“No, no, sir! think of other subjects, and speak of other things, and in another strain. Don’t address me as if I were a beauty; I am your plain, Quakerish governess.”
“You are a beauty, in my eyes; and a beauty just after the desire of my own heart, delicate and aerial.”
“Puny and insignificant, you mean. You are dreaming, sir—or, you are sneering. For God’s sake, don’t be ironical!”
“I will make the world acknowledge you a beauty, too,” he went on, while I really became uneasy at the strain he had adopted; because I felt he was either deluding himself or trying to delude me. “I will attire my Jane in satin and lace, and she shall have roses in her hair, and I will cover the head I love best with a priceless veil.”
“And then you won’t know me, sir, and I shall not be your Jane Eyre any longer, but an ape in a harlequin’s jacket—a jay in borrowed plumes. I would as soon see you, Mr. Rochester, tricked out in stage trappings, as myself clad in a court-lady’s robe; and I don’t call you handsome, sir, though I love you most dearly—far too dearly to flatter you. Don’t flatter me.”
He pursued his theme, however, without noticing my depre cation. “This very day I shall take you in the carriage to Millcote, and you must choose some dresses for yourself. I told you we should be married in four weeks. The wedding is to take place quietly, in the church down below yonder; and then I shall waft you away at once to town. After a brief stay there, I shall bear my treasure to regions nearer the sun; to French vineyards and Italian plains; and she shall see whatever is famous in old story and in modem record; she shall taste, too, of the life of cities; and she shall learn to value herself by just comparison with others.”
“Shall I travel? and with you, sir?”
“You shall sojourn at Paris, Rome, and Naples; at Florence, Venice, and Vienna; all the ground I have wandered over shall be re-trodden by you; wherever I stamped my hoof, your sylph’s foot shall step also. Ten years since, I flew through Europe half mad, with disgust, hate, and rage as my companions; now I shall revisit it healed and cleansed, with a very angel as my comforter.”
I laughed at him as he said this. “I am not an angel,” I asserted; “and I will not be one till I die; I will be myself, Mr. Rochester; you must neither expect nor exact anything celestial of me, for you will not get it any more than I shall get it of you, which I do not at all anticipate.”
“What do you anticipate of me?”
“For a little while you will, perhaps, be as you are now, a very little while; and then you will turn cool; and then you will be capricious; and then you will be stern, and I shall have much ado to please you; but when you get well used to me, you will, perhaps, like me again, Like me, I say, not love me. I suppose your love will effervesce in six months, or less. I have observed in books written by men, that period assigned as the farthest to which a husband’s ardor extends. Yet, after all, as a friend and companion, I hope never to become quite distasteful to my dear master.”
“Distasteful! and like you again! I think I shall like you again and yet again; and I will make you confess I do not only like, but love you—with truth, fervor, constancy.”
“Yet, are you not capricious, sir?”
“To women who please me only by their faces, I am the very devil when I find out they have neither souls nor hearts—when they open to me a perspective of flatness, triviality, and, perhaps, imbecility, coarseness, and ill-temper; but to the clear eye and eloquent tongue, to the soul made of fire, and the character that bends but does not break—at once supple and stable, tractable and consistent—I am ever tender and true.”
“Had you ever experience of such a character, sir? Did you ever love such a one?”
“I love it now.”
“But before me; if I, indeed, in any respect come up to that difficult standard?”
“I never met your likeness, Jane; you please me, and you master me—you seem to submit, and I like the sense of pliancy you impart; and while I am twining the soft, silken skein round my finger, it sends a thrill up my arm to my heart. I am influenced—conquered ; and the influence is sweeter than I can express; and the conquest I undergo has a witchery beyond any triumph I can win. Why do you smile, Jane? What does that inexplicable, that uncanny turn of countenance mean?”
“I was thinking, sir (you will excuse the idea; it was involuntary) , I was thinking of Hercules and Samson with their charm ers—”
“You were, you little, elfish—”
“Hush, sir! You don’t talk very wisely just now; any more than those gentlemen acted very wisely. However, had they been married, they would, no doubt, by their severity as husbands, have made up for their softness as suitors; and so will you, I fear. I wonder how you will answer me a year hence, should I ask a favor it does not suit your convenience or pleasure to grant.”
“Ask me something now, Janet—the least thing; I desire to be entreated—”
“Indeed, I will, sir; I have my petition all ready.”
“Speak! But if you look up and smile with that countenance, I shall swear concession before I know to what, and that will make a fool of me.”
“Not at all, sir; I ask only this; don’t send for the jewels, and don’t crown me with roses; you might as well put a border of gold lace round that plain pocket-handkerchief you have there.”
“I might as well ‘gild refined gold.’60 I know it; your request is granted, then—for the time. I will remand the order I despatched to my banker. But you have not yet asked for anything; you have prayed a gift to be withdrawn; try again.”
“Well, then, sir; have the goodness to gratify my curiosity, which is much piqued on one point.”
He looked disturbed. “What? what?” he said, hastily. “Curiosity is a dangerous petitioner; it is well I have not taken a vow to accord every request—”
“But there can be no danger in complying with this, sir.”
“Utter it, Jane; but I wish that instead of a mere inquiry into, perhaps, a secret, it was a wish for half my estate.”
“Now, King Ahasuerus!61 What do I want with half your estate? Do you think I am a Jew-usurer, seeking good investment in land? I would much rather have all your confidence. You will not exclude me from your confidence, if you admit me to your heart?”
“You are welcome to all of my confidence that is worth having, Jane; but, for God’s sake, don’t desire a useless burden! Don’t long for poison—don’t turn out a downright Eve on my hands!”
“Why not, sir? You have just been telling me how much you like to be conquered, and how pleasant over-persuasionfx is to you. Don’t you think I had better take advantage of the confession, and begin and coax, and entreat—even cry and be sulky, if necessary—for the sake of a mere essay of my power?”
“I dare you to any such experiment. Encroach, presume, and the game is up.”
“Is it, sir? You soon give in. How stern you look now! Your eyebrows have become as thick as my finger, and your forehead resembles, what, in some very astonishing poetry, I once saw styled, ‘a blue-piled thunder-loft.’ That will be your married look, sir, I suppose?”
“If that will be your married look, I, as a Christian, will soon give up the notion of consorting with a mere sprite or salamander. But what had you to ask, thing?—out with it.”
“There, you are less than civil now; and I like rudeness a great deal better than flattery. I had rather be a thing than an angel. This is what I have to ask: Why did you take such pains to make me believe you wished to marry Miss Ingram?”
“Is that all? Thank God, it is no worse!” And now he unknit his black brows; looked down, smiling at me, and stroked my hair, as if well pleased at seeing a danger averted. “I think I may confess,” he continued, “even although I should make you a little indignant, Jane—and I have seen what a fire-spirit you can be when you are indignant. You glowed in the cool moonlight last night, when you mutinied against fate, and claimed your rank as my equal. Janet, by-the-by, it was you who made me the offe
r.”
“Of course I did. But to the point, if you please, sir—Miss Ingram?”
“Well, I feigned courtship of Miss Ingram, because I wished to render you as madly in love with me as I was with you; and I knew jealousy would be the best ally I could call in for the furtherance of that end.”
“Excellent! Now you are small—not one whit bigger than the end of my little finger. It was a burning shame, and a scandalous disgrace, to act in that way. Did you think nothing of Miss Ingram’s feelings, sir?”
“Her feelings are concentrated in one—pride; and that needs humbling. Were you jealous, Jane?”
“Never mind, Mr. Rochester; it is in no way interesting to you to know that. Answer me truly once more. Do you think Miss Ingram will not suffer from your dishonest coquetry? Won’t she feel forsaken and deserted?”
“Impossible!—when I told you how she, on the contrary, deserted me; the idea of my insolvency cooled, or, rather, extinguished, her flame in a moment.”
“You have a curious designing mind, Mr. Rochester. I am afraid your principles on some points are eccentric.”
“My principles were never trained, Jane; they may have grown a little awry for want of attention.”
“Once again, seriously. May I enjoy the great good that has been vouchsafed to me, without fearing that any one else is suffering the bitter pain I myself felt a while ago?”
“That you may, my good little girl; there is not another being in the world has the same pure love for me as yourself—for I lay that pleasant unction to my soul, Jane, a belief in your affection.” 62
I turned my lips to the hand that lay on my shoulder. I loved him very much—more than I could trust myself to say—more than words had power to express.
“Ask something more,” he said, presently; “it is my delight to be entreated, and to yield.”
I was again ready with my request. “Communicate your intentions to Mrs. Fairfax, sir; she saw me with you last night in the hall, and she was shocked. Give her some explanation before I see her again. It pains me to be misjudged by so good a woman.”
“Go to your room, and put on your bonnet,” he replied. “I mean you to accompany me to Millcote this morning; and while you prepare for the drive, I will enlighten the old lady’s understanding. Did she think, Janet, you had given the world for love and considered it well lost?”63
“I believe she thought I had forgotten my station; and you yours, sir.”
“Station! station!—your station is in my heart, and on the necks of those who would insult you, now or hereafter. Go.”
I was soon dressed; and when I heard Mr. Rochester quit Mrs. Fairfax’s parlor, I hurried down to it. The old lady had been reading her morning portion of Scripture—the lesson for the day; her Bible lay open before her, and her spectacles were upon it. Her occupation, suspended by Mr. Rochester’s announcement, seemed now forgotten; her eyes, fixed on the blank wall opposite, expressed the surprise of a quiet mind, stirred by unwonted tidings. Seeing me, she roused herself; she made a sort of effort to smile, and framed a few words of congratulation; but the smile expired, and the sentence was abandoned unfinished. She put up her spectacles, shut the Bible, and pushed her chair back from the table.
“I feel so astonished,” she began, “I hardly know what to say to you, Miss Eyre. I have surely not been dreaming, have I? Sometimes I half fall asleep when I am sitting alone, and fancy things that have never happened. It has seemed to me more than once, when I have been in a doze, that my dear husband, who died fifteen years since, has come in and sat down beside me; and that I have even heard him call me by name, Alice, as he used to do. Now can you tell me whether it is actually true that Mr. Rochester has asked you to marry him? Don’t laugh at me. But I really thought he came in here five minutes ago, and said that in a month you would be his wife.”
“He has said the same thing to me,” I replied.
“He has! Do you believe him? Have you accepted him?”
“Yes.”
She looked at me bewildered.
“I could never have thought it. He is a proud man; all the Rochesters were proud; and his father at least liked money. He, too, has always been called careful. He means to marry you?”
“He tells me so.”
She surveyed my whole person; in her eyes I read that they had found no charm powerful enough to solve the enigma.
“It passes me!” she continued; “but no doubt it is true, since you say so. How it will answer I cannot tell; I really don’t know. Equality of position and fortune is often advisable in such cases; and there are twenty years of difference in your ages. He might almost be your father.”
“No, indeed, Mrs. Fairfax!” exclaimed I, nettled; “he is nothing like my father! No one, who saw us together, would suppose it for an instant. Mr. Rochester looks as young, and is as young, as some men at five-and-twenty.”
“Is it really for love he is going to marry you?” she asked.
I was so hurt by her coldness and scepticism, that the tears rose to my eyes.
“I am sorry to grieve you,” pursued the widow, “but you are so young and so little acquainted with men, I wished to put you on your guard. It is an old saying that ‘all is not gold that glitters’; and in this case I do fear there will be something found to be different to what either you or I expect.”
“Why? am I a monster?” I said; “is it impossible that Mr. Rochester should have a sincere affection for me?”
“No, you are very well, and much improved of late; and Mr. Rochester, I dare say, is fond of you. I have always noticed that you were a sort of pet of his. There are times when, for your sake, I have been a little uneasy at his marked preference, and have wished to put you on your guard; but I did not like to suggest even the possibility of wrong. I knew such an idea would shock, perhaps offend you; and you were so discreet, and so thoroughly modest and sensible, I hoped you might be trusted to protect yourself. Last night I cannot tell you what I suffered when I sought all over the house, and could find you nowhere, nor the master either; and then, at twelve o‘clock, saw you come in with him.”
“Well, never mind that now,” I interrupted, impatiently; “it is enough that all was right.”
“I hope all will be right in the end,” she said; “but, believe me, you cannot be too careful. Try and keep Mr. Rochester at a distance ; distrust yourself as well as him.
Gentlemen in his station are not accustomed to marry their governesses.”
I was growing truly irritated; happily, Adèle ran in.
“Let me go—let me go to Millcote, too!” she cried. “Mr. Rochester won‘t, though there is so much room in the new carriage. Beg him to let me go, mademoiselle.”
“That I will, Adèle;” and I hastened away with her, glad to quit my gloomy monitress. The carriage was ready; they were bringing it round to the front, and my master was pacing the pavement, Pilot following him backward and forward.
“Adèle may accompany us, may she not, sir?”
“I told her no. I’ll have no brats! I’ll have only you.”
“Do let her go, Mr. Rochester, if you please; it would be better.”
“Not it—she will be a restraint.”
He was quite peremptory, both in look and voice. The chill of Mrs. Fairfax’s warnings, and the damp of her doubts, were upon me; something of unsubstantiality and uncertainty had beset my hopes. I half lost the sense of power over him. I was about mechanically to obey him, without further remonstrance; but as he helped me into the carriage, he looked at my face.
“What is the matter?” he asked; “all the sunshine is gone. Do you really wish the bairn to go? Will it annoy you if she is left behind?”
“I would far rather she went, sir.”
“Then off for your bonnet, and back, like a flash of lightning!” cried he to Adèle.
She obeyed him with what speed she might.
“After all, a single morning’s interruption will not matter much,” said he, “when I mean sho
rtly to claim you, your thoughts, conversation, and company, for life.”
Adèle, when lifted in, commenced kissing me, by way of expressing her gratitude for my intercession; she was instantly stowed away into a corner on the other side of him. She then peeped round to where I sat; so stern a neighbor was too restrictive; to him, in his present fractious mood, she dared whisper no observations, nor ask of him any information.
“Let her come to me,” I entreated; “she will, perhaps, trouble you, sir; there is plenty of room on this side.”
He handed her over as if she had been a lap-dog; “I’ll send her to school yet,” he said, but now he was smiling.
Adèle heard him, and asked if she was to go to school “sans mademoiselle?”fy
“Yes,” he replied, “absolutely sans mademoiselle; for I am to take mademoiselle to the moon, and there I shall seek a cave in one of the white valleys among the volcano-tops, and mademoiselle shall live with me there, and only me.”
“She will have nothing to eat—you will starve her,” observed Adèle.
“I shall gather manna for her morning and night; the plains and hill-sides in the moon are bleached with manna, Adèle.”
“She will want to warm herself; what will she do for a fire?”
“Fire rises out of the lunar mountains; when she is cold, I’ll carry her up to a peak and lay her down on the edge of a crater.”
“Oh, qu‘elle y sera mal—peu comfortable!fz And her clothes, they will wear out; how can she get new ones?”
Mr. Rochester professed to be puzzled. “Hem!” said he. “What would you do, Adèle? Cudgel your brains for an expedient. How would a white or a pink cloud answer for a gown, do you think? And one could cut a pretty enough scarf out of a rainbow.”
“She is far better as she is,” concluded Adèle, after musing some time; “besides, she would get tired of living with only you in the moon. If I were mademoiselle, I would never consent to go with you.”
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