Chapter 24

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    As I rose and dressed, I thought over what had happened, and wondered if it were a dream. I could not be certain of the reality till I had seen Mr. Rochester again, and heard him renew his words of love and promise.

    While arranging my hair, I looked at my fa the glass, a it was no longer plain: there was hope in its asped life in its colour; and my eyes seemed as if they had beheld the fount of fruition, and borrowed beams from the lustrous ripple. I had often been unwilling to look at my master, because I feared he could not be pleased at my look; but I was sure I might lift my face to his now, and not cool his affe by its expression. I took a plain but  and light summer dress from my draut it on: it seemed no attire had ever so well bee, because none had I ever worn in so blissful a mood.

    I was not surprised, when I ran down into the hall, to see that a brilliant June m had succeeded to the tempest of the night; and to feel, through the open glass door, the breathing of a fresh and fragrant breeze. Nature must be gladsome when I was so happy. A beggar-woman and her little boy—pale, ragged objects both—were ing up the walk, and I ran down and gave them all the money I happeo have in my purse—some three or four shillings: good or bad, they must partake of my jubilee. The rooks cawed, and blither birds sang; but nothing was so merry or so musical as my own rejoig heart.

    Mrs. Fairfax surprised me by looking out of the window with a sad tenance, and saying gravely—“Miss Eyre, will you e to breakfast?” During the meal she was quiet and cool: but I could not undeceive her then. I must wait for my master to give explanations; and so must she. I ate what I could, and then I hastened upstairs. I met Adèle leaving the schoolroom.

    “Where are you going? It is time for lessons.”

    “Mr. Rochester has sent me away to the nursery.”

    “Where is he?”

    “In there,” pointing to the apartment she had left; and I went in, and there he stood.

    “e and bid me good-m,” said he. I gladly advanced; and it was not merely a cold word now, or even a shake of the hand that I received, but an embrad a kiss. It seemed natural: it seemed genial to be so well loved, so caressed by him.

    “Jane, you look blooming, and smiling, and pretty,” said he: “truly pretty this m. Is this my pale, little elf? Is this my mustard-seed? This little sunny-faced g<s></s>irl with the dimpled cheek and rosy lips; the satin-smooth hazel hair, and the radiant hazel eyes?” (I had green eyes, reader; but you must excuse the mistake: for him they were new-dyed, I suppose.)

    “It is Jane Eyre, sir.”

    “Soon to be Jane Rochester,” he added: “in four weeks, Ja; not a day more. Do you hear that?”

    I did, and I could not quite prehend it: it made me giddy. The feeling, the annou sent through me, was something strohan was sistent with joy—something that smote and stunned. It was, I think almost fear.

    “You blushed, and now you are white, Jane: what is that for?”

    “Because you gave me a new name—Jane Rochester; and it seems se.”

    “Yes, Mrs. Rochester,” said he; “young Mrs. Rochester—Fairfax Rochester’s girl-bride.”

    “It ever be, sir; it does not sound likely. Human beings never enjoy plete happiness in this world. I was not born for a differeiny to the rest of my species: to imagine such a lot befalling me is a fairy tale—a day-dream.”

    “Which I  and will realise. I shall begin to-day. This m I wrote to my banker in London to send me certain jewels he has in his keeping,—heirlooms for the ladies of Thornfield. In a day or two I hope to pour them into your lap: for every privilege, every attention shall be yours that I would accord a peer’s daughter, if about to marry her.”

    “Oh, sir!—never rain jewels! I don’t like to hear them spoken of. Jewels for Jane Eyre sounds unnatural and strange: I would rather not have them.”

    “I will myself put the diamond  round your neck, and the circlet on your forehead,—which it will bee: for nature, at least, has stamped her patent of nobility on this brow, Jane; and I will clasp the bracelets on these fine wrists, and load these fairy- like fingers with rings.”

    “No, no, sir! think of other subjects, and speak of other things, and in arain. Don’t address me as if I were a beauty; I am your plain, Quakerish governess.”

    “You are a beauty in my eyes, and a beauty just after the desire of my heart,—delicate and aerial.”

    “Puny and insignifit, you mean. You are dreaming, sir,—or you are sneering. Fod’s sake don’t be ironical!”

    “I will make the world aowledge you a beauty, too,” he went on, while I really became uneasy at the strain he had adopted, because I felt he was either deluding himself  to delude me. “I will attire my Jane in satin and lace, and she shall have roses in her hair; and I will cover the head I love best with a priceless veil.”

    “And then you won’t know me, sir; and I shall not be your Jane Eyre any longer, but an ape in a harlequin’s jacket—a jay in borrowed plumes. I would as soon see you, Mr. Rochester, tricked out in stage-trappings, as myself clad in a court-lady’s robe; and I don’t call you handsome, sir, though I love you most dearly: far too dearly to flatter you. Don’t flatter me.”

    He pursued his theme, however, without notig my deprecation. “This very day I shall take you in the carriage to Millcote, and you must choose some dresses for yourself. I told you we shall be married in four weeks. The wedding is to take place quietly, in the church down below yonder; and then I shall waft you away at oo town. After a brief stay there, I shall bear my treasure tions he sun: to French vineyards and Italian plains; and she shall see whatever is famous in old story and in modern record: she shall taste, too, of the life of cities; and she shall learn to value herself by just parison with others.”

    “Shall I travel?—and with you, sir?”

    “You shall sojourn at Paris, Rome, and Naples: at Florence, Venice, and Vienna: all the ground I have wandered over shall be re-trodden by you: wherever I stamped my hoof, your sylph’s foot shall step also. Ten years since, I flew through Europe half mad; with disgust, hate, and rage as my panions: now I shall revisit it healed and sed, with a very angel as my forter.”

    I laughed at him as he said this. “I am not an angel,” I asserted; “and I will not be oill I die: I will be myself. Mr. Rochester, you must her expeor exaythiial of me—for you will not get it, any more than I shall get it of you: which I do not at all anticipate.”

    “What do you anticipate of me?”

    “For a little while you will perhaps be as you are now,—a very little while; and then you will turn cool; and then you will be capricious; and then you will be stern, and I shall have much ado to please you: but when you get well used to me, you will perhaps like me again,—like me, I say, not love me. I suppose your love will efferves six months, or less. I have observed in books written by men, that period assigned as the farthest to which a husband’s ardour extends. Yet, after all, as a friend and panion, I hope o bee quite distasteful to my dear master.”

    “Distasteful! and like you again! I think I shall like you again, a again: and I will make you fess I do not only like, but love you—with truth, fervour, stancy.”

    “Yet are you not capricious, sir?”

    “To women who please me only by their faces, I am the very devil when I find out they have her souls nor hearts—when they open to me a perspective of flatness, triviality, and perhaps imbecility, coarseness, and ill-temper: but to the clear eye and eloquent too the soul made of fire, and the character that bends but does not break—at once supple and stable, tractable and sistent—I am ever tender and true.”

    “Had you ever experience of such a character, sir? Did you ever love su one?”

    “I love it now.”

    “But before me: if I, indeed, in any respee up to your difficult standard?”

    “I never met your <bdi></bdi>likeness. Jane, you please me, and you master me—you seem to submit, and I like the sense of plianpart; and while I am twining the soft, silken skein round my finger, it sends a thrill up my arm to my heart. I am influenced—quered; and the influence is sweeter than I  express; and the quest I undergo has a witchery beyond any triumph I  win. Why do you smile, Jane? What does that inexplicable, that uny turn of tenance mean?”

    “I was thinking, sir (you will excuse the idea; it was involuntary), I was thinking of Hercules and Samson with their charmers—”

    “You were, you little elfish—”

    “Hush, sir! You don’t talk very wisely just now; any more than those gentlemen acted very wisely. However, had they been married, they would no doubt by their severity as husbands have made up for their softness as suitors; and so will you, I fear. I wonder how you will answer me a year hence, should I ask a favour it does not suit your venience or pleasure to grant.”

    “Ask me something now, Jahe least thing: I desire to be eed—”

    “Indeed I will, sir; I have my petition all ready.”

    “Speak! But if you look up and smile with that tenance, I shall swear cession before I know to what, and that will make a fool of me.”

    “Not at all, sir; I ask only this: don’t send for the jewels, and don’t e with roses: you might as well put a border of gold lace round that plain pocket handkerchief you have there.”

    “I might as well ‘gild refined gold.’ I know it: you request is grahen—for the time. I will remand the order I despatched to my banker. But you have not yet asked for anything; you have prayed a gift to be withdrawn: try again.”

    “Well then, sir, have the goodo gratify my curiosity, which is much piqued on one point.”

    He looked disturbed. “What? what?” he said hastily. “Curiosity is a dangerous petition: it is well I have not taken a vow to accord every request—”

    “But there  be no danger in plying with this, sir.”

    “Utter it, Jane: but I wish that instead of a mere inquiry into, perhaps, a secret, it was a wish for half my estate.”

    “Now, King Ahasuerus! What do I want with half your estate? Do you think I am a Jew-usurer, seeking good iment in land? I would much rather have all your fidence. You will not exclude me from your fidence if you admit me to your heart?”

    “You are wele to all my fidehat is worth having, Jane; but fod’s sake, don’t desire a useless burden! Don’t long for poison—don’t turn out a dht Eve on my hands!”

    “Why not, sir? You have just been telling me how much you liked to be quered, and how pleasant over-persuasion is to you. Don’t you think I had better take advantage of the fession, and begin and coax areat—even cry and be sulky if necessary—for the sake of a mere essay of my power?”

    “I dare you to any such experiment. Encroach, presume, and the game is up.”

    “Is it, sir? You soon give in. How stern you look now! Your eyebrows have bee as thick as my finger, and your forehead resembles what, in some very astonishing poetry, I once saw styled, ‘a blue-piled thunderloft.’ That will be your married look, sir, I suppose?”

    “If that will be your married look, I, as a Christian, will soon give up the notion of s with a mere sprite or salamander. But what had you to ask, thing,—out with it?”

    “There, you are less than civil now; and I like rudeness a great deal better than flattery. I had rather be a thing than an ahis is what I have to ask,—Why did you take such pains to make me believe you wished to marry Miss Ingram?”

    “Is that all? Thank God it is no worse!” And now he unknit his black brows; looked down, smiling at me, and stroked my hair, as if well pleased at seeing a danger averted. “I think I may fess,” he tinued, “even although I should make you a little indignant, Jane—and I have seen what a fire-spirit you  be when you are indignant. You glowed in the oonlight last night, when you mutinied against fate, and claimed your rank as my equal. Ja, by-the-bye, it was you who made me the offer.”

    “Of course I did. But to the point if you please, sir—Miss Ingram?”

    “Well, I feigned courtship of Miss Ingram, 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.”

    “Excellent! Now you are small—not one whit bigger than the end of my little finger. It was a burning shame and a sdalous disgrace to a that way. Did you think nothing of Miss Ingram’s feelings, sir?”

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

    “Never mind, Mr. Rochester: it is in no way iing to you to know that. Answer me truly once more. Do you think Miss Ingram will not suffer from your disho coquetry? Won’t she feel forsaken aed?”

    “Impossible!—when I told you how she, on the trary, deserted me: the idea of my insolvency cooled, or rather extinguished, her flame in a moment.”

    “You have a curious, designing mind, Mr. Rochester. I am afraid your principles on some points are etric.”

    “My principles were rained, Jahey may have grown a little awry for want of attention.”

    “Once again, seriously; may I enjoy the great good that has been vouchsafed to me, without fearing that any one else is suffering the bitter pain I myself felt a while ago?”

    “That you may, my good little girl: there is not another being in the world has the same pure love for me as yourself—for I lay that pleasant un to my soul, Jane, a belief in your affe.”

    I turned my lips to the hand that lay on my shoulder. I loved him very much—more than I could trust myself to say—more than words had power to express.

    “Ask something more,” he said presently; “it is my delight to be eed, and to yield.”

    I was again ready with my request. “unicate your iions to Mrs. Fairfax, sir: she saw me with you last night in the hall, and she was shocked. Give her some explanation before I see her again. It paio be misjudged by so good a woman.”

    “Go to your room, and put on your bo,” he replied. “I mean you to apao Millcote this m; and while you prepare for the drive, I will enlighten the old lady’s uanding. Did she think, Ja, you had given the world for love, and sidered it well lost?”

    “I believe she thought I had fotten my station, and yours, sir.”

    “Station! station!—your station is in my heart, and on the necks of those who would insult you, now or hereafter.—Go.”

    I was soon dressed; and when I heard Mr. Rochester quit Mrs. Fairfax’s parlour, I hurried down to it. The old lady, had been reading her m portion of Scripture—the Lesson for the day; her Bible lay open before her, and her spectacles were upon it. Her occupation, suspended by Mr. Rochester’s annou, seemed now fotten: her eyes, fixed on the blank wall opposite, expressed the surprise of a quiet mind stirred by unwoidings. Seeing me, she roused herself: she made a sort of effort to smile, and framed a few words of gratulation; but the smile expired, and the sentence was abandoned unfinished. She put up her spectacles, shut the Bible, and pushed her chair back from the table.

    “I feel so astonished,” she began, “I hardly know what to say to you, Miss Eyre. I have surely not been dreaming, have I? Sometimes I half fall asleep when I am sitting alone and fancy things that have never happened. It has seemed to me more than once when I have been in a doze, that my dear husband, who died fifteen years since, has e in and sat down beside me; and that I have even heard him call me by my name, Alice, as he used to do. Now,  you tell me whether it is actually true that Mr. Rochester has asked you to marry him? Don’t laugh at me. But I really thought he came in here five minutes ago, and said that in a month you would be his wife.”

    “He has said the same thing to me,” I replied.

    “He has! Do you believe him? Have you accepted him?”

    “Yes.”

    She looked at me bewildered. “I could never have thought it. He is a proud man: all the Rochesters were proud: and his father, at least, liked money. He, too, has always been called careful. He means to marry you?”

    “He tells me so.”

    She surveyed my whole person: in her eyes I read that they had there found no charm powerful enough to solve the enigma.

    “It passes me!” she tinued; “but no doubt, it is true since you say so. How it will answer, I ot tell: I really don’t know. Equality of position and fortune is often advisable in such cases; and there are twenty years of differen yes. He might almost be your father.”

    “No, indeed, Mrs. Fairfax!” exclaimed I, led; “he is nothing like my father! No one, who saw us together, would suppose it for an instant. Mr. Rochester looks as young, and is as young, as some men at five-and-twenty.”

    “Is it really for love he is going to marry you?” she asked.

    I was so hurt by her ess and scepticism, that the tears rose to my eyes.

    “I am sorry to grieve you,” pursued the widow; “but you are so young, and so little acquainted with men, I wished to put you on yuard. It is an old saying that ‘all is not gold that glitters;’ and in this case I do fear there will be something found to be different to what either you or I expect.”

    “Why?—am I a monster?” I said: “is it impossible that Mr. Rochester should have a sincere affe for me?”

    “No: you are very well; and much improved of late; and Mr. Rochester, I daresay, is fond of you. I have always noticed that you were a sort of pet of his. There are times when, for your sake, I have been a little uneasy at his marked preference, and have wished to put you on yuard: but I did not like to suggest even the possibility . I knew su idea would shock, perhaps offend you; and you were so discreet, and so thhly modest and sensible, I hoped you might be trusted to protect yourself.  night I ot tell you what I suffered when I sought all over the house, and could find you nowhere, nor the master either; and then, at twelve o’clock, saw you e in with him.”

    “Well, never mind that now,” I interrupted impatiently; “it is enough that all was right.”

    “I hope all will be right in the end,” she said: “but believe me, you ot be too careful. Try and keep Mr. Rochester at a distance: distrust yourself as well as him. Gentlemen in his statio aced to marry their governesses.”

    I was growing truly irritated: happily, Adèle ran in.

    “Let me go,—let me go to Millcote too!” she cried. “Mr. Rochester won’t: though there is so mu in the new carriage. Beg him to let me go mademoiselle.”

    “That I will, Adèle;” and I hastened away with her, glad to quit my gloomy monitress. The carriage was ready: they were bringing it round to the front, and my master was the pavement, Pilot following him backwards and forwards.

    “Adèle may apany us, may she not, sir?”

    “I told her no. I’ll have no brats!—I’ll have only you.”

    “Do let her go, Mr. Rochester, if you please: it would be better.”

    “Not it: she will be a restraint.”

    He was quite peremptory, both in look and voice. The chill of Mrs. Fairfax’s warnings, and the damp of her doubts were upon me: something of unsubstantiality and uainty had beset my hopes. I half lost the sense of power over him. I was about meically to obey him, without further remonstrance; but as he helped me into the carriage, he looked at my face.

    “What is the matter?” he asked; “all the sunshine is gone. Do you really wish the bairn to go? Will it annoy you if she is left behind?”

    “I would far rather she went, sir.”

    “Then off for your bo, and back like a flash of lightning!” cried he to Adèle.

    She obeyed him with eed she might.

    “After all, a single m’s interruption will not matter much,” said he, “when I mean shortly to claim you—your thoughts, versation, and pany—for life.”

    Adèle, when lifted in, enced kissing me, by way of expressing her gratitude for my intercession: she was instantly stowed away into a er oher side of him. She then peeped round to where I sat; so stern a neighbour was too restrictive to him, in his present fraood, she dared whisper no observations, nor ask of him any information.

    “Let her e to me,” I eed: “she will, perhaps, trouble you, sir: there is plenty of room on this side.”

    He handed her over as if she had been a lapdog. “I’ll seo school yet,” he said, but now he was smiling.

    Adèle heard him, and asked if she was to go to school “sans mademoiselle?”

    “Yes,” he replied, “absolutely sans mademoiselle; for I am to take mademoiselle to the moon, and there I shall seek a cave in one of the white valleys among the volo-tops, and mademoiselle shall live with me there, and only me.”

    “She will have nothing to eat: you will starve her,” observed Adèle.

    “I shall gather manna for her m and night: the plains and hillsides in the moon are bleached with manna, Adèle.”

    “She will want to warm herself: what will she do for a fire?”

    “Fire rises out of the lunar mountains: when she is cold, I’ll carry her up to a peak, and lay her down on the edge of a crater.”

    “Oh, qu’ elle y sera mal—peu fortable! And her clothes, they will wear out: how  she get new ones?”

    Mr. Rochester professed to be puzzled. “Hem!” said he. “What would you do, Adèle? Cudgel your brains for an expedient. How would a white or a pink cloud answer fown, do you think? And one could cut a pretty enough scarf out of a rainbow.”

    “She is far better as she is,” cluded Adèle, after musing some time: “besides, she would get tired of living with only you in the moon. If I were mademoiselle, I would never sent to go with you.”

    “She has sented: she has pledged her word.”

    “But you ’t get her there; there is no road to the moon: it is all air; aher you nor she  fly.”

    “Adèle, look at that field.” We were now outside Thornfield gates, and bowling lightly along the smooth road to Millcote, where the dust was well laid by the thuorm, and, where the low hedges and lofty timber trees on each side glistened green and rain- refreshed.

    “In that field, Adèle, I was walking late one evening about a fht sihe evening of the day you helped me to make hay in the orchard meadows; and, as I was tired with raking swaths, I sat down to rest me on a stile; and there I took out a little book and a pencil, and began to write about a misfortuhat befell me long ago, and a wish I had for happy days to e: I was writing away very fast, though daylight was fading from the leaf, when something came up the path and stopped two yards off me. I looked at it. It was a little thing with a veil of gossamer on its head. I beed it to e near me; it stood soon at my knee. I never spoke to it, and it never spoke to me, in words; but I read its eyes, and it read mine; and our speechless colloquy was to this effect—

    “It was a fairy, and e from Elf-land, it said; and its errand was to make me happy: I must go with it out of the on world to a lonely place—such as the moon, for instand it s head towards her horn, rising over Hay-hill: it told me of the alabaster cave and silver vale where we might live. I said I should like to go; but remi, as you did me, that I had no wings to fly.

    “‘Oh,’ returhe fairy, ‘that does not signify! Here is a talisman will remove all difficulties;’ and she held out a pretty g. ‘Put it,’ she said, ‘on the fourth finger of my left hand, and I am yours, and you are mine; and we shall leave earth, and make our own heaven yonder.’ She nodded again at the moon. The ring, Adèle, is in my breeches-pocket, uhe disguise of a sn: but I mean soon to ge it t again.”

    “But what has mademoiselle to do with it? I don’t care for the fairy: you said it was mademoiselle you would take to the moon?”

    “Mademoiselle is a fairy,” he said, whispering mysteriously. Whereupon I told her not to mind his badinage; and she, on her part, evinced a fund of genuine French scepticism: denominating Mr. Rochester “un vrai menteur,” and assuring him that she made no at whatever of his “tes de fee,” and that “du reste, il n’y avait pas de fées, et quand meme il y en avait:” she was sure they would never appear to him, nor ever give him rings, or offer to live with him in the moon.

    The hour spent at Millcote was a somewhat harassing oo me. Mr. Rochester obliged me to go to a certain silk warehouse: there I was ordered to choose half-a-dozen dresses. I hated the business, I begged leave to defer it: no—it should be gohrough with now. By dint of eies expressed iic whispers, I reduced the half-dozen to two: these however, he vowed he would select himself. With ay I watched his eye rove over the gay stores: he fixed on a rich silk of the most brilliant amethyst dye, and a superb pink satin. I told him in a new series of whispers, that he might as well buy me a gold gown and a silver bo once: I should certainly never veo wear his choice. With infinite difficulty, for he was stubborn as a stone, I persuaded him to make an exge in favour of a sober black satin and pearl-grey silk. “It might pass for the present,” he said; “but he would yet see me glittering like a parterre.”

    Glad was I to get him out of the silk warehouse, and then out of a jewellers shop: the more he bought me, the more my cheek burned with a sense of annoyand degradation. As we re-ehe carriage, and I sat back feverish and fagged, I remembered what, in the hurry of events, dark and bright, I had wholly fotteter of my uncle, John Eyre, to Mrs. Reed: his iion to adopt me and make me his legatee. “It would, indeed, be a relief,” I thought, “if I had ever so small an independency; I never  bear being dressed like a doll by Mr. Rochester, or sitting like a sed Dah the golden shower falling daily round me. I will write to Madeira the moment I get home, and tell my uncle John I am going to be married, and to whom: if I had but a prospect of one day bringing Mr. Rochester an accession of fortune, I could better eo be kept by him now.” And somewhat relieved by this idea (which I failed not to execute that day), I ventured once more to meet my master’s and lover’s eye, which most pertinaciously sought mihough I averted both fad gaze. He smiled; and I thought his smile was such as a sultan might, in a blissful and fond moment, bestow on a slave his gold and gems had enriched: I crushed his hand, which was ever hunting mine, vigorously, and thrust it ba red with the passionate pressure.

    “You need not look in that way,” I said; “if you do, I’ll wear nothing but my old Lowood frocks to the end of the chapter. I’ll be married in this lilagham: you may make a dressing-gown for yourself out of the pearl-grey silk, and an infinite series of waistcoats out of the black satin.”

    He chuckled; he rubbed his hands. “Oh, it is rich to see and hear her?” he exclaimed. “Is she inal? Is she piquant? I would not exge this otle English girl for the Grand Turk’s whole seraglio, gazelle-eyes, houri forms, and all!”

    The Eastern allusion bit me again. “I’ll not stand you an in the stead of a seraglio,” I said; “so don’t sider me an equivalent for one. If you have a fancy for anything in that line, away with you, sir, to the bazaars of Stamboul without delay, and lay out iensive slave-purchases some of that spare cash you seem at a loss to spend satisfactorily here.”

    “And what will you do, Ja, while I am bargaining for so many tons of flesh and su assortment of black eyes?”

    “I’ll be preparing myself to go out as a missionary to preach liberty to them that are enslaved—your harem inmates amongst the rest. I’ll get admitted there, and I’ll stir up mutiny; and you, three-tailed bashaw as you are, sir, shall in a trice find yourself fettered amongst our hands: nor will I, for one, sent to cut your bonds till you have signed a charter, the most liberal that despot ever yet ferred.”

    “I would sent to be at your mercy, Jane.”

    “I would have no mercy, Mr. Rochester, if you supplicated for it with an eye like that. While you looked so, I should be certain that whatever charter you might grant under coer, your first act, when released, would be to violate its ditions.”

    “Why, Jane, what would you have? I fear you will pel me to gh a private marriage ceremony, besides that performed at the altar. You will stipulate, I see, for peculiar terms—what will they be?”

    “I only want an easy mind, sir; not crushed by crowded obligations. Do you remember what you said of e Varens?—of the diamonds, the cashmeres you gave her? I will not be ylish e Varens. I shall tio act as Adèle’s governess; by that I shall earn my board and lodging, and thirty pounds a year besides. I’ll furnish my own wardrobe out of that money, and you shall give me nothing but—”

    “Well, but what?”

    “Yard; and if I give you mine iurn, that debt will be quit.”

    “Well, for cool native impudend pure innate pride, you haven’t your equal,” said he. We were noroag Thornfield. “Will it please you to dih me to-day?” he asked, as we re-ehe gates.

    “No, thank you, sir.”

    “And what for, ‘no, thank you?’ if one may inquire.”

    “I never have dined with you, sir: and I see no reason why I should now: till—”

    “Till what? You delight in half-phrases.”

    “Till I ’t help it.”

    “Do you suppose I eat like an ogre houl, that you dread being the panion of my repast?”

    “I have formed no supposition on the subject, sir; but I want to go on as usual for another month.”

    “You will give up yovernessing slavery at once.”

    “Indeed, begging your pardon, sir, I shall not. I shall just go on with it as usual. I shall keep out of your way all day, as I have been aced to do: you may send for me in the evening, when you feel disposed to see me, and I’ll e then; but at no other time.”

    “I want a smoke, Jane, or a pinch of snuff, to e under all this, ‘pour me donner une tenance,’ as Adèle would say; and unfortunately I have her my cigar-case, nor my snuff-box. But listen—whisper. It is your time now, little tyrant, but it will be mine presently; and when once I have fairly seized you, to have and to hold, I’ll just—figuratively speaking—attach you to a  like this” (toug his watch-guard). “Yes, bonhing, I’ll wear you in my bosom, lest my jewel I should tyne.”

    He said this as he helped me to alight from the c<bdi>..</bdi>arriage, and while he afterwards lifted out Adèle, I ehe house, and made good my retreat upstairs.

    He duly summoned me to his presen the evening. I had prepared an occupation for him; for I was determined not to spend the whole time in a tête-à-tête versation. I remembered his fine voice; I knew he liked to sing—good singers generally do. I was no vocalist myself, and, in his fastidious judgment, no musi, either; but I delighted in listening when the performance was good. No sooner had twilight, that hour of romance, began to lower her blue and starry banner over the lattice, than I rose, opehe piano, areated him, for the love of heaven, to give me a song. He said I ricious witch, and that he would rather sing aime; but I averred that no time was like the present.

    “Did I like his voice?” he asked.

    “Very much.” I was not fond of pampering that susceptible vanity of his; but for once, and from motives of expediency, I would e’en soothe and stimulate it.

    “Then, Jane, you must play the apa.”

    “Very well, sir, I will try.”

    I did try, but resently swept off the stool and denominated “a little bungler.” Being pushed unceremoniously to one side—which recisely what I wished—he usurped my place, and proceeded to apany himself: for he could play as well as sing. I hied me to the window-recess. And while I sat there and looked out oill trees and dim lawn, to a sweet air was sung in mellow tohe following strain:—

    “The truest love that ever heart

    Felt at its kindled core,

    Did through each vein, in quied start,

    The tide of being pour.

    Her ing was my hope each day,

    Her parting was my pain;

    The ce that did her steps delay

    Was i every vein.

    I dreamed it would be nameless bliss,

    As I loved, loved to be;

    And to this object did I press

    As blind as eagerly.

    But wide as pathless was the space

    That lay our lives between,

    And dangerous as the foamy race

    Of o-surges green.

    And haunted as a robber-path

    Through wilderness or wood;

    Fht and Right, and Woe and Wrath,

    Between our spirits stood.

    I dangers dared; I hindrance sed;

    I omens did defy:

    Whatever menaced, harassed, warned,

    I passed impetuous by.

    On sped my rainbow, fast as light;

    I flew as in a dream;

    Florious rose upon my sight

    That child of Shower and Gleam.

    Still bright on clouds of suffering dim

    Shihat soft, solemn joy;

    Nor care I now, how dense and grim

    Disasters gather nigh.

    I care not in this moment sweet,

    Though all I have rushed o’er

    Should e on pinion, strong and fleet,

    Proclaiming vengeance sore:

    Though haughty Hate should strike me down,

    Right, bar approae,

    And grinding Might, with furious frown,

    Swear endless enmity.

    My love has placed her little hand

    With noble faith in mine,

    And vowed that wedlock’s sacred band

    Our nature shall entwine.

    My love has sworn, with sealing kiss,

    With me to live—to die;

    I have at last my nameless bliss.

    As I love—loved am I!”

    He rose and came towards me, and I saw his face all kindled, and his full fal-eye flashing, and tenderness and passion in every li. I quailed momentarily—then I rallied. Soft se, daring demonstration, I would not have; and I stood in peril of both: a on of defence must be prepared—I whetted my tongue: as he reached me, I asked with asperity, “whom he was going to marry now?”

    “That was a strange question to be put by his darling Jane.”

    “Indeed! I sidered it a very natural and necessary one: he had talked of his future wife dying with him. What did he mean by such a pagan idea? I had no iion of dying with him—he might depend on that.”

    “Oh, all he longed, all he prayed for, was that I might live with him! Death was not for such as I.”

    “I was: I had as good a right to die when my time came as he had: but I should bide that time, and not be hurried away in a suttee.”

    “Would I five him for the selfish idea, and prove my pardon by a reg kiss?”

    “No: I would rather be excused.”

    Here I heard myself apostrophised as a “hard little thing;” and it was added, “any other woman would have beeed to marrow at hearing such stanzas ed in her praise.”

    I assured him I was naturally hard—very flinty, and that he would often find me so; and that, moreover, I was determio show him divers rugged points in my character before the ensuing four weeks elapsed: he should know fully what sort of a bargain he had made, while there was yet time to resd it.

    “Would I be quiet and talk rationally?”

    “I would be quiet if he liked, and as to talking rationally, I flattered myself I was doing that now.”

    He fretted, pished, and pshawed. “Very good,” I thought; “you may fume and fidget as you please: but this is the best plan to pursue with you, I am certain. I like you more than I  say; but I’ll not sink into a bathos of se: and with this needle of repartee I’ll keep you from the edge of the gulf too; and, moreover, maintain by its pu aid that distaween you and myself most ducive to our real mutual advantage.”

    From less to more, I worked him up to siderable irritation; then, after he had retired, in dudgeon, quite to the other end of the room, I got up, and saying, “I wish you good-night, sir,” in my natural and wonted respectful manner, I slipped out by the side-door and got away.

    The system thus entered on, I pursued during the whole season of probation; and with the best success. He was kept, to be sure, rather cross and crusty; but on the whole I could see he was excellently eained, and that a lamb-like submission and turtle- dove sensibility, while f his despotism more,>?９9ｌｉｂ?</a> would have pleased his judgment, satisfied his on-sense, and even suited his taste less.

    In other people’s presence I was, as formerly, deferential and quiet; any other line of duct being uncalled for: it was only in the evening ferences I thus thwarted and afflicted him. He tio send for me punctually the moment the clock struck seven; though when I appeared before him now, he had no such hoerms as “love” and “darling” on his lips: the best words at my service were “provoking puppet,” “malicious elf,” “sprite,” “geling,” &amp;c. For caresses, too, I now got grimaces; for a pressure of the hand, a pin the arm; for a kiss on the cheek, a severe tweak of the ear. It was all right: at present I decidedly preferred these fierce favours to anything more tender. Mrs. Fairfax, I saroved me: her ay on my at vaherefore I was certain I did well. Meantime, Mr. Rochester affirmed I was wearing him to skin and bone, and threatened awful vengeany present duct at some period fast ing. I laughed in my sleeve at his menaces. “I  keep you in reasonable cheow,” I reflected; “and I don’t doubt to be able to do it hereafter: if one expedient loses its virtue, another must be devised.”

    Yet after all my task was not an easy one; often I would rather have pleased than teased him. My future husband was being to me my whole world; and more than the world: almost my hope of heaveood between me and every thought ion, as an eclipse intervenes between man and the broad sun. I could not, in those days, see God for His creature: of whom I had made an idol.

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