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 blond 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

wonder 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 grey old house of God

rising calm before me, of a rook wheeling round 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 amongst the low hillocks and reading the

mementoes graven on the few mossy head-stones. I noticed them,

because, as they saw us, they passed round 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 daresay, 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 towards us,

viewing through the rails the old times-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 towards 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 towards 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 colourless 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 recognise 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.

   'And you would thrust on me a wife?'

   'I would remind you of your lady's existence, sir, which the law

recognises, if you do not.'

   'Favour 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:-

date of fifteen years back), Edward Fairfax Rochester, of Thornfield

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 shrivelled 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 neighbourhood, sir, and I never heard of a

Mrs. Rochester at Thornfield Hall.'

   I saw a grim smile contort Mr. Rochester's lips, 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 the 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 daresay 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 dreamt she was going to be entrapped into a feigned

union with a defrauded wretch, already bound to a bad, mad, and

embruted 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, Adele, 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 storey: 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 burnt 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 farther end of

the room, a figure ran backwards and forwards. What it was, whether

beast or human being, one could not, at first sight, tell: it

grovelled, 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-morrow, 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 favourable 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 recognised 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 equalling 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: 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 amidst

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 ragout. 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 despatch, 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 it 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 hayfield and cornfield 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!

   My eyes were covered and closed: eddying darkness seemed to swim

round me, and reflection came in as black and confused a flow.

Self-abandoned, relaxed, and effortless, I seemed to have laid me down

in the dried-up bed of a great river; I heard a flood loosened in

remote mountains, and felt the torrent come: to rise I had no will, to

flee I had no strength. I lay faint, longing to be dead. One idea only

still throbbed life-like within me- a remembrance of God: it begot

an unuttered prayer: these words went wandering up and down in my

rayless mind, as something that should be whispered, but no energy was

found to express them-

   'Be not far from me, for trouble is near: there is none to help.'

   It was near: and as I had lifted no petition to Heaven to avert it-

as I had neither joined my hands, nor bent my knees, nor moved my

lips- it came: in full heavy swing the torrent poured over me. The

whole consciousness of my life lorn, my love lost, my hope quenched,

my faith death-struck, swayed full and mighty above me in one sullen

mass. That bitter hour cannot be described: in truth, 'the waters came

into my soul; I sank in deep mire: I felt no standing: I came into

deep waters; the floods overflowed me.'