stewart and Mcrray, 
 
 Old Bailey. 
 
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