hearth._
ROCHESTER _as Gipsy, and_ JANE EYRE _discovered—the red light
from the fire falls on his face_.
_Roch._ Here we shall be more quiet; for I have a good deal to say to
you, and hate listeners—you see that I know the house well; aye, and all
who are in it. Ah! you doubt me. I knew that, you see—but to the proof.
Come, you want your fortune told?
_Jane._ I don’t care about it, you may please yourself; but you are right
in your conjecture—I have no faith.
_Roch._ My conjecture, silly mortal—my _knowledge_. I heard it in your
step just now.
_Jane._ Did you?—you have a quick ear.
_Roch._ I have, and a quick eye and a quick brain.
_Jane._ You need them all in your trade.
_Roch._ Especially when I have customers like you to deal with. Why don’t
you tremble?
_Jane._ I’m not cold.
_Roch._ Why don’t you turn pale?
_Jane._ I’m not sick.
_Roch._ Why don’t you consult my art?
_Jane._ I’m not silly.
_Roch._ Lies, lies, all—you are cold, you are sick, and you are silly.
_Jane._ Prove it.
_Roch._ In few words. You are cold, because you are alone; no contact
strikes from you the fire that you possess. You are sick, because the
lowliness of your position keeps from you the companionship of your
equals in soul and intellect. You are silly, because suffer as you may,
yet even to those who could and would sympathise with you, you disdain to
reveal the heart-agony that wears away your life.
_Jane._ You might say this to any one, placed in my circumstances.
_Roch._ Find me another placed as you are; happiness is near you—within
your very reach, and yet your obstinate but noble pride, keeps you from
putting forth your hand to grasp it.
_Jane._ I don’t understand enigmas.
_Roch._ If you wish me to speak more plainly, let me see your hand.
_Jane._ I know it’s folly, all, but there——
(_Holds hand._)
_Roch._ You don’t! there’s doubt in your look. You are not quite certain
that it is folly; pshaw! I can make nothing of the hand, ’tis too
fine; besides, destiny is not written there; no, ’tis in the eyes, the
forehead, mouth, the expression of the face; let me look in your eyes.
_Jane._ Now you are coming to reality; I shall begin to have some faith
in you presently.
_Roch._ Um! good, very good. I wonder what thoughts are busy in your
heart, for I can only read them now—I can! What thoughts, I say, pass
within you, while you sit in yonder room, with all the fine people
passing before you like shadows in a magic lantern?
_Jane._ I feel tired often, sleepy sometimes, but seldom sad.
_Roch._ Then you have some secret hope that pleases you with whispers of
the future!
_Jane._ None!
_Roch._ None? no! not when you hear, as you must do, tales of love and
courtship, does not _your_ heart yearn for a fitting mate? For instance,
when Lady Blanche and he—you know who I mean—when they converse in
soft, silvery whispering together, their fervid looks and low murmuring
syllables uttering the bliss of each, then——
_Jane._ Then—ah! spare me—then I _dare_ not think.
_Roch._ You have looked forward, have you not, and seen them married, and
beheld his bride happy?
_Jane._ No, I have not seen that; your witch’s skill is at fault
sometimes.
_Roch._ What in Heaven’s name have you seen, then?
_Jane._ No matter. I came here to inquire, not to confess. I did not come
to hear Mr. Rochester’s fortune, but to listen to my own, and you have
told me nothing of it.
_Roch._ Because _your_ fortune is yet doubtful. I can read upon your
features each passion of your heart, distinct as on a printed page. That
eye, shining like dew, so soft and full of feeling, and yet in the cup of
bliss, when offered, if there should be one dreg of shame, or one flavour
of remorse, how firm its determined glance; it would foster, not blight,
it would earn gratitude, not wring tears of blood. Ah! what tenderness,
but what inflexibility! Leave me; I rave in exquisite delirium; so far I
have governed myself thoroughly; leave me, Jane.—The play is played out.
_Jane._ That voice—do I wake or dream?
_Roch._ Don’t you know me, Jane—there, then, off ye lendings! How do I
play the Gipsy?
_Jane._ It was no Gipsy part you played with me.
_Roch._ Whose then, my own?
_Jane._ I don’t know, sir; some unaccountable one. In short, you have
been talking nonsense to make me do the same. I have your permission to
retire, sir.
_Roch._ Not yet; I want to ask your advice. Now, Jane, call your fancy to
your aid; suppose instead of the bright incarnation of womanhood which
you are, you had been a wild boy, indulged from childhood upward; imagine
yourself in a remote foreign land, conceive that you commit a capital
error, no matter what, but one whose consequences must follow you through
life, and taint all your existence; mind, I don’t say a _crime_, my word
is _error_. Well, heart-weary and soul-withered, you come home after
years of voluntary banishment, you make a new acquaintance, you find in
this stranger much of the bright and good qualities which you have sought
for all your life, and but just encountered; such society brings higher
wishes, purer feelings, and you desire to recommence your life, and pass
the remnant of your days in a manner more worthy of a human being. To
attain this end, are you justified in overleaping an obstacle of custom?
_Jane._ Sir, if any one you know has erred and suffered, let him look
higher than his friends for strength to amend, and solace to heal!
_Roch._ But the instrument! the instrument! I tell you without parable,
that _I_ have been a worldly, dissipated, restless man. Oh! dare I to
hope that I have found a comforting spirit? Jane, if the finger of scorn
were pointed at me, what would you do?
_Jane._ If it were deserved, my tears would attest my sorrow; if not,
I would dash the mocker to the earth, if strength of indignation could
effect it.
_Roch._ Bold, brave girl. You know my strange temperament, and won’t
wonder if I make sudden resolutions. You must go.
_Jane._ Go, sir.
_Roch._ Yes, go. What business have you here; you know I am about to be
married.
_Jane._ Soon, sir?
_Roch._ Very soon.
_Jane._ Well, sir, I shall be ready when the order to march comes.
_Roch._ It is come now, Miss Eyre—you must get a new situation.
_Jane._ The blow is greater, severer than I expected.
_Roch._ But your pride will master it.
_Jane._ It will—it does: it—oh, this is torture——
_Roch._ No, it don’t. You are sorry to leave Thornfield.
_Jane._ I grieve to leave it. I love Thornfield. I love it, because I
have lived in it a full and delightful life. I have not been trampled
on—I have not been buried with inferior minds, and excluded from every
glimpse of communion with what is bright and high, and energetic. I have
talked face to face with what I reverenced, but I see the necessity for
departure, and it is like looking on the necessity of death.
_Roch._ Where do you see the necessity?
_Jane._ _You_ have placed it before me. Do you think I can stay to become
nothing to you? Do you suppose I am a mere machine, without one spark of
sense or feeling, and can bear to have my drop of living water dashed
from my cup? Do you think, because I am lowly and obscure, that I have
neither soul nor heart? You think wrongly if you do; and if heaven had
gifted me with wealth, I should have made it as hard for you to leave
me, as it is for me to leave you. I am not talking to you now, through
the medium of custom, or even of mortal flesh; it is my spirit which
addresses you, just as if both had passed through the grave, and we stood
within the precincts of eternity equal, as we are.
_Roch._ As we are, and ever shall remain. I offer you my hand, my heart,
and a share of all my possessions. Jane, decide my destiny!
_Jane._ You play a farce at which I merely laugh.
_Roch._ Unbelieving sceptic, you shall be convinced; the irresistible
waves of destiny hurry me along; you strange—you almost unearthly thing—I
love you as my own flesh, and I must have you for my own. Will you be
mine?—at once, within the hour—say yes, and quickly.
_Jane._ Mr. Rochester!
_Roch._ Yes.
_Jane._ Let me look in your face.
_Roch._ Why?
_Jane._ Because I want to read your countenance!
_Roch._ There you will find it scarcely more legible than a crumpled
page. Read on—only make haste, for I suffer. Jane, you torture me with
that searching but yet generous look: you torture me.
_Jane._ How can I do that, if your offer be real; my only feelings must
be gratitude and devotion.
_Roch._ Gratitude! Jane, accept me quickly.
_Jane._ Are you in earnest? Do you sincerely wish me to become your wife?
_Roch._ I swear it.
_Jane._ Then I am yours.
_Roch._ Come, come to me—my happiness is complete. Away! I will not
give you time to change your mind. Prepare yourself at once—in my
oratory we shall be wedded. Haste, haste, my own, own bride!—[_Exit
Jane._]—God pardon me, and man meddle not with me; she is mine, and I
will hold her in the teeth of fate; it will atone—it will atone. Have I
not found her friendless? and will I not guard and cherish, and solace
her? Is there not love in my heart, and constancy in my resolves? I know
Heaven sanctions what I do: for the world’s judgment, I wash my hands
thereof—for man’s opinion, I defy it. Hold! what am I about to do?
Down, down thought!—sleep conscience; for in spite of all the powers of
earth and hell combined, she must be mine. And then! for remorse and
wretchedness. Well, let them come—Heaven pardon and pity me—my heart and
brain are burning!
END OF ACT III.