Mr. Rochester

by Sarah Shoemaker

  I could feel Jane beyond me; I touched the velvet petals of a yellow rose and saw a drop of evening dew slide down. Evening had always been my favorite time of day at Thornfield; I could have lived my life in it. A brightly colored moth caught my eye, and I bent to watch as it lighted as delicately as a breath on a patch of pinks.

  “Jane, come and look at this fellow,” I murmured.

  When the moth flew, I looked up and caught her retreating. “Turn back,” I said to her. “On so lovely a night it is a shame to sit in the house; and surely no one can wish to go to bed while sunset is thus at meeting with moonrise.”

  She came and walked with me but remained a step behind, as if her mind were on other things. We strolled like that in comfortable silence for some time. Troubled as I was by the bittersweet knowledge that I would soon have to take my leave of Thornfield, I nonetheless felt the delicious anticipation of tonight’s task. But how does one begin?

  We continued down the laurel walk toward the old horse chestnut, and, cautiously, I broached the subject that had been much on my mind. “Thornfield is a pleasant place in summer, is it not?”

  “Yes, sir.” The abominable yes, sir, when I yearned for something more intimate.

  “You must have become in some degree attached to the house,—you, who have an eye for natural beauties, and a good deal of the organ of Adhesiveness?”

  “I am attached to it, indeed.” As am I, I thought, but I have chosen you.

  Instead of falling into sentiment, though, I teased her, putting the fortitude of both our hearts to the test. She had made it seem easy for her to say farewell to me—I would call her bluff. She had said, had she not, that I was her home? She freely admitted how sorry she would be to part with Thornfield, and Adèle and Mrs. Fairfax, but neither of us spoke of her parting with me.

  “Pity!” I said with an evident sigh. “It is always the way of events in this life: no sooner have you got settled in a pleasant resting place, than a voice calls out to you to rise and move on, for the hour of repose is expired.”

  “Must I move on, sir? Must I leave Thornfield?”

  “I believe you must, Jane. I am sorry, Janet, but I believe indeed you must.”

  “Then you are going to be married, sir?”

  I nearly laughed. Yes, I hoped I was! “Exactly—precisely: with your usual actueness, you have hit the nail straight on the head.”

  Remembering that of course, poor Jane had no reason to know how things had fallen out between myself and the Ingram ladies, I launched into a comical rendition of Blanche Ingram’s supposed blessings, expecting Jane to interrupt me at any moment, but somehow it appeared she believed me still. Sweet, honest Jane! I was touched to see how it affected her, how she turned away to hide a tear. I should have stopped, it’s true, but knowing that I had the power to make us both exquisitely happy, I could not help but prolong the pain a moment or two, to make sweeter the relief.

  “In about a month I hope to be a bridegroom, and in the interim I shall myself look out for employment and an asylum for you. Indeed I have already, through my future mother-in-law, heard of a place that I think will suit: it is to undertake the education of the five daughters of Mrs. Dionysius O’Gall of Bitternutt Lodge, Connaught, Ireland.”

  “It is a long way off, sir,” she said, struggling with her emotions.

  “From what, Jane?” I pressed her.

  “From England and from Thornfield: and—”

  “Well?”

  “From you, sir.”

  The sweetest phrase I knew.

  My blood surged at the words, but like an addict I needed more. “It is a long way, to be sure; and when you get to Bitternutt Lodge”—the name so idiotic it was a wonder she believed it—“Connaught, Ireland, I shall never see you again.” I could see she was near tears, but I craved a declaration from her that was stronger still, a commitment that would carry us through the years together, in our exile from Thornfield. I threw her own word back at her again: “We have been good friends, Jane; have we not?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And when friends are on the eve of separation, they like to spend the little time that remains to them close to each other.” I walked her over to the chestnut tree, an old thing I had known since childhood and that soon would be gone from my life forever, and sat her down beneath it. “Come, we will sit there in peace tonight, though we should nevermore be destined to sit there together.” Not at Thornfield, at least. I confess I rattled on for a time, extending the sweet agony of the moment, heaven forgive me. Finally, I asked, “Are you anything akin to me, do you think, Jane? Because I sometimes have a queer feeling with regard to you—especially when you are near me, as now: it is as if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly and inextricably knotted to a similar string situated in the corresponding quarter of your little frame. And if that boisterous channel, and two hundred miles or so of land come broad between us, I am afraid that cord of communion will be snapped; and then I’ve a nervous notion I should take to bleeding inwardly. As for you,—you’d forget me.”

  “That I never should, sir: you know—” Between her tears, she told how she would grieve mightily to leave Thornfield. My heart skipped for a moment, worrying that she would not stay if Thornfield were no longer mine, until I realized she loved it for the same reason I did, for the happiness it offered, not for the walls themselves. She went on, “It strikes me with terror and anguish to feel I absolutely must be torn from you for ever. I see the necessity of departure; and it is like looking on the necessity of death.”

  “Where do you see the necessity?” I asked. I sensed we were close to finished—here was my final provocation and, at last, at long last, she spoke her heart to me.

  “In the shape of Miss Ingram, a noble and beautiful woman, your bride.”

  “My bride! What bride? I have no bride!” I looked directly into her eyes. I had thought by now she understood.

  “Do you think I can stay to become nothing to you?” she nearly shouted. “Do you think I am an automaton?—a machine without feelings? Do you think, because I am poor, obscure, plain, and little, I am soulless and heartless?—You think wrong!—I have as much soul as you,—and full as much heart! And if God had gifted me with some beauty, and much wealth, I should have made it as hard for you to leave me, as it is now for me to leave you. It is my spirit that addresses your spirit; just as if both had passed through the grave, and we stood at God’s feet, equal,—as we are!”

  “As we are!” I echoed her, and I wrapped her in my arms and I kissed her. “As we are, indeed,” I whispered, “and have always been.” I kissed her again and looked into those lovely eyes of hers. “So, Jane!” I said.

  “Yes, so, sir,” she responded, “and yet not so; for you are a married man.”

  I gasped: had she known all this time?

  “Or as good as a married man,” she continued, “and wed to one inferior to you—to one with whom you have no sympathy—whom I do not believe you truly love; for I have seen and heard you sneer at her.” Blanche, it was Blanche she meant. “I would scorn such a union: therefore I am better than you—let me go!”

  Oh, you are better than I, Jane. You are.

  “I have spoken my mind, and can go anywhere now,” she said.

  She continued to fight against my arms, but I held her tight. “Jane, be still; don’t struggle so, like a wild, frantic bird that is rending its own plumage in its desperation.”

  “I am no bird; and no net ensnares me,” she insisted. “I am a free human being with an independent will; which I now exert to leave you.” And with a final, great effort, she pulled herself away from me.

  “And your will shall decide your destiny.” This is what I had waited for all those months: a declaration of feeling that held us not as master and employee, but as equals. “So,” I said, “I offer you my hand, my heart, and a share of all my possessions.” Such as they may be.

  She stared at me in silence, unbelieving, and suddenly I
realized I had played the game too far. My serious Jane refused now to listen as I promised, again and again, that it was she I intended to marry. I explained that I had driven Miss Ingram away with tales of a lost fortune, that I had never loved her, that we were finished.

  “Are you in earnest?” she asked. “Do you truly love me?—Do you sincerely wish me to be your wife?”

  “I do; and if an oath is necessary to satisfy you, I swear it.”

  “Then, sir, I will marry you.”

  “Edward,” I whispered. “Say Edward—give me my name—Edward, please, my little wife.”

  “Dear Edward!” she whispered.

  Edward. “Come to me—come to me entirely now,” I said, holding her close, her cheek against mine. “God pardon me,” I whispered to myself, “and man meddle not with me: I have her, and will hold her, and I will give my life to make her happy.”

  But even as I said those words, the wind came up, and the trees began to creak with the force of it, and a streak of lightning darted across the sky, and a crash of thunder jolted us to run, for the rain was already beginning to fall. We dashed through the grounds and into the house, and I helped her remove her sodden shawl and loosened her hair, and then I could not resist kissing her again and again. I had eyes only for her: her cheeks rosy from the sudden chill and the exertion, the hair falling down her back into whose tresses I buried my hands. She thought herself small and plain, but to me she was warmth and light—life itself—and in my joy I could not have enough of her.

  When she made to draw away from me, I understood, for it was late and Adèle would be there in the morning, vying for Jane’s attention, and there was much that I must do as well. I led Jane upstairs to her chamber and kissed her again good night and went on to my own room.

  The storm went on for two more hours, rain pelting against the casements, lightning flashing across the sky, thunder roaring and cracking and rattling. In the night I rose two or three times and went to Jane’s door and knocked softly, making sure she felt safe.

  In the morning, the sun shone out clear and bright. The storm had gone, with nothing to show for it but the felling of the old horse chestnut at the bottom of the orchard.

  Chapter 20

  I was late in rising that morning, having lain awake in bed the full duration of the storm, my mind as tossed as tree branches in the wind. I would marry Jane in a month, as soon as the courts cleared me of the weight of Bertha’s bond, and I would take her away soonest possible on a honeymoon, then to a new home. I hadn’t told her of that part yet—I hadn’t even thought where we might live: let Jane decide that, I thought, for I was hardly used to the idea myself. I would arrange for Adèle to be taken into a school—no, Jane must see to that too, as she surely would have a better idea of Adèle’s needs and capabilities than I did.

  I would send for the family jewels immediately—they had been locked in a safe at a London bank since my mother’s death—and never mind that they were part of Gerald’s inheritance: they had been my mother’s. My mother’s. I would take Jane to Millcote and buy her the finest of fabrics for dresses. As long as I possessed the inheritance, I would spend it as I pleased, and I had promised myself in Gateshead that Jane would have only the best of everything. That would not go on forever, but for the next month, it would.

  Jane was at breakfast with Mrs. Fairfax when I came down in the morning, and I dared not face the two of them together, for I realized how it must look to the proper old lady to see the master of the estate marrying the governess. Instead, I returned upstairs to the schoolroom and waited there. Adèle bounced in shortly. She was surprised to see me, but, taking advantage of every opportunity for affection, she leaped into my arms.

  “You have become too big a girl to jump into men’s arms—into anyone’s arms,” I scolded her. But I did not put her down immediately.

  She placed her hands on my cheeks and held my face close to hers. “Did you hear the storm?” she asked. “Were you afraid?”

  “No, of course not. It was only wind and rain.”

  “And did you see? The big tree has come down!”

  “Indeed, it has,” I said putting her down. “Now, run along, and find Miss Eyre and tell her I am waiting for her here.”

  “Will I not have lessons this morning?” she asked, with the joy every child feels at the prospect of freedom.

  “We shall see,” I said, though I could not summon my usual gruffness on a morning so happy.

  Jane came in shortly afterwards. “Come and bid me good morning,” I said to her, and she came, and we embraced and kissed, the sweetest of kisses.

  “You look blooming, and smiling, and pretty, truly pretty this morning.” My heart was full, overcome with the sunshine of her presence. “Who is this sunny-faced girl with the dimpled cheek and rosy lips?”

  “It is Jane Eyre, sir,” she said.

  “Yes, indeed, but soon to be Jane Rochester: in four weeks, Janet; not a day more. Do you hear that?”

  Her face turned a sudden white, and I saw something like panic—or fear—pass across her face. “You gave me a new name,” she said, “Jane Rochester; and it seems so strange.”

  “Yes; Mrs. Rochester; young Mrs. Rochester—Fairfax Rochester’s girl-bride. Surely you can become used to it.”

  “It can never be, sir; it does not sound likely. Human beings never enjoy complete happiness in this world. I was not born for a different destiny to the rest of my species: to imagine such a lot befalling me is a fairy tale—a daydream.”

  But it was, indeed, that very fairy tale, that dream of complete happiness, that I intended to build for her, while it was still in my power to do so. But to my surprise she responded to my offerings with horror. I explained that I wanted to treat her as a peer, to make her my equal in society’s eyes, to shower her in jewels as nature had endowed her with spirit. But she would hear none of it.

  “And then you won’t know me, sir, and I shall not be your Jane Eyre any longer,” she said.

  I wanted the world to see her beauty as clearly as I did, and I tried to make her understand. “This very day I shall take you in the carriage to Millcote,” I said, “and you must choose some dresses, and we shall be married in the little church at the gates of Thornfield, and then I will waft you away at once to London. And after we have been there, we will go on to all the finest places in Europe—everywhere I took my lonely and jaded self, I will revisit with you, and you will turn them into magical places and heal them in my eyes.”

  She laughed. “I am not an angel and I will not be one till I die: I will be myself. Mr. Rochester, you must neither expect nor exact anything celestial of me—for you will not get it.”

  That blasted Mr. Rochester again! Could she not understand how much I wanted to be called by my first name, the name my mother gave me?

  We bantered back and forth, she laying out a rather woeful portrait of a capricious and cold marriage as a matter of course; I assured her my ardor would not cool in six months, as she claimed—indeed, I was sure it never would. “I think I shall like you again and yet again,” I said, “and I will make you confess that you do indeed know that I do not only like but love you,” I said, “with truth, fervor, and constancy.”

  However, she was not finished with teasing me, and she went on, calling me sir at every opportunity until she nearly drove me mad, finishing with, “Well, then, sir; have the goodness to gratify my curiosity, which is much piqued on one point.”

  Grace Poole, I thought. Good God, woman, just give me a few more weeks and we will be clear of Bertha forever. “What? What?” I asked. At least I had not yet sworn to answer every request, though I was surely eager to prove my love in any way I might. Still, the more I panicked and attempted to overrule her, the more delighted and sprightly she became.

  But finally she came out with it, asking why I had taken such pains to make her think I wished to marry Miss Ingram. I was surprised that one so intelligent as Jane might need this explained. “I feigned courtship of
Miss Ingram,” I told her, “because I wished to render you as madly in love with me as I was with you; and I knew jealousy would be the best ally I could call in for the furtherance of that end.” For I had thought that she surely would realize that she could never bear the thought of seeing me with another woman. But, she asked, was it fair to play with someone’s emotions like that? I responded that I had done it for the best of reasons: to bring her to me.

  She chastised me for acting disgracefully, but I was surprised that it was not her emotions she defended but those of her rival, Miss Ingram, whom she imagined pining for the prize Jane was now enjoying.

  I laughed at that. “Her feelings are concentrated in one—pride; and that needs humbling. Were you jealous, Jane?”

  She would not concede the point, and went on to impugn my principles. I smiled to think of all the years of joyful battle ahead of us. Not even at Cambridge had I experienced so worthy and quick-witted an opponent.

  When I asked her to make ready for a trip to Millcote, she made one last request, sending me off to put Mrs. Fairfax’s mind at rest as to my intentions, for it seemed she had seen Jane and me kissing in the hall the previous night.

  I found that good woman in her sitting room, mending an apron. I could have summoned her to my office, but I wanted to approach her at her most comfortable. I hoped she would be happy for us, as perhaps my own mother might have been; I hoped Jane’s happiness, in particular, would win her over.

  “Good morning,” I said, as if surprised to see her there.