kinderzimmer wandgestaltung gelb grün

chapter xxi presentiments are strange things! and soare sympathies; and so are signs; and the three combined make one mystery to whichhumanity has not yet found the key. i never laughed at presentiments in mylife, because i have had strange ones of my own. sympathies, i believe, exist (for instance,between far-distant, long-absent, wholly estranged relatives asserting,notwithstanding their alienation, the unity of the source to which each traces his origin) whose workings baffle mortalcomprehension.

and signs, for aught we know, may be butthe sympathies of nature with man. when i was a little girl, only six yearsold, i one night heard bessie leaven say to martha abbot that she had been dreamingabout a little child; and that to dream of children was a sure sign of trouble, eitherto one's self or one's kin. the saying might have worn out of mymemory, had not a circumstance immediately followed which served indelibly to fix itthere. the next day bessie was sent for home tothe deathbed of her little sister. of late i had often recalled this sayingand this incident; for during the past week scarcely a night had gone over my couchthat had not brought with it a dream of an

infant, which i sometimes hushed in my arms, sometimes dandled on my knee,sometimes watched playing with daisies on a lawn, or again, dabbling its hands inrunning water. it was a wailing child this night, and alaughing one the next: now it nestled close to me, and now it ran from me; but whatevermood the apparition evinced, whatever aspect it wore, it failed not for seven successive nights to meet me the moment ientered the land of slumber. i did not like this iteration of one idea--this strange recurrence of one image, and i grew nervous as bedtime approached and thehour of the vision drew near.

it was from companionship with this baby-phantom i had been roused on that moonlight night when i heard the cry; and it was onthe afternoon of the day following i was summoned downstairs by a message that someone wanted me in mrs. fairfax's room. on repairing thither, i found a man waitingfor me, having the appearance of a gentleman's servant: he was dressed in deepmourning, and the hat he held in his hand was surrounded with a crape band. "i daresay you hardly remember me, miss,"he said, rising as i entered; "but my name is leaven: i lived coachman with mrs. reedwhen you were at gateshead, eight or nine years since, and i live there still."

"oh, robert! how do you do?i remember you very well: you used to give me a ride sometimes on miss georgiana's baypony. and how is bessie? you are married to bessie?""yes, miss: my wife is very hearty, thank you; she brought me another little oneabout two months since--we have three now-- and both mother and child are thriving." "and are the family well at the house,robert?" "i am sorry i can't give you better news ofthem, miss: they are very badly at present- -in great trouble."

"i hope no one is dead," i said, glancingat his black dress. he too looked down at the crape round hishat and replied-- "mr. john died yesterday was a week, at hischambers in london." "mr. john?""yes." "and how does his mother bear it?" "why, you see, miss eyre, it is not acommon mishap: his life has been very wild: these last three years he gave himself upto strange ways, and his death was shocking." "i heard from bessie he was not doingwell."

"doing well! he could not do worse: he ruined his healthand his estate amongst the worst men and the worst women. he got into debt and into jail: his motherhelped him out twice, but as soon as he was free he returned to his old companions andhabits. his head was not strong: the knaves helived amongst fooled him beyond anything i ever heard. he came down to gateshead about three weeksago and wanted missis to give up all to him.

missis refused: her means have long beenmuch reduced by his extravagance; so he went back again, and the next news was thathe was dead. how he died, god knows!--they say he killedhimself." i was silent: the things were frightful.robert leaven resumed-- "missis had been out of health herself forsome time: she had got very stout, but was not strong with it; and the loss of moneyand fear of poverty were quite breaking her down. the information about mr. john's death andthe manner of it came too suddenly: it brought on a stroke.

she was three days without speaking; butlast tuesday she seemed rather better: she appeared as if she wanted to say something,and kept making signs to my wife and mumbling. it was only yesterday morning, however,that bessie understood she was pronouncing your name; and at last she made out thewords, 'bring jane--fetch jane eyre: i want to speak to her.' bessie is not sure whether she is in herright mind, or means anything by the words; but she told miss reed and miss georgiana,and advised them to send for you. the young ladies put it off at first; buttheir mother grew so restless, and said,

'jane, jane,' so many times, that at lastthey consented. i left gateshead yesterday: and if you canget ready, miss, i should like to take you back with me early to-morrow morning.""yes, robert, i shall be ready: it seems to me that i ought to go." "i think so too, miss.bessie said she was sure you would not refuse: but i suppose you will have to askleave before you can get off?" "yes; and i will do it now;" and havingdirected him to the servants' hall, and recommended him to the care of john's wife,and the attentions of john himself, i went in search of mr. rochester.

he was not in any of the lower rooms; hewas not in the yard, the stables, or the grounds. i asked mrs. fairfax if she had seen him;--yes: she believed he was playing billiards with miss ingram. to the billiard- room i hastened: the clickof balls and the hum of voices resounded thence; mr. rochester, miss ingram, the twomisses eshton, and their admirers, were all busied in the game. it required some courage to disturb sointeresting a party; my errand, however, was one i could not defer, so i approachedthe master where he stood at miss ingram's

side. she turned as i drew near, and looked at mehaughtily: her eyes seemed to demand, "what can the creeping creature want now?" andwhen i said, in a low voice, "mr. rochester," she made a movement as iftempted to order me away. i remember her appearance at the moment--itwas very graceful and very striking: she wore a morning robe of sky-blue crape; agauzy azure scarf was twisted in her hair. she had been all animation with the game,and irritated pride did not lower the expression of her haughty lineaments. "does that person want you?" she inquiredof mr. rochester; and mr. rochester turned

to see who the "person" was. he made a curious grimace--one of hisstrange and equivocal demonstrations--threw down his cue and followed me from the room. "well, jane?" he said, as he rested hisback against the schoolroom door, which he had shut."if you please, sir, i want leave of absence for a week or two." "what to do?--where to go?""to see a sick lady who has sent for me." "what sick lady?--where does she live?""at gateshead; in ---shire." "-shire?

that is a hundred miles off!who may she be that sends for people to see her that distance?""her name is reed, sir--mrs. reed." "reed of gateshead? there was a reed of gateshead, amagistrate." "it is his widow, sir.""and what have you to do with her? how do you know her?" "mr. reed was my uncle--my mother'sbrother." "the deuce he was!you never told me that before: you always said you had no relations."

"none that would own me, sir.mr. reed is dead, and his wife cast me off.""why?" "because i was poor, and burdensome, andshe disliked me." "but reed left children?--you must havecousins? sir george lynn was talking of a reed ofgateshead yesterday, who, he said, was one of the veriest rascals on town; and ingramwas mentioning a georgiana reed of the same place, who was much admired for her beautya season or two ago in london." "john reed is dead, too, sir: he ruinedhimself and half-ruined his family, and is supposed to have committed suicide.

the news so shocked his mother that itbrought on an apoplectic attack." "and what good can you do her?nonsense, jane! i would never think of running a hundredmiles to see an old lady who will, perhaps, be dead before you reach her: besides, yousay she cast you off." "yes, sir, but that is long ago; and whenher circumstances were very different: i could not be easy to neglect her wishesnow." "how long will you stay?" "as short a time as possible, sir.""promise me only to stay a week--" "i had better not pass my word: i might beobliged to break it."

"at all events you will come back: youwill not be induced under any pretext to take up a permanent residence with her?""oh, no! i shall certainly return if all be well." "and who goes with you?you don't travel a hundred miles alone." "no, sir, she has sent her coachman.""a person to be trusted?" "yes, sir, he has lived ten years in thefamily." mr. rochester meditated."when do you wish to go?" "early to-morrow morning, sir." "well, you must have some money; you can'ttravel without money, and i daresay you

have not much: i have given you no salaryyet. how much have you in the world, jane?" heasked, smiling. i drew out my purse; a meagre thing it was."five shillings, sir." he took the purse, poured the hoard intohis palm, and chuckled over it as if its scantiness amused him. soon he produced his pocket-book: "here,"said he, offering me a note; it was fifty pounds, and he owed me but fifteen.i told him i had no change. "i don't want change; you know that. take your wages."i declined accepting more than was my due.

he scowled at first; then, as ifrecollecting something, he said-- "right, right! better not give you all now: you would,perhaps, stay away three months if you had fifty pounds.there are ten; is it not plenty?" "yes, sir, but now you owe me five." "come back for it, then; i am your bankerfor forty pounds." "mr. rochester, i may as well mentionanother matter of business to you while i have the opportunity." "matter of business?i am curious to hear it."

"you have as good as informed me, sir, thatyou are going shortly to be married?" "yes; what then?" "in that case, sir, adele ought to go toschool: i am sure you will perceive the necessity of it." "to get her out of my bride's way, whomight otherwise walk over her rather too emphatically?there's sense in the suggestion; not a doubt of it. adele, as you say, must go to school; andyou, of course, must march straight to--the devil?""i hope not, sir; but i must seek another

situation somewhere." "in course!" he exclaimed, with a twang ofvoice and a distortion of features equally fantastic and ludicrous.he looked at me some minutes. "and old madam reed, or the misses, herdaughters, will be solicited by you to seek a place, i suppose?" "no, sir; i am not on such terms with myrelatives as would justify me in asking favours of them--but i shall advertise.""you shall walk up the pyramids of egypt!" he growled. "at your peril you advertise!i wish i had only offered you a sovereign

instead of ten pounds.give me back nine pounds, jane; i've a use for it." "and so have i, sir," i returned, puttingmy hands and my purse behind me. "i could not spare the money on anyaccount." "little niggard!" said he, "refusing me apecuniary request! give me five pounds, jane.""not five shillings, sir; nor five pence." "just let me look at the cash." "no, sir; you are not to be trusted.""jane!" "sir?""promise me one thing."

"i'll promise you anything, sir, that ithink i am likely to perform." "not to advertise: and to trust this questof a situation to me. i'll find you one in time." "i shall be glad so to do, sir, if you, inyour turn, will promise that i and adele shall be both safe out of the house beforeyour bride enters it." "very well! very well! i'll pledge my word on it.you go to-morrow, then?" "yes, sir; early.""shall you come down to the drawing-room after dinner?"

"no, sir, i must prepare for the journey.""then you and i must bid good-bye for a little while?""i suppose so, sir." "and how do people perform that ceremony ofparting, jane? teach me; i'm not quite up to it.""they say, farewell, or any other form they prefer." "then say it.""farewell, mr. rochester, for the present." "what must i say?""the same, if you like, sir." "farewell, miss eyre, for the present; isthat all?" "yes?""it seems stingy, to my notions, and dry,

and unfriendly. i should like something else: a littleaddition to the rite. if one shook hands, for instance; but no--that would not content me either. so you'll do no more than say farewell,jane?" "it is enough, sir: as much good-will maybe conveyed in one hearty word as in many." "very likely; but it is blank and cool--'farewell.'" "how long is he going to stand with hisback against that door?" i asked myself; "i want to commence mypacking." the dinner-bell rang, and suddenly away hebolted, without another syllable: i saw him

no more during the day, and was off beforehe had risen in the morning. i reached the lodge at gateshead about fiveo'clock in the afternoon of the first of may: i stepped in there before going up tothe hall. it was very clean and neat: the ornamentalwindows were hung with little white curtains; the floor was spotless; the grateand fire-irons were burnished bright, and the fire burnt clear. bessie sat on the hearth, nursing her last-born, and robert and his sister played quietly in a corner."bless you!--i knew you would come!" exclaimed mrs. leaven, as i entered.

"yes, bessie," said i, after i had kissedher; "and i trust i am not too late. how is mrs. reed?--alive still, i hope.""yes, she is alive; and more sensible and collected than she was. the doctor says she may linger a week ortwo yet; but he hardly thinks she will finally recover.""has she mentioned me lately?" "she was talking of you only this morning,and wishing you would come, but she is sleeping now, or was ten minutes ago, wheni was up at the house. she generally lies in a kind of lethargyall the afternoon, and wakes up about six or seven.will you rest yourself here an hour, miss,

and then i will go up with you?" robert here entered, and bessie laid hersleeping child in the cradle and went to welcome him: afterwards she insisted on mytaking off my bonnet and having some tea; for she said i looked pale and tired. i was glad to accept her hospitality; and isubmitted to be relieved of my travelling garb just as passively as i used to let herundress me when a child. old times crowded fast back on me as iwatched her bustling about--setting out the tea-tray with her best china, cutting breadand butter, toasting a tea-cake, and, between whiles, giving little robert or

jane an occasional tap or push, just as sheused to give me in former days. bessie had retained her quick temper aswell as her light foot and good looks. tea ready, i was going to approach thetable; but she desired me to sit still, quite in her old peremptory tones. i must be served at the fireside, she said;and she placed before me a little round stand with my cup and a plate of toast,absolutely as she used to accommodate me with some privately purloined dainty on a nursery chair: and i smiled and obeyed heras in bygone days. she wanted to know if i was happy atthornfield hall, and what sort of a person

the mistress was; and when i told her therewas only a master, whether he was a nice gentleman, and if i liked him. i told her he was rather an ugly man, butquite a gentleman; and that he treated me kindly, and i was content. then i went on to describe to her the gaycompany that had lately been staying at the house; and to these details bessie listenedwith interest: they were precisely of the kind she relished. in such conversation an hour was soon gone:bessie restored to me my bonnet, &c., and, accompanied by her, i quitted the lodge forthe hall.

it was also accompanied by her that i had,nearly nine years ago, walked down the path i was now ascending. on a dark, misty, raw morning in january, ihad left a hostile roof with a desperate and embittered heart--a sense of outlawryand almost of reprobation--to seek the chilly harbourage of lowood: that bourne sofar away and unexplored. the same hostile roof now again rose beforeme: my prospects were doubtful yet; and i had yet an aching heart. i still felt as a wanderer on the face ofthe earth; but i experienced firmer trust in myself and my own powers, and lesswithering dread of oppression.

the gaping wound of my wrongs, too, was nowquite healed; and the flame of resentment extinguished. "you shall go into the breakfast-roomfirst," said bessie, as she preceded me through the hall; "the young ladies will bethere." in another moment i was within thatapartment. there was every article of furniturelooking just as it did on the morning i was first introduced to mr. brocklehurst: thevery rug he had stood upon still covered the hearth. glancing at the bookcases, i thought icould distinguish the two volumes of

bewick's british birds occupying their oldplace on the third shelf, and gulliver's travels and the arabian nights ranged justabove. the inanimate objects were not changed; butthe living things had altered past recognition. two young ladies appeared before me; onevery tall, almost as tall as miss ingram-- very thin too, with a sallow face andsevere mien. there was something ascetic in her look,which was augmented by the extreme plainness of a straight-skirted, black,stuff dress, a starched linen collar, hair combed away from the temples, and the nun-

like ornament of a string of ebony beadsand a crucifix. this i felt sure was eliza, though i couldtrace little resemblance to her former self in that elongated and colourless visage. the other was as certainly georgiana: butnot the georgiana i remembered--the slim and fairy-like girl of eleven. this was a full-blown, very plump damsel,fair as waxwork, with handsome and regular features, languishing blue eyes, andringleted yellow hair. the hue of her dress was black too; but itsfashion was so different from her sister's- -so much more flowing and becoming--itlooked as stylish as the other's looked

puritanical. in each of the sisters there was one traitof the mother--and only one; the thin and pallid elder daughter had her parent'scairngorm eye: the blooming and luxuriant younger girl had her contour of jaw and chin--perhaps a little softened, but stillimparting an indescribable hardness to the countenance otherwise so voluptuous andbuxom. both ladies, as i advanced, rose to welcomeme, and both addressed me by the name of "miss eyre." eliza's greeting was delivered in a short,abrupt voice, without a smile; and then she

sat down again, fixed her eyes on the fire,and seemed to forget me. georgiana added to her "how d'ye do?"several commonplaces about my journey, the weather, and so on, uttered in rather adrawling tone: and accompanied by sundry side-glances that measured me from head to foot--now traversing the folds of my drabmerino pelisse, and now lingering on the plain trimming of my cottage bonnet. young ladies have a remarkable way ofletting you know that they think you a "quiz" without actually saying the words. a certain superciliousness of look,coolness of manner, nonchalance of tone,

express fully their sentiments on thepoint, without committing them by any positive rudeness in word or deed. a sneer, however, whether covert or open,had now no longer that power over me it once possessed: as i sat between mycousins, i was surprised to find how easy i felt under the total neglect of the one and the semi- sarcastic attentions of theother--eliza did not mortify, nor georgiana ruffle me. the fact was, i had other things to thinkabout; within the last few months feelings had been stirred in me so much more potentthan any they could raise--pains and

pleasures so much more acute and exquisite had been excited than any it was in theirpower to inflict or bestow--that their airs gave me no concern either for good or bad."how is mrs. reed?" i asked soon, looking calmly at georgiana,who thought fit to bridle at the direct address, as if it were an unexpectedliberty. "mrs. reed? ah! mama, you mean; she is extremelypoorly: i doubt if you can see her to- night." "if," said i, "you would just step upstairsand tell her i am come, i should be much

obliged to you."georgiana almost started, and she opened her blue eyes wild and wide. "i know she had a particular wish to seeme," i added, "and i would not defer attending to her desire longer than isabsolutely necessary." "mama dislikes being disturbed in anevening," remarked eliza. i soon rose, quietly took off my bonnet andgloves, uninvited, and said i would just step out to bessie--who was, i dared say,in the kitchen--and ask her to ascertain whether mrs. reed was disposed to receiveme or not to- night. i went, and having found bessie anddespatched her on my errand, i proceeded to

take further measures. it had heretofore been my habit always toshrink from arrogance: received as i had been to-day, i should, a year ago, haveresolved to quit gateshead the very next morning; now, it was disclosed to me all atonce that that would be a foolish plan. i had taken a journey of a hundred miles tosee my aunt, and i must stay with her till she was better--or dead: as to herdaughters' pride or folly, i must put it on one side, make myself independent of it. so i addressed the housekeeper; asked herto show me a room, told her i should probably be a visitor here for a week ortwo, had my trunk conveyed to my chamber,

and followed it thither myself: i metbessie on the landing. "missis is awake," said she; "i have toldher you are here: come and let us see if she will know you." i did not need to be guided to the well-known room, to which i had so often been summoned for chastisement or reprimand informer days. i hastened before bessie; i softly openedthe door: a shaded light stood on the table, for it was now getting dark. there was the great four-post bed withamber hangings as of old; there the toilet- table, the armchair, and the footstool, atwhich i had a hundred times been sentenced

to kneel, to ask pardon for offences by meuncommitted. i looked into a certain corner near, half-expecting to see the slim outline of a once dreaded switch which used to lurk there,waiting to leap out imp-like and lace my quivering palm or shrinking neck. i approached the bed; i opened the curtainsand leant over the high-piled pillows. well did i remember mrs. reed's face, and ieagerly sought the familiar image. it is a happy thing that time quells thelongings of vengeance and hushes the promptings of rage and aversion. i had left this woman in bitterness andhate, and i came back to her now with no

other emotion than a sort of ruth for hergreat sufferings, and a strong yearning to forget and forgive all injuries--to bereconciled and clasp hands in amity. the well-known face was there: stern,relentless as ever--there was that peculiar eye which nothing could melt, and thesomewhat raised, imperious, despotic eyebrow. how often had it lowered on me menace andhate! and how the recollection of childhood's terrors and sorrows revived asi traced its harsh line now! and yet i stooped down and kissed her: shelooked at me. "is this jane eyre?" she said."yes, aunt reed.

how are you, dear aunt?" i had once vowed that i would never callher aunt again: i thought it no sin to forget and break that vow now. my fingers had fastened on her hand whichlay outside the sheet: had she pressed mine kindly, i should at that moment haveexperienced true pleasure. but unimpressionable natures are not sosoon softened, nor are natural antipathies so readily eradicated. mrs. reed took her hand away, and, turningher face rather from me, she remarked that the night was warm.

again she regarded me so icily, i felt atonce that her opinion of me--her feeling towards me--was unchanged and unchangeable. i knew by her stony eye--opaque totenderness, indissoluble to tears--that she was resolved to consider me bad to thelast; because to believe me good would give her no generous pleasure: only a sense ofmortification. i felt pain, and then i felt ire; and theni felt a determination to subdue her--to be her mistress in spite both of her natureand her will. my tears had risen, just as in childhood:i ordered them back to their source. i brought a chair to the bed-head: i satdown and leaned over the pillow.

"you sent for me," i said, "and i am here;and it is my intention to stay till i see how you get on.""oh, of course! you have seen my daughters?" "yes.""well, you may tell them i wish you to stay till i can talk some things over with you ihave on my mind: to-night it is too late, and i have a difficulty in recalling them. but there was something i wished to say--let me see--" the wandering look and changed utterancetold what wreck had taken place in her once vigorous frame.

turning restlessly, she drew the bedclothesround her; my elbow, resting on a corner of the quilt, fixed it down: she was at onceirritated. "sit up!" said she; "don't annoy me withholding the clothes fast. are you jane eyre?""i am jane eyre." "i have had more trouble with that childthan any one would believe. such a burden to be left on my hands--andso much annoyance as she caused me, daily and hourly, with her incomprehensibledisposition, and her sudden starts of temper, and her continual, unnaturalwatchings of one's movements! i declare she talked to me once likesomething mad, or like a fiend--no child

ever spoke or looked as she did; i was gladto get her away from the house. what did they do with her at lowood? the fever broke out there, and many of thepupils died. she, however, did not die: but i said shedid--i wish she had died!" "a strange wish, mrs. reed; why do you hateher so?" "i had a dislike to her mother always; forshe was my husband's only sister, and a great favourite with him: he opposed thefamily's disowning her when she made her low marriage; and when news came of herdeath, he wept like a simpleton. he would send for the baby; though ientreated him rather to put it out to nurse

and pay for its maintenance. i hated it the first time i set my eyes onit--a sickly, whining, pining thing! it would wail in its cradle all night long--not screaming heartily like any other child, but whimpering and moaning. reed pitied it; and he used to nurse it andnotice it as if it had been his own: more, indeed, than he ever noticed his own atthat age. he would try to make my children friendlyto the little beggar: the darlings could not bear it, and he was angry with themwhen they showed their dislike. in his last illness, he had it broughtcontinually to his bedside; and but an hour

before he died, he bound me by vow to keepthe creature. i would as soon have been charged with apauper brat out of a workhouse: but he was weak, naturally weak. john does not at all resemble his father,and i am glad of it: john is like me and like my brothers--he is quite a gibson.oh, i wish he would cease tormenting me with letters for money? i have no more money to give him: we aregetting poor. i must send away half the servants and shutup part of the house; or let it off. i can never submit to do that--yet how arewe to get on?

two-thirds of my income goes in paying theinterest of mortgages. john gambles dreadfully, and always loses--poor boy! he is beset by sharpers: john is sunk anddegraded--his look is frightful--i feel ashamed for him when i see him." she was getting much excited."i think i had better leave her now," said i to bessie, who stood on the other side ofthe bed. "perhaps you had, miss: but she often talksin this way towards night--in the morning she is calmer."i rose. "stop!" exclaimed mrs. reed, "there isanother thing i wished to say.

he threatens me--he continually threatensme with his own death, or mine: and i dream sometimes that i see him laid out with agreat wound in his throat, or with a swollen and blackened face. i am come to a strange pass: i have heavytroubles. what is to be done?how is the money to be had?" bessie now endeavoured to persuade her totake a sedative draught: she succeeded with difficulty.soon after, mrs. reed grew more composed, and sank into a dozing state. i then left her.more than ten days elapsed before i had

again any conversation with her. she continued either delirious orlethargic; and the doctor forbade everything which could painfully exciteher. meantime, i got on as well as i could withgeorgiana and eliza. they were very cold, indeed, at first. eliza would sit half the day sewing,reading, or writing, and scarcely utter a word either to me or her sister. georgiana would chatter nonsense to hercanary bird by the hour, and take no notice of me.

but i was determined not to seem at a lossfor occupation or amusement: i had brought my drawing materials with me, and theyserved me for both. provided with a case of pencils, and somesheets of paper, i used to take a seat apart from them, near the window, and busymyself in sketching fancy vignettes, representing any scene that happened momentarily to shape itself in the ever-shifting kaleidoscope of imagination: a glimpse of sea between two rocks; therising moon, and a ship crossing its disk; a group of reeds and water-flags, and a naiad's head, crowned with lotus- flowers,rising out of them; an elf sitting in a

hedge-sparrow's nest, under a wreath ofhawthorn-bloom. one morning i fell to sketching a face:what sort of a face it was to be, i did not care or know.i took a soft black pencil, gave it a broad point, and worked away. soon i had traced on the paper a broad andprominent forehead and a square lower outline of visage: that contour gave mepleasure; my fingers proceeded actively to fill it with features. strongly-marked horizontal eyebrows must betraced under that brow; then followed, naturally, a well-defined nose, with astraight ridge and full nostrils; then a

flexible-looking mouth, by no means narrow; then a firm chin, with a decided cleft downthe middle of it: of course, some black whiskers were wanted, and some jetty hair,tufted on the temples, and waved above the forehead. now for the eyes: i had left them to thelast, because they required the most careful working. i drew them large; i shaped them well: theeyelashes 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 shadesblacker, that the lights might flash more brilliantly--a happy touch or two securedsuccess. 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 speakinglikeness: 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 fancyhead, 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 butmyself? 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-colourdrawing: this put her at once into good humour.she proposed a walk in the grounds. before we had been out two hours, we weredeep in a confidential conversation: she

had favoured me with a description of thebrilliant winter she had spent in london two seasons ago--of the admiration she had there excited--the attention she hadreceived; and i even got hints of the titled conquest she had made. in the course of the afternoon and eveningthese hints were enlarged on: various soft conversations were reported, andsentimental scenes represented; and, in short, a volume of a novel of fashionable life was that day improvised by her for mybenefit. the communications were renewed from day today: they always ran on the same theme--

herself, her loves, and woes. it was strange she never once advertedeither to her mother's illness, or her brother's death, or the present gloomystate of the family prospects. her mind seemed wholly taken up withreminiscences 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 evidentlyno time to talk. i never saw a busier person than she seemedto be; yet it was difficult to say what she did: or rather, to discover any result ofher diligence.

she had an alarm to call her up early. i know not how she occupied herself beforebreakfast, but after that meal she divided her time into regular portions, and eachhour had its allotted task. three times a day she studied a littlebook, which i found, on inspection, was a common prayer book. i asked her once what was the greatattraction of that volume, and she said, "the rubric." three hours she gave to stitching, withgold thread, the border of a square crimson cloth, almost large enough for a carpet.

in answer to my inquiries after the use ofthis article, she informed me it was a covering for the altar of a new churchlately erected near gateshead. two hours she devoted to her diary; two toworking 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: thisroutine sufficed for her; and nothing annoyed her so much as the occurrence ofany incident which forced her to vary its clockwork regularity. she told me one evening, when more disposedto be communicative than usual, that john's

conduct, and the threatened ruin of thefamily, had been a source of profound affliction to her: but she had now, she said, settled her mind, and formed herresolution. her own fortune she had taken care tosecure; and when her mother died--and it was wholly improbable, she tranquillyremarked, that she should either recover or linger long--she would execute a long- cherished project: seek a retirement wherepunctual habits would be permanently secured from disturbance, and place safebarriers 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 societyfor any consideration. georgiana should take her own course; andshe, eliza, would take hers." georgiana, when not unburdening her heartto me, spent most of her time in lying on the sofa, fretting about the dulness of thehouse, and wishing over and over again that her aunt gibson would send her aninvitation up to town. "it would be so much better," she said, "ifshe 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 beingover," but i suppose she referred to the expected decease of her mother and thegloomy sequel of funeral rites. eliza generally took no more notice of hersister's indolence and complaints than if no such murmuring, lounging object had beenbefore her. one day, however, as she put away heraccount-book and unfolded her embroidery, she suddenly took her up thus-- "georgiana, a more vain and absurd animalthan 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 withyourself, as a reasonable being ought, you seek only to fasten your feebleness on someother person's strength: if no one can be found willing to burden her or himself with such a fat, weak, puffy, useless thing, youcry out that you are ill-treated, neglected, miserable. then, too, existence for you must be ascene of continual change and excitement, or else the world is a dungeon: you must beadmired, 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 whichwill make you independent of all efforts,

and all wills, but your own? take one day; share it into sections; toeach section apportion its task: leave no stray unemployed quarters of an hour, tenminutes, five minutes--include all; do each piece of business in its turn with method,with rigid regularity. the day will close almost before you areaware it has begun; and you are indebted to no one for helping you to get rid of onevacant moment: you have had to seek no one's company, conversation, sympathy, forbearance; you have lived, in short, asan independent being ought to do. take this advice: the first and last ishall 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 insuperablethey may be. i tell you this plainly; and listen: forthough 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 ofyou: from the day her coffin is carried to the vault in gateshead church, you and iwill be as separate as if we had never known each other. you need not think that because we chancedto be born of the same parents, i shall

suffer you to fasten me down by even thefeeblest claim: i can tell you this--if the whole human race, ourselves excepted, were swept away, and we two stood alone on theearth, i would leave you in the old world, and betake myself to the new."she closed her lips. "you might have spared yourself the troubleof delivering that tirade," answered georgiana. "everybody knows you are the most selfish,heartless creature in existence: and i know your spiteful hatred towards me: ihave had a specimen of it before in the trick you played me about lord edwin vere:

you could not bear me to be raised aboveyou, 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 andblew her nose for an hour afterwards; eliza sat cold, impassable, and assiduouslyindustrious. true, generous feeling is made smallaccount of by some, but here were two natures rendered, the one intolerablyacrid, the other despicably savourless for the want of it. feeling without judgment is a washy draughtindeed; but judgment untempered by feeling

is too bitter and husky a morsel for humandeglutition. it was a wet and windy afternoon: georgianahad fallen asleep on the sofa over the perusal of a novel; eliza was gone toattend a saint's-day service at the new church--for in matters of religion she was a rigid formalist: no weather everprevented the punctual discharge of what she considered her devotional duties; fairor foul, she went to church thrice every sunday, and as often on week-days as therewere prayers. i bethought myself to go upstairs and seehow the dying woman sped, who lay there almost unheeded: the very servants paid herbut a remittent attention: the hired nurse,

being little looked after, would slip outof the room whenever she could. bessie was faithful; but she had her ownfamily to mind, and could only come occasionally to the hall. i found the sick-room unwatched, as i hadexpected: no nurse was there; the patient lay still, and seemingly lethargic; herlivid face sunk in the pillows: the fire was dying in the grate. i renewed the fuel, re-arranged thebedclothes, gazed awhile on her who could not now gaze on me, and then i moved awayto the window. the rain beat strongly against the panes,the wind blew tempestuously: "one lies

there," i thought, "who will soon be beyondthe war of earthly elements. whither will that spirit--now struggling toquit its material tenement--flit when at length released?" in pondering the great mystery, i thoughtof helen burns, recalled her dying words-- her faith--her doctrine of the equality ofdisembodied souls. i was still listening in thought to herwell-remembered tones--still picturing her pale and spiritual aspect, her wasted faceand sublime gaze, as she lay on her placid deathbed, and whispered her longing to be restored to her divine father's bosom--whena 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 isbessie?" "she is at the lodge, aunt.""aunt," she repeated. "who calls me aunt? you are not one of the gibsons; and yet iknow you--that face, and the eyes and

forehead, are quiet familiar to me: you arelike--why, you are like jane eyre!" i said nothing: i was afraid of occasioningsome shock by declaring my identity. "yet," said she, "i am afraid it is amistake: my thoughts deceive me. i wished to see jane eyre, and i fancy alikeness where none exists: besides, in eight years she must be so changed." i now gently assured her that i was theperson she supposed and desired me to be: and seeing that i was understood, and thather senses were quite collected, i explained how bessie had sent her husbandto 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 beforei die: what we think little of in health, burdens us at such an hour as the presentis to me. is the nurse here? or is there no one inthe 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 igave 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 myselfso to her is painful." she made an effort to alter her position,but failed: her face changed; she seemed to experience some inward sensation--theprecursor, perhaps, of the last pang. "well, i must get it over. eternity is before me: i had better tellher.--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, andto tell me how she is?

it is my intention to write shortly anddesire her to come to me at madeira. providence has blessed my endeavours tosecure a competency; and as i am unmarried and childless, i wish to adopt her duringmy 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 liftingyou 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 youabhorred me the worst of anybody in the world; the unchildlike look and voice with which you affirmed that the very thought ofme made you sick, and asserted that i had treated you with miserable cruelty. i could not forget my own sensations whenyou thus started up and poured out the venom of your mind: i felt fear as if ananimal that i had struck or pushed had looked up at me with human eyes and cursedme in a man's voice.--bring me some water! oh, make haste!" "dear mrs. reed," said i, as i offered herthe draught she required, "think no more of

all this, let it pass away from your mind. forgive me for my passionate language: iwas a child then; eight, nine years have passed since that day." she heeded nothing of what i said; but whenshe had tasted the water and drawn breath, she went on thus-- "i tell you i could not forget it; and itook my revenge: for you to be adopted by your uncle, and placed in a state of easeand comfort, was what i could not endure. i wrote to him; i said i was sorry for hisdisappointment, but jane eyre was dead: she had died of typhus fever at lowood.

now act as you please: write and contradictmy 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 shouldnever have been tempted to commit." "if you could but be persuaded to think nomore of it, aunt, and to regard me with kindness and forgiveness" "you have a very bad disposition," saidshe, "and one to this day i feel it impossible to understand: how for nineyears you could be patient and quiescent under any treatment, and in the tenth break

out all fire and violence, i can nevercomprehend." "my disposition is not so bad as you think:i am passionate, but not vindictive. many a time, as a little child, i shouldhave been glad to love you if you would have let me; and i long earnestly to bereconciled to you now: kiss me, aunt." i approached my cheek to her lips: shewould not touch it. she said i oppressed her by leaning overthe bed, and again demanded water. as i laid her down--for i raised her andsupported her on my arm while she drank--i covered her ice-cold and clammy hand withmine: 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 atpeace." poor, suffering woman! it was too late forher to make now the effort to change her habitual frame of mind: living, she hadever 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 gavenone. she was fast relapsing into stupor; nor didher 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 thatall 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 oncerobust and active frame, rigid and still: her eye of flint was covered with its coldlid; her brow and strong traits wore yet the impress of her inexorable soul. a strange and solemn object was that corpseto me.

i gazed on it with gloom and pain: nothingsoft, nothing sweet, nothing pitying, or hopeful, or subduing did it inspire; only agrating anguish for her woes--not my loss--and a sombre tearless dismay at thefearfulness of death in such a form. eliza surveyed her parent calmly.after a silence of some minutes she observed-- "with her constitution she should havelived to a good old age: her life was shortened by trouble." and then a spasm constricted her mouth foran 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'sleave of absence: yet a month elapsed before i quitted gateshead. i wished to leave immediately after thefuneral, but georgiana entreated me to stay till she could get off to london, whithershe was now at last invited by her uncle, mr. gibson, who had come down to direct his sister's interment and settle the familyaffairs. georgiana said she dreaded being left alonewith eliza; from her she got neither

sympathy in her dejection, support in herfears, 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 wouldidle; 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 beingthe forbearing party; i should assign you your share of labour, and compel you toaccomplish 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 happensto be very transitory, and comes at a peculiarly mournful season, that i consentthus to render it so patient and compliant on my part." at last i saw georgiana off; but now it waseliza's turn to request me to stay another week. her plans required all her time andattention, she said; she was about to

depart for some unknown bourne; and all daylong she stayed in her own room, her door bolted within, filling trunks, emptying drawers, burning papers, and holding nocommunication with any one. she wished me to look after the house, tosee 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 discreetconduct! there is some difference between livingwith such an one as you and with georgiana: you perform your own part in life andburden no one.

to-morrow," she continued, "i set out forthe continent. i shall take up my abode in a religioushouse near lisle--a nunnery you would call it; there i shall be quiet and unmolested. i shall devote myself for a time to theexamination of the roman catholic dogmas, and to a careful study of the workings oftheir 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 andin order, i shall embrace the tenets of rome and probably take the veil." i neither expressed surprise at thisresolution 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, cousinjane eyre; i wish you well: you have some sense." i then returned: "you are not withoutsense, cousin eliza; but what you have, i suppose, in another year will be walled upalive in a french convent. however, it is not my business, and so itsuits you, i don't much care." "you are in the right," said she; and withthese words we each went our separate way. as i shall not have occasion to refereither to her or her sister again, i may as

well mention here, that georgiana made anadvantageous match with a wealthy worn-out man of fashion, and that eliza actually took the veil, and is at this day superiorof the convent where she passed the period of her novitiate, and which she endowedwith her fortune. how people feel when they are returninghome from an absence, long or short, i did not know: i had never experienced thesensation. i had known what it was to come back togateshead 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 toget either. neither of these returnings was verypleasant or desirable: no magnet drew me to a given point, increasing in its strengthof attraction the nearer i came. the return to thornfield was yet to betried. 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 ofmrs. reed in her last moments; i saw her disfigured and discoloured face, and heardher strangely altered voice. i mused on the funeral day, the coffin, thehearse, 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; ibeheld one the cynosure of a ball-room, the other the inmate of a convent cell; and idwelt 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 mytraveller's bed, i left reminiscence for anticipation. i was going back to thornfield: but howlong was i to stay there?

not long; of that i was sure. i had heard from mrs. fairfax in theinterim of my absence: the party at the hall was dispersed; mr. rochester had leftfor london three weeks ago, but he was then expected to return in a fortnight. mrs. fairfax surmised that he was gone tomake 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 shehad 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 avivid morning dream i saw her closing the gates of thornfield against me and pointingme out another road; and mr. rochester looked on with his arms folded--smiling sardonically, as it seemed, at both her andme. i had not notified to mrs. fairfax theexact day of my return; for i did not wish either car or carriage to meet me atmillcote. i proposed to walk the distance quietly bymyself; and very quietly, after leaving my

box in the ostler's care, did i slip awayfrom the george inn, about six o'clock of a june evening, and take the old road to thornfield: a road which lay chieflythrough fields, and was now little frequented. it was not a bright or splendid summerevening, 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 andsettled, and its cloud strata high and thin.

the west, too, was warm: no watery gleamchilled it--it seemed as if there was a fire lit, an altar burning behind itsscreen of marbled vapour, and out of apertures shone a golden redness. i felt glad as the road shortened beforeme: so glad that i stopped once to ask myself what that joy meant: and to remindreason that it was not to my home i was going, or to a permanent resting-place, or to a place where fond friends looked outfor me and waited my arrival. "mrs. fairfax will smile you a calmwelcome, to be sure," said i; "and little adele will clap her hands and jump to seeyou: but you know very well you are

thinking of another than they, and that heis not thinking of you." but what is so headstrong as youth?what so blind as inexperience? these affirmed that it was pleasure enoughto have the privilege of again looking on mr. rochester, whether he looked on me ornot; and they added--"hasten! hasten! be with him while you may: but a few more days or weeks, at most, and you are parted fromhim for ever!" and then i strangled a new-born agony--adeformed thing which i could not persuade myself to own and rear--and ran on. they are making hay, too, in thornfieldmeadows: or rather, the labourers are just

quitting their work, and returning homewith their rakes on their shoulders, now, at the hour i arrive. i have but a field or two to traverse, andthen 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 tobe at the house. i passed a tall briar, shooting leafy andflowery 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 ihave is unstrung: for a moment i am beyond

my own mastery.what does it mean? i did not think i should tremble in thisway 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 whatfashion i know not; being scarcely

cognisant of my movements, and solicitousonly to appear calm; and, above all, to control the working muscles of my face-- which i feel rebel insolently against mywill, 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 sendfor a carriage, and come clattering over street and road like a common mortal, butto steal into the vicinage of your home along with twilight, just as if you were adream or a shade.

what the deuce have you done with yourselfthis last month?" "i have been with my aunt, sir, who isdead." "a true janian reply!good angels be my guard! she comes from the other world--from theabode of people who are dead; and tells me so when she meets me alone here in thegloaming! if i dared, i'd touch you, to see if youare substance or shadow, you elf!--but i'd as soon offer to take hold of a blue ignisfatuus light in a marsh. truant! truant!" he added, when he hadpaused an instant. "absent from me a whole month, andforgetting me quite, i'll be sworn!"

i knew there would be pleasure in meetingmy master again, even though broken by the fear that he was so soon to cease to be mymaster, and by the knowledge that i was nothing to him: but there was ever in mr. rochester (so at least i thought) such awealth of the power of communicating happiness, that to taste but of the crumbshe scattered to stray and stranger birds like me, was to feast genially. his last words were balm: they seemed toimply 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 hardlyliked to ask to go by. i inquired soon if he had not been tolondon. "yes; i suppose you found that out bysecond-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 tellme if you don't think it will suit mrs. rochester exactly; and whether she won'tlook like queen boadicea, leaning back against those purple cushions.

i wish, jane, i were a trifle betteradapted to match with her externally. tell me now, fairy as you are--can't yougive 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 arehandsome enough; or rather your sternness has a power beyond beauty." mr. rochester had sometimes read myunspoken thoughts with an acumen to me incomprehensible: in the present instancehe took no notice of my abrupt vocal response; but he smiled at me with a

certain smile he had of his own, and whichhe used but on rare occasions. he seemed to think it too good for commonpurposes: it was the real sunshine of feeling--he shed it over me now. "pass, janet," said he, making room for meto cross the stile: "go up home, and stay your weary little wandering feet at afriend's threshold." all i had now to do was to obey him insilence: 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 meround.

i said--or something in me said for me, andin spite of me-- "thank you, mr. rochester, for your greatkindness. i am strangely glad to get back again toyou: and wherever you are is my home--my only home." i walked on so fast that even he couldhardly have overtaken me had he tried. little adele was half wild with delightwhen she saw me. mrs. fairfax received me with her usualplain friendliness. leah smiled, and even sophie bid me "bonsoir" with glee. this was very pleasant; there is nohappiness like that of being loved by your

fellow-creatures, and feeling that yourpresence is an addition to their comfort. i that evening shut my eyes resolutelyagainst the future: i stopped my cars against the voice that kept warning me ofnear separation and coming grief. when tea was over and mrs. fairfax hadtaken her knitting, and i had assumed a low seat near her, and adele, kneeling on thecarpet, had nestled close up to me, and a sense of mutual affection seemed to surround us with a ring of golden peace, iuttered a silent prayer that we might not be parted far or soon; but when, as we thussat, 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 adopteddaughter back again, and added that he saw adele was "prete a croquer sa petite maman anglaise"--i half ventured to hope that hewould, even after his marriage, keep us together somewhere under the shelter of hisprotection, and not quite exiled from the sunshine of his presence. a fortnight of dubious calm succeeded myreturn 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 ifshe had yet heard anything decided: her answer was always in the negative. once she said she had actually put thequestion to mr. rochester as to when he was going to bring his bride home; but he hadanswered her only by a joke and one of his queer looks, and she could not tell what tomake of him. one thing specially surprised me, and thatwas, there were no journeyings backward and forward, no visits to ingram park: to besure it was twenty miles off, on the borders of another county; but what wasthat distance to an ardent lover? to so practised and indefatigable ahorseman as mr. rochester, it would be but

a morning's ride. i began to cherish hopes i had no right toconceive: that the match was broken off; that rumour had been mistaken; that one orboth parties had changed their minds. i used to look at my master's face to seeif it were sad or fierce; but i could not remember the time when it had been souniformly clear of clouds or evil feelings. if, in the moments i and my pupil spentwith him, i lacked spirits and sank into inevitable dejection, he became even gay. never had he called me more frequently tohis presence; never been kinder to me when there--and, alas! never had i loved him sowell.

chapter xxiii a splendid midsummer shone over england:skies so pure, suns so radiant as were then seen in long succession, seldom favour evensingly, our wave- girt land. it was as if a band of italian days hadcome from the south, like a flock of glorious passenger birds, and lighted torest them on the cliffs of albion. the hay was all got in; the fields roundthornfield were green and shorn; the roads white and baked; the trees were in theirdark prime; hedge and wood, full-leaved and deeply tinted, contrasted well with thesunny hue of the cleared meadows between. on midsummer-eve, adele, weary withgathering wild strawberries in hay lane

half the day, had gone to bed with the sun. i watched her drop asleep, and when i lefther, 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 andscorched summit. where the sun had gone down in simplestate--pure of the pomp of clouds--spread a solemn purple, burning with the light ofred jewel and furnace flame at one point, on one hill-peak, and extending high and wide, soft and still softer, over halfheaven. the east had its own charm or fine deepblue, and its own modest gem, a casino and

solitary star: soon it would boast themoon; but she was yet beneath the horizon. i walked a while on the pavement; but asubtle, well-known scent--that of a cigar-- stole from some window; i saw the librarycasement open a handbreadth; i knew i might be watched thence; so i went apart into theorchard. no nook in the grounds more sheltered andmore eden-like; it was full of trees, it bloomed with flowers: a very high wall shutit out from the court, on one side; on the other, a beech avenue screened it from thelawn. at the bottom was a sunk fence; its soleseparation from lonely fields: a winding walk, bordered with laurels and terminatingin 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 silencereigned, such gloaming gathered, i felt as if i could haunt such shade for ever; butin threading the flower and fruit parterres at the upper part of the enclosure, enticed there by the light the now rising moon caston this more open quarter, my step is stayed--not by sound, not by sight, butonce more by a warning fragrance. sweet-briar and southernwood, jasmine,pink, and rose have long been yielding their evening sacrifice of incense: thisnew 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 woodhalf a mile off; no moving form is visible, no coming step audible; but that perfumeincreases: i must flee. i make for the wicket leading to theshrubbery, and i see mr. rochester entering. i step aside into the ivy recess; he willnot stay long: he will soon return whence he came, and if i sit still he will neversee me. but no--eventide is as pleasant to him asto me, and this antique garden as

attractive; and he strolls on, now liftingthe gooseberry-tree branches to look at the fruit, large as plums, with which they are laden; now taking a ripe cherry from thewall; now stooping towards a knot of flowers, either to inhale their fragranceor to admire the dew-beads on their petals. a great moth goes humming by me; it alightson a plant at mr. rochester's foot: he sees it, and bends to examine it. "now, he has his back towards me," thoughti, "and he is occupied too; perhaps, if i walk softly, i can slip away unnoticed." i trode on an edging of turf that thecrackle of the pebbly gravel might not

betray me: he was standing among the bedsat 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 eyesbehind--could his shadow feel? i started at first, and then i approachedhim. "look at his wings," said he, "he remindsme 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 ashame to sit in the house; and surely no one can wish to go to bed while sunset isthus at meeting with moonrise." it is one of my faults, that though mytongue is sometimes prompt enough at an answer, there are times when it sadly failsme in framing an excuse; and always the lapse occurs at some crisis, when a facile word or plausible pretext is speciallywanted to get me out of painful

embarrassment. i did not like to walk at this hour alonewith mr. rochester in the shadowy orchard; but i could not find a reason to allege forleaving him. i followed with lagging step, and thoughtsbusily bent on discovering a means of extrication; but he himself looked socomposed 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 thelaurel 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 aneye 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 ofregard for that foolish little child adele, too; and even for simple dame fairfax?" "yes, sir; in different ways, i have anaffection 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 thislife," 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 isexpired." "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 orderto 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 usualacuteness, you have hit the nail straight on the head.""soon, sir?" "very soon, my--that is, miss eyre: andyou'll remember, jane, the first time i, or rumour, plainly intimated to you that itwas my intention to put my old bachelor's neck into the sacred noose, to enter into the holy estate of matrimony--to take missingram to my bosom, in short (she's an

extensive armful: but that's not to thepoint--one can't have too much of such a very excellent thing as my beautiful blanche): well, as i was saying--listen tome, jane! you're not turning your head to look aftermore moths, are you? that was only a lady-clock, child, 'flyingaway home.' i wish to remind you that it was you whofirst 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 andlittle adele had better trot forthwith.

i pass over the sort of slur conveyed inthis 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 thati have made it my law of action. adele must go to school; and you, misseyre, 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 ifind another shelter to betake myself to:" but i stopped, feeling it would not do to risk a long sentence, for my voice was notquite under command. "in about a month i hope to be abridegroom," continued mr. rochester; "and

in the interim, i shall myself look out foremployment 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 herduty as well as you have done yours, she has a sort of claim upon her employer forany little assistance he can conveniently render her; indeed i have already, through my future mother-in-law, heard of a placethat 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 suchwarm-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 thenthe 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 tearsgushed out. i did not cry so as to be heard, however; iavoided sobbing.

the thought of mrs. o'gall and bitternuttlodge 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 widerocean--wealth, caste, custom intervened between me and what i naturally andinevitably loved. "it is a long way," i again said. "it is, to be sure; and when you get tobitternutt lodge, connaught, ireland, i shall never see you again, jane: that'smorally certain. i never go over to ireland, not havingmyself much of a fancy for the country.

we have been good friends, jane; have wenot?" "yes, sir." "and when friends are on the eve ofseparation, they like to spend the little time that remains to them close to eachother. come! we'll talk over the voyage and theparting quietly half-an-hour or so, while the stars enter into their shining life upin 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 iam 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 thistime: my heart was still. "because," he said, "i sometimes have aqueer feeling with regard to you-- especially when you are near me, as now: itis as if i had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly and inextricably knotted to a similar string situated in thecorresponding quarter of your little frame. and if that boisterous channel, and twohundred miles or so of land come broad

between us, i am afraid that cord ofcommunion will be snapt; and then i've a nervous notion i should take to bleedinginwardly. as for you,--you'd forget me.""that i never should, sir: you know--" impossible to proceed. "jane, do you hear that nightingale singingin the wood? listen!" in listening, i sobbed convulsively; for icould repress what i endured no longer; i was obliged to yield, and i was shaken fromhead to foot with acute distress. when i did speak, it was only to express animpetuous 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 griefand love within me, was claiming mastery, and struggling for full sway, and assertinga right to predominate, to overcome, to live, rise, and reign at last: yes,--and tospeak. "i grieve to leave thornfield: i lovethornfield:--i love it, because i have lived in it a full and delightful life,--momentarily at least. i have not been trampled on. i have not been petrified.i have not been buried with inferior minds, and excluded from every glimpse ofcommunion with what is bright and energetic

and high. i have talked, face to face, with what ireverence, with what i delight in,--with an original, a vigorous, an expanded mind. i have known you, mr. rochester; and itstrikes me with terror and anguish to feel i absolutely must be torn from you forever. i see the necessity of departure; and it islike looking on the necessity of death." "where do you see the necessity?" he askedsuddenly. "where? you, sir, have placed it before me.""in what shape?"

"in the shape of miss ingram; a noble andbeautiful woman,--your bride." "my bride! what bride?i have no bride!" "but you will have.""yes;--i will!--i will!" he set his teeth. "then i must go:--you have said ityourself." "no: you must stay!i swear it--and the oath shall be kept." "i tell you i must go!" i retorted, roused to something likepassion.

"do you think i can stay to become nothingto you? do you think i am an automaton?--a machinewithout feelings? and can bear to have my morsel of bread snatched from my lips, andmy drop of living water dashed from my cup? do you think, because i am poor, obscure,plain, and little, i am soulless and heartless?you think wrong!--i have as much soul as you,--and full as much heart! and if god had gifted me with some beautyand much wealth, i should have made it as hard for you to leave me, as it is now forme to leave you. i am not talking to you now through themedium of custom, conventionalities, nor

even of mortal flesh;--it is my spirit thataddresses your spirit; just as if both had passed through the grave, and we stood atgod's feet, equal,--as we are!" "as we are!" repeated mr. rochester--"so,"he added, enclosing me in his arms. gathering me to his breast, pressing hislips on my lips: "so, jane!" "yes, so, sir," i rejoined: "and yet notso; for you are a married man--or as good as a married man, and wed to one inferiorto you--to one with whom you have no sympathy--whom i do not believe you truly love; for i have seen and heard you sneerat her. i would scorn such a union: therefore i ambetter than you--let me go!"

"where, jane? to ireland?""yes--to ireland. i have spoken my mind, and can go anywherenow." "jane, be still; don't struggle so, like awild frantic bird that is rending its own plumage in its desperation." "i am no bird; and no net ensnares me; i ama free human being with an independent will, which i now exert to leave you."another effort set me at liberty, and i stood erect before him. "and your will shall decide your destiny,"he said: "i offer you my hand, my heart,

and a share of all my possessions.""you play a farce, which i merely laugh at." "i ask you to pass through life at my side--to be my second self, and best earthly companion.""for that fate you have already made your choice, and must abide by it." "jane, be still a few moments: you areover-excited: i will be still too." a waft of wind came sweeping down thelaurel-walk, and trembled through the boughs of the chestnut: it wandered away--away--to an indefinite distance--it died. the nightingale's song was then the onlyvoice of the hour: in listening to it, i

again wept.mr. rochester sat quiet, looking at me gently and seriously. some time passed before he spoke; he atlast said-- "come to my side, jane, and let us explainand understand one another." "i will never again come to your side: i amtorn away now, and cannot return." "but, jane, i summon you as my wife: it isyou only i intend to marry." i was silent: i thought he mocked me. "come, jane--come hither.""your bride stands between us." he rose, and with a stride reached me.

"my bride is here," he said, again drawingme to him, "because my equal is here, and my likeness.jane, will you marry me?" still i did not answer, and still i writhedmyself from his grasp: for i was still incredulous."do you doubt me, jane?" "entirely." "you have no faith in me?""not a whit." "am i a liar in your eyes?" he askedpassionately. "little sceptic, you shall be convinced. what love have i for miss ingram?none: and that you know.

what love has she for me? none: as i have taken pains to prove: icaused a rumour to reach her that my fortune was not a third of what wassupposed, and after that i presented myself to see the result; it was coldness bothfrom her and her mother. i would not--i could not--marry missingram. you--you strange, you almost unearthlything!--i love as my own flesh. you--poor and obscure, and small and plainas you are--i entreat to accept me as a husband." "what, me!"

i ejaculated, beginning in his earnestness--and especially in his incivility--to credit his sincerity: "me who have not afriend in the world but you--if you are my friend: not a shilling but what you havegiven me?" "you, jane, i must have you for my own--entirely my own. will you be mine? say yes, quickly.""mr. rochester, let me look at your face: turn to the moonlight.""why?" "because i want to read your countenance--turn!" "there! you will find it scarcely morelegible than a crumpled, scratched page.

read on: only make haste, for i suffer." his face was very much agitated and verymuch flushed, and there were strong workings in the features, and strangegleams in the eyes. "oh, jane, you torture me!" he exclaimed. "with that searching and yet faithful andgenerous look, you torture me!" "how can i do that? if you are true, and your offer real, myonly feelings to you must be gratitude and devotion--they cannot torture.""gratitude!" he ejaculated; and added wildly--"jane accept me quickly.

say, edward--give me my name--edward--iwill marry you." "are you in earnest?do you truly love me? do you sincerely wish me to be your wife?" "i do; and if an oath is necessary tosatisfy you, i swear it." "then, sir, i will marry you.""edward--my little wife!" "dear edward!" "come to me--come to me entirely now," saidhe; and added, in his deepest tone, speaking in my ear as his cheek was laid onmine, "make my happiness--i will make yours."

"god pardon me!" he subjoined ere long;"and man meddle not with me: i have her, and will hold her.""there is no one to meddle, sir. i have no kindred to interfere." "no--that is the best of it," he said. and if i had loved him less i should havethought his accent and look of exultation savage; but, sitting by him, roused fromthe nightmare of parting--called to the paradise of union--i thought only of the bliss given me to drink in so abundant aflow. again and again he said, "are you happy,jane?"

and again and again i answered, "yes." after which he murmured, "it will atone--itwill atone. have i not found her friendless, and cold,and comfortless? will i not guard, and cherish, and solaceher? is there not love in my heart, andconstancy in my resolves? it will expiate at god's tribunal. i know my maker sanctions what i do.for the world's judgment--i wash my hands thereof.for man's opinion--i defy it." but what had befallen the night?

the moon was not yet set, and we were allin shadow: i could scarcely see my master's face, near as i was. and what ailed the chestnut tree? itwrithed and groaned; while wind roared in the laurel walk, and came sweeping over us."we must go in," said mr. rochester: "the weather changes. i could have sat with thee till morning,jane." "and so," thought i, "could i with you." i should have said so, perhaps, but alivid, vivid spark leapt out of a cloud at which i was looking, and there was a crack,a crash, and a close rattling peal; and i

thought only of hiding my dazzled eyesagainst mr. rochester's shoulder. the rain rushed down. he hurried me up the walk, through thegrounds, and into the house; but we were quite wet before we could pass thethreshold. he was taking off my shawl in the hall, andshaking the water out of my loosened hair, when mrs. fairfax emerged from her room.i did not observe her at first, nor did mr. rochester. the lamp was lit.the clock was on the stroke of twelve. "hasten to take off your wet things," saidhe; "and before you go, good- night--good-

night, my darling!" he kissed me repeatedly.when i looked up, on leaving his arms, there stood the widow, pale, grave, andamazed. i only smiled at her, and ran upstairs. "explanation will do for another time,"thought i. still, when i reached my chamber, i felt apang at the idea she should even temporarily misconstrue what she had seen. but joy soon effaced every other feeling;and loud as the wind blew, near and deep as the thunder crashed, fierce and frequent asthe lightning gleamed, cataract-like as the

rain fell during a storm of two hours' duration, i experienced no fear and littleawe. mr. rochester came thrice to my door in thecourse of it, to ask if i was safe and tranquil: and that was comfort, that wasstrength for anything. before i left my bed in the morning, littleadele came running in to tell me that the great horse-chestnut at the bottom of theorchard had been struck by lightning in the night, and half of it split away. chapter xxiv as i rose and dressed, i thought over whathad happened, and wondered if it were a

dream. i could not be certain of the reality tilli had seen mr. rochester again, and heard him renew his words of love and promise. while arranging my hair, i looked at myface in the glass, and felt it was no longer plain: there was hope in its aspectand life in its colour; and my eyes seemed as if they had beheld the fount of fruition, and borrowed beams from thelustrous ripple. i had often been unwilling to look at mymaster, because i feared he could not be pleased at my look; but i was sure i mightlift my face to his now, and not cool his

affection by its expression. i took a plain but clean and light summerdress from my drawer and put it on: it seemed no attire had ever so well becomeme, because none had i ever worn in so blissful a mood. i was not surprised, when i ran down intothe hall, to see that a brilliant june morning had succeeded to the tempest of thenight; and to feel, through the open glass door, the breathing of a fresh and fragrantbreeze. nature must be gladsome when i was sohappy. a beggar-woman and her little boy--pale,ragged objects both--were coming up the

walk, and i ran down and gave them all themoney i happened to have in my purse--some three or four shillings: good or bad, theymust partake of my jubilee. the rooks cawed, and blither birds sang;but nothing was so merry or so musical as my own rejoicing heart. mrs. fairfax surprised me by looking out ofthe window with a sad countenance, and saying gravely--"miss eyre, will you cometo breakfast?" during the meal she was quiet and cool: buti could not undeceive her then. i must wait for my master to giveexplanations; and so must she. i ate what i could, and then i hastenedupstairs.

i met adele leaving the schoolroom."where are you going? it is time for lessons." "mr. rochester has sent me away to thenursery." "where is he?" "in there," pointing to the apartment shehad left; and i went in, and there he stood."come and bid me good-morning," said he. i gladly advanced; and it was not merely acold word now, or even a shake of the hand that i received, but an embrace and a kiss.it seemed natural: it seemed genial to be so well loved, so caressed by him.

"jane, you look blooming, and smiling, andpretty," said he: "truly pretty this morning.is this my pale, little elf? is this my mustard- seed? this little sunny-faced girl with thedimpled cheek and rosy lips; the satin- smooth hazel hair, and the radiant hazeleyes?" (i had green eyes, reader; but you mustexcuse the mistake: for him they were new- dyed, i suppose.)"it is jane eyre, sir." "soon to be jane rochester," he added: "infour weeks, janet; not a day more. do you hear that?"i did, and i could not quite comprehend it:

it made me giddy. the feeling, the announcement sent throughme, was something stronger than was consistent with joy--something that smoteand stunned. it was, i think almost fear. "you blushed, and now you are white, jane:what is that for?" "because you gave me a new name--janerochester; and it seems so strange." "yes, mrs. rochester," said he; "young mrs.rochester--fairfax rochester's girl-bride." "it can never be, sir; it does not soundlikely. human beings never enjoy complete happinessin this world.

i was not born for a different destiny tothe rest of my species: to imagine such a lot befalling me is a fairy tale--a day-dream." "which i can and will realise. i shall begin to-day.this morning i wrote to my banker in london to send me certain jewels he has in hiskeeping,--heirlooms for the ladies of thornfield. in a day or two i hope to pour them intoyour lap: for every privilege, every attention shall be yours that i wouldaccord a peer's daughter, if about to marry her."

"oh, sir!--never rain jewels!i don't like to hear them spoken of. jewels for jane eyre sounds unnatural andstrange: i would rather not have them." "i will myself put the diamond chain roundyour neck, and the circlet on your forehead,--which it will become: fornature, at least, has stamped her patent of nobility on this brow, jane; and i will clasp the bracelets on these fine wrists,and load these fairy-like fingers with rings." "no, no, sir! think of other subjects, andspeak of other things, and in another strain.don't address me as if i were a beauty; i

am your plain, quakerish governess." "you are a beauty in my eyes, and a beautyjust after the desire of my heart,-- delicate and aerial.""puny and insignificant, you mean. you are dreaming, sir,--or you aresneering. for god's sake don't be ironical!" "i will make the world acknowledge you abeauty, too," he went on, while i really became uneasy at the strain he had adopted,because i felt he was either deluding himself or trying to delude me. "i will attire my jane in satin and lace,and she shall have roses in her hair; and i

will cover the head i love best with apriceless veil." "and then you won't know me, sir; and ishall not be your jane eyre any longer, but an ape in a harlequin's jacket--a jay inborrowed plumes. i would as soon see you, mr. rochester,tricked out in stage-trappings, as myself clad in a court-lady's robe; and i don'tcall you handsome, sir, though i love you most dearly: far too dearly to flatter you. don't flatter me."he pursued his theme, however, without noticing my deprecation. "this very day i shall take you in thecarriage to millcote, and you must choose

some dresses for yourself.i told you we shall be married in four weeks. the wedding is to take place quietly, inthe church down below yonder; and then i shall waft you away at once to town. after a brief stay there, i shall bear mytreasure to regions nearer the sun: to french vineyards and italian plains; andshe shall see whatever is famous in old story and in modern record: she shall taste, too, of the life of cities; and sheshall learn to value herself by just comparison with others.""shall i travel?--and with you, sir?"

"you shall sojourn at paris, rome, andnaples: at florence, venice, and vienna: all the ground i have wandered over shallbe re-trodden by you: wherever i stamped my hoof, your sylph's foot shall step also. ten years since, i flew through europe halfmad; with disgust, hate, and rage as my companions: now i shall revisit it healedand cleansed, with a very angel as my comforter." i laughed at him as he said this."i am not an angel," i asserted; "and i will not be one till i die: i will bemyself. mr. rochester, you must neither expect norexact anything celestial of me--for you

will not get it, any more than i shall getit of you: which i do not at all anticipate." "what do you anticipate of me?" "for a little while you will perhaps be asyou are now,--a very little while; and then you will turn cool; and then you will becapricious; and then you will be stern, and i shall have much ado to please you: but when you get well used to me, you willperhaps like me again,--like me, i say, not love me.i suppose your love will effervesce in six months, or less.

i have observed in books written by men,that period assigned as the farthest to which a husband's ardour extends. yet, after all, as a friend and companion,i hope never to become quite distasteful to my dear master.""distasteful! and like you again! i think i shall like you again, and yetagain: and i will make you confess i do not only like, but love you--with truth,fervour, constancy." "yet are you not capricious, sir?" "to women who please me only by theirfaces, i am the very devil when i find out they have neither souls nor hearts--whenthey open to me a perspective of flatness,

triviality, and perhaps imbecility, coarseness, and ill-temper: but to theclear eye and eloquent tongue, to the soul made of fire, and the character that bendsbut does not break--at once supple and stable, tractable and consistent--i am evertender and true." "had you ever experience of such acharacter, sir? did you ever love such an one?" "i love it now.""but before me: if i, indeed, in any respect come up to your difficultstandard?" "i never met your likeness.

jane, you please me, and you master me--youseem to submit, and i like the sense of pliancy you impart; and while i am twiningthe soft, silken skein round my finger, it sends a thrill up my arm to my heart. i am influenced--conquered; and theinfluence is sweeter than i can express; and the conquest i undergo has a witcherybeyond any triumph i can win. why do you smile, jane? what does that inexplicable, that uncannyturn of countenance mean?" "i was thinking, sir (you will excuse theidea; it was involuntary), i was thinking of hercules and samson with their charmers--"

"you were, you little elfish--" "hush, sir!you don't talk very wisely just now; any more than those gentlemen acted verywisely. however, had they been married, they wouldno doubt by their severity as husbands have made up for their softness as suitors; andso will you, i fear. i wonder how you will answer me a yearhence, should i ask a favour it does not suit your convenience or pleasure togrant." "ask me something now, jane,--the leastthing: i desire to be entreated--" "indeed i will, sir; i have my petition allready."

"speak! but if you look up and smile with thatcountenance, i shall swear concession before i know to what, and that will make afool of me." "not at all, sir; i ask only this: don'tsend for the jewels, and don't crown me with roses: you might as well put a borderof gold lace round that plain pocket handkerchief you have there." "i might as well 'gild refined gold.'i know it: your request is granted then-- for the time.i will remand the order i despatched to my banker.

but you have not yet asked for anything;you have prayed a gift to be withdrawn: try again." "well then, sir, have the goodness togratify my curiosity, which is much piqued on one point."he looked disturbed. "what? what?" he said hastily. "curiosity is a dangerous petition: it iswell i have not taken a vow to accord every request--""but there can be no danger in complying with this, sir." "utter it, jane: but i wish that instead ofa mere inquiry into, perhaps, a secret, it

was a wish for half my estate.""now, king ahasuerus! what do i want with half your estate? do you think i am a jew-usurer, seekinggood investment in land? i would much rather have all yourconfidence. you will not exclude me from yourconfidence if you admit me to your heart?" "you are welcome to all my confidence thatis worth having, jane; but for god's sake, don't desire a useless burden! don't long for poison--don't turn out adownright eve on my hands!" "why not, sir?

you have just been telling me how much youliked to be conquered, and how pleasant over-persuasion is to you. don't you think i had better take advantageof the confession, and begin and coax and entreat--even cry and be sulky ifnecessary--for the sake of a mere essay of my power?" "i dare you to any such experiment.encroach, presume, and the game is up." "is it, sir?you soon give in. how stern you look now! your eyebrows have become as thick as myfinger, and your forehead resembles what,

in some very astonishing poetry, i once sawstyled, 'a blue-piled thunderloft.' that will be your married look, sir, isuppose?" "if that will be your married look, i, asa christian, will soon give up the notion of consorting with a mere sprite orsalamander. but what had you to ask, thing,--out withit?" "there, you are less than civil now; and ilike rudeness a great deal better than flattery. i had rather be a thing than an angel.this is what i have to ask,--why did you take such pains to make me believe youwished to marry miss ingram?"

"is that all? thank god it is no worse!"and now he unknit his black brows; looked down, smiling at me, and stroked my hair,as if well pleased at seeing a danger averted. "i think i may confess," he continued,"even although i should make you a little indignant, jane--and i have seen what afire-spirit you can be when you are indignant. you glowed in the cool moonlight lastnight, when you mutinied against fate, and claimed your rank as my equal.janet, by-the-bye, it was you who made me

the offer." "of course i did.but to the point if you please, sir--miss ingram?" "well, i feigned courtship of miss ingram,because i wished to render you as madly in love with me as i was with you; and i knewjealousy would be the best ally i could call in for the furtherance of that end." "excellent!now you are small--not one whit bigger than the end of my little finger.it was a burning shame and a scandalous disgrace to act in that way.

did you think nothing of miss ingram'sfeelings, sir?" "her feelings are concentrated in one--pride; and that needs humbling. were you jealous, jane?" "never mind, mr. rochester: it is in no wayinteresting to you to know that. answer me truly once more.do you think miss ingram will not suffer from your dishonest coquetry? won't she feel forsaken and deserted?""impossible!--when i told you how she, on the contrary, deserted me: the idea of myinsolvency cooled, or rather extinguished, her flame in a moment."

"you have a curious, designing mind, mr.rochester. i am afraid your principles on some pointsare eccentric." "my principles were never trained, jane:they may have grown a little awry for want of attention." "once again, seriously; may i enjoy thegreat good that has been vouchsafed to me, without fearing that any one else issuffering the bitter pain i myself felt a while ago?" "that you may, my good little girl: thereis not another being in the world has the same pure love for me as yourself--for ilay that pleasant unction to my soul, jane,

a belief in your affection." i turned my lips to the hand that lay on myshoulder. i loved him very much--more than i couldtrust myself to say--more than words had power to express. "ask something more," he said presently;"it is my delight to be entreated, and to yield."i was again ready with my request. "communicate your intentions to mrs.fairfax, sir: she saw me with you last night in the hall, and she was shocked.give her some explanation before i see her again.

it pains me to be misjudged by so good awoman." "go to your room, and put on your bonnet,"he replied. "i mean you to accompany me to millcotethis morning; and while you prepare for the drive, i will enlighten the old lady'sunderstanding. did she think, janet, you had given theworld for love, and considered it well lost?""i believe she thought i had forgotten my station, and yours, sir." "station! station!--your station is in myheart, and on the necks of those who would insult you, now or hereafter.--go."

i was soon dressed; and when i heard mr.rochester quit mrs. fairfax's parlour, i hurried down to it. the old lady, had been reading her morningportion of scripture--the lesson for the day; her bible lay open before her, and herspectacles were upon it. her occupation, suspended by mr.rochester's announcement, seemed now forgotten: her eyes, fixed on the blankwall opposite, expressed the surprise of a quiet mind stirred by unwonted tidings. seeing me, she roused herself: she made asort of effort to smile, and framed a few words of congratulation; but the smileexpired, and the sentence was abandoned

unfinished. she put up her spectacles, shut the bible,and pushed her chair back from the table. "i feel so astonished," she began, "ihardly know what to say to you, miss eyre. i have surely not been dreaming, have i? sometimes i half fall asleep when i amsitting alone and fancy things that have never happened. it has seemed to me more than once when ihave been in a doze, that my dear husband, who died fifteen years since, has come inand sat down beside me; and that i have even heard him call me by my name, alice,as he used to do.

now, can you tell me whether it is actuallytrue that mr. rochester has asked you to marry him? don't laugh at me.but i really thought he came in here five minutes ago, and said that in a month youwould be his wife." "he has said the same thing to me," ireplied. "he has!do you believe him? have you accepted him?" "yes."she looked at me bewildered. "i could never have thought it.

he is a proud man: all the rochesters wereproud: and his father, at least, liked money.he, too, has always been called careful. he means to marry you?" "he tells me so."she surveyed my whole person: in her eyes i read that they had there found no charmpowerful enough to solve the enigma. "it passes me!" she continued; "but nodoubt, it is true since you say so. how it will answer, i cannot tell: i reallydon't know. equality of position and fortune is oftenadvisable in such cases; and there are twenty years of difference in your ages.he might almost be your father."

"no, indeed, mrs. fairfax!" exclaimed i,nettled; "he is nothing like my father! no one, who saw us together, would supposeit for an instant. mr. rochester looks as young, and is asyoung, as some men at five-and- twenty." "is it really for love he is going to marryyou?" she asked. i was so hurt by her coldness andscepticism, that the tears rose to my eyes. "i am sorry to grieve you," pursued thewidow; "but you are so young, and so little acquainted with men, i wished to put you onyour guard. it is an old saying that 'all is not goldthat glitters;' and in this case i do fear there will be something found to bedifferent to what either you or i expect."

"why?--am i a monster?" i said: "is it impossible that mr.rochester should have a sincere affection for me?" "no: you are very well; and much improvedof late; and mr. rochester, i daresay, is fond of you.i have always noticed that you were a sort of pet of his. there are times when, for your sake, i havebeen a little uneasy at his marked preference, and have wished to put you onyour guard: but i did not like to suggest even the possibility of wrong.

i knew such an idea would shock, perhapsoffend you; and you were so discreet, and so thoroughly modest and sensible, i hopedyou might be trusted to protect yourself. last night i cannot tell you what isuffered when i sought all over the house, and could find you nowhere, nor the mastereither; and then, at twelve o'clock, saw you come in with him." "well, never mind that now," i interruptedimpatiently; "it is enough that all was right." "i hope all will be right in the end," shesaid: "but believe me, you cannot be too careful.try and keep mr. rochester at a distance:

distrust yourself as well as him. gentlemen in his station are not accustomedto marry their governesses." i was growing truly irritated: happily,adele ran in. "let me go,--let me go to millcote too!"she cried. "mr. rochester won't: though there is somuch room in the new carriage. beg him to let me go mademoiselle." "that i will, adele;" and i hastened awaywith her, glad to quit my gloomy monitress. the carriage was ready: they were bringingit round to the front, and my master was pacing the pavement, pilot following himbackwards and forwards.

"adele may accompany us, may she not, sir?" "i told her no.i'll have no brats!--i'll have only you." "do let her go, mr. rochester, if youplease: it would be better." "not it: she will be a restraint." he was quite peremptory, both in look andvoice. the chill of mrs. fairfax's warnings, andthe damp of her doubts were upon me: something of unsubstantiality anduncertainty had beset my hopes. i half lost the sense of power over him. i was about mechanically to obey him,without further remonstrance; but as he

helped me into the carriage, he looked atmy face. "what is the matter?" he asked; "all thesunshine is gone. do you really wish the bairn to go?will it annoy you if she is left behind?" "i would far rather she went, sir." "then off for your bonnet, and back like aflash of lightning!" cried he to adele. she obeyed him with what speed she might. "after all, a single morning's interruptionwill not matter much," said he, "when i mean shortly to claim you--your thoughts,conversation, and company--for life." adele, when lifted in, commenced kissingme, by way of expressing her gratitude for

my intercession: she was instantly stowedaway into a corner on the other side of she then peeped round to where i sat; sostern a neighbour was too restrictive to him, in his present fractious mood, shedared whisper no observations, nor ask of him any information. "let her come to me," i entreated: "shewill, perhaps, trouble you, sir: there is plenty of room on this side."he handed her over as if she had been a lapdog. "i'll send her to school yet," he said, butnow he was smiling. adele heard him, and asked if she was to goto school "sans mademoiselle?"

"yes," he replied, "absolutely sansmademoiselle; for i am to take mademoiselle to the moon, and there i shall seek a cavein one of the white valleys among the volcano-tops, and mademoiselle shall livewith me there, and only me." "she will have nothing to eat: you willstarve her," observed adele. "i shall gather manna for her morning andnight: the plains and hillsides in the moon are bleached with manna, adele.""she will want to warm herself: what will she do for a fire?" "fire rises out of the lunar mountains:when she is cold, i'll carry her up to a peak, and lay her down on the edge of acrater."

"oh, qu' elle y sera mal--peu comfortable! and her clothes, they will wear out: howcan she get new ones?" mr. rochester professed to be puzzled."hem!" said he. "what would you do, adele? cudgel your brains for an expedient.how would a white or a pink cloud answer for a gown, do you think?and one could cut a pretty enough scarf out of a rainbow." "she is far better as she is," concludedadele, after musing some time: "besides, she would get tired of living with only youin the moon.

if i were mademoiselle, i would neverconsent to go with you." "she has consented: she has pledged herword." "but you can't get her there; there is noroad to the moon: it is all air; and neither you nor she can fly.""adele, look at that field." we were now outside thornfield gates, andbowling lightly along the smooth road to millcote, where the dust was well laid bythe thunderstorm, and, where the low hedges and lofty timber trees on each sideglistened green and rain-refreshed. "in that field, adele, i was walking lateone evening about a fortnight since--the evening of the day you helped me to makehay in the orchard meadows; and, as i was

tired with raking swaths, i sat down to rest me on a stile; and there i took out alittle book and a pencil, and began to write about a misfortune that befell melong ago, and a wish i had for happy days to come: i was writing away very fast, though daylight was fading from the leaf,when something came up the path and stopped two yards off me.i looked at it. it was a little thing with a veil ofgossamer on its head. i beckoned it to come near me; it stoodsoon at my knee. i never spoke to it, and it never spoke tome, in words; but i read its eyes, and it

read mine; and our speechless colloquy wasto this effect-- "it was a fairy, and come from elf-land, itsaid; and its errand was to make me happy: i must go with it out of the common worldto a lonely place--such as the moon, for instance--and it nodded its head towards her horn, rising over hay-hill: it told meof the alabaster cave and silver vale where we might live. i said i should like to go; but remindedit, as you did me, that i had no wings to fly."'oh,' returned the fairy, 'that does not signify!

here is a talisman will remove alldifficulties;' and she held out a pretty gold ring. 'put it,' she said, 'on the fourth fingerof my left hand, and i am yours, and you are mine; and we shall leave earth, andmake our own heaven yonder.' she nodded again at the moon. the ring, adele, is in my breeches-pocket,under the disguise of a sovereign: but i mean soon to change it to a ring again.""but what has mademoiselle to do with it? i don't care for the fairy: you said it wasmademoiselle you would take to the moon?" "mademoiselle is a fairy," he said,whispering mysteriously.

whereupon i told her not to mind hisbadinage; and she, on her part, evinced a fund of genuine french scepticism:denominating mr. rochester "un vrai menteur," and assuring him that she made no account whatever of his "contes de fee,"and that "du reste, il n'y avait pas de fees, et quand meme il y en avait:" she wassure they would never appear to him, nor ever give him rings, or offer to live withhim in the moon. the hour spent at millcote was a somewhatharassing one to me. mr. rochester obliged me to go to a certainsilk warehouse: there i was ordered to choose half-a-dozen dresses.

i hated the business, i begged leave todefer it: no--it should be gone through with now. by dint of entreaties expressed inenergetic whispers, i reduced the half- dozen to two: these however, he vowed hewould select himself. with anxiety i watched his eye rove overthe gay stores: he fixed on a rich silk of the most brilliant amethyst dye, and asuperb pink satin. i told him in a new series of whispers,that he might as well buy me a gold gown and a silver bonnet at once: i shouldcertainly never venture to wear his choice. with infinite difficulty, for he wasstubborn as a stone, i persuaded him to

make an exchange in favour of a sober blacksatin and pearl-grey silk. "it might pass for the present," he said;"but he would yet see me glittering like a parterre." glad was i to get him out of the silkwarehouse, and then out of a jewellers shop: the more he bought me, the more mycheek burned with a sense of annoyance and degradation. as we re-entered the carriage, and i satback feverish and fagged, i remembered what, in the hurry of events, dark andbright, i had wholly forgotten--the letter of my uncle, john eyre, to mrs. reed: his

intention to adopt me and make me hislegatee. "it would, indeed, be a relief," i thought,"if i had ever so small an independency; i never can bear being dressed like a doll bymr. rochester, or sitting like a second danae with the golden shower falling dailyround me. i will write to madeira the moment i gethome, and tell my uncle john i am going to be married, and to whom: if i had but aprospect of one day bringing mr. rochester an accession of fortune, i could betterendure to be kept by him now." and somewhat relieved by this idea (which ifailed not to execute that day), i ventured once more to meet my master's and lover'seye, which most pertinaciously sought mine,

though i averted both face and gaze. he smiled; and i thought his smile was suchas a sultan might, in a blissful and fond moment, bestow on a slave his gold and gemshad enriched: i crushed his hand, which was ever hunting mine, vigorously, and thrust it back to him red with the passionatepressure. "you need not look in that way," i said;"if you do, i'll wear nothing but my old lowood frocks to the end of the chapter. i'll be married in this lilac gingham: youmay make a dressing-gown for yourself out of the pearl-grey silk, and an infiniteseries of waistcoats out of the black

satin." he chuckled; he rubbed his hands."oh, it is rich to see and hear her?" he exclaimed."is she original? is she piquant? i would not exchange this one littleenglish girl for the grand turk's whole seraglio, gazelle- eyes, houri forms, andall!" the eastern allusion bit me again. "i'll not stand you an inch in the stead ofa seraglio," i said; "so don't consider me an equivalent for one.

if you have a fancy for anything in thatline, away with you, sir, to the bazaars of stamboul without delay, and lay out inextensive slave- purchases some of that spare cash you seem at a loss to spendsatisfactorily here." "and what will you do, janet, while i ambargaining for so many tons of flesh and such an assortment of black eyes?" "i'll be preparing myself to go out as amissionary to preach liberty to them that are enslaved--your harem inmates amongstthe rest. i'll get admitted there, and i'll stir upmutiny; and you, three-tailed bashaw as you are, sir, shall in a trice find yourselffettered amongst our hands: nor will i, for

one, consent to cut your bonds till you have signed a charter, the most liberalthat despot ever yet conferred." "i would consent to be at your mercy,jane." "i would have no mercy, mr. rochester, ifyou supplicated for it with an eye like that. while you looked so, i should be certainthat whatever charter you might grant under coercion, your first act, when released,would be to violate its conditions." "why, jane, what would you have? i fear you will compel me to go through aprivate marriage ceremony, besides that

performed at the altar.you will stipulate, i see, for peculiar terms--what will they be?" "i only want an easy mind, sir; not crushedby crowded obligations. do you remember what you said of celinevarens?--of the diamonds, the cashmeres you gave her? i will not be your english celine varens.i shall continue to act as adele's governess; by that i shall earn my boardand lodging, and thirty pounds a year besides. i'll furnish my own wardrobe out of thatmoney, and you shall give me nothing but--"

"well, but what?""your regard; and if i give you mine in return, that debt will be quit." "well, for cool native impudence and pureinnate pride, you haven't your equal," said he.we were now approaching thornfield. "will it please you to dine with me to-day?" he asked, as we re-entered the gates. "no, thank you, sir.""and what for, 'no, thank you?' if one may inquire." "i never have dined with you, sir: and isee no reason why i should now: till--" "till what?you delight in half-phrases."

"till i can't help it." "do you suppose i eat like an ogre or aghoul, that you dread being the companion of my repast?" "i have formed no supposition on thesubject, sir; but i want to go on as usual for another month.""you will give up your governessing slavery at once." "indeed, begging your pardon, sir, i shallnot. i shall just go on with it as usual. i shall keep out of your way all day, as ihave been accustomed to do: you may send

for me in the evening, when you feeldisposed to see me, and i'll come then; but at no other time." "i want a smoke, jane, or a pinch of snuff,to comfort me under all this, 'pour me donner une contenance,' as adele would say;and unfortunately i have neither my cigar- case, nor my snuff-box. but listen--whisper. it is your time now, little tyrant, but itwill be mine presently; and when once i have fairly seized you, to have and tohold, i'll just--figuratively speaking-- attach you to a chain like this" (touchinghis watch-guard).

"yes, bonny wee thing, i'll wear you in mybosom, lest my jewel i should tyne." he said this as he helped me to alight fromthe carriage, and while he afterwards lifted out adele, i entered the house, andmade good my retreat upstairs. he duly summoned me to his presence in theevening. i had prepared an occupation for him; for iwas determined not to spend the whole time in a tete-a-tete conversation. i remembered his fine voice; i knew heliked to sing--good singers generally do. i was no vocalist myself, and, in hisfastidious judgment, no musician, either; but i delighted in listening when theperformance was good.

no sooner had twilight, that hour ofromance, began to lower her blue and starry banner over the lattice, than i rose,opened the piano, and entreated him, for the love of heaven, to give me a song. he said i was a capricious witch, and thathe would rather sing another time; but i averred that no time was like the present."did i like his voice?" he asked. "very much." i was not fond of pampering thatsusceptible vanity of his; but for once, and from motives of expediency, i woulde'en soothe and stimulate it. "then, jane, you must play theaccompaniment."

"very well, sir, i will try."i did try, but was presently swept off the stool and denominated "a little bungler." being pushed unceremoniously to one side--which was precisely what i wished--he usurped my place, and proceeded toaccompany himself: for he could play as well as sing. i hied me to the window-recess.and while i sat there and looked out on the still trees and dim lawn, to a sweet airwas sung in mellow tones the following strain:-- "the truest love that ever heartfelt at its kindled core,

did through each vein, in quickened start,the tide of being pour. her coming was my hope each day,her parting was my pain; the chance that did her steps delaywas ice in every vein. i dreamed it would be nameless bliss,as i loved, loved to be; and to this object did i pressas blind as eagerly. but wide as pathless was the spacethat lay our lives between, and dangerous as the foamy raceof ocean-surges green. and haunted as a robber-paththrough wilderness or wood; for might and right, and woe and wrath,between our spirits stood.

i dangers dared; i hindrance scorned;i omens did defy: whatever menaced, harassed, warned,i passed impetuous by. on sped my rainbow, fast as light;i flew as in a dream; for glorious rose upon my sightthat child of shower and gleam. still bright on clouds of suffering dimshines that soft, solemn joy; nor care i now, how dense and grimdisasters gather nigh. i care not in this moment sweet,though all i have rushed o'er should come on pinion, strong and fleet,proclaiming vengeance sore: though haughty hate should strike me down,right, bar approach to me,

and grinding might, with furious frown,swear endless enmity. my love has placed her little handwith noble faith in mine, and vowed that wedlock's sacred bandour nature shall entwine. my love has sworn, with sealing kiss,with me to live--to die; i have at last my nameless bliss.as i love--loved am i!" he rose and came towards me, and i saw hisface all kindled, and his full falcon-eye flashing, and tenderness and passion inevery lineament. i quailed momentarily--then i rallied. soft scene, daring demonstration, i wouldnot have; and i stood in peril of both: a

weapon of defence must be prepared--iwhetted my tongue: as he reached me, i asked with asperity, "whom he was going tomarry now?" "that was a strange question to be put byhis darling jane." "indeed! i considered it a very natural andnecessary one: he had talked of his future wife dying with him.what did he mean by such a pagan idea? i had no intention of dying with him--hemight depend on that." "oh, all he longed, all he prayed for, wasthat i might live with him! death was not for such as i."

"indeed it was: i had as good a right todie when my time came as he had: but i should bide that time, and not be hurriedaway in a suttee." "would i forgive him for the selfish idea,and prove my pardon by a reconciling kiss?" "no: i would rather be excused." here i heard myself apostrophised as a"hard little thing;" and it was added, "any other woman would have been melted tomarrow at hearing such stanzas crooned in her praise." i assured him i was naturally hard--veryflinty, and that he would often find me so; and that, moreover, i was determined toshow him divers rugged points in my

character before the ensuing four weeks elapsed: he should know fully what sort ofa bargain he had made, while there was yet time to rescind it."would i be quiet and talk rationally?" "i would be quiet if he liked, and as totalking rationally, i flattered myself i was doing that now."he fretted, pished, and pshawed. "very good," i thought; "you may fume andfidget as you please: but this is the best plan to pursue with you, i am certain. i like you more than i can say; but i'llnot sink into a bathos of sentiment: and with this needle of repartee i'll keep youfrom the edge of the gulf too; and,

moreover, maintain by its pungent aid that distance between you and myself mostconducive to our real mutual advantage." from less to more, i worked him up toconsiderable irritation; then, after he had retired, in dudgeon, quite to the other endof the room, i got up, and saying, "i wish you good-night, sir," in my natural and wonted respectful manner, i slipped out bythe side-door and got away. the system thus entered on, i pursuedduring the whole season of probation; and with the best success. he was kept, to be sure, rather cross andcrusty; but on the whole i could see he was

excellently entertained, and that a lamb-like submission and turtle-dove sensibility, while fostering his despotism more, would have pleased his judgment,satisfied his common-sense, and even suited his taste less. in other people's presence i was, asformerly, deferential and quiet; any other line of conduct being uncalled for: it wasonly in the evening conferences i thus thwarted and afflicted him. he continued to send for me punctually themoment the clock struck seven; though when i appeared before him now, he had no suchhoneyed terms as "love" and "darling" on

his lips: the best words at my service were "provoking puppet," "malicious elf,""sprite," "changeling," &c. for caresses, too, i now got grimaces; fora pressure of the hand, a pinch on the arm; for a kiss on the cheek, a severe tweak ofthe ear. it was all right: at present i decidedlypreferred these fierce favours to anything more tender. mrs. fairfax, i saw, approved me: heranxiety on my account vanished; therefore i was certain i did well. meantime, mr. rochester affirmed i waswearing him to skin and bone, and

threatened awful vengeance for my presentconduct at some period fast coming. i laughed in my sleeve at his menaces. "i can keep you in reasonable check now," ireflected; "and i don't doubt to be able to do it hereafter: if one expedient loses itsvirtue, another must be devised." yet after all my task was not an easy one;often i would rather have pleased than teased him. my future husband was becoming to me mywhole world; and more than the world: almost my hope of heaven. he stood between me and every thought ofreligion, as an eclipse intervenes between

man and the broad sun.i could not, in those days, see god for his creature: of whom i had made an idol.

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