Jane Eyre

by Charlotte Bronte

  “I thought, Jane, you had told me all. I thought I had found the source of your melancholy in a dream.”

  I shook my head. “What! Is there more? But I will not believe it to be anything important. I warn you of incredulity beforehand. Go on.”

  The disquietude of his air, the somewhat apprehensive impatience of his manner, surprised me, but I proceeded.

  “I dreamt another dream, sir, that Thornfield Hall was a dreary ruin, the retreat of bats and owls. I thought that of all the stately front nothing remained but a shell-like wall, very high and very fragile-looking. I wandered, on a moonlight night, through the grass-grown enclosure within. Here I stumbled over a marble hearth, and there over a fallen fragment of cornice. Wrapped up in a shawl, I still carried the unknown little child. I might not lay it down anywhere, however tired were my arms—however much its weight impeded my progress, I must retain it. I heard the gallop of a horse at a distance on the road. I was sure it was you and you were departing for many years and for a distant country. I climbed the thin wall with frantic perilous haste, eager to catch one glimpse of you from the top. The stones rolled from under my feet, the ivy branches I grasped gave way, the child clung round my neck in terror, and almost strangled me. At last I gained the summit. I saw you like a speck on a white track, lessening every moment. The blast blew so strong I could not stand. I sat down on the narrow ledge. I hushed the scared infant in my lap, you turned an angle of the road. I bent forward to take a last look. The wall crumbled. I was shaken, the child rolled from my knee, I lost my balance, fell, and woke.”

  “Now, Jane, that is all.”

  “All the preface, sir—the tale is yet to come. On waking, a gleam dazzled my eyes. I thought—Oh, it is daylight! But I was mistaken. It was only candlelight. Sophie, I supposed, had come in. There was a light in the dressing-table, and the door of the closet, where, before going to bed, I had hung my wedding-dress and veil, stood open. I heard a rustling there. I asked, ‘Sophie, what are you doing?’ No one answered, but a form emerged from the closet. It took the light, held it aloft, and surveyed the garments pendent from the portmanteau. ‘Sophie! Sophie!’ I again cried, and still it was silent. I had risen up in bed, I bent forward, first surprise, then bewilderment, came over me and then my blood crept cold through my veins. Mr Rochester, this was not Sophie, it was not Leah, it was not Mrs Fairfax, it was not—no, I was sure of it, and am still—it was not even that strange woman, Grace Poole.”

  “It must have been one of them,” interrupted my master.

  “No, sir, I solemnly assure you to the contrary. The shape standing before me had never crossed my eyes within the precincts of Thornfield Hall before, the height, the contour were new to me.”

  “Describe it, Jane.”

  “It seemed, sir, a woman, tall and large, with thick and dark hair hanging long down her back. I know not what dress she had on, it was white and straight, but whether gown, sheet, or shroud, I cannot tell.”

  “Did you see her face?”

  “Not at first. But presently she took my veil from its place; she held it up, gazed at it long, and then she threw it over her own head, and turned to the mirror. At that moment I saw the reflection of the visage and features quite distinctly in the dark oblong glass.”

  “And how were they?”

  “Fearful and ghastly to me—oh, sir, I never saw a face like it! It was a discoloured face—it was a savage face. I wish I could forget the roll of the red eyes and the fearful blackened inflation of the lineaments!”

  “Ghosts are usually pale, Jane.”

  “This, sir, was purple, the lips were swelled and dark, the brow furrowed, the black eyebrows widely raised over the bloodshot eyes. Shall I tell you of what it reminded me?”

  “You may.”

  “Of the foul German spectre—the Vampyre.”

  “Ah!—what did it do?”

  “Sir, it removed my veil from its gaunt head, rent it in two parts, and flinging both on the floor, trampled on them.”

  “Afterwards?”

  “It drew aside the window-curtain and looked out; perhaps it saw dawn approaching, for, taking the candle, it retreated to the door. Just at my bedside, the figure stopped, the fiery eyes glared upon me—she thrust up her candle close to my face, and extinguished it under my eyes. I was aware her lurid visage flamed over mine, and I lost consciousness, for the second time in my life—only the second time—I became insensible from terror.”

  “Who was with you when you revived?”

  “No one, sir, but the broad day. I rose, bathed my head and face in water, drank a long draught; felt that though enfeebled I was not ill, and determined that to none but you would I impart this vision. Now, sir, tell me who and what that woman was?”

  “The creature of an over-stimulated brain, that is certain. I must be careful of you, my treasure, nerves like yours were not made for rough handling.”

  “Sir, depend on it, my nerves were not in fault; the thing was real, the transaction actually took place.”

  “And your previous dreams, were they real too? Is Thornfield Hall a ruin? Am I severed from you by insuperable obstacles? Am I leaving you without a tear—without a kiss—without a word?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Am I about to do it? Why, the day is already commenced which is to bind us indissolubly and when we are once united, there shall be no recurrence of these mental terrors, I guarantee that.”

  “Mental terrors, sir! I wish I could believe them to be only such. I wish it more now than ever; since even you cannot explain to me the mystery of that awful visitant.”

  “And since I cannot do it, Jane, it must have been unreal.”

  “But, sir, when I said so to myself on rising this morning, and when I looked round the room to gather courage and comfort from the cheerful aspect of each familiar object in full daylight, there—on the carpet—I saw what gave the distinct lie to my hypothesis—the veil, torn from top to bottom in two halves!”

  I felt Mr Rochester start and shudder. He hastily flung his arms round me. “Thank God!” he exclaimed, “that if anything malignant did come near you last night, it was only the veil that was harmed. Oh, to think what might have happened!”

  He drew his breath short, and strained me so close to him, I could scarcely pant. After some minutes’ silence, he continued, cheerily, “Now, Janet, I’ll explain to you all about it. It was half dream, half reality. A woman did, I doubt not, enter your room, and that woman was—must have been—Grace Poole. You call her a strange being yourself, from all you know, you have reason so to call her—what did she do to me? What to Mason? In a state between sleeping and waking, you noticed her entrance and her actions, but feverish, almost delirious as you were, you ascribed to her a goblin appearance different from her own. The long dishevelled hair, the swelled black face, the exaggerated stature, were figments of imagination; results of nightmare, the spiteful tearing of the veil was real, and it is like her. I see you would ask why I keep such a woman in my house, when we have been married a year and a day, I will tell you, but not now. Are you satisfied, Jane? Do you accept my solution of the mystery?”

  I reflected, and in truth it appeared to me the only possible one, satisfied I was not, but to please him I endeavoured to appear so—relieved, I certainly did feel, so I answered him with a contented smile. And now, as it was long past one, I prepared to leave him.

  “Does not Sophie sleep with Adèle in the nursery?” he asked, as I lit my candle.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And there is room enough in Adèle’s little bed for you. You must share it with her tonight, Jane, it is no wonder that the incident you have related should make you nervous, and I would rather you did not sleep alone, promise me to go to the nursery.”

  “I shall be very glad to do so, sir.”

  “And fasten the door securely on the inside. Wake Sophie when you go upstairs, under pretence of requesting her to rouse you in good time tomorrow, for you must be dressed a
nd have finished breakfast before eight. And now, no more sombre thoughts, chase dull care away, Janet. Don’t you hear to what soft whispers the wind has fallen? And there is no more beating of rain against the window-panes, look here”—he lifted up the curtain— “it is a lovely night!”

  It was. Half heaven was pure and stainless, the clouds, now trooping before the wind, which had shifted to the west, were filing off eastward in long, silvered columns. The moon shone peacefully.

  He dropped the curtain and looked at me. “Lock the door, Jane.”

  “I had planned to wait until after the wedding for this, but I fear I cannot. Allow me to help you remove your clothing. But first—here is a key—there is a safe in yonder drawer, fetch it.”

  I brought him the safe and returned the key. My nerves were on edge. I felt alternately soothed and agitated. My master possessed the skills to restore me to rights.

  He unfastened all my clothing and bid me to leave the pieces on the floor. This was not my wont, so even this instruction was a force of his will.

  “Now, miss, undress me.”

  He had loosened his cravat, and I took it off. He waited, as the lord of the manor, for me to perform his manservant’s duties.

  “I may dismiss all the staff save you, Jane. I would keep you naked and available for my bidding.”

  The idea of being secluded, the two of us, away from the world, thrilled me. I knew it was impossible, but I wanted nothing more.

  He sat. “Over my knee, if you please.”

  The spanking he delivered wasn’t gentle. It burned and hurt. I kicked and carried on and still he continued the blaze of fury.

  He was relentless.

  Finally, I broke, crying, sobbing out my love as well as my fears.

  He gathered me close, soothing me. “I shall always see to what you need, Jane.”

  “Take me, sir?”

  Mr Rochester stroked my wayward hair back from my cheeks and used the pad of his thumb to wipe the tears. “Fetch the safe.”

  I did so.

  “Kneel while I manage this thing,” he said. “Using your hand, tease your cunny so that my passage is eased. Torment your nipples as well.”

  I watched him handle the membrane and his cock—I am sure he moved slower than he needed to!—and heated my body for his use. I was surprised when he said, “Straddle me, facing me.”

  “Me, sir? On top?”

  He drew his brows together fiercely. “Do you wish me to repeat that order?”

  My blood then chilled. I loved it when my master beat me for my pleasure. Punishment was different—mostly from my mind-set, knowing I had displeased him, something I could hardly bear—and I didn’t want to feel his wrath, not now, not tonight.

  I approached him. With his hands, he guided me into position. “Take hold of my cock,” said he. “Place it at your vaginal opening.”

  I did. I felt the tip of his penis enter me. How desperately did I need this, despite the awkward position.

  He pulled down on my hips, seating himself with one solid stroke. I gasped, feeling him so deep inside me.

  “Hands behind your back, miss, tied by my will.”

  “I should prefer to wrap my arms around you, sir.”

  “Thank you for your honesty. For the moment, I wish to look at your breasts and have access to them. Do as I bid and you will be well rewarded.”

  I nodded.

  “Fuck me, Jane.”

  “Sir?” For all that I thought I was now unshakeable, my master’s words made me blink.

  “Time to release all your inhibitions, miss. Ride me.” He bit the side of my neck. “Fuck me, and do it hard.”

  What wicked torment! I did as he bid. How big he was! I felt as if I were being rendered asunder. He latched onto my nipples and held them as if in a vice.

  Once again, he took me to levels I hadn’t imagined.

  With each stroke, he filled me.

  “Now, Jane, you may wrap your hands around my neck.”

  He released his hold on my breasts, and the residual pain heightened my pleasure. I leant forward into him. This changed the angle as he’d known it would! He was able to drive even deeper. My thighs quivered.

  “Come when you wish, miss.” He shoved a finger up my rear hole.

  I screamed, collapsing against his physical strength. As always, he was there, catching me in the moment of my greatest emotional need.

  He caressed me and uttered nonsensical words. What he said mattered not, we both understood the meaning.

  Moments later, awareness returned to me. “Did you spill your seed, sir?”

  “Though it physically pains me, indeed I did not. The joining after the wedding will be all the sweeter for the wait.”

  “But—”

  “Shh. I am satisfied, if not replete.”

  He held me until I chilled. Then he set me from him and helped me re-dress, mindful that a servant may be about the house.

  “Well,” said Mr Rochester, gazing inquiringly into my eyes, “how is my Janet now?”

  “The night is serene, sir and so am I.”

  “And you will not dream of separation and sorrow tonight, but of happy love and blissful union.”

  This prediction was but half fulfilled. I did not indeed dream of sorrow, but as little did I dream of joy, for I never slept at all. With little Adèle in my arms, I watched the slumber of childhood—so tranquil, so passionless, so innocent—and waited for the coming day. All my life was awake and astir in my frame, and as soon as the sun rose I rose too. I remember Adèle clung to me as I left her. I remember I kissed her as I loosened her little hands from my neck and I cried over her with strange emotion, and quitted her because I feared my sobs would break her still sound repose. She seemed the emblem of my past life and here I was now to array myself to meet, the dread, but adored, type of my unknown future day.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Sophie came at seven to dress me, she was very long indeed in accomplishing her task, so long that Mr Rochester, grown, I suppose, impatient of my delay, sent up to ask why I did not come. She was just fastening my veil—the plain square of blond after all—to my hair with a brooch. I hurried from under her hands as soon as I could.

  “Stop!” she cried in French. “Look at yourself in the mirror, you have not taken one peep.”

  So I turned at the door, I saw a robed and veiled figure, so unlike my usual self that it seemed almost the image of a stranger. “Jane!” called a voice, and I hastened down. I was received at the foot of the stairs by Mr Rochester.

  “Lingerer!” he said, “my brain is on fire with impatience, and you tarry so long. Try me further, my prickly rose, and I shall blister your behind for making me wait!”

  “But sir!”

  “Perhaps I should do it to regardless to remind you who is your master.”

  Said I, rather indignantly, “My aforementioned place has already enjoyed your ministrations, sir. More should just make sitting in the carriage later uncomfortable.”

  “And what of that, Mrs Rochester? That would suffice as a reminder over the miles.”

  Today; today our love would be bound and he would be mine forever. I minded his instructions. There was an air about him. I did not doubt this athletic man would prove his dominance yet again before the wedding.

  He took me into the dining room, surveyed me keenly all over, pronounced me “fair as a lily, and not only the pride of his life, but the desire of his eyes,” and then telling me he would give me but ten minutes to eat some breakfast, he rang the bell. One of his lately hired servants, a footman, answered it.

  “Is John getting the carriage ready?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Is the luggage brought down?”

  “They are bringing it down, sir.”

  “Go you to the church, see if Mr Wood—the clergyman—and the clerk are there, return and tell me.”

  The church, as the reader knows, was but just beyond the gates; the footman soon returned.
r />   “Mr Wood is in the vestry, sir, putting on his surplice.”

  “And the carriage?”

  “The horses are harnessing.”

  “We shall not want it to go to church, but it must be ready the moment we return, all the boxes and luggage arranged and strapped on, and the coachman in his seat.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Jane, are you ready?”

  I rose. There were no groomsmen, no bridesmaids, no relatives to wait for or marshal, none but Mr Rochester and I. Mrs Fairfax stood in the hall as we passed. I would fain have spoken to her, but my hand was held by a grasp of iron. I was hurried along by a stride I could hardly follow and to look at Mr Rochester’s face was to feel that not a second of delay would be tolerated for any purpose. I wonder what other bridegroom ever looked as he did—so bent up to a purpose, so grimly resolute, or who, under such steadfast brows, ever revealed such flaming and flashing eyes.

  I know not whether the day was fair or foul. In descending the drive, I gazed neither on sky nor earth, my heart was with my eyes and both seemed migrated into Mr Rochester’s frame. I wanted to see the invisible thing on which, as we went along, he appeared to fasten a glance fierce and fell. I wanted to feel the thoughts whose force he seemed breasting and resisting.

  At the churchyard wicket he stopped, he discovered I was quite out of breath. “Am I cruel in my love?” he said. “Delay an instant, lean on me, Jane.”

  And now I can recall the picture of the grey old house of God rising calm before me, of a rook wheeling round the steeple, of a ruddy morning sky beyond. I remember something, too, of the green grave-mounds and I have not forgotten, either, two figures of strangers straying amongst the low hillocks and reading the mementoes graven on the few mossy head-stones. I noticed them, because, as they saw us, they passed round to the back of the church and I doubted not they were going to enter by the side-aisle door and witness the ceremony. By Mr Rochester they were not observed; he was earnestly looking at my face from which the blood had, I daresay, momentarily fled, for I felt my forehead dewy, and my cheeks and lips cold. When I rallied, which I soon did, he walked gently with me up the path to the porch.