Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte Deluxe Edition Chapter 25.

The month of courtship had wasted: its very last hours were being
numbered. There was no putting off the day that advanced the
bridal day; and all preparations for its arrival were complete. I,
at least, had nothing more to do: there were my trunks, packed,
locked, corded, ranged in a row along the wall of my little chamber;
tomorrow, at this time, they would be far on their road to London:
and so should I (D.V.), or rather, not I, but one Jane Rochester,
a person whom as yet I knew not. The cards of address alone remained
to nail on: they lay, four little squares, in the drawer. Mr.
Rochester had himself written the direction, "Mrs. Rochester,
Hotel, London," on each: I could not persuade myself to affix
them, or to have them affixed. Mrs. Rochester! She did not exist:
she would not be born till tomorrow, some time after eight o'clock
a.m.; and I would wait to be assured she had come into the world
alive before I assigned to her all that property.

It was enough that in yonder closet, opposite my dressing table,
garments said to be hers had already displaced my black stuff
Lowood frock and straw bonnet: for not to me appertained that
suit of wedding raiment; the pearl coloured robe, the vapoury
veil pendent from the usurped portmanteau. I shut the closet
to conceal the strange, wraith like apparel it contained; which,
at this evening hour at nine o'clock gave out certainly a most
ghostly shimmer through the shadow of my apartment. "I will
leave you by yourself, white dream," I said. "I am feverish: I hear
the wind blowing: I will go out of doors and feel it." It was not
only the hurry of preparation that made me feverish; not only
the anticipation of the great change the new life which was to
commence to morrow: both these circumstances had their share,
doubtless, in producing that restless, excited mood which hurried
me forth at this late hour into the darkening grounds: but a third
cause influenced my mind more than they.

I had at heart a strange and anxious thought. Something had
happened which I could not comprehend; no one knew of or had seen
the event but myself: it had taken place the preceding night. Mr.
Rochester that night was absent from home; nor was he yet returned:
business had called him to a small estate of two or three farms he
possessed thirty miles off business it was requisite he should
settle in person, previous to his meditated departure from England.
I waited now his return; eager to disburthen my mind, and to seek
of him the solution of the enigma that perplexed me. Stay till
he comes, reader; and, when I disclose my secret to him, you shall
share the confidence.

I sought the orchard, driven to its shelter by the wind, which all
day had blown strong and full from the south, without, however,
bringing a speck of rain. Instead of subsiding as night drew on,
it seemed to augment its rush and deepen its roar: the trees blew
steadfastly one way, never writhing round, and scarcely tossing
back their boughs once in an hour; so continuous was the strain
bending their branchy heads northward the clouds drifted from
pole to pole, fast following, mass on mass: no glimpse of blue
sky had been visible that July day.

It was not without a certain wild pleasure I ran before the wind,
delivering my trouble of mind to the measureless air torrent thundering
through space. Descending the laurel walk, I faced the wreck of
the chestnut tree; it stood up black and riven: the trunk, split
down the centre, gasped ghastly. The cloven halves were not broken
from each other, for the firm base and strong roots kept them
unsundered below; though community of vitality was destroyed
the sap could flow no more: their great boughs on each side were
dead, and next winter's tempests would be sure to fell one or both
to earth: as yet, however, they might be said to form one tree
a ruin, but an entire ruin.

"You did right to hold fast to each other," I said: as if
the monster splinters were living things, and could hear me. "I
think, scathed as you look, and charred and scorched, there must
be a little sense of life in you yet, rising out of that adhesion
at the faithful, honest roots: you will never have green leaves
more never more see birds making nests and singing idyls in
your boughs; the time of pleasure and love is over with you: but
you are not desolate: each of you has a comrade to sympathise
with him in his decay." As I looked up at them, the moon appeared
momentarily in that part of the sky which filled their fissure;
her disk was blood red and half overcast; she seemed to throw on
me one bewildered, dreary glance, and buried herself again instantly
in the deep drift of cloud. The wind fell, for a second, round
Thornfield; but far away over wood and water, poured a wild,
melancholy wail: it was sad to listen to, and I ran off again.

Here and there I strayed through the orchard, gathered up the apples
with which the grass round the tree roots was thickly strewn; then
I employed myself in dividing the ripe from the unripe; I carried
them into the house and put them away in the store room. Then
I repaired to the library to ascertain whether the fire was lit,
for, though summer, I knew on such a gloomy evening Mr. Rochester
would like to see a cheerful hearth when he came in: yes, the fire
had been kindled some time, and burnt well. I placed his arm chair
by the chimney corner: I wheeled the table near it: I let down
the curtain, and had the candles brought in ready for lighting.
More restless than ever, when I had completed these arrangements
I could not sit still, nor even remain in the house: a little
time piece in the room and the old clock in the hall simultaneously
struck ten. "How late it grows!" I said. "I will run down to the gates:
it is moonlight at intervals; I can see a good way on the road. He may
be coming now, and to meet him will save some minutes of suspense."

The wind roared high in the great trees which embowered the gates;
but the road as far as I could see, to the right hand and the
left, was all still and solitary: save for the shadows of clouds
crossing it at intervals as the moon looked out, it was but a long
pale line, unvaried by one moving speck. A puerile tear dimmed my
eye while I looked a tear of disappointment and impatience; ashamed
of it, I wiped it away. I lingered; the moon shut herself wholly within
her chamber, and drew close her curtain of dense cloud: the night grew
dark; rain came driving fast on the gale. "I wish he would come! I wish
he would come!" I exclaimed, seized with hypochondriac foreboding.
I had expected his arrival before tea; now it was dark: what could
keep him? Had an accident happened? The event of last night again
recurred to me. I interpreted it as a warning of disaster. I feared
my hopes were too bright to be realised; and I had enjoyed so much
bliss lately that I imagined my fortune had passed its meridian,
and must now decline. "Well, I cannot return to the house," I
thought; "I cannot sit by the fireside, while he is abroad in
inclement weather: better tire my limbs than strain my heart;
I will go forward and meet him."

I set out; I walked fast, but not far: ere I had measured a quarter
of a mile, I heard the tramp of hoofs; a horseman came on, full
gallop; a dog ran by his side. Away with evil presentiment! It
was he: here he was, mounted on Mesrour, followed by Pilot. He
saw me; for the moon had opened a blue field in the sky, and rode
in it watery bright: he took his hat off, and waved it round his
head. I now ran to meet him. "There!" he exclaimed, as he stretched
out his hand and bent from the saddle: "You can't do without me,
that is evident. Step on my boot toe; give me both hands: mount!"

I obeyed: joy made me agile: I sprang up before him. A hearty
kissing I got for a welcome, and some boastful triumph, which I
swallowed as well as I could. He checked himself in his exultation
to demand, "But is there anything the matter, Janet, that you come
to meet me at such an hour? Is there anything wrong?"
"No, but I thought you would never come. I could not bear to wait
in the house for you, especially with this rain and wind."
"Rain and wind, indeed! Yes, you are dripping like a mermaid; pull
my cloak round you: but I think you are feverish, Jane: both your
cheek and hand are burning hot. I ask again, is there anything
the matter? "Nothing now; I am neither afraid nor unhappy."
"Then you have been both?" "Rather: but I'll tell you all about it by
and bye, sir; and I daresay you will only laugh at me for my pains."

"I'll laugh at you heartily when to morrow is past; till then I
dare not: my prize is not certain. This is you, who have been as
slippery as an eel this last month, and as thorny as a briar rose?
I could not lay a finger anywhere but I was pricked; and now I seem
to have gathered up a stray lamb in my arms. You wandered out of
the fold to seek your shepherd, did you, Jane?" "I wanted you: but
don't boast. Here we are at Thornfield: now let me get down."
He landed me on the pavement. As John took his horse, and he followed
me into the hall, he told me to make haste and put something dry
on, and then return to him in the library; and he stopped me, as
I made for the staircase, to extort a promise that I would not be
long: nor was I long; in five minutes I rejoined him. I found
him at supper. "Take a seat and bear me company, Jane: please
god, it is the last meal but one you will eat at Thornfield Hall
for a long time." I sat down near him, but told him I could not eat.
"Is it because you have the prospect of a journey before you, Jane?
Is it the thoughts of going to London that takes away your appetite?"

"I cannot see my prospects clearly to night, sir; and I hardly know
what thoughts I have in my head. Everything in life seems unreal."
"Except me: I am substantial enough touch me." "You, sir, are the
most phantom like of all: you are a mere dream." He held out his
hand, laughing. "Is that a dream?" said he, placing it close to my eyes.
He had a rounded, muscular, and vigorous hand, as well as a long,
strong arm. "Yes; though I touch it, it is a dream," said I, as I put it
down from before my face. "Sir, have you finished supper?"
"Yes, Jane."

I rang the bell and ordered away the tray. When we were again
alone, I stirred the fire, and then took a low seat at my master's
knee. "It is near midnight," I said. "Yes: but remember, Jane, you
promised to wake with me the night before my wedding."
"I did; and I will keep my promise, for an hour or two at least:
I have no wish to go to bed." "Are all your arrangements complete?"
"All, sir." "And on my part likewise," he returned, "I have settled
everything; and we shall leave Thornfield to morrow, within half
an hour after our return from church." "Very well, sir."

"With what an extraordinary smile you uttered that word 'very
well,' Jane! What a bright spot of colour you have on each cheek!
and how strangely your eyes glitter! Are you well?" "I believe I am."
"Believe! What is the matter? Tell me what you feel."
"I could not, sir: no words could tell you what I feel. I wish
this present hour would never end: who knows with what fate
the next may come charged?" "This is hypochondria, Jane. You
have been over excited, or over fatigued." "Do you, sir, feel calm
and happy?" "Calm? no: but happy to the heart's core."

I looked up at him to read the signs of bliss in his face: it was
ardent and flushed. "Give me your confidence, Jane," he said:
"relieve your mind of any weight that oppresses it, by imparting
it to me. What do you fear? that I shall not prove a good husband?"
"It is the idea farthest from my thoughts." "Are you apprehensive
of the new sphere you are about to enter? Of the new life into which
you are passing?" "No." "You puzzle me, Jane: your look and tone of
sorrowful audacity perplex and pain me. I want an explanation."
"Then, sir, listen. You were from home last night?"

"I was: I know that; and you hinted a while ago at something which
had happened in my absence: nothing, probably, of consequence;
but, in short, it has disturbed you. Let me hear it. Mrs. Fairfax
has said something, perhaps? or you have overheard the servants
talk? your sensitive self respect has been wounded?" "No, sir." It struck
twelve I waited till the time piece had concluded its silver chime, and
the clock its hoarse, vibrating stroke, and then I proceeded.

"All day yesterday I was very busy, and very happy in my ceaseless
bustle; for I am not, as you seem to think, troubled by any haunting
fears about the new sphere, et cetera: I think it a glorious
thing to have the hope of living with you, because I love you. No,
sir, don't caress me now let me talk undisturbed. Yesterday I
trusted well in Providence, and believed that events were working
together for your good and mine: it was a fine day, if you recollect
the calmness of the air and sky forbade apprehensions respecting
your safety or comfort on your journey. I walked a little while
on the pavement after tea, thinking of you; and I beheld you in
imagination so near me, I scarcely missed your actual presence.
I thought of the life that lay before me YOUR life, sir an
existence more expansive and stirring than my own: as much more
so as the depths of the sea to which the brook runs are than the
shallows of its own strait channel. I wondered why moralists call
this world a dreary wilderness: for me it blossomed like a rose.

Just at sunset, the air turned cold and the sky cloudy: I went in,
Sophie called me upstairs to look at my wedding dress, which they
had just brought; and under it in the box I found your present
the veil which, in your princely extravagance, you sent for from
London: resolved, I suppose, since I would not have jewels, to
cheat me into accepting something as costly. I smiled as I unfolded
it, and devised how I would tease you about your aristocratic tastes,
and your efforts to masque your plebeian bride in the attributes
of a peeress. I though how I would carry down to you the square
of unembroidered blond I had myself prepared as a covering for my
low born head, and ask if that was not good enough for a woman who
could bring her husband neither fortune, beauty, nor connections.
I saw plainly how you would look; and heard your impetuous republican
answers, and your haughty disavowal of any necessity on your part
to augment your wealth, or elevate your standing, by marrying either
a purse or a coronet." "How well you read me, you witch!" interposed
Mr. Rochester: "but what did you find in the veil besides its embroidery?
Did you find poison, or a dagger, that you look so mournful now?"

"No, no, sir; besides the delicacy and richness of the fabric,
I found nothing save Fairfax Rochester's pride; and that did not
scare me, because I am used to the sight of the demon. But, sir,
as it grew dark, the wind rose: it blew yesterday evening, not as
it blows now wild and high but 'with a sullen, moaning sound'
far more eerie. I wished you were at home. I came into this room,
and the sight of the empty chair and fireless hearth chilled me.
For some time after I went to bed, I could not sleep a sense of
anxious excitement distressed me. The gale still rising, seemed
to my ear to muffle a mournful under sound; whether in the house
or abroad I could not at first tell, but it recurred, doubtful
yet doleful at every lull; at last I made out it must be some dog
howling at a distance. I was glad when it ceased. On sleeping, I
continued in dreams the idea of a dark and gusty night. I continued
also the wish to be with you, and experienced a strange, regretful
consciousness of some barrier dividing us.

During all my first sleep, I was following the windings of an
unknown road; total obscurity environed me; rain pelted me;
I was burdened with the charge of a little child: a very small
creature, too young and feeble to walk, and which shivered
in my cold arms, and wailed piteously in my ear. I thought,
sir, that you were on the road a long way before me; and I
strained every nerve to overtake you, and made effort on
effort to utter your name and entreat you to stop but my
movements were fettered, and my voice still died away
inarticulate; while you, I felt, withdrew farther and farther
every moment."

"And these dreams weigh on your spirits now, Jane, when I am close
to you? Little nervous subject! Forget visionary woe, and think
only of real happiness! You say you love me, Janet: yes I will
not forget that; and you cannot deny it. THOSE words did not die
inarticulate on your lips. I heard them clear and soft: a thought
too solemn perhaps, but sweet as music 'I think it is a glorious thing
to have the hope of living with you, Edward, because I love you.'
Do you love me, Jane? repeat it." "I do, sir I do, with my whole heart."

"Well," he said, after some minutes' silence, "it is strange; but
that sentence has penetrated my breast painfully. Why? I think
because you said it with such an earnest, religious energy, and
because your upward gaze at me now is the very sublime of faith,
truth, and devotion: it is too much as if some spirit were near
me. Look wicked, Jane: as you know well how to look: coin one
of your wild, shy, provoking smiles; tell me you hate me tease
me, vex me; do anything but move me: I would rather be incensed
than saddened." "I will tease you and vex you to your heart's
content, when I have finished my tale: but hear me to the end."
"I thought, Jane, you had told me all. I thought I had found the
source of your melancholy in a dream." I shook my head. "What!
Is there more? But I will not believe it to be anything important.
I warn you of incredulity beforehand. Go on." The disquietude
of his air, the somewhat apprehensive impatience of his manner,
surprised me: but I proceeded.

"I dreamt another dream, sir: that Thornfield Hall was a dreary
ruin, the retreat of bats and owls. I thought that of all the
stately front nothing remained but a shell like wall, very high and
very fragile looking. I wandered, on a moonlight night, through
the grass grown enclosure within: here I stumbled over a marble
hearth, and there over a fallen fragment of cornice. Wrapped up
in a shawl, I still carried the unknown little child: I might not
lay it down anywhere, however tired were my arms however much its
weight impeded my progress, I must retain it. I heard the gallop
of a horse at a distance on the road; I was sure it was you; and
you were departing for many years and for a distant country. I
climbed the thin wall with frantic perilous haste, eager to catch
one glimpse of you from the top: the stones rolled from under my
feet, the ivy branches I grasped gave way, the child clung round
my neck in terror, and almost strangled me; at last I gained the
summit. I saw you like a speck on a white track, lessening every
moment. The blast blew so strong I could not stand. I sat down
on the narrow ledge; I hushed the scared infant in my lap: you
turned an angle of the road: I bent forward to take a last look;
the wall crumbled; I was shaken; the child rolled from my knee, I
lost my balance, fell, and woke." "Now, Jane, that is all."

"All the preface, sir; the tale is yet to come. On waking, a
gleam dazzled my eyes; I thought Oh, it is daylight! But I was
mistaken; it was only candlelight. Sophie, I supposed, had come
in. There was a light in the dressing table, and the door of the
closet, where, before going to bed, I had hung my wedding dress
and veil, stood open; I heard a rustling there. I asked, 'Sophie,
what are you doing?' No one answered; but a form emerged from the
closet; it took the light, held it aloft, and surveyed the garments
pendent from the portmanteau. 'Sophie! Sophie!' I again cried:
and still it was silent. I had risen up in bed, I bent forward:
first surprise, then bewilderment, came over me; and then my blood
crept cold through my veins. Mr. Rochester, this was not Sophie,
it was not Leah, it was not Mrs. Fairfax: it was not no, I was
sure of it, and am still it was not even that strange woman, Grace
Poole." "It must have been one of them," interrupted my master.

"No, sir, I solemnly assure you to the contrary. The shape standing
before me had never crossed my eyes within the precincts of
Thornfield Hall before; the height, the contour were new to me."
"Describe it, Jane." "It seemed, sir, a woman, tall and large,
with thick and dark hair hanging long down her back. I know
not what dress she had on: it was white and straight; but whether
gown, sheet, or shroud, I cannot tell." "Did you see her face?"

"Not at first. But presently she took my veil from its place; she
held it up, gazed at it long, and then she threw it over her own
head, and turned to the mirror. At that moment I saw the reflection
of the visage and features quite distinctly in the dark oblong
glass." "And how were they?" "Fearful and ghastly to me oh,
sir, I never saw a face like it! It was a discoloured face it was a
savage face. I wish I could forget the roll of the red eyes and the
fearful blackened inflation of the lineaments!" "Ghosts are usually
pale, Jane." "This, sir, was purple: the lips were swelled and dark;
the brow furrowed: the black eyebrows widely raised over the
bloodshot eyes. Shall I tell you of what it reminded me?" "You may."
"Of the foul German spectre the Vampyre." "Ah! what did it do?"
"Sir, it removed my veil from its gaunt head, rent it in two parts,
and flinging both on the floor, trampled on them." "Afterwards?"

"It drew aside the window curtain and looked out; perhaps it saw
dawn approaching, for, taking the candle, it retreated to the door.
Just at my bedside, the figure stopped: the fiery eyes glared upon
me she thrust up her candle close to my face, and extinguished
it under my eyes. I was aware her lurid visage flamed over mine,
and I lost consciousness: for the second time in my life only
the second time I became insensible from terror." "Who was with
you when you revived?" "No one, sir, but the broad day. I rose,
bathed my head and face in water, drank a long draught; felt that
though enfeebled I was not ill, and determined that to none but
you would I impart this vision. Now, sir, tell me who and what
that woman was?" "The creature of an over stimulated brain;
that is certain. I must be careful of you, my treasure: nerves like
yours were not made for rough handling."

"Sir, depend on it, my nerves were not in fault; the thing was
real: the transaction actually took place." "And your previous
dreams, were they real too? Is Thornfield Hall a ruin? Am I
severed from you by insuperable obstacles? Am I leaving you
without a tear without a kiss without a word?" "Not yet."
"Am I about to do it? Why, the day is already commenced which is
to bind us indissolubly; and when we are once united, there shall
be no recurrence of these mental terrors: I guarantee that."

"Mental terrors, sir! I wish I could believe them to be only such:
I wish it more now than ever; since even you cannot explain to me
the mystery of that awful visitant." "And since I cannot do it,
Jane, it must have been unreal." "But, sir, when I said so to myself
on rising this morning, and when I looked round the room to gather
courage and comfort from the cheerful aspect of each familiar object
in full daylight, there on the carpet I saw what gave the distinct
lie to my hypothesis, the veil, torn from top to bottom in two halves!"

I felt Mr. Rochester start and shudder; he hastily flung his arms
round me. "Thank god!" he exclaimed, "that if anything malignant
did come near you last night, it was only the veil that was harmed.
Oh, to think what might have happened!" He drew his breath short,
and strained me so close to him, I could scarcely pant. After some
minutes' silence, he continued, cheerily "Now, Janet, I'll explain to
you all about it. It was half dream, half reality. A woman did,
I doubt not, enter your room: and that woman was must have
been Grace Poole. You call her a strange being yourself: from all
you know, you have reason so to call her what did she do to me?
What to Mason? In a state between sleeping and waking, you
noticed her entrance and her actions; but feverish, almost delirious
as you were, you ascribed to her a goblin appearance different
from her own: the long dishevelled hair, the swelled black face,
the exaggerated stature, were figments of imagination; results
of nightmare: the spiteful tearing of the veil was real: and it is
like her. I see you would ask why I keep such a woman in my
house: when we have been married a year and a day, I will tell
you; but not now. Are you satisfied, Jane? Do you accept my
solution of the mystery?"

I reflected, and in truth it appeared to me the only possible one:
satisfied I was not, but to please him I endeavoured to appear so
relieved, I certainly did feel; so I answered him with a contented
smile. And now, as it was long past one, I prepared to leave him.
"Does not Sophie sleep with Adele in the nursery?" he asked, as
I lit my candle. "Yes, sir." "And there is room enough in Adele's
little bed for you. You must share it with her to night, Jane: it
is no wonder that the incident you have related should make you
nervous, and I would rather you did not sleep alone: promise me
to go to the nursery." "I shall be very glad to do so, sir."

"And fasten the door securely on the inside. Wake Sophie when you
go upstairs, under pretence of requesting her to rouse you in good
time to morrow; for you must be dressed and have finished breakfast
before eight. And now, no more sombre thoughts: chase dull care
away, Janet. Don't you hear to what soft whispers the wind has
fallen? and there is no more beating of rain against the window panes:
look here" (he lifted up the curtain) "it is a lovely night!" It was.
Half heaven was pure and stainless: the clouds, now trooping before
the wind, which had shifted to the west, were filing off eastward
in long, silvered columns. The moon shone peacefully. "Well," said
Mr. Rochester, gazing inquiringly into my eyes, "how is my Janet
now?" "The night is serene, sir; and so am I." "And you will not dream
of separation and sorrow to night; but of happy love and blissful union."

This prediction was but half fulfilled: I did not indeed dream of
sorrow, but as little did I dream of joy; for I never slept at all.
With little Adele in my arms, I watched the slumber of childhood
so tranquil, so passionless, so innocent and waited for the
coming day: all my life was awake and astir in my frame: and as
soon as the sun rose I rose too. I remember Adele clung to me as I
left her: I remember I kissed her as I loosened her little hands
from my neck; and I cried over her with strange emotion, and quitted
her because I feared my sobs would break her still sound repose.
She seemed the emblem of my past life; and he I was now to array
myself to meet, the dread, but adored, type of my unknown future day.

Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte Deluxe Edition Chapter 26.>