Chapter 4(c) – The Visit

After leaving Robert Wilson's home, Edward Rochester walked swiftly through the town, struggling for self-control, trying to quell his anguish and despair, trying to catch his breath, trying to force back the tears that suddenly filled his eyes. He quickly arrived back at the inn and after requesting that a bottle of brandy and a glass be brought up to him went straight up to his room. Edward tore off his coat and his cravat, tossed them aside and began walking rapidly back and forth.

I can never marry Jane. I can never marry Jane. I can never marry Jane. The thought repeated and reverberated in his mind until he thought he would have to scream to drown it out. He could never marry Jane. Never tell her he loved her. Never hear her tell him how much she loved him. Never live with her. Never again enjoy speaking with her, laughing with her, walking with her, just looking at her. Never even see her again. He could never see Jane again.

The brandy arrived. Edward poured himself a glass, quickly tossed it off, then another, and then poured himself one more which he drank slowly. Finished, he put the glass and bottle down on the mantlepiece, then, breathing a little easier although still trembling somewhat, threw himself in the armchair facing the empty fireplace. Edward leaned back in the armchair, arms crossed, legs stretched out, eyes closed. Now he began to replay the entire scene over, feeling once again the chaotic surge of thoughts and emotions he had experienced at Wilson's home, tempered by the alcohol he had just consumed.

When Wilson opened the door, Edward was as surprised to see him as Wilson was to see Edward. Jane's letter had mentioned that a parson named Robert Wilson had offered her the position, but Edward had expected him to be an elderly clergyman, stooped and frail, white haired, not a young, vibrant, handsome man. To realize that the man who had offered his darling Jane the position that took her away from him was younger and more handsome than himself, to learn that he was Jane's new friend and confidant, to learn that Jane had given one of her precious paintings to this man she had just met, when she had never given him, Edward, the man who loved her above all else, anything ... Jane had never given him anything ... Edward remembered, and felt once again in all its intensity, the overwhelming surge of jealousy he had experienced. It had required incredible control not to show the turmoil and pain he was in, or to beat Wilson senseless.

As soon as Wilson informed him that Jane was headed to London, his first instinct had been to follow her there. He was sure he would have no trouble finding Mr. Briggs' office and then he would able to see Jane and talk to her, tell her how much he loved her, beg her to accept his proposal of marriage.

But he had also immediately asked himself a torrent of questions while half-listening to Wilson: Why hadn't Jane mentioned discovering the truth about her uncle in her letter? Didn't she realize that he would want to know about this, that he wanted to know anything and everything about her? Did she no longer consider him a friend? Or had he been mistaken all along – Jane had never considered him a friend at all. He had only imagined she cared for him because he wanted so desperately for her to love him the way he loved her. But now he saw that Jane had never felt anything for him, no warmth, no affection, and certainly no love or desire. He was just her employer, just an ugly old man she felt obligated to please and amuse in order to keep her position, and so she had engaged in those long conversations with him simply because she felt she had no choice. And once she decided to quit, she was no longer obliged to tell him anything except good-bye. Instead he had had to learn all this from that damned Wilson.

Wilson. Edward suddenly stood up and began pacing back and forth again, finally stopping by the window. He leaned against the sill, looked out briefly, then closed his eyes. Wilson. Edward was sure the man was falling in love with Jane, if he wasn't in love with her already. What had he said … oh yes, he had called Jane "a remarkable young woman," "intelligent, kind, talented, dedicated," "an artist." He had never met anyone like her.

With his eyes still closed, he remembered the painting. Yes, it was beautiful, but as he had gazed upon it he had suddenly realized the painting was conventional, just a generic still life, a vase with an assortment of wildflowers and nothing more. Any talented schoolgirl with some training could have painted one just like it. It was ordinary; it was nothing like the strange, mysterious, unique paintings in her portfolio. Jane had given Wilson a painting but she hadn't disclosed her innermost self. But she had disclosed herself to him, to Edward. And not just by allowing him to see her paintings. She had disclosed herself, her soul, in their many conversations. At that moment, he realized that he could not have been so mistaken about Jane's feelings for him. He could not have so completely misread Jane. She had not conversed with him as a duty or out of mere politeness; she had been really, truly happy to speak with him. Jane did feel more for him than just the respect due to an employer, he was sure of it. She did think of him as a good friend, at least, although he still couldn't explain why she had neglected to tell him about her wealthy uncle. But … perhaps the reason was not because she didn't care for him, but because she didn't think he would care one way or the other, now that she was gone from Thornfield. Jane had no idea how he really felt about her, and so she didn't believe he would care to learn about her uncle. Once again, Edward cursed himself for trying to make Jane jealous by leading her to believe that it was Blanche who had captured his heart and not her. How much damage had he done to himself, and to Jane, with that stupid plan! In his note he let Jane know that there was to be no marriage between him and Blanche. What would her reaction be to that news? Would she be happy, hopeful, or would she be completely indifferent? Not that it mattered anymore. Because he could never have Jane. Ever.

Edward moved from the window, walked to the fireplace, placed one foot on the fender, and leaned on the mantelpiece with both hands. He remembered the crushing despair that began to engulf him when Wilson finally left him alone to write that letter to Jane and how he fought to compose himself to be able to write it. His first and last letter to Jane. It had taken a supreme effort of will, but somehow he wrote the letter.

Marriage. His plan all along had been to make Jane fall in love with him and then get her to marry him. Marry him … a man who was already married. The only way that plan would have succeeded would have been to marry Jane as quietly as possible, then flee to the continent to live a secluded life in an unimportant town in a quiet corner of some country where he wasn't known, trying to avoid being found by Richard Mason, who would have him brought up on charges of bigamy. This was possible only as long as there was no one to interfere. As long as there was no one who cared whom Jane married or where she lived. As long as there was no one for Jane to contact. As long as he, and only he, was in her life. But now … now … everything had changed. Everything was different. Now that Jane found that she was not an orphan all alone in the world; now that she had a wealthy, well-connected uncle and three cousins, one a clergyman … how could he continue with his plan now? Jane would never agree to marry in secret then disappear in Europe, losing contact with the family she had just found. Why would she? It made no sense. And how could he justify the need for secrecy, for living in isolation in a foreign land, seeing no one, going nowhere, a life lived totally outside of society, the life of a fugitive, without telling her the reason why – that he was not free to marry, not Blanche, not Jane, not anyone. There was no way he could marry Jane without it becoming known, now that she had family who might care what happened to her, unlike the Reeds who had thrown her out of their lives. There was no way he could marry Jane now that Jane might very well become an heiress before too long; as an heiress she would be dealing with bankers and solicitors on a regular basis and would begin to move in society. In those few minutes in Wilson's study, Edward had realized that there was no way he could continue with his mad plan, not now. It was over. Finished.

Edward had begun trembling as the full realization of what this meant, of how he had to spend the rest of his life without Jane, struck him with such force he felt as thought he had been physically struck. How could he do it? How could he live the rest of his life without Jane, the only woman he had ever loved? The only woman he would ever love? But he had no choice. He could not trick Jane into a fake marriage and destroy her life when the truth, inevitably, came out. It would destroy Jane, perhaps even literally kill her, when she finally learned what he had done to her. And he knew Jane well enough to know that she would never consent to live with him as his mistress. Before all this, when Jane was friendless, totally alone in the world, unloved, unwanted, he could lie to himself that by "marrying" her he was doing something right, noble even, because he would be giving her his love, a home, protection from the world and its cruelty – but now he saw the truth, that he would ruin her if he pursued her because now it would be possible for Mason to find out about their marriage since Jane would no longer be an obscure governess, unknown in society. As an heiress she would become known to the social circle he traveled in, and their wedding would be reported in all the newspapers. There was absolutely no way to avoid it. Then, sooner or later, Richard would learn about the marriage and immediately have him charged with bigamy. Edward would go to prison and Jane and any children they might have by then would be publicly humiliated. There would be no way to recover from the disgrace; it would literally follow them wherever they went, and for the rest of their lives. His children, now bastards, would likely have no future after the truth came out, and as for Jane … all her love would turn to hate, he was sure of it. That was the worst of it, he thought – to see her love die, to have her turn against him, to hear her tell him how much she despised and loathed him for what he had done to her and their children... He imagined the look on her face as she spoke to him for the last time, a look of disgust mixed with intense grief, her voice full of contempt, and how she would then turn and walk out of his life forever, never looking back. Jane would make sure to disappear so that he could never find her or their children again.

No. NO. It was all over. He would return to Thornfield and try, somehow, to go on without Jane. There was no other way. She didn't know he loved her and now she never would. And then one day, perhaps in the not-too-distant future, she would marry another man. Robert Wilson perhaps. Edward remembered those last moments at the door, when he had asked Wilson to contact him if Jane ever needed anything. Wilson's response, that he would make sure Jane was safe and untroubled … Edward felt he knew what that meant. Robert Wilson would one day propose marriage to Jane. And she would in all likelihood accept his proposal. Why not? He was a young, handsome man, educated and settled. Edward remembered how Jane had told him she didn't find him attractive (it hurt every time he thought about it), but she probably found Robert Wilson attractive. Jane Eyre Wilson. Not Jane Eyre Rochester. Edward shook his head as if he could shake the image from his mind. Jane Eyre Wilson. Somehow Edward would have to swallow his pain and go on.

Fortunately, Wilson didn't speak while they had had their tea; Edward was in such turmoil he doubted he could have formulated a coherent response. Then the quick walk to the inn. And now there lay ahead of him a long, restless, sleepless night.

Early the next morning, exhausted, crushed, Edward Rochester boarded the coach back to Thornfield.