He descended the one step, and advanced slowly and gropingly
towards the grass-plat. Where was his daring stride now? Then he
paused, as if he knew not which way to turn. He lifted his hand and
opened his eyelids; gazed blank, and with a straining effort, on the
sky, and toward the amphitheatre of trees: one saw that all to him was
void darkness. He stretched his right hand (the left arm, the
mutilated one, he kept hidden in his bosom); he seemed to wish by
touch to gain an idea of what lay around him: he met but vacancy
still; for the trees were some yards off where he stood. He
relinquished the endeavour, folded his arms, and stood quiet and
mute in the rain, now falling fast on his uncovered head. At this
moment John approached him from some quarter.
'Will you take my arm, sir?' he said; 'there is a heavy shower
coming on: had you not better go in?'
'Let me alone,' was the answer.
John withdrew without having observed me. Mr. Rochester now tried
to walk about: vainly,- all was too uncertain. He groped his way
back to the house, and, re-entering it, closed the door.
I now drew near and knocked: John's wife opened for me. 'Mary,' I
said, 'how are you?'
She started as if she had seen a ghost: I calmed her. To her
hurried 'Is it really you, miss, come at this late hour to this lonely
place?' I answered by taking her hand; and then I followed her into
the kitchen, where John now sat by a good fire. I explained to them,
in a few words, that I had heard all which had happened since I left
Thornfield, and that I was come to see Mr. Rochester. I asked John
to go down to the turnpike-house, where I had dismissed the chaise,
and bring my trunk, which I had left there: and then, while I
removed my bonnet and shawl, I questioned Mary as to whether I could
be accommodated at the Manor House for the night; and finding that
arrangements to that effect, though difficult, would not be
impossible, I informed her I should stay. just at this moment the
parlour-bell rang.
'When you go in,' said I, 'tell your master that a person wishes to
speak to him, but do not give my name.'
'I don't think he will see you,' she answered; 'he refuses
everybody.'
When she returned, I inquired what he had said.
'You are to send in your name and your business,' she replied.
She then proceeded to fill a glass with water, and place it on a tray,
together with candles.
'Is that what he rang for?' I asked.
'Yes: he always has candles brought in at dark, though he is
blind.'
'Give the tray to me; I will carry it in.'
I took it from her hand: she pointed me out the parlour door. The
tray shook as I held it; the water spilt from the glass; my heart
struck my ribs loud and fast. Mary opened the door for me, and shut it
behind me.
This parlour looked gloomy: a neglected handful of fire burnt low
in the grate; and, leaning over it, with his head supported against
the high, old-fashioned mantelpiece, appeared the blind tenant of
the room. His old dog, Pilot, lay on one side, removed out of the way,
and coiled up as if afraid of being inadvertently trodden upon.
Pilot pricked up his ears when I came in: then he jumped up with a
yelp and a whine, and bounded towards me: he almost knocked the tray
from my hands. I set it on the table; then patted him, and said
softly, 'Lie down!' Mr. Rochester turned mechanically to see what
the commotion was: but as he saw nothing, he returned and sighed.
'Give me the water, Mary,' he said.
I approached him with the now only half-filled glass; Pilot
followed me, still excited.
'What is the matter?' he inquired.
'Down, Pilot!' I again said. He checked the water on its way to his
lips, and seemed to listen: he drank, and put the glass down. 'This is
you, Mary, is it not?'
'Mary is in the kitchen,' I answered.
He put out his hand with a quick gesture, but not seeing where I
stood, he did not touch me. 'Who is this? Who is this?' he demanded,
trying, as it seemed, to see with those sightless eyes- unavailing and
distressing attempt! 'Answer me- speak again!' he ordered, imperiously
and aloud.
'Will you have a little more water, sir? I spilt half of what was
in the glass,' I said.
'Who is it? What is it? Who speaks?'
'Pilot knows me, and John and Mary know I am here. I came only this
evening,' I answered.
'Great God!- what delusion has come over me? What sweet madness has
seized me?'
'No delusion- no madness: your mind, sir, is too strong for
delusion, your health too sound for frenzy.'
'And where is the speaker? Is it only a voice? Oh! I cannot see,
but I must feel, or my heart will stop and my brain burst. Whatever-
whoever you are- be perceptible to the touch or I cannot live!'
He groped; I arrested his wandering hand, and prisoned it in both
mine.
'Her very fingers!' he cried; 'her small, slight fingers! If so
there must be more of her.'
The muscular hand broke from my custody; my arm was seized, my
shoulder- neck- waist- I was entwined and gathered to him.
'Is it Jane? What is it? This is her shape- this is her size-'
'And this her voice,' I added. 'She is all here: her heart, too.
God bless you, sir! I am glad to be so near you again.'
'Jane Eyre!- Jane Eyre,' was all he said.
'My dear master,' I answered, 'I am Jane Eyre: I have found you
out- I am come back to you.'
'In truth?- in the flesh? My living Jane?'
'You touch me, sir,- you hold me, and fast enough: I am not cold
like a corpse, nor vacant like air, am I?'
'My living darling! These are certainly her limbs, and these her
features; but I cannot be so blest, after all my misery. It is a
dream; such dreams as I have had at night when I have clasped her once
more to my heart, as I do now; and kissed her, as thus- and felt
that she loved me, and trusted that she would not leave me.'
'Which I never will, sir, from this day.'
'Never will, says the vision? But I always woke and found it an
empty mockery; and I was desolate and abandoned- my life dark, lonely,
hopeless- my soul athirst and forbidden to drink- my heart famished
and never to be fed. Gentle, soft dream, nestling in my arms now,
you will fly, too, as your sisters have all fled before you: but
kiss me before you go- embrace me, Jane.'
'There, sir- and there!'
I pressed my lips to his once brilliant and now rayless eyes- I
swept his hair from his brow, and kissed that too. He suddenly
seemed to arouse himself: the conviction of the reality of all this
seized him.
'It is you- is it, Jane? You are come back to me then?'
'I am.'
'And you do not lie dead in some ditch under some stream? And you
are not a pining outcast amongst strangers?'
'No, sir! I am an independent woman now.'
'Independent! What do you mean, Jane?'
'My uncle in Madeira is dead, and he left me five thousand pounds.'
'Ah! this is practical- this is real!' he cried: 'I should never
dream that. Besides, there is that peculiar voice of hers, so
animating and piquant, as well as soft: it cheers my withered heart;
it puts life into it.- What, Janet! Are you an independent woman? A
rich woman?'
'Quite rich, sir. If you won't let me live with you, I can build
a house of my own close up to your door, and you may come and sit in
my parlour when you want company of an evening.'
'But as you are rich, Jane, you have now, no doubt, friends who
will look after you, and not suffer you to devote yourself to a
blind lameter like me?'
'I told you I am independent, sir, as well as rich: I am my own
mistress.'
'And you will stay with me?'
'Certainly- unless you object. I will be your neighbour, your
nurse, your housekeeper. I find you lonely: I will be your
companion- to read to you, to walk with you, to sit with you, to
wait on you, to be eyes and hands to you. Cease to look so melancholy,
my dear master; you shall not be left desolate, so long as I live.'
He replied not: he seemed serious- abstracted; he sighed; he
half-opened his lips as if to speak: he closed them again. I felt a
little embarrassed. Perhaps I had too rashly overleaped
conventionalities; and he, like St. John, saw impropriety in my
inconsiderateness. I had indeed made my proposal from the idea that he
wished and would ask me to be his wife: an expectation, not the less
certain because unexpressed, had buoyed me up, that he would claim
me at once as his own. But no hint to that effect escaping him and his
countenance becoming more overcast, I suddenly remembered that I might
have been all wrong, and was perhaps playing the fool unwittingly; and
I began gently to withdraw myself from his arms- but he eagerly
snatched me closer.
'No- no- Jane; you must not go. No- I have touched you, heard
you, felt the comfort of your presence- the sweetness of your
consolation: I cannot give up these joys. I have little left in
myself- I must have you. The world may laugh- may call me absurd,
selfish- but it does not signify. My very soul demands you: it will be
satisfied, or it will take deadly vengeance on its frame.'
'Well, sir, I will stay with you: I have said so.'
'Yes- but you understand one thing by staying with me; and I
understand another. You, perhaps, could make up your mind to be
about my hand and chair- to wait on me as a kind little nurse (for you
have an affectionate heart and a generous spirit, which prompt you
to make sacrifices for those you pity), and that ought to suffice
for me no doubt. I suppose I should now entertain none but fatherly
feelings for you: do you think so? Come- tell me.'
'I will think what you like, sir: I am content to be only your
nurse, if you think it better.'
'But you cannot always be my nurse, Janet: you are young- you
must marry one day.'
'I don't care about being married.'
'You should care, Janet: if I were what I once was, I would try
to make you care- but- a sightless block!'
He relapsed again into gloom. I, on the contrary, became more
cheerful, and took fresh courage: these last words gave me an
insight as to where the difficulty lay; and as it was no difficulty
with me, I felt quite relieved from my previous embarrassment. I
resumed a livelier vein of conversation.
'It is time some one undertook to rehumanise you,' said I,
parting his thick and long uncut locks; 'for I see you are being
metamorphosed into a lion, or something of that sort. You have a "faux
air" of Nebuchadnezzar in the fields about you, that is certain:
your hair reminds me of eagles' feathers; whether your nails are grown
like birds' claws or not, I have not yet noticed.'
'On this arm, I have neither hand nor nails,' he said, drawing
the mutilated limb from his breast, and showing it to me. 'It is a
mere stump- a ghastly sight! Don't you think so, Jane?'
'It is a pity to see it; and a pity to see your eyes- and the
scar of fire on your forehead: and the worst of it is, one is in
danger of loving you too well for all this; and making too much of
you.'
'I thought you would be revolted, Jane, when you saw my arm, and my
cicatrised visage.'
'Did you? Don't tell me so- lest I should say something disparaging
to your judgment. Now, let me leave you an instant, to make a better
fire, and have the hearth swept up. Can you tell when there is a
good fire?'
'Yes; with the right eye I see a glow- a ruddy haze.'
'And you see the candles?'
'Very dimly- each is a luminous cloud.'
'Can you see me?'
'No, my fairy: but I am only too thankful to hear and feel you.'
'When do you take supper?'
'I never take supper.'
'But you shall have some to-night. I am hungry: so are you, I
daresay, only you forget.'
Summoning Mary, I soon had the room in more cheerful order: I
prepared him, likewise, a comfortable repast. My spirits were excited,
and with pleasure and ease I talked to him during supper, and for a
long time after. There was no harassing restraint, no repressing of
glee and vivacity with him; for with him I was at perfect ease,
because I knew I suited him; all I said or did seemed either to
console or revive him. Delightful consciousness! It brought to life
and light my whole nature: in his presence I thoroughly lived; and
he lived in mine. Blind as he was, smiles played over his face, joy
dawned on his forehead: his lineaments softened and warmed.
After supper, he began to ask me many questions, of where I had
been, what I had been doing, how I had found him out; but I gave him
only very partial replies: it was too late to enter into particulars
that night. Besides, I wished to touch no deep-thrilling chord- to
open no fresh well of emotion in his heart: my sole present aim was to
cheer him. Cheered, as I have said, he was: and yet but by fits. If
a moment's silence broke the conversation, he would turn restless,
touch me, then say, 'Jane.'
'You are altogether a human being, Janet? You are certain of that?'
'I conscientiously believe so, Mr. Rochester.'
