Джейн Эйр / Jane Eyre

“Jane Eyre, I have done you two wrongs. I broke my promise to my husband. I could never bring you up as my own child. And… Jane, go to my dressing table, open the drawer, and take out the letter you see there. Read it.”

“Madam, – Would you kindly send me the address of my niece, Jane Eyre, and tell me how she is? I intend to write shortly and ask her to come to me at Madeira. Providence has blessed me with a good fortune and, as I am unmarried and childless, and Miss Eyre is my closest relative, I wish to adopt her during my life and bequeath her at my death whatever I may have to leave.

John Eyre, Madeira.”

It was dated three years back.

“Why have I never heard of this?” I asked.

“Because I hated you. I could not forget your conduct to me, Jane – the fury with

“Forgive my rudeness – for I was just a child – and I will forgive you.” I leaned down to kiss her. But she turned away.

“You may write to him now,” she groaned. “You may tell him the truth. Now leave me.”

“Love me, then, or hate me, as you wish. You have my full and free forgiveness.”

She died that night.

Chapter 23

Mr. Rochester had given me but one week’s leave, yet a month passed before I quitted Gateshead. The funeral was held a week later. After that, the sisters begged me to stay a little longer, because, I suppose, they could hardly bear to be alone together.

My journey back to Thornfield seemed tedious, but I had a feeling I was going home. I had obtained home, but for how long? Mrs. Fairfax had written to me at Gateshead to tell me that the visitors were gone, and that Mr. Rochester was arranging his wedding. He would be married very soon. And what would I go?

When I reached Millcote, I left my suitcase at the inn to be delivered, and walked the last few miles to Thornfield. It was a hot June day, and the haymakers were at work. As I neared the house I began to feel happy, because I knew I would soon see Mr. Rochester again. Though I was about to be parted from him, I resolved to treasure our time together – even if it was just a few days.

I walked past the rose hedges and the tall briar bush. Then I saw Mr. Rochester.

“Hello!” he called. “There you are! Where have you been all this time?”

“With my aunt, sir.”

“Absent from home a whole month – and I told you to stay no more than a week! I’ll swear you’ve quite forgotten me!”

“No sir, of course not,” I said, blushing. Inside, my heart swelled with joy, that he should care whether I forgot him or not. I decided to change the subject.

“Mrs. Fairfax tells me you have a new carriage.”

“I do, Jane! You must come and see it soon, and tell me if you think it will suit my bride.” Then he let me pass. “Now go home, and rest.”

I meant to go back to the house without another word. But suddenly a strange courage took hold of me, and I turned to face him.

“Thank you, sir,” I said, “for your kindness. I am so glad to see you again. I feel as if wherever you are is my true home.”

Then I ran up to the house as fast as I could.

That night was midsummer’s eve, and I went walking in the orchard at dusk. The air was warm, and the scent of flowers and the sweet song of the nightingale surrounded me. I felt I could wander there forever.

As I came around a corner, I saw Mr. Rochester. He was leaning over, peering closely at something. I thought he hadn’t seen me, but he called: “Look at this moth, Jane. It’s so big, it reminds me of the insects I used to see in the West Indies.”

I joined him, and we walked down to the great old chestnut tree at the bottom of the orchard.

“Will you miss Thornfield, Jane?” he asked.

“Of course,” I said quietly. “Must I leave soon?”

“I’m afraid so,” he said. “It is all arranged. I hope to be a bridegroom within a month, and I have found a job for you – with a Mrs. O’Gall, in Ireland.”

“Ireland? That is a long way away, sir!”

“From what?”

“From Thornfield… from England…” I could feel myself starting to cry. “From you, sir.”

“If you go to Ireland, Jane, you know we will never meet again.”

At this, I could hold in my grief no longer. I burst into tears, and sobbed helplessly.

“Indeed,” he said, “perhaps you should not go…” He was silent for a moment. Then he said: “Because I have a strange feeling about you, Jane – as if your heart is tied to mine, under our ribs, with an invisible string. And if you went to Ireland, I’m afraid the string would break, and my heart would bleed, and you would forget about me.”

I looked up at him, no longer trying to hide my tearstained face. “I would never forget you,” I said. “My life here has had everything I could ever wish for – comfort, kindness and, in you, a true companion. When I think about leaving, it is like thinking about dying.”

“Then don’t leave,” he said.