Sophie came at seven to dress me. She was very long indeed in
accomplishing her task; so long that Mr. Rochester--grown, I suppose,
impatient of my delay--sent up to ask why I did not come. She was just
fastening my veil (the plain square of blonde, after all) to my hair
with a brooch; I hurried from under her hands as soon as I could.
"Stop!" she cried in French, "Look at yourself in the mirror; you have
not taken one peep."
So I turned at the door. I saw a robed and veiled figure, so unlike my
usual self that it seemed almost the image of a stranger.
"Jane!" called a voice, and I hastened down. I was received at the foot
of the stairs by Mr. Rochester. "Lingerer," he said, "my brain is on
fire with impatience; and you tarry so long!"
He took me into the dining-room, surveyed me keenly all over, pronounced
me "fair as a lily, and not only the pride of his life, but the desire
of his eyes"; and then, telling me he would give me but ten minutes to
eat some breakfast, he rang the bell. One of his lately hired servants,
a footman, answered it.
"Is John getting the carriage ready?"
"Yes, sir."
"Is the luggage brought down?"
"They are bringing it down, sir."
"Go you to the church; see if Mr. Wood" (the clergyman) "and the clerk
are there; return and tell me."
The church, as the reader knows, was but just beyond the gates; the
footman soon returned.
"Mr. Wood is in the vestry, sir, putting on his surplice."
"And the carriage?"
"The horses are harnessing."
"We shall not want it to go to church; but it must be ready the moment
we return--all the boxes and luggage arranged and strapped on, and the
coachman in his seat."
"Yes, sir."
"Jane, are you ready?"
I rose. There were no groomsmen, no bridesmaids, no relatives to wait
for or marshal; none but Mr. Rochester and I. Mrs. Fairfax stood in the
hall as we passed. I would fain have spoken to her, but my hand was held
by a grasp of iron; I was hurried along by a stride I could hardly
follow; and to look at Mr. Rochester's face was to feel that not a
second of delay would be tolerated for any purpose. I wondered what
other bridegroom ever looked as he did--so bent up to a purpose, so
grimly resolute; or who, under such steadfast brows, ever revealed such
flaming and flashing eyes.
I know not whether the day was fair or foul; in descending the drive I
gazed neither on sky nor earth; my heart was with my eyes, and both
seemed migrated into Mr. Rochester's frame. I wanted to see the
invisible thing on which, as we went along, he appeared to fasten a
glance fierce and fell. I wanted to feel the thoughts whose force he
seemed breasting and resisting.
At the churchyard wicket he stopped; he discovered I was quite out of
breath.
"Am I cruel in my love?" he said. "Delay an instant; lean on me, Jane."
And now I can recall the picture of the gray old house of God rising
calm before me, of a rook wheeling around the steeple, of a ruddy
morning sky beyond. I remember something, too, of the green
grave-mounds; and I have not forgotten, either, two figures of
strangers, straying among the low hillocks, and reading the mementos
graven on the few mossy headstones. I noticed them because as they saw
us they passed around to the back of the church; and I doubted not they
were going to enter by the side aisle door and witness the ceremony. By
Mr. Rochester they were not observed; he was earnestly looking at my
face, from which the blood had, I dare say, momentarily fled; for I felt
my forehead dewy and my cheeks and lips cold. When I rallied, which I
soon did, he walked gently with me up the path to the porch.
We entered the quiet and humble temple; the priest waited in his white
surplice at the lowly altar, the clerk beside him. All was still; two
shadows only moved in a remote corner. My conjecture had been correct;
the strangers had slipped in before us, and they now stood by the vault
of the Rochesters, their backs toward us, viewing through the rails the
old time-stained marble tomb, where a kneeling angel guarded the remains
of Damer de Rochester, slain at Marston Moor in the time of the civil
wars, and of Elizabeth his wife.
Our place was taken at the communion-rails. Hearing a cautious step
behind me, I glanced over my shoulder; one of the strangers--a
gentleman, evidently--was advancing up the chancel. The service began.
The explanation of the intent of matrimony was gone through: and then
the clergyman came a step farther forward, and bending slightly toward
Mr. Rochester, went on:--
"I require and charge you both (as ye will answer at the dreadful day of
judgment, when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed) that if
either of you know any impediment why ye may not lawfully be joined
together in matrimony, ye do now confess it; for be ye well assured that
so many as are coupled together otherwise than God's word doth allow are
not joined together by God, neither is their matrimony lawful."
He paused, as the custom is. When is the pause after that sentence ever
broken by reply? Not, perhaps, once in a hundred years. And the
clergyman, who had not lifted his eyes from his book, and had held his
breath but for a moment, was proceeding; his hand was already stretched
toward. Mr. Rochester, as his lips unclosed to ask, "Wilt thou have this
woman for thy wedded wife?"--when a distinct and near voice said, "The
marriage cannot go on: I declare the existence of an impediment."
The clergyman looked up at the speaker and stood mute: the clerk did the
same; Mr. Rochester moved slightly, as if an earthquake had rolled under
his feet; taking a firmer footing, and not turning his head or eyes, he
said, "Proceed!"
Profound silence fell when he had uttered that word, with deep but low
intonation. Presently Mr. Wood said, "I cannot proceed without some
investigation into what has been asserted, and evidence of its truth or
falsehood."
"The ceremony is quite broken off," subjoined the voice behind us. "I am
in a condition to prove my allegation; an insuperable impediment to this
marriage exists."
Mr. Rochester heard, but heeded not; he stood stubborn and rigid; making
no movement but to possess himself of my hand. What a hot and strong
grasp he had!--and how like quarried marble was his pale, firm, massive
front at this moment! How his eye shone, still, watchful, and yet
wild beneath!
Mr. Wood seemed at a loss. "What is the nature of the impediment?" he
asked. "Perhaps it may be got over--explained away?"
"Hardly," was the answer: "I have called it insuperable, and I speak
advisedly."
The speaker came forward and leaned on the rails. He continued, uttering
each word distinctly, calmly, steadily, but not loudly.
"It simply consists in the existence of a previous marriage. Mr.
Rochester has a wife now living."
My nerves vibrated to those low-spoken words as they had never vibrated
to thunder; my blood felt their subtle violence as it had never felt
frost or fire; but I was collected, and in no danger of swooning. I
looked at Mr. Rochester; I made him look at me. His whole face was
colorless rock; his eye was both spark and flint. He disavowed nothing;
he seemed as if he would defy all things. Without speaking, without
smiling, without seeming to recognize in me a human being, he only
twined my waist with his arm and riveted me to his side.
"Who are you?" he asked of the intruder.
"My name is Briggs, a solicitor of ---- Street, London."
"And you would thrust on me a wife?"
"I would remind you of your lady's existence, sir, which the law
recognizes if you do not."
"Favor me with an account of her--with her name, her parentage, her
place of abode."
"Certainly." Mr. Briggs calmly took a paper from his pocket, and read
out in a sort of official, nasal voice:--
"I affirm and can prove that on the 20th of October, A.D.--" (a date of
fifteen years back), "Edward Fairfax Rochester, of Thornfield Hall, in
the county of ----, and of Ferndean Manor, in ---- shire, England, was
married to my sister, Bertha Antoinetta Mason, daughter of Jonas Mason,
merchant, and of Antoinetta his wife, a Creole, at ---- church, Spanish
Town, Jamaica. The record of the marriage will be found in the register
of that church--a copy of it is now in my possession. Signed,
Richard Mason."
"That, if a genuine document, may prove I have been married, but it does
not prove that the woman mentioned therein as my wife is still living."
"She was living three months ago," returned the lawyer.
"How do you know?"
"I have a witness to the fact whose testimony even you, sir, will
scarcely controvert."
"Produce him--or go to hell!"
"I will produce him first--he is on the spot: Mr. Mason, have the
goodness to step forward."
Mr. Rochester, on hearing the name, set his teeth: he experienced, too,
a sort of strong convulsive quiver; near to him as I was, I felt the
spasmodic movement of fury or despair run through his frame.
The second stranger, who had hitherto lingered in the background, now
drew near; a pale face looked over the solicitor's shoulder--yes, it was
Mason himself. Mr. Rochester turned and glared at him. His eye, as I
have often said, was a black eye--it had now a tawny, nay, a bloody
light in its gloom; and his face flushed--olive cheek and hueless
forehead received a glow, as from spreading, ascending heart-fire; and
he stirred, lifted his strong arm; he could have struck Mason--dashed
him on the church floor--shocked by ruthless blow the breath from his
body; but Mason shrank away, and cried faintly, "Good God!" Contempt
fell cool on Mr. Rochester--his passion died as if a blight had
shriveled it up; he only asked, "What have _you_ to say?"
An inaudible reply escaped Mason's white lips.
"The devil is in it if you cannot answer distinctly. I again demand,
what have _you_ to say?"
"Sir--sir," interrupted the clergyman, "do not forget you are in a
sacred place." Then addressing Mason, he inquired gently, "Are you
aware, sir, whether or not this gentleman's wife is still living?"
"Courage," urged the lawyer; "speak out."
"She is now living at Thornfield Hall," said Mason, in more articulate
tones. "I saw her there last April. I am her brother."
"At Thornfield Hall!" ejaculated the clergyman. "Impossible! I am an old
resident in this neighborhood, sir, and I never heard of a Mrs.
Rochester at Thornfield Hall."
I saw a grim smile contort Mr. Rochester's lip, and he muttered, "No, by
God! I took care that none should hear of it, or of her under that
name." He mused; for ten minutes he held counsel with himself: he formed
his resolve, and announced it:--"Enough; all shall bolt out at once,
like a bullet from the barrel. Wood, close your book and take off your
surplice; John Green" (to the clerk) "leave the church: there will be no
wedding to-day." The man obeyed.
Mr. Rochester continued hardily and recklessly:--"Bigamy is an ugly
word! I meant, however, to be a bigamist; but fate has out-manoeuvred
me, or Providence has checked me--perhaps the last. I am little better
than a devil at this moment; and as my pastor there would tell me,
deserve no doubt the sternest judgments of God, even to the quenchless
fire and deathless worm.
"Gentlemen, my plan is broken up! what this lawyer and his client say is
true: I have been married, and the woman to whom I was married lives!
You say you never heard of a Mrs. Rochester at the house up yonder,
Wood; but I dare say you have many a time inclined your ear to gossip
about the mysterious lunatic kept there under watch and ward. Some have
whispered to you that she is my bastard half-sister; some, my cast-off
mistress: I now inform you that she is my wife, whom I married fifteen
years ago--Bertha Mason by name; sister of this resolute personage who
is now, with his quivering limbs and white cheeks, showing you what a
stout heart men may bear. Cheer up, Dick! never fear me! I'd almost as
soon strike a woman as you. Bertha Mason is mad; and she came of a mad
family--idiots and maniacs through three generations! Her mother, the
Creole, was both a mad-woman and a drunkard!--as I found out after I had
wed the daughter; for they were silent on family secrets before. Bertha,
like a dutiful child, copied her parent in both points. I had a charming
partner--pure, wise, modest; you can fancy I was a happy man. I went
through rich scenes! Oh! my experience has been heavenly, if you only
knew it! But I owe you no further explanation. Briggs, Wood, Mason, I
invite you all to come up to the house and visit Mrs. Poole's patient,
and _my wife_! You shall see what sort of a being I was cheated into
espousing, and judge whether or not I had a right to break the compact,
and seek sympathy with something at least human. This girl," he
continued, looking at me, "knew no more than you, Wood, of the
disgusting secret: she thought all was fair and legal, and never dreamed
that she was going to be entrapped into a feigned union with a defrauded
wretch, already bound to a bad, mad, and imbruted partner! Come, all of
you, follow."
Still holding me fast, he left the church: the three gentlemen came
after. At the front door of the hall we found the carriage.
"Take it back to the coach-house, John," said Mr. Rochester, coolly: "it
will not be wanted to-day."
At our entrance, Mrs. Fairfax, Adèle, Sophie, Leah, advanced to meet and
greet us.
"To the right-about--every soul!" cried the master: "away with your
congratulations! Who wants them? Not I! they are fifteen years
too late!"
He passed on and ascended the stairs, still holding my hand, and still
beckoning the gentlemen to follow him; which they did. We mounted the
first staircase, passed up the gallery, proceeded to the third story:
the low black door, opened by Mr. Rochester's master-key, admitted us to
the tapestried room, with its great bed and its pictorial cabinet.
"You know this place, Mason," said our guide; "she bit and stabbed you
here."
He lifted the hangings from the wall, uncovering the second door; this
too he opened. In a room without a window there burned a fire, guarded
by a high and strong fender, and a lamp suspended from the ceiling by a
chain. Grace Poole bent over the fire, apparently cooking something in a
saucepan. In the deep shade, at the further end of the room, a figure
ran backward and forward. What it was, whether beast or human being, one
could not at first sight tell; it groveled, seemingly, on all fours; it
snatched and growled like some strange wild animal; but it was covered
with clothing; and a quantity of dark grizzled hair, wild as a mane, hid
its head and face.
"Good morning, Mrs. Poole," said Mr. Rochester. "How are you? and how is
your charge to-day?"
"We're tolerable, sir, I thank you," replied Grace, lifting the boiling
mess carefully on to the hob: "rather snappish, but not 'rageous."
A fierce cry seemed to give the lie to her favorable report: the clothed
hyena rose up, and stood tall on its hind feet.
"Ah, sir, she sees you!" exclaimed Grace: "you'd better not stay."
"Only a few moments, Grace; you must allow me a few moments."
"Take care then, sir! for God's sake, take care!"
The maniac bellowed; she parted her shaggy locks from her visage, and
gazed wildly at her visitors. I recognized well that purple face--those
bloated features. Mrs. Poole advanced.
"Keep out of the way," said Mr. Rochester, thrusting her aside; "she has
no knife now, I suppose? and I'm on my guard."
"One never knows what she has, sir, she is so cunning; it is not in
mortal discretion to fathom her craft."
"We had better leave her," whispered Mason.
"Go to the devil!" was his brother-in-law's recommendation.
"'Ware!" cried Grace. The three gentlemen retreated simultaneously. Mr.
Rochester flung me behind him; the lunatic sprang and grappled his
throat viciously, and laid her teeth to his cheek; they struggled. She
was a big woman, in stature almost equaling her husband, and corpulent
besides; she showed virile force in the contest--more than once she
almost throttled him, athletic as he was. He could have settled her with
a well-planted blow; but he would not strike her; he would only wrestle.
At last he mastered her arms; Grace Poole gave him a cord, and he
pinioned them behind her; with more rope, which was at hand, he bound
her to a chair. The operation was performed amid the fiercest yells and
the most convulsive plunges. Mr. Rochester then turned to the
spectators; he looked at them with a smile both acrid and desolate.
"That is _my wife_," said he. "Such is the sole conjugal embrace I am
ever to know--such are the endearments which are to solace my leisure
hours! 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, looking collectedly at the gambols of a demon. I wanted her
just as a change, after that fierce ragoût. Wood and Briggs, look at the
difference. Compare these clear eyes with the red balls yonder--this
face with that mask--this form with that bulk; then judge me, priest of
the Gospel and man of the law, and remember, with what judgment ye judge
ye shall be judged! Off with you now: I must shut up my prize."
We all withdrew. Mr. Rochester stayed a moment behind us, to give some
further order to Grace Poole. The solicitor addressed me as he descended
the stair.
"You, madam," said he, "are cleared from all blame; your uncle will be
glad to hear it--if indeed he should be still living--when Mr. Mason
returns to Madeira."
"My uncle? What of him? Do you know him?"
"Mr. Mason does; Mr. Eyre has been the Funchal correspondent of his
house for some years. When your uncle received your letter intimating
the contemplated union between yourself and Mr. Rochester, Mr. Mason,
who was staying at Madeira to recruit his health, on his way back to
Jamaica happened to be with him. Mr. Eyre mentioned the intelligence;
for he knew that my client here was acquainted with a gentleman of the
name of Rochester. Mr. Mason, astonished and distressed, as you may
suppose, revealed the real state of matters. Your uncle, I am sorry to
say, is now on a sick-bed; from which, considering the nature of his
disease--decline--and the stage it has reached, it is unlikely he will
ever rise. He could not then hasten to England himself, to extricate you
from the snare into which you had fallen, but he implored Mr. Mason to
lose no time in taking steps to prevent the false marriage. He referred
him to me for assistance, I used all dispatch, and am thankful I was not
too late: as you, doubtless, must be also. Were I not morally certain
that your uncle will be dead ere you reach Madeira, I would advise you
to accompany Mr. Mason back; but as it is, I think you had better remain
in England till you can hear further, either from or of Mr. Eyre. Have
we anything else to stay for?" he inquired of Mr. Mason.
"No, no; let us be gone," was the anxious reply; and without waiting to
take leave of Mr. Rochester, they made their exit at the hall door. The
clergyman stayed to exchange a few sentences, either of admonition or
reproof, with his haughty parishioner: this duty done, he too departed.
I heard him go as I stood at the half-open door of my own room, to which
I had now withdrawn. The house cleared, I shut myself in, fastened the
bolt that none might intrude, and proceeded--not to weep, not to mourn,
I was yet too calm for that, but--mechanically to take off the
wedding-dress, and replace if by the stuff gown I had worn yesterday, as
I thought for the last time. I then sat down: I felt weak and tired. I
leaned my arms on a table, and my head dropped on them. And now I
thought: till now I had only heard, seen, moved--followed up and down
where I was led or dragged--watched event rush on event, disclosure open
beyond disclosure; but _now I thought_.
The morning had been a quiet morning enough--all except the brief scene
with the lunatic. The transaction in the church had not been noisy;
there was no explosion of passion, no loud altercation, no dispute, no
defiance or challenge, no tears, no sobs: a few words had been spoken, a
calmly pronounced objection to the marriage made; some stern, short
questions put by Mr. Rochester; answers, explanations given, evidence
adduced; an open admission of the truth had been uttered by my master:
then the living proof had been seen; the intruders were gone, and
all was over.
I was in my own room as usual--just myself, without obvious change;
nothing had smitten me, or scathed me, or maimed me. And yet where was
the Jane Eyre of yesterday? where was her life? where were her
prospects?
Jane Eyre, who had been an ardent, expectant woman--almost a bride--was
a cold, solitary girl again: her life was pale; her prospects were
desolate. A Christmas frost had come at midsummer; a white December
storm had whirled over June; ice glazed the ripe apples; drifts crushed
the blowing roses; on hay-field and corn-field lay a frozen shroud;
lanes which last night blushed full of flowers, to-day were pathless
with untrodden snow; and the woods, which twelve hours since waved leafy
and fragrant as groves between the tropics, now spread waste, wild, and
white as pine forests in wintry Norway.
My hopes were all dead--struck with a subtle doom, such as in one night
fell on all the first-born in the land of Egypt. I looked on my
cherished wishes, yesterday so blooming and glowing; they lay stark,
chill, livid corpses that could never revive. I looked at my love, that
feeling which was my master's--which he had created: it shivered in my
heart, like a suffering child in a cold cradle; sickness and anguish had
seized it; it could not seek Mr. Rochester's arms--it could not derive
warmth from his breast. Oh, never more could it turn to him; for faith
was blighted--confidence destroyed! Mr. Rochester was not to me what he
had been; for he was not what I had thought him. I would not ascribe
vice to him; I would not say he had betrayed me: but the attribute of
stainless truth was gone from his idea; and from his presence I must go;
_that_ I perceived well. When--how--whither, I could not yet discern;
but he himself, I doubted not, would hurry me from Thornfield. Real
affection, it seemed, he could not have for me; it had been only fitful
passion; that was balked; he would want me no more. I should fear even
to cross his path now: my view must be hateful to him. Oh, how blind had
been my eyes! how weak my conduct!