My Wild Woe

by Mother of Pearl

What might have happened if Jane left with Mr. Mason after the nuptials were halted? What would happen ater Jane met her Uncle Eyre? The characters are not mine, I borrowed them to create a daydream of my very own.

What if Jane left with Mr. Mason after the failed nuptials? What if she met her uncle John before he died? These are not my characters, they belong to Jane Austen.

We all withdrew. Mr. Rochester stayed behind, to give some further orders to Grace Poole. The solicitor addressed me as we descended the stairs.

"You, Miss Eyre," 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?" I stopped on the stairs and queried Mr. Briggs.

"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 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 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."

"Gentlemen," I found strength to address Mr. Briggs and Mr. Mason, "Please wait for me in the library. I wish to pursue this conversation with you." I pulled the bell and was surprised when Mrs. Fairfax entered the hall.

"Mrs. Fairfax, will you send Sophie to me and please show these men to the library. I wish to confer with them shortly. Please ask John to take my trunks from the carriage to my room."

Any surprise Mrs. Fairfax might have entertained at my preemptory tone was quickly hidden. She was all graciousness and efficiency in her task.

I went straightaway to my room and began undressing. 'That I am not Edward Rochester's bride is the least part of my woe,' I alleged. 'I have wakened out of most glorious dreams and found them all void and vain is a horror I could bear and master. But that I must leave him decidedly, instantly, entirely, is intolerable. I do not want to do it, but I must.' A soft knock at the door roused me from my meditations.

"If you are Sophie, you may enter." She entered, surprised at my order for her to bolt the door. She helped me remove my wedding attire and replace it with the stuff gown I had worn yesterday. John knocked on the door and informed Sophie that my trunks were in the hall.

"Sophie, I am going to the library to confer with Mr. Briggs and Mr. Mason. Please have John bring my trunks in the room. I want you to find the trunk I brought from Lowood, empty it and fill it with my clothing. Do not pack anything I purchased for the wedding or for our travels. I need the trunk repacked within the hour." I indicated my black stuff Lowood frock and straw bonnet which remained in my closet.

Upon entering the library, a nervous Mr. Briggs and Mr. Mason silenced their ongoing argument. I quickly addressed them before they changed their minds about granting me an audience. "I have decided to quit Thornfield Hall and accompany Mr. Mason to Madeira to see my Uncle John Eyre." I was quite calm while addressing them. I ignored the uneasy look which passed over Mr. Mason's face. "I cannot remain here, I will not return to Lowood, and I do not know if I have other family members."

"I am morally certain that your uncle will be dead ere you reach Madeira, but I cannot advise you to remain at Thornfield until you hear of Mr. Eyre. I have another mission to complete before I can return to London. John Eyre has requested that I contact his other living relatives and inform them of his illness. You did not know then, that your have three cousins? John Eyre had a brother who was your father, and a sister who was the mother to the Rivers children of Moor House, near Whitecross. St. John Rivers is a curate, and your cousins, Diana and Mary Rivers are educated and preparing to enter situations of governesses before the summer ends."

"I did not know of John Eyre until a few weeks ago, when my uncle's wife, Mrs. Reed, called me to her deathbed. She gave me a letter which Mr. Eyre wrote three years ago. I took a great chance in writing to him in Madeira."

"You may accompany Mr. Mason to Madeira or you may accompany me to Whitecross and be introduced to your cousins." Mr. Briggs offered.

"Will you bring the cousins to Madeira?" I asked. "For I want to meet my Uncle Eyre, and if time is short, I want to spend as much time with him as God will allow."

"I am uncertain that Rochester would want me to guide you to Madeira," Mr. Mason began.

"I am an independent woman," I replied coolly. "I will make my own decisions and I decide to go to Madeira. If you will not allow me to accompany you, I am capable of finding my way there. I believe I will have an opportunity to meet my cousins in the future. After I have spoken with Mr. Rochester, I will have the carriage convey me to the George Inn at Millcote. We can begin our journey early tomorrow morning."

"Have we any reason to delay our departure?" Mr. Briggs 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.

I returned to my room, and checked my trunk. Sophie had repacked as I asked. I found my small articles of jewelry: a pearl pin, a locket and a ring. I gave them to Sophie and asked her to bring me all the funds that she and Mrs. Fairfax could spare. I needed funds for my trip to Madeira.

I carefully added my art supplies, my few books and writing materials to the trunk and closed it up again. I lay on my bed, contemplating my future. I rose up suddenly; my head swam as I stood erect. I perceived that I was sickening from excitement and inanition; neither meat nor drink had passed my lips that day, for I had taken no breakfast. And, with a strange pang, I now reflected that no message had been sent to ask how I was, or to invite me to come to eat. I undrew the bolt and passed out. I stumbled over an obstacle; my head was still dizzy, my sight was dim, and my limbs were feeble. I could not soon recover myself. I fell, but not on to the ground; an outstretched arm caught me. I looked up--I was supported by Mr. Rochester, who had stood listening at my door.

"You come out at last," he said. "So you shun me?--you shut yourself up and grieve alone! I would rather you had come and upbraided me with vehemence. You are passionate. I expected a scene of some kind. I was prepared for the hot rain of tears; only I wanted them to be shed on my breast; now a senseless floor has received them, or your drenched handkerchief. But I err; you have not wept at all! I see a white cheek and a faded eye, but no trace of tears. I suppose, then, your heart has been weeping blood? Jane, I never meant to wound you thus. Will you ever forgive me?"

Reader, I forgave him at the moment and on the spot. There was such deep remorse in his eye, such true pity in his tone, such manly energy in his manner; and besides, there was such unchanged love in his whole look and mien--I forgave him all; yet not in words, not outwardly; only at my heart's core.

"You believe I am a scoundrel, Jane?" ere long he inquired wistfully-- wondering, I suppose, at my continued silence and tameness, the result rather of weakness than of will.

"Yes, sir."

"Then tell me so roundly and sharply--don't spare me. I have endured many a screaming scene from Bertha Mason, I'm sure that I could endure one from my beloved Jane."

"I cannot; I am tired and sick. I want some water." Mr. Rochester heaved a sort of shuddering sigh, and taking me in his arms, carried me downstairs. At first I did not know to what room he had borne me; all was cloudy to my glazed sight. Presently I felt the reviving warmth of a fire; for, summer as it was; I had become icy cold in my chamber. He put wine to my lips; I tasted it and revived; and was soon myself. I was in the library--sitting in his chair--he was quite near. 'If I could go out of life now, without too sharp a pang, it would be well for me,' I thought; 'then I should not have to rend my heart-strings from Mr. Rochester's. I must leave him, it appears. I do not want to leave him – but I cannot stay.'

"How are you now, Jane?"

"Much better, sir; I shall be well soon."

"Taste the wine again, Jane."

I obeyed him; then he put the glass on the table, stood before me, and looked at me attentively. Suddenly he turned away, with an inarticulate exclamation, full of passionate emotion of some kind; he crossed the room and came back; he stooped towards me as if to kiss me; but I remembered caresses were now forbidden. I turned my face away and pushed his aside.

"What!--How is this?" he exclaimed hastily. "Oh, I know! You won't kiss the husband of Bertha Mason? You consider my arms filled and my embraces appropriated?"

"At any rate, there is neither room nor claim for me, sir."

"Why, Jane? I will spare you the trouble of much talking; I will answer for you--Because I have a wife already, you would reply.--I guess rightly?"

"Yes."

"If you think so, you must have a strange opinion of me; you must regard me as a plotting profligate--a base and low rake who has been simulating disinterested love in order to draw you into a snare deliberately laid, and strip you of honour and rob you of self- respect. What do you say to that?"

"Sir, I do not wish to act against you," I said; and my unsteady voice warned me to curtail my sentence.

"Not in your sense of the word, but in mine you are scheming to destroy me. You have as good as said that I am a married man--as a married man you will shun me, keep out of my way; just now you have refused to kiss me. You intend to make yourself a complete stranger to me; to live under this roof only as Adele's governess. If ever I say a friendly word to you, if ever a friendly feeling inclines you again to me, you will say,--'That man had nearly made me his mistress; I must be ice and rock to him;' and ice and rock you will accordingly become."

I cleared and steadied my voice to reply; "All is changed about me, sir. I must change too--there is no doubt of that. To avoid fluctuations of feeling or continual combats with recollections and associations, there is only one way--Adele must have a new governess, sir."

"Jane! Jane!" he said, in such an accent of bitter sadness it thrilled along every nerve I had; "you don't love me, then? It was only my station, and the rank of my wife, that you valued? Now that you think me disqualified to become your husband, you recoil from my touch as if I were some toad or ape."

"I DO love you," I said, "more than ever; but I must not show or indulge the feeling; and this is the last time I must express it."

"The last time, Jane! What! Do you think you can live with me, see me daily, and yet, if you still love me, be always cold and distant?"

"No, sir; that I am certain I could not; and therefore I see there is but one way; but you will be furious if I mention it."

"Oh, mention it! If I storm, you have the art of weeping. Women always have the art of weeping! Any mortal man would cave under such artful practices!"

"Mr. Rochester, I must leave you."

"For how long, Jane? For a few minutes, while you bathe your face--which looks feverish?"

"I must leave Thornfield. I must begin a new existence among strange faces and strange scenes."

"You mean you must become a part of me. As to the new existence, it is all right; you shall yet be my wife; I am not married. You shall be Mrs. Rochester--both virtually and nominally. I shall keep only to you so long as you and I live. I will remove you from Thornfield. All, you know, is prepared for prompt departure; tomorrow you shall go. I only ask you to endure one more night under this roof, Jane; and then, farewell to its miseries and terrors for ever! I have a place to repair to, which will be a secure sanctuary from hateful reminiscences, from unwelcome intrusion--even from falsehood and slander. You shall go to a place I have in the south of France; a whitewashed villa on the shores of the Mediterranean. There you shall live a happy, guarded, and most innocent life. Never fear that I wish to lure you into error--to make you my mistress. Why did you shake your head? Jane, you must be reasonable!"

"Sir, your wife is living; that is a fact acknowledged this morning by yourself. If I lived with you as you desire, I should then be your mistress; to say otherwise is a lie."

"I had determined and was convinced that I could and ought marry. It was not my original intention to deceive you. I meant to tell my tale plainly, and make my proposals openly. It appeared to me so absolutely rational that I should be considered free to love and be loved, I never doubted some woman might be found willing and able to understand my case and accept me, in spite of the curse with which I was burdened."

"Well, sir? What next? How did you proceed? What came of such an event?"

"What do you wish to know now?"

"Whether you found any one you liked; whether you asked her to marry you; and what she said."

"Provided with plenty of money and the passport of an old name, I could choose my own society; no circles were closed against me. I sought my ideal of a woman amongst English ladies, French countesses, Italian signoras, and German fraulein. I could not find anyone I wanted to marry. Sometimes, for a fleeting moment, I thought I caught a glance, heard a tone, beheld a form, which announced the realization of my dream; but I was presently undeserved. You are not to suppose that I desired perfection, either of mind or person. I longed only for what suited me-- and I longed vainly. Amongst them all I found not one whom, had I been ever so free, I would have asked to marry me. Disappointment made me reckless. I tried dissipation--never debauchery; that I hated, and hate. Any enjoyment that bordered on riot seemed to approach me to Bertha and her vices, and I eschewed it."

"Yet I could not live alone; so I tried the companionship of mistresses. The first I chose was Celine Varens--another of those steps which make a man spurn himself when he recalls them. You already know what she was and how my liaison with her terminated. She had two successors: an Italian, Giacinta, and a German, Clara. Both were considered singularly handsome. Giacinta was unprincipled and violent; I tired of her in three months. Clara was honest and quiet; but mindless, and unimpressible; not one whit to my taste. I was glad to give her a sufficient sum to set her up in a good line of business, and so get decently rid of her. But, Jane, I see by your face you are not forming a very favourable opinion of me just now. You think me an unfeeling, loose-principled rake; don't you?"

"I don't like you as well as I have before. Did it not seem to you in the least wrong to live in that way, first with one mistress and then another? You talk of it as a mere matter of course."

"It was with me; and I did not like it. It was a groveling fashion of existence; I will not return to it. Hiring a mistress is the next worse thing to buying a slave; both are often by nature and always by position, inferior. To live familiarly with inferiors is degrading. I now hate the recollection of the time I passed with Celine, Giacinta, and Clara."

I felt the truth of these words. If I were to forget myself and all the teaching that had ever been instilled into me, to become the successor of these poor girls, he would one day regard me with the same feeling which now in his mind desecrated their memory. I did not give utterance to this conviction; it was enough to feel it. I impressed it on my heart that it might remain there to serve me as aid in the time of trial. Despite my desire to be with Edward Fairfax Rochester, I now have reasons to leave him. It is in my blood. My father a clergyman. My cousin a curate. I must value myself or be condemned to hell.

"Now, Jane, why don't you say 'Well, sir?' I have not done. You are looking grave. You disapprove of me still, I see. But let me come to the point. Last January, rid of all mistresses--in a harsh, bitter frame of mind, the result of a useless, roving, lonely life -- corroded with disappointment, sourly disposed against mankind and especially against all womankind (for I began to regard the notion of an intellectual, faithful, loving woman as a mere dream), I came back to England recalled by business.

"On a frosty winter afternoon, I rode in sight of Thornfield Hall. Abhorred spot! I expected no peace--no pleasure there. On a stile in Hay Lane I saw a quiet little figure sitting by itself. I passed it as negligently as I did the pollard willow opposite to it; I had no presentiment of what it would be to me; no inward warning that the arbitress of my life--my genius for good or evil--waited there in humble guise. I did not know it; even when, on the occasion of Mesrour's accident, it came up and gravely offered me help. Childish and slender creature! It seemed as if a linnet had hopped to my foot and proposed to bear me on its tiny wing. I was surly; but the thing would not go; it stood by me with strange perseverance, and looked and spoke with a sort of authority. I must be aided, and by that tiny hand aided I was."

"When once I had pressed the frail shoulder, something new--a fresh sap and sense--stole into my frame. It was well I had learnt that this elf must return to me--that it belonged to my house down below--or I could not have felt it pass away from under my hand, and seen it vanish behind the dim hedge, without singular regret. I heard you come home that night, Jane, though probably you were not aware that I thought of you or watched for you. The next day I observed you--myself unseen--for half-an-hour, while you played with Adele in the gallery. It was a snowy day, I recollect, and you could not go out of doors. I was in my room; the door was ajar; I could both listen and watch. Adele claimed your outward attention for a while; yet I fancied your thoughts were elsewhere; but you were very patient with her, my little Jane; you talked to her and amused her a long time. When at last she left you, you lapsed at once into deep reverie; you betook yourself slowly to pace the gallery. Now and then, in passing a casement, you glanced out at the thick-falling snow; you listened to the sobbing wind, and again you paced gently on and dreamed. I think those day visions were not dark; there was a pleasurable illumination in your eye occasionally, a soft excitement in your aspect, which told of no bitter, bilious, hypochondriac brooding; your look revealed rather the sweet musings of youth. The voice of Mrs. Fairfax, speaking to a servant in the hall, wakened you; and how curiously you smiled to and at yourself, Jane! There was much sense in your smile; it was very shrewd, and seemed to make light of your own abstraction. It seemed to say--'My visions are all very well, but I must not forget they are absolutely unreal. I have a rosy sky and a green flowery Eden in my brain; but without, I am perfectly aware, lies at my feet a rough tract to travel, and around me gather black tempests to encounter.' You ran downstairs and demanded of Mrs. Fairfax some occupation; the weekly house accounts to make up, or something of that sort, I think it was. I was vexed with you for getting out of my sight.

"Impatiently I waited for evening, when I might summon you to my presence. An unusual--to me--a perfectly new character I suspected was yours. I desired to search it deeper and know it better. You entered the room with a look and air at once shy and independent. You were quaintly dressed--much as you are now. I made you talk; ere long I found you full of strange contrasts. Your garb and manner were restricted by rule; your air was often diffident, and altogether that of one refined by nature, but absolutely unused to society, and a good deal afraid of making herself disadvantageously conspicuous by some solecism or blunder; yet when addressed, you lifted a keen, a daring, and a glowing eye to your interlocutor's face; there was penetration and power in each glance you gave; when plied by close questions, you found ready and round answers. Very soon you seemed to get used to me; I believe you felt the existence of sympathy between you and your grim and cross master, Jane; for it was astonishing to see how quickly a certain pleasant ease tranquillised your manner; snarl as I would, you showed no surprise, fear, annoyance, or displeasure at my moroseness; you watched me, and now and then smiled at me with a simple yet sagacious grace I cannot describe. I was at once content and stimulated with what I saw; I liked what I had seen, and wished to see more. Yet, for a long time, I treated you distantly, and sought your company rarely. Moreover, I wished to see whether you would seek me if I shunned you--but you did not; you kept in the schoolroom as still as your own desk and easel. If by chance I met you, you passed me quickly, and with little token of recognition as was consistent with respect. I wondered what you thought of me, or if you ever thought of me, and resolved to find this out.

"I resumed my notice of you. There was something glad in your glance, and genial in your manner, when you conversed; I saw you had a social heart. I permitted myself the delight of being kind to you; kindness stirred emotion soon; your face became soft in expression, your tones gentle; I liked my name pronounced by your lips in a grateful happy accent. I used to enjoy a chance meeting with you, Jane, at this time; there was a curious hesitation in your manner; you glanced at me with a slight trouble- -a hovering doubt; you did not know what my caprice might be-- whether I was going to play the master and be stern, or the friend and be benignant. I was now too fond of you often to simulate the first whim; and, when I stretched my hand out cordially, such bloom and light and bliss rose to your young, wistful features, I had much ado often to avoid straining you then and there to my heart."

"Don't talk any more of those days, sir," I interrupted, furtively dashing away some tears from my eyes; his language was torture to me; for I knew what I must do--and do soon--and all these reminiscences, and these revelations of his feelings only made my resolve more difficult.

"No, Jane," he returned; "what necessity is there to dwell on the Past, when the Present is so much surer--the Future so much brighter?"

I shuddered to hear the infatuated assertion.

"You see now how the case stands--do you not?" he continued. "After a youth and manhood passed half in unutterable misery and half in dreary solitude, I have for the first time found what I can truly love--I have found you. You are my sympathy--my better self--my good angel. I am bound to you with a strong attachment. I think you good, gifted, lovely. A fervent, a solemn passion is conceived in my heart; it leans to you, draws you to my centre and spring of life, wraps my existence about you, and, kindling in pure, powerful flame, fuses you and me in one."

"It was because I felt and knew this that I resolved to marry you. To tell me that I had already a wife is empty mockery; you know now that I had but a hideous demon. I was wrong to attempt to deceive you; but I feared a stubbornness that exists in your character. I feared early instilled prejudice. I wanted to have you safe before hazarding confidences. This was cowardly; I should have appealed to your nobleness and magnanimity at first, as I do now--opened to you plainly my life of agony--described to you my hunger and thirst after a higher and worthier existence--shown to you, not my RESOLUTION (that word is weak), but my resistless BENT to love faithfully and well, where I am faithfully and well loved in return. Then I should have asked you to accept my pledge of fidelity and to give me yours. Jane--give it me now."

A pause.

"Why are you silent, Jane?" He waited for one minute for my reply and then queried again. "Jane, you understand what I want of you? Just this promise--'I will be yours, Mr. Rochester.'

"Mr. Rochester, I will NOT be yours."

Another long silence.

"Jane, do you mean to go one way in the world, and to let me go another?"

"I do."

"Jane" (bending towards and embracing me), "do you mean it now?"

"I do."

"And now?" softly kissing my forehead and cheek.

"I do," extricating myself from restraint rapidly and completely.

"Oh, Jane, this is bitter! This--this is wicked. It would not be wicked to love me."

"It would to obey you." My voice was calm.

A wild look raised his brows and crossed his features; he rose; but he did not yield the argument. I laid my hand on the back of a chair for support; I shook, I feared--but I resolved.

"One instant, Jane. Give one glance to my horrible life when you are gone. All happiness will be torn away with you. What then is left? For a wife I have but the maniac upstairs. You well might refer me to some corpse in yonder churchyard. What shall I do, Jane? Where turn for a companion and for hope?"

"Do as I do; trust in God and yourself. Believe in heaven. Hope to meet again there."

"Then you will not yield?"

"No."

"Then you condemn me to live wretched and to die accursed?" His voice rose.

"I advise you to live sinless, and I wish you to die tranquil."

"Then you snatch love and innocence from me? You fling me back on lust for a passion--vice for an occupation?"

"Mr. Rochester, I no more assign this fate to you than I grasp at it for myself. We were born to strive and endure--you as well as I; do so. You will forget me before I forget you."

"You make me a liar by such language; you sully my honour. I declared I could not change; you tell me to my face I shall change soon. And what a distortion in your judgment, what a perversity in your ideas, is proved by your conduct! Is it better to drive a fellow-creature to despair than to transgress a mere human law, no man being injured by the breach? For you have neither relatives nor acquaintances whom you need fear to offend by living with me!"

"Is that why you chose me, Mr. Rochester? My lack of friends and family to stop your plan?" When he did not reply, I continued. "In this, I must ask you to forgive me, for it was my vanity which brought Mr. Briggs and Mr. Mason to the church this morning."

"Vanity? Jane, you are the least vain person that I have ever met." Mr. Rochester struggled not to laugh.

I continued, "Before she died, Mrs. Reed gave me a letter written by my father's brother. Three years ago he wanted to find and adopt me, leaving me his fortune upon his death. I wrote him, believing if I had ever so small an independency; I would not be dependent upon you for evening gowns and jewels that did not suit. I wrote to Madeira the moment we returned from shopping that first day to tell my uncle John I am going to be married, and to whom. I believed if I had a prospect of one day bringing you an accession of fortune, I could better endure to be kept by you now. My uncle knew Mr. Mason, and knew that Mr. Mason was an acquaintance of yours. He sent Mr. Mason and his solicitor, Mr. Briggs to save me from a false marriage to you."

His fury was wrought to the highest; he crossed the floor and seized my arm and grasped my waist. He seemed to devour me with his flaming glance; physically, I felt physically powerless at the moment, but I still possessed my soul, and with it the certainty of ultimate safety. The soul, fortunately, has an interpreter--often an unconscious, but still a truthful interpreter--in the eye. My eye rose to his; and while I looked in his fierce face I gave an involuntary sigh; his grip was painful, and my over-taxed strength almost exhausted.

"Never," said he, as he ground his teeth, "never was anything at once so frail and so indomitable. A mere reed she feels in my hand!" (And he shook me with the force of his hold.) "I could bend her with my finger and thumb; and what good would it do if I bent, if I uptore, if I crushed her? Consider that eye; consider the resolute, wild, free thing looking out of it, defying me, with more than courage--with a stern triumph. Whatever I do with its cage, I cannot get at it--the savage, beautiful creature! If I tear, if I rend the slight prison, my outrage will only let the captive loose. Conqueror I might be of the house; but the inmate would escape to heaven before I could call myself possessor of its clay dwelling- place. And it is you, spirit--with will and energy, and virtue and purity--that I want; not alone your little frame. Of yourself you could come with soft flight and nestle against my heart. If you were seized against your will, you will elude the grasp like an essence--you will vanish ere I inhale your fragrance. Oh! come, Jane, come!"

As he said this, he released me from his clutch, and only looked at me. The look was far worse to resist than the frantic strain; only an idiot would have succumbed now. I had dared and baffled his fury; I must elude his sorrow; I retired to the door.

"You are going, Jane?"

"I am going, sir."

"You are leaving me?"

"Yes."

"You will not come with me? You will not be my comforter, my rescuer? My deep love, my wild woe, my frantic prayer, are all nothing to you?"

"I am going."

"Jane!"

"Mr. Rochester!"

"Withdraw, then,--I consent; but remember, you leave me here in anguish. Go up to your own room; think over all I have said. But Jane, cast a glance on my sufferings and think of me."

He turned away; he threw himself on his face on the sofa. "Oh, Jane! My hope--my love--my life!" broke in anguish from his lips; then came a deep, strong sob.

I had already gained the door; but, reader, I walked back--walked back as determinedly as I had retreated. I knelt down by him; I turned his face from the cushion to me; I kissed his cheek; I smoothed his hair with my hand.

"God bless you, my dear master!" I said. "God keep you from harm and wrong--direct you, solace you--reward you well for your past kindness to me."

"Little Jane's love would have been my best reward," he answered; "without it, my heart is broken." Up the blood rushed to his face; forth flashed the fire from his eyes; erect he sprang; he held his arms out; but I evaded his embrace. "Jane, Jane, don't you understand that anything you want is yours if it is within my power to give it to you?"

"If that is true, then I have two requests. Mr. Rochester, you must send Adele away to school before Bertha Mason becomes aware of her and endangers her life. Additionally, I ask one more thing from you before I leave Thornfield. I am fond of Thornfield. I am fond of its inhabitants. You must summon Mr. Carter to Thornfield and with help from Grace Poole; you must send Bertha Mason to a place where she cannot harm Thornfield or its inhabitants. Her desires for fire, for stabbing, for blood make her a danger to you and all around you. If you will not condemn her to Ferndean, send her to a place where she will receive care and a continuous watchful eye. Farewell my master." I quit the room and did not heed his cries to me.

As I passed the kitchen, I asked Mrs. Fairfax to send John for my trunk sitting outside the door of my room. I told her my plans to go to Millcote Inn and where to find me in Madeira. Sophie entered and gave me the funds they gathered for me. Thirty pounds would not allow extravagant living, but it would give me freedom. "Sophie, you must care for Adele, and see that she is well settled in a school away from Thornfield." I left the kitchen, tears clouding my vision but not my judgment.

"Farewell, kind Mrs. Fairfax! Adieu, Sophie," I whispered, as I entered the carriage. "Farewell, my darling Adele!" I said, as I glanced towards the nursery.

Gentle reader, may you never feel what I then felt! May your eyes never shed such stormy, scalding, heart-wrung tears as poured from mine. May you never appeal to Heaven in prayers so hopeless and so agonized as in that hour left my lips; for never may you, like me, dread to be the instrument of evil to what you wholly love.

My evening at Millcote Inn was more uncomfortable than if I had slept on a rock in the cold on Hay Lane. Mr. Green from the church told the innkeeper of the interruption of Mr. Rochester's wedding ceremony. The story of the curse of Thornfield circulated faster than the wine pitcher in the common room. The innkeeper's wife, when I explained I was leaving in the early morning with Mr. Mason to Madeira, cautioned against my going on a sea voyage with no female companion, trusting myself to sea and a crew of men. She drew on my failed nuptials to Mr. Rochester as evidence of my naivety and misplaced trust. She urged me to send to Thornfield for Sophie so that I might have female company for the journey. I was tempted, dear reader, but to felt to send message to come to Millcote Inn might be intercepted by Mr. Rochester, who I clearly did not want to see.

The innkeeper awoke us quite early and well before dawn, we began our two day journey by coach to the port where Mr. Mason kept a trade ship. Mr. Mason kept much to himself during the journey by coach. I would not discuss his sister or Mr. Rochester, which limited our early conversations. He admitted that he had grave doubts about Mr. Rochester's house party. He claimed Rochester had never invited anyone to Thornfield. I knew this to be true from the flurry of activity before the house party arrived. The days of the merry parties hosted by his father had passed and the neighbors no longer expected such activities. He recalled me as the quiet creature to which Rochester had ordered him not to speak when he was wounded. We discussed some books, but as I have not been as widely read as Mr. Mason, our conversation dwindled after a few hours.

Another two days from port to Madeira were endured in my lonely cabin with no company except my thoughts of Thornfield and the inhabitants I left behind. I fretted, I worried, I cried bitter tears for Mr. Rochester's deception, and quiet tears for my refusal to trade my integrity for his passion. I was quite fatigued and almost ill by journey's end.

Dear reader, the days following my landing in Madeira were a blur. Uncle John lingered for almost a month. When he was restless, I comforted him. Before he died, I assured him that I forgave Mrs. Reed for her lie which kept us apart. I urged him to forgive her also, for it was her change of heart before her death that allowed me to know he wanted to adopt me.

When Uncle John was alert and comfortable, we became acquainted with one another. He shared stories of his life with his brother, my father, when they were boys and young men. He described the delicate beauty of my mother. I was able to see with clarity the life that my father and mother chose when they wed. Their story spoke to my soul. I too, wanted to marry for love and to be a cherished spouse until the end of my days. He spoke with regret about his sister who married Mr. Rivers. At his urging, they entered into a venture which destroyed both their fortunes when young. He regretted that he was unable to be with his sister before she passed.

When Uncle John was sedated by medication, I read aloud to him from the Bible and prayed for him, myself, Mrs. Reed and for my beloved Edward.

Before the end, we were joined by Mr. Briggs and my cousins, St. John, Diana and Mary Rivers. One evening, while alert, Uncle John called us to his bedside and queried each of us about our lives. St. John was the curate of Morton. Diana and Mary had positions as governesses. I told of my years teaching at Lowood and of my recent occupation as a governess to Adele Varens, ward of Mr. Edward Rochester of Thornfield Hall, England. Uncle John was comforted by the fact that each of us had received an education and had the ability to secure a living for ourselves if necessary.

St. John took the task of Bible reading and prayers from me, and Diana and Mary were delightful companions and capable nurses. Uncle John passed the remainder of his days with his nephew and nieces in the best comfort and company that we could bear him. Once the funeral was over, Mr. Briggs requested we remain in Madeira for a fortnight before we returned to England. He urged us to remain as his guests until the issue of Uncle John's will was settled.

The more I knew of my cousins, the better I liked them. There was a reviving pleasure in this intercourse, of a kind now tasted by me for the first time; pleasure arising from perfect congeniality of tastes, sentiments, and principles. I liked to read what they liked to read; what they enjoyed, delighted me; what they approved, I reverenced. Mary and Diana were both more accomplished and better read than I was; but with eagerness I followed in the path of knowledge they had trodden before me. I devoured the books they lent me; then it was full satisfaction to discuss with them in the evening what I had perused during the day. Thought fitted thought; opinion met opinion; we coincided, in short, perfectly.

Diana offered to teach me German. I liked to learn from her; I saw the part of instructress pleased and suited her; that of scholar pleased and suited me no less. Our natures dovetailed; mutual affection--of the strongest kind--was the result. They discovered I could draw; their pencils and colour-boxes were immediately at my service. My skill, greater in this one point than theirs, surprised and charmed them. Mary would sit and watch me by the hour together; then she would take lessons; and a docile, intelligent, assiduous pupil she made. Thus occupied, and mutually entertained, days passed like hours, and weeks like days.

St. John spent his time alone in meditation, ministerial labors and the ceaseless study of Hindostanee.

Without Uncle John, there was no reason to linger in Madeira. We made preparations to travel to London. Diana and Mary became more sad and silent as the day approached for leaving.

"Jane, you will wonder at us and our mysteries." She said, "Please don't think us hard-hearted beings not to be more moved at the death of Uncle John. He was my mother's brother. My father and he quarreled long ago. It was by his advice that my father risked most of his property in the speculation that ruined him. Mutual recrimination passed between them; they parted in anger, and were never reconciled. When our time here is past, Diana and I are to go out into the world to earn our living as governesses just as St. John will return to his ministry until he is able to become a missionary in India, for we do not believe that Uncle John will change his mind and leave us a competency with which we can build a future."

I had no plans. I could formulate no reply when anyone asked. I knew that I would not return to Lowood or Thornfield, but I had to make plans for my life. Meantime, let me ask myself one question--Which is better?--To have surrendered to temptation; listened to passion; made no painful effort--no struggle;--but to have sunk down in the silken snare; fallen asleep on the flowers covering it; wakened in a southern clime, amongst the luxuries of a pleasure villa; to have been now living in France, Mr. Rochester's mistress; delirious with his love half my time--for he would--oh, yes, he would have loved me well for a while. He DID love me--no one will ever love me so again. I shall never know again the sweet homage given to beauty, youth, and grace--for never to any one else shall I seem to possess these charms. Edward was fond and proud of me—and I believe no other man will ever be so fond and so proud.--But where am I wandering, and what am I saying, and above all, feeling? Whether is it better, I ask, to be a slave in a fool's paradise at Marseilles--fevered with delusive bliss one hour- -suffocating with the bitterest tears of remorse and shame the next- -or to be free and honest, but without a notion of where to go or what to do?

I endured strange dreams at night; dreams many-colored, agitated, full of the ideal, the stirring, the stormy--dreams where, amidst unusual scenes, charged with adventure, with agitating risk and romantic chance, I again and again met Mr. Rochester, always at some exciting crisis; and then the sense of being in his arms, hearing his voice, meeting his eye, touching his hand and cheek, loving him, being loved by him--the hope of passing a lifetime at his side, would be renewed, with all its first force and fire. Then I awoke. Then I recalled where I was, and how situated.

A week after Uncle John's death, as we readied to leave Madeira and return to England, St. John and Mr. Briggs retired to the library. Shortly after their meeting, Mr. Briggs departed and St. John asked me to come to the library.

St. John looked around the room and at the books before looking to me. "Mr. Briggs states that Uncle John has left you all his property. You are now rich."

"I!--rich?"

"Yes, you, rich--quite an heiress."

Silence succeeded.

"Your fortune is vested in the English funds; Briggs has the will and the necessary documents. Perhaps now you will ask how much you are worth."

"How much am I worth?"

"Oh, a trifle! Twenty thousand pounds, I think they say--but what is that?"

"Twenty thousand pounds?"

Here was a new stunner--I had been calculating on four or five thousand. This news actually took my breath for a moment. St. John, whom I had never heard laugh before, laughed now.

"Well," said he, "if you had committed a murder and I had told you your crime was discovered, you could scarcely look more aghast."

"It is a large sum--don't you think there is a mistake?"

"No mistake at all."

"Perhaps you have read the figures wrong--it may be two thousand!"

"It is written in letters, not figures,--twenty thousand."

"How much does he leave to you, Diana and Mary?"

"Thirty guineas to purchase mourning rings."

Those who shared my blood and now entered my life, I could benefit. They were under a yoke,--I could free them; they were to be scattered,--I could reunite them; the independence, the affluence which was mine, might be theirs too. Were we not four? Twenty thousand pounds shared equally would be five thousand each! Justice would be done; mutual happiness secured. Now the wealth did not weigh on me; now it was not a mere bequest of coin,--it was a legacy of life, hope, enjoyment.

"Diana said they would both consider themselves rich with a thousand pounds, so with five thousand they will do very well."

"Perhaps, if you explained yourself a little more fully, I should comprehend better."

"Explain! What is there to explain? You cannot fail to see that twenty thousand pounds, the sum in question, divided equally between the nephew and three nieces of our uncle, will give five thousand to each? I desire that the fortune is accrued to all of us."

"To you, you mean." St. John replied hastily.

"I have intimated my view of the case; I am incapable of taking any other. I am not brutally selfish, blindly unjust, or fiendishly ungrateful. Besides, I am resolved I will have a independency and connections. It would please and benefit me to have five thousand pounds; it would torment and oppress me to have twenty thousand; which, moreover, could never be mine in justice, though it might in law. I abandon to you, then, what is absolutely superfluous to me. Let there be no opposition, and no discussion about it; let us agree amongst each other, and decide the point at once."

"This is acting on first impulses; you must take days to consider such a matter, ere your word can be regarded as valid."

"Do you not see the justice of the case?"

"I DO see a certain justice; but it is contrary to all custom. Besides, the entire fortune is your right; my uncle gained it by his own efforts; he was free to leave it to whom he would; he left it to you. After all, justice permits you to keep it; you may, with a clear conscience, consider it absolutely your own."

"With me," said I, "it is fully as much a matter of feeling as of conscience; I must indulge my feelings; I so seldom have had an opportunity of doing so. Were you to argue, object, and annoy me for a year, I could not forego the delicious pleasure of which I have caught a glimpse--that of having connections to family and lifelong friends."

"You think so now," rejoined St. John, "because you do not know what it is to possess, nor consequently to enjoy wealth. You cannot form a notion of the importance twenty thousand pounds would give you; of the place it would enable you to take in society; of the prospects it would open to you; you cannot--"

"And you," I interrupted, "cannot at all imagine the craving I have for fraternal and sisterly love. I never had a home, I never had brothers or sisters; I must and will have them now. You are not reluctant to admit me and own me, are you?"

"Jane, I will be your brother -- my sisters will be your sisters -- without this sacrifice of your just rights."

"Brother? Yes; at the distance of a thousand leagues! Sisters? Yes; slaving amongst strangers! I, wealthy--gorged with gold I never earned and do not merit! You, penniless! Famous equality and fraternisation! Close union! Intimate attachment!"

"But, Jane, your aspirations after family ties and domestic happiness may be realized otherwise than by the means you contemplate. You may marry."

"Nonsense, again! Marry! I don't want to marry, and never shall marry."

"Do not let your association with Mr. Rochester and his offer of false marriage…."

"Enough!" My voice was harsh. "I see that Mr. Briggs shared more with you than just the news of my inheritance. You do not know Mr. Rochester. Do not speak of him. I know what I feel, and how averse my inclinations are to the thought of marriage. No one would take me for love; and I will not be wooed in the light of a mere money speculation."

I need not narrate in detail the further struggles I had, and arguments I used, to get matters regarding the legacy settled as I wished. My task was a very hard one; but, as I was absolutely resolved--as my cousins saw at length that my mind was really and immutably fixed on making a just division of the property--as they must in their own hearts have felt the equity of the intention; and must, besides, have been innately conscious that in my place they would have done precisely what I wished to do--they yielded at length so far as to consent to put the affair to arbitration.

In the course of my necessary meeting with Mr. Briggs about the will, I had inquired if he knew anything of Mr. Rochester's present residence and state of health; but, he professed to be quite ignorant concerning Mr. Rochester. I asked him to write to Mrs. Fairfax, entreating information on the subject. I felt sure that an inquiry from a solicitor would elicit an early answer. I was astonished when a fortnight passed without reply; but when two months wore away, and day after day the post arrived and brought nothing for me, I fell prey to the keenest anxiety.

It was near Christmas by the time I carried my point. The instruments of transfer were drawn out; St. John, Diana, Mary, and I, each became possessed of a competency. All was settled; the season of general holiday approached. Diana, Mary and St. John planned to go home to Moor House. St. John was aghast at my announcement that I would not accompany his sisters to Moor House; that I would remain in London for a few weeks. When I stated I had plans to attend before I could go with the cousins to Moor House for Christmas, St. John did not take my refusal lightly.

"I know where your heart turns and to what it clings. The interest you cherish is lawless and unconsecrated. Long since you ought to have crushed it; now you should blush to allude to it. You think of Mr. Rochester?"

It was true. I confessed it by silence.

"Are you going to seek Mr. Rochester?"

"I must find out what is become of him."

"It remains for me, then," he said, "to remember you in my prayers, and to entreat God for you, in all earnestness, that you may not indeed become a castaway. I had thought I recognized in you one of the chosen. I had hoped you would join my side as my wife and enter into a life of service to God."

Shock at his sudden proposal, knowing my feelings on the subject of marriage, I did not respond to his words. I spent the evening alone in my room, refusing to join St. John and his sisters for evening prayers.

In the morning, I bade all the cousins the cheerfullest goodbye, and agreed that I would do my best to spend Christmas with them. St. John intended to leave before Easter to take up his missionary work, and I knew that he had not forsaken his plan for me to come with him as his wife. I intended to find my own way in the world, for St. John did not love me, and I would not settle for a loveless marriage. To marry without love, I would give my competency over to a husband and be bound by his tastes, his opinions, his desires. As a fully independent woman, this was not a future I could or would choose for myself.

As quickly as the coach with my cousins departed, I called for another coach to take me as far as it could toward Thornfield. Two days, one uncomfortable night and several changes of coach later, I felt relief when the coach carrying me finally approached Thornfield.

"Mrs. Fairfax?" I called out to her as I exited the coach.

"Miss Eyre! Miss Eyre!" She greeted me warmly giving orders to the placement of my trunks. She drew me to her sitting room.

"And how many days now has it been since you sat near the fire?" She laughed and stirred the embers into a warm, red glow.

"Two days from London," I laughed, "but there was a fire in my room at the inn last night. I've not been away from fire, except for our voyage from Madeira to London months ago."

She sobered. "Your uncle is dead then?"

I nodded. "Indeed, and as deaths occur in threes, I worry for who will be taken for number three now that I have found cousins."

She shook her head solemnly. "The lord has already taken number three. Mr. Rochester…"

I gasped. "Mr. Rochester!"

"No, no, child… don't look so stricken. Mr. Rochester's wife, Miss Mason, who you met the day of the wedding…she died shortly after you left."

"How, Mrs. Fairfax?" I suddenly wanted to know everything.

"Well, when you went away from Millcote early in the morning with Mr. Briggs and Mr. Mason, Mr. Rochester was beside himself for a week after you left – riding horses at breakneck speeds all day, drinking all night. Then he woke one morning, ordered Sophie to pack up Miss Adele and herself. The next we see, the three of them are in a carriage headed to London. He returned before midnight a fortnight later without Sophie and Miss Adele. He said he put Miss Adele in a school near London, and gave me the address. He put Sophie on a ship bound back to France so that she could live near her family."

"Two days later he rode out late one night and came back with the surgeon, Mr. Carter in his carriage. He ordered John to tend to Mr. Carter's horses because they were needed for a journey to Moorfields, London. Mr. Rochester, Mr. Carter and Grace Poole drugged Miss Mason with chloroform. Then Grace bathed and changed Miss Mason, and Mr. Rochester carried her down to the courtyard before dawn. Mr. Carter and Grace Poole rode in the carriage and Mr. Rochester rode behind on Mesrour. Grace said Miss Mason became alert every few hours and the carriage had to be stopped so that Grace and Mr. Rochester could hold Miss Mason down for Dr. Carter to administer more chloroform to keep her sedated for the journey. At the journey's end, she must have awakened but held her council. When the coach reached its destination, Mr. Rochester and Mr. Carter removed Miss Mason from the carriage. Grace said she broke away from them with a bloodcurdling scream. She began to run, but her screams spooked the horses which trampled her in their fear.

"Mr. Carter saw to Miss Mason immediately, but she was unconscious, not just acting unconscious. She had so many broken bones, Grace Poole claimed. They sat with her for three days and nights, and finally the last night she opened her eyes and asked for her brother Richard and then she died. Mr. Carter made the arrangements to have Miss Mason buried in Brompton Cemetery and he sent word to Mr. Mason immediately by post, but he has not come to London yet."

"I'm sorry for Miss Mason and for her family," I said finally. "Her life was not easy for anyone."

"I don't know when Mr. Rochester will return, Miss Eyre. It is like his earlier days, gone for months at a time, and returning without notice." She watched my face to see my expressions.

"I came to find you and Adele and to see how you were getting on. I'm an independent woman now, and thought I might settle in these parts so that I could visit you both from time to time. I can only visit for a day and then I am off to Marston to spend Christmas with my cousins at Moor House."

"Oh, Miss Eyre!" Mrs. Fairfax gave me such a hug that I knew that I would be welcome by her any time of the day or night. "Come and stay in your room for the night. I had John take your trunk there. We can rest and have tea together. You need not worry about the wedding things. Mr. Rochester moved your things and trunks to the attics." We sat until the darkening hours talking about my uncle, the journey to Madeira, and my cousins.

Despite my return to my previous room, I found myself exhausted and I fell asleep. Before midnight, the wind and rain lashed out at the house. I arose and carried my candle to the window. I saw no movements in the dark, and hastened to secure the shutters and blinds and return to my warm, comfortable bed.

Edward's POV

I returned late to Thornfield tonight. I received news that Jane's uncle died and she returned to London. I heard she was staying with Briggs, but he will not see me, nor give me news of her. I have made inquiries every place possible, but I cannot find Jane. Once more I return to my cold and lonely prison. Once more, I will endeavor to be a good landlord to my tenants and a good master to my staff. I know it is exhaustion that makes me believe that I saw a light in Jane's window. I do not want to go to bed. I do not want to go to sleep. I do not want to be haunted by dreams of Jane.

I entered the hall by her old room and imagined that I saw a dim candlelight under the door. I imagined that I heard the rustle of bedclothes as she lay there sleeping. I refused to open the door. I refused to shatter the illusion.

I entered my bedroom and pulled the bell. Sam came within minutes. If he was surprised at my late return, he did not show it. He rang for servants to light the fire, bring a cold supper, bring my mail, and awaken Mrs. Fairfax. Mrs. Fairfax appeared shortly and when the staff left my room, she gave me an accounting of the estate's activities since I left. She informed me that Sam would come to my room early in the morning to help me bathe and dress.

"Suppose I want a lie in?" I asked quietly.

"I believe, Mr. Rochester, that you will want to be bathed, dressed, and sitting in the dining room when your guest makes an appearance."

"Mr. Mason?" I tried not to show irritation.

"Miss Eyre." She curtseyed and departed.

Jane's POV

I awoke to the sounds of a busy estate. I gathered my dressing gown, and hair brush. As I looked out the window at winter settling on Thornfield, a quiet tap at the door awoke me. Mrs. Fairfax came to help me dress. "I don't need help to dress," I tried to laugh, but she asked me to humor her this one time. "I had to assure myself that you slept through the night, and the sounds of the storm did not keep you awake?"

"Only momentarily," I confessed. "Some time during the night I closed the shutters and drapes, but I was fast asleep soon after."

As we readied our exit from my room, she said tentatively, "Breakfast is ready and places set in the dining room as always."

"Nonsense," I retorted, "I'd rather have breakfast with you in the servants' dining hall or in your rooms. I'm not a grand lady, there's no need for you to set a place for me in the dining room." I wasn't looking as I exited my suite.

"Be kind to Dame Fairfax," a voice growled at me. "She's only following orders." Mr. Rochester's form unfolded from the chair across from my room, the chair where he had sat months ago. He stood, strikingly erect. Taller than I remembered, more restrained than I remembered, and yet there was something in his eye, something in his mouth…

Mrs. Fairfax departed the hall quickly.

"How dare you bewitch my staff into providing you sanctuary, you witch! You elf! You sneak into my abode while my back is turned? How unfeeling of you! Did you not think that I might imagine that I'm seeing Jane's ghost? Do you know how many nights I dreamt of you…only to awake and find you gone? Are you a real thing standing before me, or will you abandon me like your nocturnal sisters?"

"I am independent, sir, as well as rich. I am my own mistress, Mr. Rochester, and I will go where I please, when I please." Then my voice softened " …and should my fairy wings tempt me to fly away, I am sure that the ogre in you will imprision me in your heart…where I will stay if I am wanted."

"Oh Jane!" His voice grew husky as he drew me to his side. "I've missed you my sprite, my fairy, my elf. I've missed you."