"No, no--let us be gone," was the anxious reply; and without waiting

to take leave of Mr. Rochester, they made their exit at the hall

door. The clergyman stayed to exchange a few sentences, either of

admonition or reproof, with his haughty parishioner; this duty done,

he too departed.

I heard him go as I stood at the half-open door of my own room, to

which I had now withdrawn. The house cleared, I shut myself in,

fastened the bolt that none might intrude, and proceeded--not to

weep, not to mourn, I was yet too calm for that, but--mechanically

to take off the wedding dress, and replace it by the stuff gown I

had worn yesterday, as I thought, for the last time. I then sat

down: I felt weak and tired. I leaned my arms on a table, and my

head dropped on them. And now I thought: till now I had only

heard, seen, moved--followed up and down where I was led or dragged-

-watched event rush on event, disclosure open beyond disclosure:

but NOW, I THOUGHT.

The morning had been a quiet morning enough--all except the brief

scene with the lunatic: the transaction in the church had not been

noisy; there was no explosion of passion, no loud altercation, no

dispute, no defiance or challenge, no tears, no sobs: a few words

had been spoken, a calmly pronounced objection to the marriage made;

some stern, short questions put by Mr. Rochester; answers,

explanations given, evidence adduced; an open admission of the truth

had been uttered by my master; then the living proof had been seen;

the intruders were gone, and all was over.

I was in my own room as usual--just myself, without obvious change:

nothing had smitten me, or scathed me, or maimed me. And yet where

was the Jane Eyre of yesterday?--where was her life?--where were her

prospects?

Jane Eyre, who had been an ardent, expectant woman--almost a bride,

was a cold, solitary girl again: her life was pale; her prospects

were desolate. A Christmas frost had come at midsummer; a white

December storm had whirled over June; ice glazed the ripe apples,

drifts crushed the blowing roses; on hayfield and cornfield lay a

frozen shroud: lanes which last night blushed full of flowers, to-

day were pathless with untrodden snow; and the woods, which twelve

hours since waved leafy and flagrant as groves between the tropics,

now spread, waste, wild, and white as pine-forests in wintry Norway.

My hopes were all dead--struck with a subtle doom, such as, in one

night, fell on all the first-born in the land of Egypt. I looked on

my cherished wishes, yesterday so blooming and glowing; they lay

stark, chill, livid corpses that could never revive. I looked at my

love: that feeling which was my master's--which he had created; it

shivered in my heart, like a suffering child in a cold cradle;

sickness and anguish had seized it; it could not seek Mr.

Rochester's arms--it could not derive warmth from his breast. Oh,

never more could it turn to him; for faith was blighted--confidence

destroyed! Mr. Rochester was not to me what he had been; for he was

not what I had thought him. I would not ascribe vice to him; I

would not say he had betrayed me; but the attribute of stainless

truth was gone from his idea, and from his presence I must go: THAT

I perceived well. When--how--whither, I could not yet discern; but

he himself, I doubted not, would hurry me from Thornfield. Real

affection, it seemed, he could not have for me; it had been only

fitful passion: that was balked; he would want me no more. I

should fear even to cross his path now: my view must be hateful to

him. Oh, how blind had been my eyes! How weak my conduct!




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