Mr. Rochester ran desperately back to Thornfield Hall. He would try to find Jane and explain to her that he never meant to force her, that he would never harm her, even in his frequent passions. She would stay with him, on his estate as Adele's governess if she wished, or he would purchase a residene for her nearby so they could enjoy eachother's society. He had wanted and hoped for too much, he concluded; no one ever tastes such perfect contentment in this earthly life as that which he felt he had nearly grasped. Indeed, he had held in his arms his soul's and heart's only desire. Now, pressing it too hard to his own heart, it had fled from him. Life without Jane's comfort, and her mere presence, once he had known such happiness to be possible, would be a mere farce and a mockery of what it had been for the briefest of moments. His mind recoiled, his heart bled and his soul cried out at the thought of Jane's absence. If only he could but see her, he felt, his rioting soul would rest still and be calmed.
Hope began to take root in his cracked and bleeding heart as he thought of the compromise he would strike. All that he had to do was find her. Hope grew like a green blade in cool, damp soil washed by the spring rains and increased by the sun until he once more arrived at Thornfield Hall.
When he arrived, Mr. Rochester sought several of his servants. In a few moments he had sent John to pursue the coach, and had several letters written and sent to everyone he thought might know of or hear from Jane. He sat a long while trying to remember anyone, friends or family that Jane had ever mentioned, but there were but few of those. He sent his messengers out that very day and waited.
As the first day went by, Mr. Rochester allowed himself to feel the stirrings of hope that he would find Jane soon and be able to put everything right. Even then, however, he remembered how she had gazed upon him, the last time he had seen her. Her despairing, dissapointed yet resolute gaze had terrified him. How it returned in his mind's eye to entreat him to realize that for her there could be no ompromise. Again and again he banished that look, and forbade his mind to dwell on its frown and to hear the words of parting she had spoken. Nevertheless, a fire was slowly smoldering in his heart. The ashes of the pain of his former life, when he felt himself sliding, and collapsing like a ruin, or worse- a living being as desolate and empty, having neither true substance nor character. He had been stunned and appalled at himself yet he could do nothing to halt his fall. At that time the fire had burned at its brightest, consuming him and changing him. He had thought, at length, that it would always be so. Then, one evening when he feared his return to Thornfield would only increase the flames that tortured him, he met Jane Eyre. She was like ie to that fire within. The more the fire caused him to hurl abuse, to swear and act churlish the sooner she seemed to sniff out the flames little by little until they had been reduced to ash.
With Jane gone, perhaps forever, the fire was awakening in those ashes. He fought moment by moment to believe that he could yet be the man that he had always wanted to be, and that he would have this miraculous woman as his friend, if not his wife. It was a struggle to maintain his optimism, even as he flet hope slowly withering around his blasted heart.
He gradually found himself seeking out the places Jane would often be when she was still at Thornfield. Once or twice he walked the main galleries and the hall where once he had danced with Blanche Ingram while Jane had sat in a corner. He imagined she sat there still and that her eyes furtively followed his movements around the room, as he had seen her do as he stole glances at her in reflecting glass and metal. Now he imagined he took her hand in his and tried to lead her in the dance, but she would turn away and quietly remark that she doesn't know how to dance.
During these times when alone, Mr. Rochester seemed calm but gradually a sense of doom was gathering around him and threatening to awake his passions once more. He had recieved no word back from Gateshead Hall which he half-suspected to be deserted , or sold and the letter from Lowood claimed no knowledge of Miss Eyre after her employment at Thornfield Hall. All other avenues had been tried, over and again but all was in vain. As door after door seemed to close, and the vacant air which now alone occupied Jane's familiar places grew more empty to him, he drifted further downwards into despair. Only one strand of hope remained about his heart, holding him together. It would take John two days or more to ride to Whitcross after the coach. If he managed to catch it they might point him out another, yet further distant town. It occurred to him that the longer John was in returning the brighter his news would be.
Hope began to take root in his cracked and bleeding heart as he thought of the compromise he would strike. All that he had to do was find her. Hope grew like a green blade in cool, damp soil washed by the spring rains and increased by the sun until he once more arrived at Thornfield Hall.
When he arrived, Mr. Rochester sought several of his servants. In a few moments he had sent John to pursue the coach, and had several letters written and sent to everyone he thought might know of or hear from Jane. He sat a long while trying to remember anyone, friends or family that Jane had ever mentioned, but there were but few of those. He sent his messengers out that very day and waited.
As the first day went by, Mr. Rochester allowed himself to feel the stirrings of hope that he would find Jane soon and be able to put everything right. Even then, however, he remembered how she had gazed upon him, the last time he had seen her. Her despairing, dissapointed yet resolute gaze had terrified him. How it returned in his mind's eye to entreat him to realize that for her there could be no ompromise. Again and again he banished that look, and forbade his mind to dwell on its frown and to hear the words of parting she had spoken. Nevertheless, a fire was slowly smoldering in his heart. The ashes of the pain of his former life, when he felt himself sliding, and collapsing like a ruin, or worse- a living being as desolate and empty, having neither true substance nor character. He had been stunned and appalled at himself yet he could do nothing to halt his fall. At that time the fire had burned at its brightest, consuming him and changing him. He had thought, at length, that it would always be so. Then, one evening when he feared his return to Thornfield would only increase the flames that tortured him, he met Jane Eyre. She was like ie to that fire within. The more the fire caused him to hurl abuse, to swear and act churlish the sooner she seemed to sniff out the flames little by little until they had been reduced to ash.
With Jane gone, perhaps forever, the fire was awakening in those ashes. He fought moment by moment to believe that he could yet be the man that he had always wanted to be, and that he would have this miraculous woman as his friend, if not his wife. It was a struggle to maintain his optimism, even as he flet hope slowly withering around his blasted heart.
He gradually found himself seeking out the places Jane would often be when she was still at Thornfield. Once or twice he walked the main galleries and the hall where once he had danced with Blanche Ingram while Jane had sat in a corner. He imagined she sat there still and that her eyes furtively followed his movements around the room, as he had seen her do as he stole glances at her in reflecting glass and metal. Now he imagined he took her hand in his and tried to lead her in the dance, but she would turn away and quietly remark that she doesn't know how to dance.
During these times when alone, Mr. Rochester seemed calm but gradually a sense of doom was gathering around him and threatening to awake his passions once more. He had recieved no word back from Gateshead Hall which he half-suspected to be deserted , or sold and the letter from Lowood claimed no knowledge of Miss Eyre after her employment at Thornfield Hall. All other avenues had been tried, over and again but all was in vain. As door after door seemed to close, and the vacant air which now alone occupied Jane's familiar places grew more empty to him, he drifted further downwards into despair. Only one strand of hope remained about his heart, holding him together. It would take John two days or more to ride to Whitcross after the coach. If he managed to catch it they might point him out another, yet further distant town. It occurred to him that the longer John was in returning the brighter his news would be.