Jane Eyre

by Charlotte Bronte

  He descended the one step, and advanced slowly and gropingly towards the grass-plat. Where was his daring stride now? Then he paused, as if he knew not which way to turn. He lifted his hand and opened his eyelids; gazed blank, and with a straining effort, on the sky, and toward the amphitheatre of trees, one saw that all to him was void darkness. He stretched his right hand—the left arm, the mutilated one, he kept hidden in his bosom—he seemed to wish by touch to gain an idea of what lay around him, he met but vacancy still, for the trees were some yards off where he stood. He relinquished the endeavour, folded his arms, and stood quiet and mute in the rain, now falling fast on his uncovered head. At this moment John approached him from some quarter.

  “Will you take my arm, sir?” he said, “there is a heavy shower coming on, had you not better go in?”

  “Let me alone,” was the answer.

  John withdrew without having observed me. Mr Rochester now tried to walk about, vainly—all was too uncertain. He groped his way back to the house, and, re-entering it, closed the door.

  I now drew near and knocked, John’s wife opened for me. “Mary,” I said, “how are you?”

  She started as if she had seen a ghost, I calmed her. To her hurried “Is it really you, miss, come at this late hour to this lonely place?” I answered by taking her hand and then I followed her into the kitchen, where John now sat by a good fire. I explained to them, in few words, that I had heard all which had happened since I left Thornfield, and that I was come to see Mr Rochester. I asked John to go down to the turn-pike-house, where I had dismissed the chaise, and bring my trunk, which I had left there, and then, while I removed my bonnet and shawl, I questioned Mary as to whether I could be accommodated at the Manor House for the night and finding that arrangements to that effect, though difficult, would not be impossible, I informed her I should stay. Just at this moment the parlour-bell rang.

  “When you go in,” said I, “tell your master that a person wishes to speak to him, but do not give my name.”

  “I don’t think he will see you,” she answered, “he refuses everybody.”

  When she returned, I enquired what he had said. “You are to send in your name and your business,” she replied. She then proceeded to fill a glass with water, and place it on a tray, together with candles.

  “Is that what he rang for?” I asked.

  “Yes, he always has candles brought in at dark, though he is blind.”

  “Give the tray to me. I will carry it in.”

  I took it from her hand, she pointed me out the parlour door. The tray shook as I held it; the water spilt from the glass; my heart struck my ribs loud and fast. Mary opened the door for me, and shut it behind me.

  This parlour looked gloomy, a neglected handful of fire burnt low in the grate and, leaning over it, with his head supported against the high, old-fashioned mantelpiece, appeared the blind tenant of the room. His old dog, Pilot, lay on one side, removed out of the way, and coiled up as if afraid of being inadvertently trodden upon. Pilot pricked up his ears when I came in, then he jumped up with a yelp and a whine, and bounded towards me, he almost knocked the tray from my hands. I set it on the table; then patted him, and said softly, “Lie down!” Mr Rochester turned mechanically to see what the commotion was, but as he saw nothing, he returned and sighed.

  “Give me the water, Mary,” he said.

  I approached him with the now only half-filled glass. Pilot followed me, still excited.

  “What is the matter?” he enquired.

  “Down, Pilot!” I again said. He checked the water on its way to his lips, and seemed to listen, he drank, and put the glass down. “This is you, Mary, is it not?”

  “Mary is in the kitchen,” I answered.

  He put out his hand with a quick gesture, but not seeing where I stood, he did not touch me. “Who is this? Who is this?” he demanded, trying, as it seemed, to see with those sightless eyes—unavailing and distressing attempt! “Answer me—speak again!” he ordered, imperiously and aloud. Forever, he was the master!

  “Will you have a little more water, sir? I spilt half of what was in the glass,” I said.

  “Who is it? What is it? Who speaks?”

  “Pilot knows me, and John and Mary know I am here. I came only this evening,” I answered.

  “Great God! What delusion has come over me? What sweet madness has seized me?”

  “No delusion—no madness, your mind, sir, is too strong for delusion, your health too sound for frenzy.”

  “And where is the speaker? Is it only a voice? Oh! I cannot see, but I must feel, or my heart will stop and my brain burst. Whatever—whoever you are—be perceptible to the touch or I cannot live!”

  He groped. I arrested his wandering hand, and prisoned it in both mine. Tears streamed unbidden. I was where I belonged.

  “Her very fingers!” he cried, “her small, slight fingers! If so there must be more of her.”

  The muscular hand broke from my custody; my arm was seized, my shoulder—neck—waist—I was entwined and gathered to him.

  “Is it Jane? What is it? This is her shape—this is her size—”

  “And this her voice,” I added. “She is all here, her heart, too. God bless you, sir! I am glad to be so near you again.”

  “Jane Eyre!—Jane Eyre,” was all he said.

  “My dear master,” I answered, “I am Jane Eyre, I have found you out—I am come back to you.”

  “In truth?—in the flesh? My living Jane?”

  “You touch me, sir—you hold me, and fast enough, I am not cold like a corpse, nor vacant like air, am I?”

  “My living darling! These are certainly her limbs, and these her features, but I cannot be so blest, after all my misery. It is a dream; such dreams as I have had at night when I have clasped her once more to my heart, as I do now and kissed her, as thus—and felt that she loved me, and trusted that she would not leave me.”

  “Which I never will, sir, from this day.”

  “Never will, says the vision? But I always woke and found it an empty mockery and I was desolate and abandoned—my life dark, lonely, hopeless—my soul athirst and forbidden to drink—my heart famished and never to be fed. Gentle, soft dream, nestling in my arms now, you will fly, too, as your sisters have all fled before you, but kiss me before you go—embrace me, Jane.”

  “There, sir—and there!”’

  I pressed my lips to his once brilliant and now rayless eyes—I swept his hair from his brow, and kissed that too. He suddenly seemed to excite himself, the conviction of the reality of all this seized him.

  “I have thought of nothing but you, sir.”

  “And what are your thoughts? Scarce I hope they have been similar to mine?”

  “Sir, I have admired your fine mind.”

  His tone changed. “Anything else, miss?”

  My heart missed a beat at the way he called me miss. There was command in the inflection. I experienced a visceral response. I laboured under no false ideals. Though he might be different than he had been, he was not broken, he was still my master.

  Unbidden, I locked the bolt on the door.

  His back went rigid. He knew my intent.

  “Discover me again, Sir,” said I upon my return.

  “I will have you nude, miss.”

  “Indeed, sir.”

  His focus seemed all the more intent. I quickly divested myself of my garments. “Shall I kneel?”

  “Remain on your feet. I presume you recollect the correct posture?”

  “Sir, feel free to correct anything that is amiss.”

  “As if I need your permission for that, Jane Eyre.” His tone was stern—so familiar—so welcome.

  How could I ever have left?

  He touched me reverently. He explored my body, effortlessly taking down my hair, tracing my face, the column of my throat, the curve of my shoulder.

  Unerringly he cupped each breast in turn and brutally squeezed each nipple.

  “I told you once,
when you took my cock into your mouth, that you should note my reactions. I would not need to tell you what to do for you would learn quickly by study. I am sightless, Miss Eyre, but that means I shall pay more attention to you than ever before. For example, I taunt your nipple like so—” He squeezed hard and almost instantly released his grip. “And I hear your sharp intake of breath. But I also scent your desire. I do not have to see you to know what you like and how much you crave my punishing touch.”

  He did not, indeed. He repeated the process on my other breast.

  I was all but panting from need.

  “Turn the chair backwards, Miss Eyre, and brace yourself on the arms.”

  I had dreamt of this when I was at my school house, Mr Rochester’s punishment for me leaving, but also, simultaneously, expressing his welcome upon my return.

  “You are ready, miss?”

  “I am, sir.” How I had missed this!

  Mr Rochester moved with much more deftness than I imagined. He stood in a spot close to me, and he judged the distance by touching me and then adjusting his stance.

  He teased my quim mercilessly until I begged for him to bring me to completion.

  “Have you earnt it, miss?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Do you deserve it?”

  “No, sir!”

  “Tell me, then, why I should relent.”

  I moved against his hand, beseechingly. I needed this so desperately. It was different with his hand than my own. “For the love of God, sir! I do not deserve it. I have not earnt it, but I beg you. I need this, sir. I am powerless against my desire for you. Give me what only you can!”

  He pulled away.

  I dropped my head with a pained exclamation.

  “The wait, my darling, will make it all the better.”

  “How long?” I demanded. “How long must I wait? The nights, the days, the weeks all interminable!”

  I was unprepared, and thus, rendered speechless when he cracked his hand smartly across my buttocks.

  My head came up sharply.

  “Much better,” he said approvingly, obviously having sensed the shift in my countenance.

  He beat me, it was punishment, reward, and apology all communicated in his hand and my answering tears.

  Thus he rendered us both to our baser natures, he as master, I as humble servant. Equals in reality and in agreement of our arrangement.

  “Now Jane, I shall have you.”

  I turned, supported by his strength. Kneeling, I undressed him. Seeing his power, unmarred by time or circumstance, I felt awe. “Sir, I had quite forgotten your size, I fear.”

  “I will ensure you are lubricated for my entry.”

  I fetched a safe from where he indicated, and helped him secure it in place.

  “Resume your position, miss, over the chair.”

  The angle would allow him to take me with confidence and at great depth, which I hungered for.

  I felt his hand on my quim. I was conquered! He manipulated my flesh. I became slick and needful. “Sir!”

  “You may orgasm, miss.”

  He continued his ministrations until I shattered! While I was still in the throes, valiantly struggling to find my breath, he claimed me. His impalement was furious, as if he were a warrior claiming victory over the vanquished.

  Mr Rochester imprisoned my hair, holding me in place, forcing me to arch my back, preventing me from struggling away as he made me his.

  I peaked another time before he gave into his own urges. I felt his manhood thicken and harden moments before I felt him stop moving, and then I heard his groan.

  He thrust several more times, much slower and with great intent as he emptied his testicles.

  We remained thus for a time. I was in my master’s arms. I was complete. I helped him dress, and I donned my own clothing. As he had in the past, he wrapped the safe in a handkerchief, and I relieved him of the burden, grateful to take care of this for him, for us. Things between us would not be as they had before, they would be different, and, perhaps, better.

  “It is you—is it, Jane? You are come back to me then?”

  “I am.”

  “And you do not lie dead in some ditch under some stream? And you are not a pining outcast amongst strangers?”

  “No, sir! I am an independent woman now.”

  “Independent! What do you mean, Jane?”

  “My uncle in Madeira is dead, and he left me five thousand pounds.”

  “Ah! this is practical—this is real!” he cried. “I should never dream that. Besides, there is that peculiar voice of hers, so animating and piquant, as well as soft, it cheers my withered heart. It puts life into it.What, Janet! Are you an independent woman? A rich woman?”

  “If you won’t let me live with you, I can build a house of my own close up to your door, and you may come and sit in my parlour when you want company of an evening.”

  “But as you are rich, Jane, you have now, no doubt, friends who will look after you, and not suffer you to devote yourself to a blind lameter like me?”

  “I told you I am independent, sir, as well as rich, I am my own mistress.”

  “And you will stay with me?”

  “Certainly—unless you object. I will be your neighbour, your nurse, your housekeeper. I find you lonely. I will be your companion—to read to you, to walk with you, to sit with you, to wait on you, to be eyes and hands to you. Cease to look so melancholy, my dear master; you shall not be left desolate, so long as I live.”

  He replied not, he seemed serious—abstracted. He sighed. He half-opened his lips as if to speak, he closed them again. I felt a little embarrassed. Perhaps I had too rashly over-leaped conventionalities and he, like St. John, saw impropriety in my inconsiderateness. I had indeed made my proposal from the idea that he wished and would ask me to be his wife, an expectation, not the less certain because unexpressed, had buoyed me up, that he would claim me at once as his own. But no hint to that effect escaping him and his countenance becoming more overcast, I suddenly remembered that I might have been all wrong, and was perhaps playing the fool unwittingly and I began gently to withdraw myself from his arms—but he eagerly snatched me closer.

  “No—no—Jane, you must not go. No—I have touched you, heard you, felt the comfort of your presence—the sweetness of your consolation, I cannot give up these joys. I have little left in myself—I must have you. The world may laugh—may call me absurd, selfish—but it does not signify. My very soul demands you, it will be satisfied, or it will take deadly vengeance on its frame.”

  “Well, sir, I will stay with you, I have said so.”

  “Yes—but you understand one thing by staying with me and I understand another. You, perhaps, could make up your mind to be about my hand and chair—to wait on me as a kind little nurse—for you have an affectionate heart and a generous spirit, which prompt you to make sacrifices for those you pity—and that ought to suffice for me no doubt. I suppose I should now entertain none but fatherly feelings for you, do you think so? Come—tell me.”

  “I will think what you like, sir, I am content to be only your nurse, if you think it better.”

  “But you cannot always be my nurse, Janet, you are young—you must marry one day.”

  “I don’t care about being married.”

  “You should care, Janet, if I were what I once was, I would try to make you care—but—a sightless block!”

  He relapsed again into gloom. I, on the contrary, became more cheerful, and took fresh courage, these last words gave me an insight as to where the difficulty lay and as it was no difficulty with me, I felt quite relieved from my previous embarrassment. I resumed a livelier vein of conversation.

  “It is time someone undertook to rehumanise you,” said I, parting his thick and long uncut locks, “for I see you are being metamorphosed into a lion, or something of that sort. You have a ‘faux air’ of Nebuchadnezzar in the fields about you, that is certain, your hair reminds me of eagles’ feathers, whether y
our nails are grown like birds’ claws or not, I have not yet noticed.”

  “On this arm, I have neither hand nor nails,” he said, drawing the mutilated limb from his breast, and showing it to me. “It is a mere stump—a ghastly sight! Don’t you think so, Jane?”

  “It is a pity to see it and a pity to see your eyes—and the scar of fire on your forehead, and the worst of it is, one is in danger of loving you too well for all this and making too much of you.”

  “I thought you would be revolted, Jane, when you saw my arm, and my cicatrised visage.”

  “Did you? Don’t tell me so—lest I should say something disparaging to your judgement. Now, let me leave you an instant, to make a better fire, and have the hearth swept up. Can you tell when there is a good fire?”

  “Yes; with the right eye I see a glow—a ruddy haze.”

  “And you see the candles?”

  “Very dimly—each is a luminous cloud.”

  “Can you see me?”

  “No, my fairy, but I am only too thankful to hear and feel you.”

  “When do you take supper?”

  “I never take supper.”

  “But you shall have some tonight. I am hungry, so are you, I daresay, only you forget.”

  Summoning Mary, I soon had the room in more cheerful order, I prepared him, likewise, a comfortable repast. My spirits were excited, and with pleasure and ease I talked to him during supper, and for a long time after. There was no harassing restraint, no repressing of glee and vivacity with him; for with him I was at perfect ease, because I knew I suited him, all I said or did seemed either to console or revive him. Delightful consciousness! It brought to life and light my whole nature, in his presence I thoroughly lived and he lived in mine. Blind as he was, smiles played over his face, joy dawned on his forehead, his lineaments softened and warmed.

  After supper, he began to ask me many questions, of where I had been, what I had been doing, how I had found him out, but I gave him only very partial replies, it was too late to enter into particulars that night. Besides, I wished to touch no deep-thrilling chord—to open no fresh well of emotion in his heart, my sole present aim was to cheer him. Cheered, as I have said, he was, and yet but by fits. If a moment’s silence broke the conversation, he would turn restless, touch me, then say, “Jane.”