"Enough," said he. "Wood"--to the clergyman--"close your book; John
Green"--to the clerk--"leave the church; there will be no wedding
to-day."
"Bigamy is an ugly word," he continued, "but I meant to be a bigamist.
This girl thought all was fair and legal, and never dreamt she was going
to be entrapped into a feigned union with a defrauded wretch already
bound to a bad, mad, and embruted partner. Follow me. I invite you all
to visit Grace Poole's patient and my wife!"
We passed up to the third storey, and there, in the deep shade of the
inner room beyond the room where I had watched over the wounded Mason,
ran backward and forward, seemingly on all fours, a figure, whether
beast or human one could not at first sight tell. It snatched and
growled like some wild animal. It was covered with clothing; but a
quantity of dark, grizzled hair, wild as a mane, hid its head and face.
"That is my wife," said Mr. Rochester, "whom I was cheated into marrying
fifteen years ago--a mad woman and a drunkard, of a family of idiots and
maniacs for three generations. And this is what I wished to
have"--laying his hand on my shoulder--"this young girl who stands so
grave and quiet, at the mouth of hell. Jane," he continued, in an
agonised tone, "I never meant to wound you thus."
Reader! I forgave him at the moment, and on the spot. I forgave him all;
yet not in words, not outwardly; only at my heart's core.
That night I never thought to sleep, but a slumber fell on me as soon as
I lay down in bed, and in my sleep a vision spoke to my spirit:
"Daughter, flee temptation!" I rose with the dim dawn. One word
comprised my intolerable duty--Depart!
After three days wandering and starvation on the north-midland moors,
for hastily and secretly I had travelled by coach as far from Thornfield
as my money would carry me, I found a temporary home at the vicarage of
Morton, until the clergyman of that moorland parish, Mr. St. John
Rivers, secured for me--under the assumed name of Jane Elliott--the
mistresship of the village school.
At Christmas I left the school. As the spring advanced St. John Rivers,
who, with an icy heroism, was possessed by the idea of becoming a
missionary, urged me strongly to accompany him to India as his wife, on
the grounds that I was docile, diligent, and courageous, and would be
very useful. I felt such veneration for him that I was tempted to cease
struggling with him--to rush down the torrent of his will into the gulf
of his existence, and there lose my own.
_V.--Reunion_
The time came when he called on me to decide. I fervently longed to do
what was right, and only that. "Show me the path, show me the path!" I
entreated of Heaven.
My heart beat fast and thick; I heard its throb. Suddenly it stood still
to an inexpressible feeling that thrilled it through. My senses rose
expectant; ear and eye waited, while the flesh quivered on my bones. I
saw nothing; but I heard a voice, somewhere, cry "Jane! Jane! Jane!"--
nothing more.
"Oh, God! What is it?" I gasped. I might have said, "Where is it?" for
it did not seem in the room, nor in the house, nor in the garden, nor
from overhead. And it was the voice of a human being--a loved,
well-remembered voice--that of Edward Fairfax Rochester; and it spoke in
pain and woe, wildly, eerily, urgently.
"I am coming!" I cried. "Wait for me!" I ran out into the garden; it was
void.
"Down, superstition!" I commented, as that spectre rose up black by the
black yew at the gate.
I mounted to my chamber, locked myself in, fell on my knees, and seemed
to penetrate very near a Mighty Spirit; and my soul rushed out in
gratitude at His feet.
Then I rose from the thanksgiving, took a resolve, and lay down,
unscared, enlightened, eager but for the daylight.
Thirty-six hours later I was crossing the fields to where I could see
the full front of my master's mansion, and, looking with a timorous joy,
saw--a blackened ruin.
Where, meantime, was the hapless owner?
I returned to the inn, where the host himself, a respectable middle-aged
man, brought my breakfast into the parlour. I scarcely knew how to begin
my questions.
"Is Mr. Rochester living at Thornfield Hall now?"
"No, ma'am--oh, no! No one is living there. It was burnt down about
harvest time. The fire broke out at dead of night."
"Was it known how it originated?"
"They guessed, ma'am; they guessed. There was a lady--a--a lunatic kept
in the house. She had a woman to take care of her called Mrs. Poole, an
able woman but for one fault--she kept a private bottle of gin by her;
and the mad lady would take the keys out of her pocket, let herself out
of her chamber, and go roaming about the house doing any wild mischief
that came into her head. Mr. Rochester was at home when the fire broke
out, and he went up to the attics and got the servants out of their
beds, and then went back to get his mad wife out of her cell. And then
they called out to him that she was on the roof, where she was waving
her arms and shouting till they could hear her a mile off. She was a big
woman, and had long, black hair; and we could see it streaming against
the flames as she stood. We saw Mr. Rochester approach her and call
'Bertha!' And then, ma'am, she yelled and gave a spring, and the next
minute lay dead, smashed on the pavement."
"Were any other lives lost?"
"No. Perhaps it would have been better if there had. Poor Mr. Edward! He
is stone-blind."