No More Learning

Now for the eyes: I had left them to the last,
because they required the most careful working. I drew them large; I
shaped them well: the eyelashes I traced long and sombre; the irids
lustrous and large. "Good! but not quite the thing," I thought, as I
surveyed the effect: "they want more force and spirit;" and I wrought the
shades blacker, that the lights might flash more brilliantly--a happy
touch or two secured success. There, I had a friend's face under my
gaze; and what did it signify that those young ladies turned their backs
on me? I looked at it; I smiled at the speaking likeness: I was absorbed
and content.

"Is that a portrait of some one you know? " asked Eliza, who had
approached me unnoticed. I responded that it was merely a fancy head,
and hurried it beneath the other sheets. Of course, I lied: it was, in
fact, a very faithful representation of Mr. Rochester. But what was that
to her, or to any one but myself? Georgiana also advanced to look. The
other drawings pleased her much, but she called that "an ugly man. " They
both seemed surprised at my skill. I offered to sketch their portraits;
and each, in turn, sat for a pencil outline. Then Georgiana produced her
album. I promised to contribute a water-colour drawing: this put her at
once into good humour. She proposed a walk in the grounds. Before we
had been out two hours, we were deep in a confidential conversation: she
had favoured me with a description of the brilliant winter she had spent
in London two seasons ago--of the admiration she had there excited--the
attention she had received; and I even got hints of the titled conquest
she had made. In the course of the afternoon and evening these hints
were enlarged on: various soft conversations were reported, and
sentimental scenes represented; and, in short, a volume of a novel of
fashionable life was that day improvised by her for my benefit. The
communications were renewed from day to day: they always ran on the same
theme--herself, her loves, and woes. It was strange she never once
adverted either to her mother's illness, or her brother's death, or the
present gloomy state of the family prospects. Her mind seemed wholly
taken up with reminiscences of past gaiety, and aspirations after
dissipations to come. She passed about five minutes each day in her
mother's sick-room, and no more.

Eliza still spoke little: she had evidently no time to talk. I never saw
a busier person than she seemed to be; yet it was difficult to say what
she did: or rather, to discover any result of her diligence. She had an
alarm to call her up early. I know not how she occupied herself before
breakfast, but after that meal she divided her time into regular
portions, and each hour had its allotted task. Three times a day she
studied a little book, which I found, on inspection, was a Common Prayer
Book. I asked her once what was the great attraction of that volume, and
she said, "the Rubric. " Three hours she gave to stitching, with gold
thread, the border of a square crimson cloth, almost large enough for a
carpet. In answer to my inquiries after the use of this article, she
informed me it was a covering for the altar of a new church lately
erected near Gateshead. Two hours she devoted to her diary; two to
working by herself in the kitchen-garden; and one to the regulation of
her accounts. She seemed to want no company; no conversation. I believe
she was happy in her way: this routine sufficed for her; and nothing
annoyed her so much as the occurrence of any incident which forced her to
vary its clockwork regularity.

She told me one evening, when more disposed to be communicative than
usual, that John's conduct, and the threatened ruin of the family, had
been a source of profound affliction to her: but she had now, she said,
settled her mind, and formed her resolution. Her own fortune she had
taken care to secure; and when her mother died--and it was wholly
improbable, she tranquilly remarked, that she should either recover or
linger long--she would execute a long-cherished project: seek a
retirement where punctual habits would be permanently secured from
disturbance, and place safe barriers between herself and a frivolous
world. I asked if Georgiana would accompany her.

"Of course not. Georgiana and she had nothing in common: they never had
had. She would not be burdened with her society for any consideration.
Georgiana should take her own course; and she, Eliza, would take hers. "

Georgiana, when not unburdening her heart to me, spent most of her time
in lying on the sofa, fretting about the dulness of the house, and
wishing over and over again that her aunt Gibson would send her an
invitation up to town. "It would be so much better," she said, "if she
could only get out of the way for a month or two, till all was over. " I
did not ask what she meant by "all being over," but I suppose she
referred to the expected decease of her mother and the gloomy sequel of
funeral rites. Eliza generally took no more notice of her sister's
indolence and complaints than if no such murmuring, lounging object had
been before her. One day, however, as she put away her account-book and
unfolded her embroidery, she suddenly took her up thus--

"Georgiana, a more vain and absurd animal than you was certainly never
allowed to cumber the earth. You had no right to be born, for you make
no use of life. Instead of living for, in, and with yourself, as a
reasonable being ought, you seek only to fasten your feebleness on some
other person's strength: if no one can be found willing to burden her or
himself with such a fat, weak, puffy, useless thing, you cry out that you
are ill-treated, neglected, miserable. Then, too, existence for you must
be a scene of continual change and excitement, or else the world is a
dungeon: you must be admired, you must be courted, you must be
flattered--you must have music, dancing, and society--or you languish,
you die away. Have you no sense to devise a system which will make you
independent of all efforts, and all wills, but your own? Take one day;
share it into sections; to each section apportion its task: leave no
stray unemployed quarters of an hour, ten minutes, five minutes--include
all; do each piece of business in its turn with method, with rigid
regularity. The day will close almost before you are aware it has begun;
and you are indebted to no one for helping you to get rid of one vacant
moment: you have had to seek no one's company, conversation, sympathy,
forbearance; you have lived, in short, as an independent being ought to
do. Take this advice: the first and last I shall offer you; then you
will not want me or any one else, happen what may. Neglect it--go on as
heretofore, craving, whining, and idling--and suffer the results of your
idiocy, however bad and insuperable they may be. I tell you this
plainly; and listen: for though I shall no more repeat what I am now
about to say, I shall steadily act on it. After my mother's death, I
wash my hands of you: from the day her coffin is carried to the vault in
Gateshead Church, you and I will be as separate as if we had never known
each other. You need not think that because we chanced to be born of the
same parents, I shall suffer you to fasten me down by even the feeblest
claim: I can tell you this--if the whole human race, ourselves excepted,
were swept away, and we two stood alone on the earth, I would leave you
in the old world, and betake myself to the new. "

She closed her lips.

"You might have spared yourself the trouble of delivering that tirade,"
answered Georgiana. "Everybody knows you are the most selfish, heartless
creature in existence: and _I_ know your spiteful hatred towards me: I
have had a specimen of it before in the trick you played me about Lord
Edwin Vere: you could not bear me to be raised above you, to have a
title, to be received into circles where you dare not show your face, and
so you acted the spy and informer, and ruined my prospects for ever. "
Georgiana took out her handkerchief and blew her nose for an hour
afterwards; Eliza sat cold, impassable, and assiduously industrious.

True, generous feeling is made small account of by some, but here were
two natures rendered, the one intolerably acrid, the other despicably
savourless for the want of it. Feeling without judgment is a washy
draught indeed; but judgment untempered by feeling is too bitter and
husky a morsel for human deglutition.

It was a wet and windy afternoon: Georgiana had fallen asleep on the sofa
over the perusal of a novel; Eliza was gone to attend a saint's-day
service at the new church--for in matters of religion she was a rigid
formalist: no weather ever prevented the punctual discharge of what she
considered her devotional duties; fair or foul, she went to church thrice
every Sunday, and as often on week-days as there were prayers.

I bethought myself to go upstairs and see how the dying woman sped, who
lay there almost unheeded: the very servants paid her but a remittent
attention: the hired nurse, being little looked after, would slip out of
the room whenever she could. Bessie was faithful; but she had her own
family to mind, and could only come occasionally to the hall. I found
the sick-room unwatched, as I had expected: no nurse was there; the
patient lay still, and seemingly lethargic; her livid face sunk in the
pillows: the fire was dying in the grate. I renewed the fuel,
re-arranged the bedclothes, gazed awhile on her who could not now gaze on
me, and then I moved away to the window.

The rain beat strongly against the panes, the wind blew tempestuously:
"One lies there," I thought, "who will soon be beyond the war of earthly
elements. Whither will that spirit--now struggling to quit its material
tenement--flit when at length released? "

In pondering the great mystery, I thought of Helen Burns, recalled her
dying words--her faith--her doctrine of the equality of disembodied
souls. I was still listening in thought to her well-remembered
tones--still picturing her pale and spiritual aspect, her wasted face and
sublime gaze, as she lay on her placid deathbed, and whispered her
longing to be restored to her divine Father's bosom--when a feeble voice
murmured from the couch behind: "Who is that? "

I knew Mrs. Reed had not spoken for days: was she reviving? I went up to
her.

"It is I, Aunt Reed. "

"Who--I? " was her answer. "Who are you? " looking at me with surprise and
a sort of alarm, but still not wildly. "You are quite a stranger to
me--where is Bessie? "

"She is at the lodge, aunt. "

"Aunt," she repeated. "Who calls me aunt? You are not one of the
Gibsons; and yet I know you--that face, and the eyes and forehead, are
quiet familiar to me: you are like--why, you are like Jane Eyre! "

I said nothing: I was afraid of occasioning some shock by declaring my
identity.

"Yet," said she, "I am afraid it is a mistake: my thoughts deceive me. I
wished to see Jane Eyre, and I fancy a likeness where none exists:
besides, in eight years she must be so changed. " I now gently assured
her that I was the person she supposed and desired me to be: and seeing
that I was understood, and that her senses were quite collected, I
explained how Bessie had sent her husband to fetch me from Thornfield.

"I am very ill, I know," she said ere long. "I was trying to turn myself
a few minutes since, and find I cannot move a limb. It is as well I
should ease my mind before I die: what we think little of in health,
burdens us at such an hour as the present is to me. Is the nurse here?
or is there no one in the room but you? "

I assured her we were alone.

"Well, I have twice done you a wrong which I regret now. One was in
breaking the promise which I gave my husband to bring you up as my own
child; the other--" she stopped. "After all, it is of no great
importance, perhaps," she murmured to herself: "and then I may get
better; and to humble myself so to her is painful. "

She made an effort to alter her position, but failed: her face changed;
she seemed to experience some inward sensation--the precursor, perhaps,
of the last pang.

"Well, I must get it over. Eternity is before me: I had better tell
her. --Go to my dressing-case, open it, and take out a letter you will see
there. "

I obeyed her directions. "Read the letter," she said.

It was short, and thus conceived:--

"Madam,--Will you have the goodness to send me the address of my
niece, Jane Eyre, and to tell me how she is? It is my intention to
write shortly and desire her to come to me at Madeira. Providence has
blessed my endeavours to secure a competency; and as I am unmarried
and childless, I wish to adopt her during my life, and bequeath her at
my death whatever I may have to leave. --I am, Madam, &c. , &c. ,

"JOHN EYRE, Madeira. "

It was dated three years back.

"Why did I never hear of this? " I asked.

"Because I disliked you too fixedly and thoroughly ever to lend a hand in
lifting you to prosperity. I could not forget your conduct to me,
Jane--the fury with which you once turned on me; the tone in which you
declared you abhorred me the worst of anybody in the world; the
unchildlike look and voice with which you affirmed that the very thought
of me made you sick, and asserted that I had treated you with miserable
cruelty. I could not forget my own sensations when you thus started up
and poured out the venom of your mind: I felt fear as if an animal that I
had struck or pushed had looked up at me with human eyes and cursed me in
a man's voice. --Bring me some water! Oh, make haste! "

"Dear Mrs. Reed," said I, as I offered her the draught she required,
"think no more of all this, let it pass away from your mind. Forgive me
for my passionate language: I was a child then; eight, nine years have
passed since that day. "

She heeded nothing of what I said; but when she had tasted the water and
drawn breath, she went on thus--

"I tell you I could not forget it; and I took my revenge: for you to be
adopted by your uncle, and placed in a state of ease and comfort, was
what I could not endure. I wrote to him; I said I was sorry for his
disappointment, but Jane Eyre was dead: she had died of typhus fever at
Lowood. Now act as you please: write and contradict my assertion--expose
my falsehood as soon as you like. You were born, I think, to be my
torment: my last hour is racked by the recollection of a deed which, but
for you, I should never have been tempted to commit. "

"If you could but be persuaded to think no more of it, aunt, and to
regard me with kindness and forgiveness"

"You have a very bad disposition," said she, "and one to this day I feel
it impossible to understand: how for nine years you could be patient and
quiescent under any treatment, and in the tenth break out all fire and
violence, I can never comprehend. "

"My disposition is not so bad as you think: I am passionate, but not
vindictive. Many a time, as a little child, I should have been glad to
love you if you would have let me; and I long earnestly to be reconciled
to you now: kiss me, aunt. "

I approached my cheek to her lips: she would not touch it. She said I
oppressed her by leaning over the bed, and again demanded water. As I
laid her down--for I raised her and supported her on my arm while she
drank--I covered her ice-cold and clammy hand with mine: the feeble
fingers shrank from my touch--the glazing eyes shunned my gaze.

"Love me, then, or hate me, as you will," I said at last, "you have my
full and free forgiveness: ask now for God's, and be at peace. "

Poor, suffering woman! it was too late for her to make now the effort to
change her habitual frame of mind: living, she had ever hated me--dying,
she must hate me still.

The nurse now entered, and Bessie followed. I yet lingered half-an-hour
longer, hoping to see some sign of amity: but she gave none. She was
fast relapsing into stupor; nor did her mind again rally: at twelve
o'clock that night she died. I was not present to close her eyes, nor
were either of her daughters. They came to tell us the next morning that
all was over. She was by that time laid out. Eliza and I went to look
at her: Georgiana, who had burst out into loud weeping, said she dared
not go. There was stretched Sarah Reed's once robust and active frame,
rigid and still: her eye of flint was covered with its cold lid; her brow
and strong traits wore yet the impress of her inexorable soul. A strange
and solemn object was that corpse to me. I gazed on it with gloom and
pain: nothing soft, nothing sweet, nothing pitying, or hopeful, or
subduing did it inspire; only a grating anguish for _her_ woes--not _my_
loss--and a sombre tearless dismay at the fearfulness of death in such a
form.

Eliza surveyed her parent calmly. After a silence of some minutes she
observed--

"With her constitution she should have lived to a good old age: her life
was shortened by trouble. " And then a spasm constricted her mouth for an
instant: as it passed away she turned and left the room, and so did I.
Neither of us had dropt a tear.




CHAPTER XXII


Mr. Rochester had given me but one week's leave of absence: yet a month
elapsed before I quitted Gateshead. I wished to leave immediately after
the funeral, but Georgiana entreated me to stay till she could get off to
London, whither she was now at last invited by her uncle, Mr. Gibson, who
had come down to direct his sister's interment and settle the family
affairs. Georgiana said she dreaded being left alone with Eliza; from
her she got neither sympathy in her dejection, support in her fears, nor
aid in her preparations; so I bore with her feeble-minded wailings and
selfish lamentations as well as I could, and did my best in sewing for
her and packing her dresses. It is true, that while I worked, she would
idle; and I thought to myself, "If you and I were destined to live always
together, cousin, we would commence matters on a different footing. I
should not settle tamely down into being the forbearing party; I should
assign you your share of labour, and compel you to accomplish it, or else
it should be left undone: I should insist, also, on your keeping some of
those drawling, half-insincere complaints hushed in your own breast. It
is only because our connection happens to be very transitory, and comes
at a peculiarly mournful season, that I consent thus to render it so
patient and compliant on my part. "

At last I saw Georgiana off; but now it was Eliza's turn to request me to
stay another week. Her plans required all her time and attention, she
said; she was about to depart for some unknown bourne; and all day long
she stayed in her own room, her door bolted within, filling trunks,
emptying drawers, burning papers, and holding no communication with any
one. She wished me to look after the house, to see callers, and answer
notes of condolence.

One morning she told me I was at liberty. "And," she added, "I am
obliged to you for your valuable services and discreet conduct! There is
some difference between living with such an one as you and with
Georgiana: you perform your own part in life and burden no one.
To-morrow," she continued, "I set out for the Continent. I shall take up
my abode in a religious house near Lisle--a nunnery you would call it;
there I shall be quiet and unmolested. I shall devote myself for a time
to the examination of the Roman Catholic dogmas, and to a careful study
of the workings of their system: if I find it to be, as I half suspect it
is, the one best calculated to ensure the doing of all things decently
and in order, I shall embrace the tenets of Rome and probably take the
veil. "

I neither expressed surprise at this resolution nor attempted to dissuade
her from it. "The vocation will fit you to a hair," I thought: "much
good may it do you! "

When we parted, she said: "Good-bye, cousin Jane Eyre; I wish you well:
you have some sense. "

I then returned: "You are not without sense, cousin Eliza; but what you
have, I suppose, in another year will be walled up alive in a French
convent. However, it is not my business, and so it suits you, I don't
much care. "

"You are in the right," said she; and with these words we each went our
separate way. As I shall not have occasion to refer either to her or her
sister again, I may as well mention here, that Georgiana made an
advantageous match with a wealthy worn-out man of fashion, and that Eliza
actually took the veil, and is at this day superior of the convent where
she passed the period of her novitiate, and which she endowed with her
fortune.

How people feel when they are returning home from an absence, long or
short, I did not know: I had never experienced the sensation. I had
known what it was to come back to Gateshead when a child after a long
walk, to be scolded for looking cold or gloomy; and later, what it was to
come back from church to Lowood, to long for a plenteous meal and a good
fire, and to be unable to get either. Neither of these returnings was
very pleasant or desirable: no magnet drew me to a given point,
increasing in its strength of attraction the nearer I came. The return
to Thornfield was yet to be tried.

My journey seemed tedious--very tedious: fifty miles one day, a night
spent at an inn; fifty miles the next day. During the first twelve hours
I thought of Mrs. Reed in her last moments; I saw her disfigured and
discoloured face, and heard her strangely altered voice. I mused on the
funeral day, the coffin, the hearse, the black train of tenants and
servants--few was the number of relatives--the gaping vault, the silent
church, the solemn service. Then I thought of Eliza and Georgiana; I
beheld one the cynosure of a ball-room, the other the inmate of a convent
cell; and I dwelt on and analysed their separate peculiarities of person
and character. The evening arrival at the great town of--scattered these
thoughts; night gave them quite another turn: laid down on my traveller's
bed, I left reminiscence for anticipation.

I was going back to Thornfield: but how long was I to stay there? Not
long; of that I was sure. I had heard from Mrs. Fairfax in the interim
of my absence: the party at the hall was dispersed; Mr. Rochester had
left for London three weeks ago, but he was then expected to return in a
fortnight. Mrs. Fairfax surmised that he was gone to make arrangements
for his wedding, as he had talked of purchasing a new carriage: she said
the idea of his marrying Miss Ingram still seemed strange to her; but
from what everybody said, and from what she had herself seen, she could
no longer doubt that the event would shortly take place. "You would be
strangely incredulous if you did doubt it," was my mental comment. "I
don't doubt it. "

The question followed, "Where was I to go? " I dreamt of Miss Ingram all
the night: in a vivid morning dream I saw her closing the gates of
Thornfield against me and pointing me out another road; and Mr. Rochester
looked on with his arms folded--smiling sardonically, as it seemed, at
both her and me.

I had not notified to Mrs. Fairfax the exact day of my return; for I did
not wish either car or carriage to meet me at Millcote. I proposed to
walk the distance quietly by myself; and very quietly, after leaving my
box in the ostler's care, did I slip away from the George Inn, about six
o'clock of a June evening, and take the old road to Thornfield: a road
which lay chiefly through fields, and was now little frequented.

It was not a bright or splendid summer evening, though fair and soft: the
haymakers were at work all along the road; and the sky, though far from
cloudless, was such as promised well for the future: its blue--where blue
was visible--was mild and settled, and its cloud strata high and thin.
The west, too, was warm: no watery gleam chilled it--it seemed as if
there was a fire lit, an altar burning behind its screen of marbled
vapour, and out of apertures shone a golden redness.

I felt glad as the road shortened before me: so glad that I stopped once
to ask myself what that joy meant: and to remind reason that it was not
to my home I was going, or to a permanent resting-place, or to a place
where fond friends looked out for me and waited my arrival. "Mrs.
Fairfax will smile you a calm welcome, to be sure," said I; "and little
Adele will clap her hands and jump to see you: but you know very well you
are thinking of another than they, and that he is not thinking of you. "

But what is so headstrong as youth? What so blind as inexperience? These
affirmed that it was pleasure enough to have the privilege of again
looking on Mr. Rochester, whether he looked on me or not; and they
added--"Hasten! hasten! be with him while you may: but a few more days or
weeks, at most, and you are parted from him for ever! " And then I
strangled a new-born agony--a deformed thing which I could not persuade
myself to own and rear--and ran on.

They are making hay, too, in Thornfield meadows: or rather, the labourers
are just quitting their work, and returning home with their rakes on
their shoulders, now, at the hour I arrive. I have but a field or two to
traverse, and then I shall cross the road and reach the gates. How full
the hedges are of roses! But I have no time to gather any; I want to be
at the house. I passed a tall briar, shooting leafy and flowery branches
across the path; I see the narrow stile with stone steps; and I see--Mr.
Rochester sitting there, a book and a pencil in his hand; he is writing.

Well, he is not a ghost; yet every nerve I have is unstrung: for a moment
I am beyond my own mastery. What does it mean? I did not think I should
tremble in this way when I saw him, or lose my voice or the power of
motion in his presence. I will go back as soon as I can stir: I need not
make an absolute fool of myself. I know another way to the house. It
does not signify if I knew twenty ways; for he has seen me.

"Hillo! " he cries; and he puts up his book and his pencil. "There you
are! Come on, if you please. "

I suppose I do come on; though in what fashion I know not; being scarcely
cognisant of my movements, and solicitous only to appear calm; and, above
all, to control the working muscles of my face--which I feel rebel
insolently against my will, and struggle to express what I had resolved
to conceal. But I have a veil--it is down: I may make shift yet to
behave with decent composure.

"And this is Jane Eyre? Are you coming from Millcote, and on foot?
Yes--just one of your tricks: not to send for a carriage, and come
clattering over street and road like a common mortal, but to steal into
the vicinage of your home along with twilight, just as if you were a
dream or a shade. What the deuce have you done with yourself this last
month? "

"I have been with my aunt, sir, who is dead. "

"A true Janian reply! Good angels be my guard! She comes from the other
world--from the abode of people who are dead; and tells me so when she
meets me alone here in the gloaming! If I dared, I'd touch you, to see
if you are substance or shadow, you elf! --but I'd as soon offer to take
hold of a blue _ignis fatuus_ light in a marsh. Truant! truant! " he
added, when he had paused an instant. "Absent from me a whole month, and
forgetting me quite, I'll be sworn! "

I knew there would be pleasure in meeting my master again, even though
broken by the fear that he was so soon to cease to be my master, and by
the knowledge that I was nothing to him: but there was ever in Mr.
Rochester (so at least I thought) such a wealth of the power of
communicating happiness, that to taste but of the crumbs he scattered to
stray and stranger birds like me, was to feast genially. His last words
were balm: they seemed to imply that it imported something to him whether
I forgot him or not. And he had spoken of Thornfield as my home--would
that it were my home!

He did not leave the stile, and I hardly liked to ask to go by. I
inquired soon if he had not been to London.

"Yes; I suppose you found that out by second-sight. "

"Mrs. Fairfax told me in a letter. "

"And did she inform you what I went to do? "

"Oh, yes, sir! Everybody knew your errand. "

"You must see the carriage, Jane, and tell me if you don't think it will
suit Mrs. Rochester exactly; and whether she won't look like Queen
Boadicea, leaning back against those purple cushions. I wish, Jane, I
were a trifle better adapted to match with her externally. Tell me now,
fairy as you are--can't you give me a charm, or a philter, or something
of that sort, to make me a handsome man? "

"It would be past the power of magic, sir;" and, in thought, I added, "A
loving eye is all the charm needed: to such you are handsome enough; or
rather your sternness has a power beyond beauty. "

Mr. Rochester had sometimes read my unspoken thoughts with an acumen to
me incomprehensible: in the present instance he took no notice of my
abrupt vocal response; but he smiled at me with a certain smile he had of
his own, and which he used but on rare occasions. He seemed to think it
too good for common purposes: it was the real sunshine of feeling--he
shed it over me now.

"Pass, Janet," said he, making room for me to cross the stile: "go up
home, and stay your weary little wandering feet at a friend's threshold. "

All I had now to do was to obey him in silence: no need for me to
colloquise further. I got over the stile without a word, and meant to
leave him calmly. An impulse held me fast--a force turned me round. I
said--or something in me said for me, and in spite of me--

"Thank you, Mr. Rochester, for your great kindness. I am strangely glad
to get back again to you: and wherever you are is my home--my only home. "

I walked on so fast that even he could hardly have overtaken me had he
tried. Little Adele was half wild with delight when she saw me. Mrs.
Fairfax received me with her usual plain friendliness. Leah smiled, and
even Sophie bid me "bon soir" with glee. This was very pleasant; there
is no happiness like that of being loved by your fellow-creatures, and
feeling that your presence is an addition to their comfort.

I that evening shut my eyes resolutely against the future: I stopped my
ears against the voice that kept warning me of near separation and coming
grief. When tea was over and Mrs. Fairfax had taken her knitting, and I
had assumed a low seat near her, and Adele, kneeling on the carpet, had
nestled close up to me, and a sense of mutual affection seemed to
surround us with a ring of golden peace, I uttered a silent prayer that
we might not be parted far or soon; but when, as we thus sat, Mr.
Rochester entered, unannounced, and looking at us, seemed to take
pleasure in the spectacle of a group so amicable--when he said he
supposed the old lady was all right now that she had got her adopted
daughter back again, and added that he saw Adele was "prete a croquer sa
petite maman Anglaise"--I half ventured to hope that he would, even after
his marriage, keep us together somewhere under the shelter of his
protection, and not quite exiled from the sunshine of his presence.

A fortnight of dubious calm succeeded my return to Thornfield Hall.
Nothing was said of the master's marriage, and I saw no preparation going
on for such an event. Almost every day I asked Mrs. Fairfax if she had
yet heard anything decided: her answer was always in the negative. Once
she said she had actually put the question to Mr. Rochester as to when he
was going to bring his bride home; but he had answered her only by a joke
and one of his queer looks, and she could not tell what to make of him.

One thing specially surprised me, and that was, there were no journeyings
backward and forward, no visits to Ingram Park: to be sure it was twenty
miles off, on the borders of another county; but what was that distance
to an ardent lover? To so practised and indefatigable a horseman as Mr.
Rochester, it would be but a morning's ride. I began to cherish hopes I
had no right to conceive: that the match was broken off; that rumour had
been mistaken; that one or both parties had changed their minds. I used
to look at my master's face to see if it were sad or fierce; but I could
not remember the time when it had been so uniformly clear of clouds or
evil feelings. If, in the moments I and my pupil spent with him, I
lacked spirits and sank into inevitable dejection, he became even gay.
Never had he called me more frequently to his presence; never been kinder
to me when there--and, alas! never had I loved him so well.




CHAPTER XXIII


A splendid Midsummer shone over England: skies so pure, suns so radiant
as were then seen in long succession, seldom favour even singly, our wave-
girt land. It was as if a band of Italian days had come from the South,
like a flock of glorious passenger birds, and lighted to rest them on the
cliffs of Albion. The hay was all got in; the fields round Thornfield
were green and shorn; the roads white and baked; the trees were in their
dark prime; hedge and wood, full-leaved and deeply tinted, contrasted
well with the sunny hue of the cleared meadows between.

On Midsummer-eve, Adele, weary with gathering wild strawberries in Hay
Lane half the day, had gone to bed with the sun. I watched her drop
asleep, and when I left her, I sought the garden.

It was now the sweetest hour of the twenty-four:--"Day its fervid fires
had wasted," and dew fell cool on panting plain and scorched summit.
Where the sun had gone down in simple state--pure of the pomp of
clouds--spread a solemn purple, burning with the light of red jewel and
furnace flame at one point, on one hill-peak, and extending high and
wide, soft and still softer, over half heaven. The east had its own
charm or fine deep blue, and its own modest gem, a casino and solitary
star: soon it would boast the moon; but she was yet beneath the horizon.

I walked a while on the pavement; but a subtle, well-known scent--that of
a cigar--stole from some window; I saw the library casement open a
handbreadth; I knew I might be watched thence; so I went apart into the
orchard. No nook in the grounds more sheltered and more Eden-like; it
was full of trees, it bloomed with flowers: a very high wall shut it out
from the court, on one side; on the other, a beech avenue screened it
from the lawn. At the bottom was a sunk fence; its sole separation from
lonely fields: a winding walk, bordered with laurels and terminating in a
giant horse-chestnut, circled at the base by a seat, led down to the
fence. Here one could wander unseen. While such honey-dew fell, such
silence reigned, such gloaming gathered, I felt as if I could haunt such
shade for ever; but in threading the flower and fruit parterres at the
upper part of the enclosure, enticed there by the light the now rising
moon cast on this more open quarter, my step is stayed--not by sound, not
by sight, but once more by a warning fragrance.

Sweet-briar and southernwood, jasmine, pink, and rose have long been
yielding their evening sacrifice of incense: this new scent is neither of
shrub nor flower; it is--I know it well--it is Mr. Rochester's cigar. I
look round and I listen. I see trees laden with ripening fruit. I hear
a nightingale warbling in a wood half a mile off; no moving form is
visible, no coming step audible; but that perfume increases: I must flee.
I make for the wicket leading to the shrubbery, and I see Mr. Rochester
entering. I step aside into the ivy recess; he will not stay long: he
will soon return whence he came, and if I sit still he will never see me.

But no--eventide is as pleasant to him as to me, and this antique garden
as attractive; and he strolls on, now lifting the gooseberry-tree
branches to look at the fruit, large as plums, with which they are laden;
now taking a ripe cherry from the wall; now stooping towards a knot of
flowers, either to inhale their fragrance or to admire the dew-beads on
their petals. A great moth goes humming by me; it alights on a plant at
Mr. Rochester's foot: he sees it, and bends to examine it.

"Now, he has his back towards me," thought I, "and he is occupied too;
perhaps, if I walk softly, I can slip away unnoticed. "

I trode on an edging of turf that the crackle of the pebbly gravel might
not betray me: he was standing among the beds at a yard or two distant
from where I had to pass; the moth apparently engaged him. "I shall get
by very well," I meditated. As I crossed his shadow, thrown long over
the garden by the moon, not yet risen high, he said quietly, without
turning--

"Jane, come and look at this fellow. "

I had made no noise: he had not eyes behind--could his shadow feel? I
started at first, and then I approached him.

"Look at his wings," said he, "he reminds me rather of a West Indian
insect; one does not often see so large and gay a night-rover in England;
there! he is flown. "

The moth roamed away. I was sheepishly retreating also; but Mr.
Rochester followed me, and when we reached the wicket, he said--

"Turn back: on so lovely a night it is a shame to sit in the house; and
surely no one can wish to go to bed while sunset is thus at meeting with
moonrise. "

It is one of my faults, that though my tongue is sometimes prompt enough
at an answer, there are times when it sadly fails me in framing an
excuse; and always the lapse occurs at some crisis, when a facile word or
plausible pretext is specially wanted to get me out of painful
embarrassment. I did not like to walk at this hour alone with Mr.
Rochester in the shadowy orchard; but I could not find a reason to allege
for leaving him. I followed with lagging step, and thoughts busily bent
on discovering a means of extrication; but he himself looked so composed
and so grave also, I became ashamed of feeling any confusion: the evil--if
evil existent or prospective there was--seemed to lie with me only; his
mind was unconscious and quiet.

"Jane," he recommenced, as we entered the laurel walk, and slowly strayed
down in the direction of the sunk fence and the horse-chestnut,
"Thornfield is a pleasant place in summer, is it not? "

"Yes, sir. "

"You must have become in some degree attached to the house,--you, who
have an eye for natural beauties, and a good deal of the organ of
Adhesiveness? "

"I am attached to it, indeed. "

"And though I don't comprehend how it is, I perceive you have acquired a
degree of regard for that foolish little child Adele, too; and even for
simple dame Fairfax? "

"Yes, sir; in different ways, I have an affection for both. "

"And would be sorry to part with them? "

"Yes. "

"Pity! " he said, and sighed and paused. "It is always the way of events
in this life," he continued presently: "no sooner have you got settled in
a pleasant resting-place, than a voice calls out to you to rise and move
on, for the hour of repose is expired. "

"Must I move on, sir? " I asked. "Must I leave Thornfield? "

"I believe you must, Jane. I am sorry, Janet, but I believe indeed you
must. "

This was a blow: but I did not let it prostrate me.

"Well, sir, I shall be ready when the order to march comes. "

"It is come now--I must give it to-night. "

"Then you _are_ going to be married, sir? "

"Ex-act-ly--pre-cise-ly: with your usual acuteness, you have hit the nail
straight on the head. "

"Soon, sir? "

"Very soon, my--that is, Miss Eyre: and you'll remember, Jane, the first
time I, or Rumour, plainly intimated to you that it was my intention to
put my old bachelor's neck into the sacred noose, to enter into the holy
estate of matrimony--to take Miss Ingram to my bosom, in short (she's an
extensive armful: but that's not to the point--one can't have too much of
such a very excellent thing as my beautiful Blanche): well, as I was
saying--listen to me, Jane! You're not turning your head to look after
more moths, are you? That was only a lady-clock, child, 'flying away
home. ' I wish to remind you that it was you who first said to me, with
that discretion I respect in you--with that foresight, prudence, and
humility which befit your responsible and dependent position--that in
case I married Miss Ingram, both you and little Adele had better trot
forthwith. I pass over the sort of slur conveyed in this suggestion on
the character of my beloved; indeed, when you are far away, Janet, I'll
try to forget it: I shall notice only its wisdom; which is such that I
have made it my law of action. Adele must go to school; and you, Miss
Eyre, must get a new situation. "

"Yes, sir, I will advertise immediately: and meantime, I suppose--" I was
going to say, "I suppose I may stay here, till I find another shelter to
betake myself to:" but I stopped, feeling it would not do to risk a long
sentence, for my voice was not quite under command.

"In about a month I hope to be a bridegroom," continued Mr. Rochester;
"and in the interim, I shall myself look out for employment and an asylum
for you. "

"Thank you, sir; I am sorry to give--"

"Oh, no need to apologise! I consider that when a dependent does her
duty as well as you have done yours, she has a sort of claim upon her
employer for any little assistance he can conveniently render her; indeed
I have already, through my future mother-in-law, heard of a place that I
think will suit: it is to undertake the education of the five daughters
of Mrs. Dionysius O'Gall of Bitternutt Lodge, Connaught, Ireland. You'll
like Ireland, I think: they're such warm-hearted people there, they say. "

"It is a long way off, sir. "

"No matter--a girl of your sense will not object to the voyage or the
distance. "

"Not the voyage, but the distance: and then the sea is a barrier--"

"From what, Jane? "

"From England and from Thornfield: and--"

"Well? "

"From _you_, sir. "

I said this almost involuntarily, and, with as little sanction of free
will, my tears gushed out. I did not cry so as to be heard, however; I
avoided sobbing. The thought of Mrs. O'Gall and Bitternutt Lodge struck
cold to my heart; and colder the thought of all the brine and foam,
destined, as it seemed, to rush between me and the master at whose side I
now walked, and coldest the remembrance of the wider ocean--wealth,
caste, custom intervened between me and what I naturally and inevitably
loved.

"It is a long way," I again said.

"It is, to be sure; and when you get to Bitternutt Lodge, Connaught,
Ireland, I shall never see you again, Jane: that's morally certain. I
never go over to Ireland, not having myself much of a fancy for the
country. We have been good friends, Jane; have we not? "

"Yes, sir. "

"And when friends are on the eve of separation, they like to spend the
little time that remains to them close to each other. Come! we'll talk
over the voyage and the parting quietly half-an-hour or so, while the
stars enter into their shining life up in heaven yonder: here is the
chestnut tree: here is the bench at its old roots. Come, we will sit
there in peace to-night, though we should never more be destined to sit
there together. " He seated me and himself.

"It is a long way to Ireland, Janet, and I am sorry to send my little
friend on such weary travels: but if I can't do better, how is it to be
helped? Are you anything akin to me, do you think, Jane? "

I could risk no sort of answer by this time: my heart was still.

"Because," he said, "I sometimes have a queer feeling with regard to
you--especially when you are near me, as now: it is as if I had a string
somewhere under my left ribs, tightly and inextricably knotted to a
similar string situated in the corresponding quarter of your little
frame. And if that boisterous Channel, and two hundred miles or so of
land come broad between us, I am afraid that cord of communion will be
snapt; and then I've a nervous notion I should take to bleeding inwardly.
As for you,--you'd forget me. "

"That I _never_ should, sir: you know--" Impossible to proceed.

"Jane, do you hear that nightingale singing in the wood? Listen! "

In listening, I sobbed convulsively; for I could repress what I endured
no longer; I was obliged to yield, and I was shaken from head to foot
with acute distress. When I did speak, it was only to express an
impetuous wish that I had never been born, or never come to Thornfield.

"Because you are sorry to leave it? "

The vehemence of emotion, stirred by grief and love within me, was
claiming mastery, and struggling for full sway, and asserting a right to
predominate, to overcome, to live, rise, and reign at last: yes,--and to
speak.

"I grieve to leave Thornfield: I love Thornfield:--I love it, because I
have lived in it a full and delightful life,--momentarily at least.