The Complete Novels. Эмили Бронте

of Bitternutt Lodge, Connaught, Ireland. You’ll like Ireland, I think: they’re such warm-hearted people there, they say.”

      “It is a long way off, sir.”

      “No matter — a girl of your sense will not object to the voyage or the distance.”

      “Not the voyage, but the distance: and then the sea is a barrier — ”

      “From what, Jane?”

      “From England and from Thornfield: and — ”

      “Well?”

      “From you, sir.”

      I said this almost involuntarily, and, with as little sanction of free will, my tears gushed out. I did not cry so as to be heard, however; I avoided sobbing. The thought of Mrs. O’Gall and Bitternutt Lodge struck cold to my heart; and colder the thought of all the brine and foam, destined, as it seemed, to rush between me and the master at whose side I now walked, and coldest the remembrance of the wider ocean — wealth, caste, custom intervened between me and what I naturally and inevitably loved.

      “It is a long way,” I again said.

      “It is, to be sure; and when you get to Bitternutt Lodge, Connaught, Ireland, I shall never see you again, Jane: that’s morally certain. I never go over to Ireland, not having myself much of a fancy for the country. 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. Come! we’ll talk over the voyage and the parting quietly half-an-hour or so, while the stars enter into their shining life up in heaven yonder: here is the chestnut tree: here is the bench at its old roots. Come, we will sit there in peace tonight, though we should never more be destined to sit there together.” He seated me and himself.

      “It is a long way to Ireland, Janet, and I am sorry to send my little friend on such weary travels: but if I can’t do better, how is it to be helped? Are you anything akin to me, do you think, Jane?”

      I could risk no sort of answer by this time: my heart was still.

      “Because,” he said, “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 snapt; 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 — ” Impossible to proceed.

      “Jane, do you hear that nightingale singing in the wood? Listen!”

      In listening, I sobbed convulsively; for I could repress what I endured no longer; I was obliged to yield, and I was shaken from head to foot with acute distress. When I did speak, it was only to express an impetuous wish that I had never been born, or never come to Thornfield.

      “Because you are sorry to leave it?”

      The vehemence of emotion, stirred by grief and love within me, was claiming mastery, and struggling for full sway, and asserting a right to predominate, to overcome, to live, rise, and reign at last: yes, — and to speak.

      “I grieve to leave Thornfield: I love Thornfield: — I love it, because I have lived in it a full and delightful life, — momentarily at least. I have not been trampled on. I have not been petrified. I have not been buried with inferior minds, and excluded from every glimpse of communion with what is bright and energetic and high. I have talked, face to face, with what I reverence, with what I delight in, — with an original, a vigorous, an expanded mind. I have known you, Mr. Rochester; and 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?” he asked suddenly.

      “Where? You, sir, have placed it before me.”

      “In what shape?”

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

      “My bride! What bride? I have no bride!”

      “But you will have.”

      “Yes; — I will! — I will!” He set his teeth.

      “Then I must go: — you have said it yourself.”

      “No: you must stay! I swear it — and the oath shall be kept.”

      “I tell you I must go!” I retorted, roused to something like passion. “Do you think I can stay to become nothing to you? Do you think I am an automaton? — a machine without feelings? and can bear to have my morsel of bread snatched from my lips, and my drop of living water dashed from my cup? 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. I am not talking to you now through the medium of custom, conventionalities, nor even of mortal flesh; — 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!” repeated Mr. Rochester — “so,” he added, enclosing me in his arms. Gathering me to his breast, pressing his lips on my lips: “so, Jane!”

      “Yes, so, sir,” I rejoined: “and yet not so; for you are a married man — or as good as a married man, 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. I would scorn such a union: therefore I am better than you — let me go!”

      “Where, Jane? To Ireland?”

      “Yes — to Ireland. I have spoken my mind, and can go anywhere now.”

      “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; I am a free human being with an independent will, which I now exert to leave you.”

      Another effort set me at liberty, and I stood erect before him.

      “And your will shall decide your destiny,” he said: “I offer you my hand, my heart, and a share of all my possessions.”

      “You play a farce, which I merely laugh at.”

      “I ask you to pass through life at my side — to be my second self, and best earthly companion.”

      “For that fate you have already made your choice, and must abide by it.”

      “Jane, be still a few moments: you are over-excited: I will be still too.”

      A waft of wind came sweeping down the laurel-walk, and trembled through the boughs of the chestnut: it wandered away — away — to an indefinite distance — it died. The nightingale’s song was then the only voice of the hour: in listening to it, I again wept. Mr. Rochester sat quiet, looking at me gently and seriously. Some time passed before he spoke; he at last said —

      “Come to my side, Jane, and let us explain and understand one another.”

      “I will never again come to your side: I am torn away now, and cannot return.”

      “But, Jane, I summon you as my wife: it is you only I intend to marry.”

      I was silent: I thought he mocked me.

      “Come, Jane — come hither.”

      “Your bride stands between us.”

      He