Join Host Bree Carlile as she reads the thirty-seventh chapter of Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte.

Come with us as we release one bite a day of one of your favorite classic novels, plays & short stories. Bree reads these classics like she reads to her daughter, one chapter a day. If you love books or audiobooks and want something to listen to as you're getting ready, driving to work, or as you're getting ready for bed, check out Bite at a Time Books!

Follow, rate, and review Bite at a Time Books where we read you your favorite classics, one bite at a time. Available wherever you listen to podcasts.

Get exclusive Behind the Scenes content on our Patreon

We are now part of the Bite at a Time Books Productions network!

If you ever wondered what inspired your favorite classic novelist to write their stories, what was happening in their lives or the world at the time, check out Bite at a Time Books Behind the Story Tuesdays wherever you listen to podcasts.

Follow us on all the socials: Instagram - Twitter - Facebook - TikTok

Follow Bree at: Instagram - Twitter - Facebook

Welcome to Bite At A Time Books, where we read you your favorite classics, one Bite at a Time.

My name is Brie Carlyle and I love to read and wanted to share my passion with listeners like you.

If you enjoy our show, be sure to follow us.

You get all the new episodes.

If you want to see exclusive behind the scenes of our show, join our Patreon.

We would also love for you to drop us a rating on your favorite podcast platform and share our show with your friends.

You can catch us on all the social medias at Bite At A Time Books.

We are now part of the Bite At A Time Books Productions Network.

If you ever wondered what inspired your favorite classic novelist to write their stories, what was happening in their lives or the world at the time, check out Bite At a Time Books Behind the Story.

Wherever you listen to podcasts today, we will be continuing Jane Ayre.

By Charlotte Bronte Chapter 37 The Manor house of Ferndine was a building of considerable antiquity, moderate size and no architectural pretensions deep buried in a wood.

I had heard of it before.

Mr.

Rochester often spoke of it and sometimes went there.

His father had purchased the estate for the sake of the game covers.

He would have let the house, but could find no tenant in consequence of its ineligible and insolubius site.

Ferndean then remained uninhabited and unfurnished, with the exception of some two or three rooms fitted up for the accommodation of the Squire when he went there in the season to shoot to this house I came just aired dark on an evening marked by the characteristics of sad sky, cold Gale, and continued small penetrating rain.

The last mile I performed on foot, having dismissed the chase and driver with the double remuneration I had promised, even when within a very short distance of the Manor house, you could see nothing of it.

So thick and dark grew the timber of the gloomy wood about it.

Iron gates between granite pillars showed me where to enter, and passing through them I found myself at once in the Twilight of close ranked trees.

There was a grass grown track descending the forest aisle between w**** and naughty shafts and under branched arches.

I followed it, expecting soon to reach the dwelling, but it stretched on and on.

It wound far and farther.

No sign of habitation or grounds was visible.

I thought I had taken the wrong direction and lost my way.

The darkness of natural as well as of silver dusk gathered over me.

I looked round in search of another road.

There was none.

All was interwoven stem, columnar, trunk, dense summer foliage, no opening anywhere.

I proceeded at last my way, opened the trees, thinned a little.

Presently I beheld a railing.

Then the house, scarce by the stem light distinguishable from the trees, so dank and green were its decaying walls.

Entering a portal fastened only by a latch.

I stood amidst a space of enclosed ground from which the wood swept away in a semicircle.

There were no flowers, no garden beds, only a broad gravel walk girdled a grass plot, and this set in the heavy frame of the forest.

The house presented two pointed Gables in its front.

The windows were latticed and narrow.

The front door was narrow, too.

One step led up to it.

The whole look, as the host of the Rochester Arms had said, quite a desolate spot.

It was as still as a Church on a weekday.

The pattering rain on the forest leaves was the only sound audible in its Vicinage.

Can there be life here?

I asked.

Yes, life of some kind there was, for I heard a movement.

That narrow front door was unclosing, and some shape was about to issue from the Grange.

It opened slowly.

A figure came out into the Twilight and stood on the step, a man without a hat.

He stretched forth his hand as if to feel whether it rained thus.

Good as it was, I had recognized him.

It was my master, Edward Fairfax Rochester, and no other.

I stayed my step, almost my breath, and stood to watch him, to examine him myself, unseen and Alas to him, invisible.

It was a sudden meeting, and one in which Rapture was kept well in check by pain.

I had no difficulty in restraining my voice from exclamation, my step from hasty advance.

His form was of the same strong and styled contour as ever.

His Port was still erect, his hair was still Raven black, nor were his features altered or sunk.

Not in one year space by any sorrow could his athletic strength be quelled or his vigorous prime blighted.

But in his countenance I saw a change that looked desperate and brooding, that reminded me of some wronged and fettered wild beast or bird, dangerous to approach.

In his sullen woe, the caged Eagle whose gold ringed eyes cruelty had extinguished might look as looked that sightless.

Samson.

And reader, do you think I feared him in his blind ferocity?

If you do, you little know me a soft hope blunt with my sorrow that soon I should dare to drop a kiss on that brow of rock and on those lips so sternly sealed beneath it.

But not yet.

I would not accost him yet.

He descended that one step and advanced slowly and gropingly towards the grass plot.

Where was his daring stride now?

Then he paused as if he knew not which way to turn.

He lifted his hand and opened his eyelids, gazed blank, and with a straining effort on the sky and toward the amphitheater of trees, one saw that all to him was void darkness.

He stretched his right hand, the left arm, the mutilated one he kept hidden in his bosom.

He seemed to wish by touch to gain an idea of what lay around him.

He met, but vacancy still, for the trees were some yards off where he stood.

He relinquished the endeavor, folded his arms, and stood quiet and mute in the rain, now falling fast on his uncovered head.

At this moment John approached him from some quarter.

Will you take my arm, sir?

He said.

There was a heavy shower coming on.

Had you not better go in?

Let me alone, was the answer.

John withdrew without having observed me.

Mr.

Rochester now tried to walk about vainly.

All was too uncertain.

He groped his way back to the house and reentering it, closed the door I now drew near and knocked.

John's wife opened for me.

Mary, I said.

How are you?

She started as if she had seen a ghost.

I calmed her to her hurried.

Is it really you, miss?

Come at this late hour to the slowly place?

I answered by taking her hand, and then I followed her into the kitchen, where John now sat by a good fire.

I explained to them in few words that I had heard all that had happened since I left Thornfield, and that I would come to see Mr.

Rochester.

I asked John to go down to the Turnpike house, where I had dismissed the chase and bring my trunk, which I had left there, and then, while I removed my bonnet and shawl, I questioned Mary as to whether I could be accommodated at the Manor house for the night, and finding that arrangements to that effect, though difficult, would not be impossible, I informed her I should stay just at this moment.

The parlor Bell rang.

When you go in, said, I tell your master that a person wishes to speak to him, but do not give my name.

I don't think he will see you, she answered.

He refuses everyone.

When she returned, I inquired what he had said.

You were to send in your name and your business, she replied.

She then proceeded to fill a glass with water and place it on a tray together with candles.

Is that what he rang for?

I asked.

Yes.

He always has candles brought in at dark, though he is blind.

Give the tray to me.

I will carry it in.

I took it from her hand.

She pointed me out the parlor door.

The tray shook as I held it.

The water spilled from the glass.

My heart struck my ribs loud and fast.

Mary opened the door for me and shut it behind me.

The parlor looked gloomy.

A neglected handful of fire burnt low in the grate, and leaning over it with his head supported against the high oldfashioned mantelpiece, appeared the blind tenant of the room.

His old dog, Pilot, lay on one side, removed out of the way, and coiled up as if afraid of being inadvertently trodden upon.

Pilot pricked up his ears when I came in.

Then he jumped up with a Yelp and a wine and bounded towards me.

He almost knocked the tray from my hands.

I set it on the table, then patted him and said softly, Lie down.

Mr.

Rochester turned mechanically to see what the commotion was, but as he saw nothing, he returned inside.

Give me the water, Mary, he said.

I approached him with the now only half filled glass.

Pilot followed me, still excited.

What is the matter?

He inquired.

Down Pilot, I again said.

He checked the water on its way to his lips and seemed to listen.

He drank and put the glass down.

This is you, Mary, is it not?

Mary is in the kitchen, I answered.

He put out his hand with a quick gesture, but not saying where I stood.

He did not touch me.

Who is this?

Who is this?

He demanded, trying as it seemed to see, with those sightless eyes unavailing and distressing attempt.

Answer me.

Speak again, he ordered, imperiously and loud.

Will you have a little more water, sir?

I spilt half of what was in the glass, I said.

Who is it?

What is it who speaks?

Pilot knows me, and John and Mary know I am here.

I came only this evening, I answered.

Great God, what delusion has come over me.

What sweet madness has seized me.

No delusion, no madness.

Your mind, sir, is too strong for delusion, your health too sound for frenzy.

And Where's the speaker?

Is it only a voice?

Oh, I cannot see, but I must feel or my heart will stop and my brain burst.

Whatever, whoever you are, be perceptible to the touch or I cannot live, he groped.

I arrested his wandering hand imprisoned in both mine.

Her very fingers, he cried.

Her small slight fingers.

If so, there must be more of her.

The muscular hand broke from my custody.

My arm was seized, my shoulder, neck, waist.

I was entwined and gathered to him.

Is it Jane?

What is it?

This is her shape, this is her size, and this is her voice, I added.

She is all here, her heart too.

God bless you, sir.

I am glad to be so near you again.

Jane heir was all he said.

My dear master, I answered, I am Jane heir.

I have found you out.

I have come back to you in truth, in the flush, my living Jane.

You touch me, sir.

You hold me, and fast enough.

I am not cold like a corpse, nor vacant like air.

Am I my living Darling?

These are certainly her limbs, and these her features.

But I cannot be so blessed after all my misery.

It is a dream, such dreams as I have had at night when I have collapsed her once more to my heart as I do now, and kissed her as thus, and felt that she loved me and trusted that she would not leave me.

Which I never will, sir, from this day.

Never will, says the vision.

But I always woke and found it an empty mockery and I was desolate and abandoned.

My life dark, lonely, hopeless, my soul athirst and forbidden to drink, my heart famished and never to be fed.

Gentle, soft dream nestling in my arms.

Now you will fly too, as your sisters have all fled before you.

But kiss me before you go.

Embrace me, Jane.

There, sir, and there I pressed my lips to his once brilliant and now Rayless eyes.

I swept his hair from his brow and kissed that too.

He suddenly seemed to arouse himself.

The conviction of the reality of all this seized him.

It is you, is it, Jane?

You are come back to me, then I am.

And you do not lie dead in some ditch under some stream.

And you are not a pining outcast amongst strangers?

No, sir.

I am an independent woman now.

Independent?

What do you mean, Jane?

My uncle in Madeira is dead and he left me £5000.

This is practical, this is real, he cried.

I should never dream that.

Besides, there is that peculiar voice of hers, so animating and pecant as well as soft.

It cheers my withered heart.

It puts life into it.

What, Janet?

Are you an independent woman?

A rich woman?

Quite rich, sir.

If you won't let me live with you, I can build a house of my own close up to your door, and you may come and sit in my parlor when you want company of an evening.

But as you are rich, Jane, you have now no doubt friends who will look after you and not suffer you to devote yourself to a blind lamentor like me.

I told you I am independent, sir, as well as rich.

I am my own mistress.

And you will stay with me?

Certainly, unless you object.

I will be your neighbor, your nurse, your housekeeper.

I find you lonely.

I will be your companion to read to you, to walk with you, to sit with you, to wait on you, to be eyes and hands to you cease to look so melancholy.

My dear master, you shall not be left desolate so long as I live, he replied nod.

He seemed serious, abstracted.

He sighed.

He half opened his lips as if to speak.

He closed them again.

I felt a little embarrassed.

Perhaps I had two rashly overlooked conventionalities, and he, like St.

John, saw impropriety in my inconsiderateness.

I had indeed made my proposal from the idea that he wished and would ask me to be his wife, an expectation not the less certain, because unexpressed had buoyed me up, that he would claim me at once as his own, but no hint to that effect escaping him and his countenance becoming more overcast.

I suddenly remembered that I might have been all wrong and was perhaps playing the fool unwittingly, and I began gently to withdraw myself from his arms.

But he eagerly snatched me closer.

No, no, Jane, you must not go.

No, I have touched you, heard you felt the comfort of your presence, the sweetness of your consolation.

I cannot give up these joys.

I have little left in myself.

I must have you.

The world may laugh, may call me absurd selfish, but it does not signify my very soul demands you.

It will be satisfied or it will take deadly vengeance on its frame.

Well, Sir, I will stay with you.

I have said so, yes.

But you understand one thing by staying with me, and I understand another.

You perhaps could make up your mind to be about my hand and chair, to wait on me as a kind little nurse.

For you have an affectionate heart and a generous spirit which prompt you to make sacrifices for those you pity.

And that ought to suffice for me, no doubt.

I suppose I should now entertain none but fatherly feelings for you.

Do you think so?

Come, tell me.

I will think what you like, sir.

I am content to be only your nurse if you think it better.

But you cannot always be my nurse.

Janet, you are young.

You must marry one day.

I don't care about being married.

You should care, Janet.

If I were what I once was, I would try to make you care.

But a sightless block.

He relapsed again into gloom.

I, on the contrary, became more cheerful and took fresh courage.

These last words gave me an insight as to where the difficulty lay, and as it was no difficulty with me, I felt quite relieved from my previous embarrassment.

I resumed a livelier vein of conversation.

It is time someone undertook to rehumanize you said I parting his thick and long Uncut locks, for I see you are being metamorphosed into a lion or something of that sort.

You have a faux air of Nebuchadnezzar in the fields about you that is certain.

Your hair reminds me of Eagle's feathers.

Whether your nails are grown like bird's claws or not, I have not yet noticed on this arm.

I have neither hands nor nails, he said, drawing the mutilated limb from his breast and showing it to me.

It is a mere stump, a ghastly sight.

Don't you think so, Jane?

It is a pity to see it, and a pity to see your eyes and the scar of fire on your forehead.

And the worst of it is what is in danger of loving you too.

Well, for all this and making too much of you.

I thought you would be revolted, Jane, when you saw my arm and my sick attrized vision, did you?

Don't tell me so, lest I should say something disparaging to your judgment.

Now let me leave you an instant to make a better fire and have the hearth swept up.

Can you tell when there is a good fire?

Yes, with the right eye.

I see a glow, a Ruddy haze.

And you see the candles?

Very dimly.

Each is a luminous cloud.

Can you see me?

No, my fairy, but I am only too thankful to hear and feel you.

When do you take supper?

I never take supper.

But you shall have some tonight.

I am hungry.

So are you, I dare say.

Only you forget.

Summoning Mary.

I soon had the room in more cheerful order.

I prepared him likewise, a comfortable repast.

My spirits were excited, and with pleasure and ease.

I talked to him during supper, and for a long time after.

There was no harassing restraint, no repressing of glee and vivacity with him, for with him I was at perfect ease, because I knew I suited him.

All I said or did seemed either to console or revive him delightful consciousness.

It brought to life and light my whole nature.

In his presence I thoroughly lived, and he lived in mine.

Blind as he was, smiles played over his face.

Joy dawned on his forehead, his linear and softened and warmed.

After supper he began to ask me many questions of where I had been, what I had been doing, how I had found him out.

But I gave him only very partial replies.

It was too late to enter into particulars that night.

Besides, I wished to touch no deep, thrilling cord to open, no fresh swell of emotion in his heart.

My sole present aim was to cheer him, cheered, as I have said he was, and yet but by fit.

If a moment silence broke the conversation, he would turn restless.

Touch me, then say, Jane, you are all together a human being.

Jane, you are certain of that?

I conscientiously believe so, Mr.

Rochester.

Yet how on this dark and doleful evening could you so suddenly rise on my lone hearth?

I stretched my hand to take a glass of water from Hireling, and it was given me by you.

I asked a question, expecting John's wife to answer me, and your voice spoke at my ear, because I had come in, and Mary stead with the tray, and there is enchantment in the very hour I am now spending with you.

Who can tell what a dark, dreary, hopeless life I have dragged on for months past, doing nothing, expecting nothing, merging night and day, feeling but the sensation of cold when I let the fire go out of hunger, when I forget to eat, and then ceaseless sorrow, and at times a very delirium of desire to behold my Jane again.

Yes, for her restoration I longed far more than for that of my lost sight.

How can it be that Jane is with me and says she loves me?

Will she not depart as suddenly as she came?

Tomorrow, I fear I shall find her no more.

A commonplace, practical reply out of the train of his own disturbed ideas was, I was sure, the best and most reassuring for him in this frame of mind.

I passed my finger over his eyebrows and remarked that they were scorched, and that I would apply something which would make them grow as broad and black as ever.

Where is the use of doing me good in any way beneficial spirit, when at some fatal moment you will again desert me, passing like a shadow wither and how to me unknown and for me remaining afterwards undiscoverable.

Have your pocket comb about you, sir.

What for, Jane?

Just to comb out this shaggy black Mane.

I find you rather alarming when I examine you close at hand.

You talk of my being a fairy, but I am sure you are more like a brownie.

Am I hideous, Jane?

Very, sir.

You always were.

You know the wickedness has not been taken out of you wherever you have surgeryed yet I have been with good people far better than you, a hundred times better people possessed of ideas and views you never entertained in your life.

Quite more refined and exalted.

Who the deuce have you been with?

If you twist in that way, you will make me pull the hair out of your head.

And then I think you will cease to entertain doubts of my substantiality.

Who have you been with, Jane?

You shall not get it out of me tonight, sir.

You must wait till tomorrow to leave my tale half told.

Will you know be a sort of security that I shall appear at your breakfast table to finish it.

By the by, I must mind not to rise on your hearth with only a glass of water.

Then I must bring an egg at the least, to say nothing of fried Ham.

You mocking Changeling fairy born and human bread.

You make me feel as I have not felt these twelve months.

If Saul could have had you for his David, the evil spirit would have been exercised without the aid of the harp.

There, sir.

You are right up and made decent.

Now I leave you.

I've been traveling these last three days, and I believe I am tired.

Good night.

Just one word, Jane.

Were there only ladies in the house where you have been?

I laughed and made my escape, still laughing as I ran upstairs.

Good idea, I thought with glee.

I see I have the means of fretting him out of his melancholy for some time to come.

Very early the next morning I heard him up in a stir, wandering from one room to another.

As soon as Mary came down, I heard the question, Is Miss Air here then?

Which room did you put her into?

Was it dry?

Is she up?

Go and ask if she wants anything and when she will come down.

I came down as soon as I thought there was a prospect of breakfast entering the room very softly.

I had a view of him before he discovered my presence.

It was mournful indeed to witness the subjugation of that vigorous spirit to a corporeal infirmity.

He sat in his chair still, but not at rest expectant.

Evidently the lines of now habitual sadness marking his strong features.

His countenance reminded one of a lamp quenched waiting to be relit.

And Alas, it was not himself that could now Kindle the luster of animated expression.

He was dependent on another for that office.

I had meant to be gay and careless, but the powerlessness of the strong man touched my heart to the quick.

Still I accosted him with what vivacity I could.

It is a bright, sunny morning, Sir, I said.

The rain is over and gone, and there is a tender shining after it.

You shall have a walk soon.

I had wakened the glow.

His features beamed.

Oh, you are indeed.

There my Skylark.

Come to me.

You are not gone, not vanished.

I heard one of your kind an hour ago singing high over the wood, but its song had no music for me any more than the rising sun had rays.

All the melody on Earth is concentrated in my Jane's tongue to my ear.

I am glad it is not naturally a silent one.

All the Sunshine I can feel is in her presence.

The water stood in my eyes to hear this avowal of his dependence, just as if a Royal Eagle changed to a perch should be forced to entreat a Sparrow to become its purveyor.

But I would not be lack of morose.

I dashed off the salt drops and busied myself with preparing breakfast.

Most of the morning was spent in the open air.

I led him out of the wet and wild wood into some cheerful fields.

I described to him how brilliantly green they were, how the flowers and hedges looked a hidden and lovely spot, a dry stump of a tree.

Nor did I refuse to let him, when seated, place me on his knee.

Why should I, when both he and I were happier near Than apart, Pilate lay beside me.

All was quiet.

He broke out suddenly while clasping me in his arms.

Cruel, cruel deserter.

Oh, Jane, what did I feel when I discovered you had fled from Thornfield?

And when I could nowhere find you?

And after examining your apartment ascertained that you had taken no money, nor anything which could serve as an equivalent.

A Pearl necklace I had given you lay untouched in its little casket.

Your trunks were left corded and locked as they had been prepared for the bridal tour.

What could my Darling do?

I asked.

Left destitute and penalists.

And what did she do?

Let me hear now.

Thus urged, I began the narrative of my experience for the last year.

I softened considerably what related to the three days of wandering and starvation, because to have told him all would have been to inflict unnecessary pain.

The little, I did say, lacerated his faithful heart deeper than I wished.

I should not have left him thus, he said, without any means of making my way.

I should have told him my intention.

I should have confided in him.

He would never have forced me to be his mistress.

Violent as he seemed in his despair, he in truth loved me far too well and too tenderly to constitute himself my tyrant.

He would have given me half his fortune without demanding so much as a kiss in return, rather than I should have flung myself friendless on the wide world I had endured.

He was certain more than I had confessed to him.

Well, whatever my sufferings had been, they were very short, I answered.

And then I proceeded to tell him how I had been received at Morehouse, how I had obtained the office of school mistress.

The ascension of fortune, the discovery of my relations followed in due order, of course.

St John River's name came infrequently in the progress of my tale.

When I had done, the name was immediately taken up.

This St John, then, is your cousin?

Yes.

You have spoken of him often.

Do you like him?

He is a very good man, sir.

I could not help liking him.

A good man?

Does that mean a respectable, well conducted man of 50 or what does it mean?

St John was only 29, sir.

Jean encore, as the French say.

Is he a person of low stature, pragmatic and plain?

A person whose goodness consists rather in his guiltlessness of vice than in his prowess and virtue?

He is untiringly active, great and exalted.

Deeds are what he lives to perform.

But his brain, that is probably rather soft.

He means well, but you shut your shoulders to hear him talk.

He talks little, sir.

What he does say is ever to the point.

His brain is first rate, I should think.

Not impressible, but vigorous.

Is he an able man, then?

Truly able?

A thoroughly educated man.

St John is an accomplished and profound scholar.

His manners, I think you said, are not to your taste.

Purguish and parsonic.

I never mentioned his manners, but unless I had a very bad taste, they may suit it.

They are polished, calm and gentlemanlike.

His appearance.

I forget what description you gave of his appearance.

A sort of raw curate, half strangled, with his white neck cloth and stilted up on this thick sold high lows.

St John dress as well.

He is a handsome man.

Tall, fair, with blue eyes and a Grecian profile aside, d*** him to me.

Did you like him, Jane?

Yes, Mr.

Rochester.

I liked him.

But you asked me that before I perceived, of course, the drift of my interlocutor jealousy had got hold of him.

She stung him, but the sting was salutary.

It gave him respite from the gnawing Fang of melancholy.

I would not, therefore, immediately charm the snake.

Perhaps you would rather not sit any longer on my knee, miss Air was the next somewhat unexpected observation.

Why not, Mr.

Rochester?

The picture you have just drawn is suggestive of a rather too overwhelming contrast.

Your words have delineated.

Very prettily.

A graceful Apollo.

He is present to your imagination.

Tall, fair, blue eyed, and with a Grecian profile.

Your eyes dwell on a Vulcan.

A real blacksmith.

Brown, broad shouldered and blind and lame into the bargain.

I never thought of it before.

But you certainly are rather like a Vulcan, Sir.

Well, you can leave me, ma'am, but before you go.

And he retained me by a firmer grasp than ever, you'll be pleased just to answer me a question or two.

He paused.

What questions?

Mr.

Rochester then followed this cross examination.

St.

John made you school mistress of Morton before he knew you were his cousin.

Yes.

You would often see him.

You would visit the school?

Sometimes daily.

He would approve of your plans, Jane.

I know they would be clever, for you are a talented creature.

He approved of them.

Yes.

He would discover many things in you he could not have expected to find.

Some of your accomplishments are not ordinary.

I don't know about that.

You had a little cottage near the school, you say.

Did he ever come there to see you now and then of an evening?

Once or twice.

A pause.

How long did you reside with him and his sisters after the cousinship was discovered?

Five months.

Did river spend much time with the ladies of his family?

Yes.

The back parlor was both his study and ours.

He sat near the window and we by the table.

Did he study much?

A good deal.

What Hindu stance?

And what did you do in the meantime?

I learned German at first.

Did he teach you?

He did not understand German.

Did he teach you nothing?

A little.

Hindustance.

Rivers taught you Hindostani?

Yes, sir.

And his sisters also?

No.

Only you.

Only me.

Did you ask to learn?

No.

He wished to teach you?

Yes.

A second pause.

Why did he wish it?

Of what youth could Hindustani be to you?

He intended me to go with him to India.

Ah.

Here I reached the root of the matter.

He wanted you to marry him.

He asked me to marry him.

That is a fiction, an impudent intervention to Vex me.

I beg your pardon?

It is the literal truth.

He asked me more than once and was as stiff about urging his point as ever.

You could be, Ms.

Air.

I repeat it.

You can leave me.

How often am I to say the same thing?

Why do you remain pertinaciously perched on my knee when I have given you notice to quit?

Because I am comfortable there.

No, Jane, you are not comfortable there.

Because your heart is not with me.

It is with this cousin, this St.

John.

Oh.

Till this moment, I thought my little Jane was all mine.

I had a belief she loved me even when she left me.

That was an atom of sweet and much bitter.

Long as we have been parted hot tears as I have wept over our separation.

I never thought that while I was mourning her.

She was loving another.

But it is useless.

Grieving.

Jane, leave me.

Go and marry Rivers.

Shake me off then, sir.

Push me away, for I'll not leave you of my own accord.

Jane, I ever like your tone of voice.

It still renews hope.

It sounds so Truthful when I hear it.

It carries me back a year.

I forget that you have formed a new tie.

But I am not a fool.

Go.

Where must I go, sir?

Your own way with the husband you have chosen.

Who is that?

You know this St.

John Rivers.

He is not my husband, nor ever will be.

He does not love me.

I do not love him.

He loves as he can love.

And that is not as you love a beautiful young lady called Rosamond.

He wanted to marry me only because he thought I should make a suitable missionary wife, which she would not have done.

He is good and great, but severe, and for me, cold as an iceberg.

He is not like you, sir.

I am not happy at his side, nor near him, nor with him.

He has no indulgence for me, no fondness.

He sees nothing attractive in me, nor even youth, only a few useful mental points.

Then I must leave you, sir, to go to him.

I shuddered involuntarily and clung instinctively closer to my blind but beloved master.

He smiled.

What, Jane, is this true?

Is there such really the state of matters between you and Rivers?

Absolutely, sir.

Oh, you need not be jealous.

I wanted to tease you a little, to make you less sad.

I thought anger would be better than grief.

But if you wish me to love you, could you but see how much I do love you?

You would be proud and content.

Oh, my heart is yours, sir.

It belongs to you, and with you it would remain.

Where fate to exile the rest of me from your presence forever.

Again, as he kissed me, painful thoughts darkened his aspect.

My seared vision, my crippled strength, he murmured regretfully.

I caressed in order to soothe him.

I knew of what he was thinking and wanted to speak for him, but dared not.

As he turned aside his face a minute, I saw a tear slide from under the sealed eyelid and trickled down the Manly cheek.

My heart swelled.

I am no better than the old lightning struck chestnut tree in Thornfield Orchard, he remarked.

Ere long.

And what right would that ruin have to bid a budding wood bind cover its decay with freshness?

You are no ruin, sir.

No lightning struck tree.

You are green and vigorous.

Plants will grow about your roots whether you ask them or not, because they take delight in your bountiful shadow.

And as they grow, they will lean towards you and wind round you because your strength offers them so safe a prop.

Again he smiled.

I gave him comfort.

You speak of friends Jane?

He asked.

Yes, of friends, I answered.

Rather hesitatingly, for I knew I meant more than friends, but could not tell what other word to employ?

He helped me, Jane.

But I want a wife.

Do you, sir?

Yes.

Is it news to you?

Of course.

You said nothing about it before.

Is it unwelcome news?

That depends on circumstances, sir.

On your choice which you shall make for me, Jane.

I will abide by your decision.

Choose then, sir.

Her who loves you best.

I will at least choose who I love best.

Jane, will you marry me?

Yes, sir.

A poor blind man whom you will have to lead about by the hand.

Yes, sir.

A crippled man 20 years older than you, whom you will have to wait on.

Yes, sir.

Truly, Jane.

Most truly, sir.

Oh, my Darling.

God bless you and reward you.

Mister Rochester.

If ever I did a good deed in my life, if ever I thought a good thought.

If ever I prayed a sincere and blameless prayer.

If ever I wished a righteous wish.

I am rewarded now.

To be your wife is for me to be as happy as I can be on Earth.

Because you delight in sacrifice.

Sacrifice?

What do I sacrifice?

Salmon for food?

Expectation for content.

To be privileged.

To put my arms around what I value.

To press my lips to what I love, to repose on what I trust.

Is that to make a sacrifice?

If so, then certainly I delight in sacrifice.

And to bear with my infirmities, Jane.

To overlook my deficiencies, which are none, sir.

To me.

I love you better now when I can really be useful to you than I did in your state of proud independence.

When you disdained every part but that of the giver and protector hitherto.

I have hated to be helped, to be led henceforth.

I feel I shall hate it no more.

I did not like to put my hand into a higherlings, but it is pleasant to feel it circled by Jane's little fingers.

I preferred utter loneliness to the constant attendance of servants.

But Jane soft Ministry will be a perpetual joy.

Jane suits me.

Do I suit her to the finest fiber of my nature, sir?

The case being so, we have nothing in the world to wait for.

We must be married instantly.

He looked and spoke with eagerness.

His old impetuously was rising.

We must become one flesh without any delay, Jane.

There is but the license to get.

Then we marry.

Mr.

Rochester, I have just discovered the sun is far declined from its Meridian.

And Pilot has actually gone home to his dinner.

Let me look at your watch.

Fasten it to your girdle, Janet, and keep it hence forward.

I have no use for it.

It is nearly 04:00 in the afternoon, sir.

Don't you feel hungry?

The third day from this must be our wedding day, Jane.

Never mind fine clothes and jewels.

Now all that is not worth a flip.

The sun has dried up all the raindrops, sir.

The breeze is still.

It is quite hot.

Do you know, Jane, I have your little Pearl necklace at this moment fastened round my bronze scrag under my cravat.

I have worn it since the day I lost my only treasure as a memento of her.

We will go home through the wood.

That will be the shady way.

He pursued his own thoughts without heeding me.

Jane, you think me, I dare say an irreligious dog.

But my heart swells with gratitude to the beneficiary God of this Earth.

Just now he sees not as man sees, but far clearer judges not as man judges, but far more wisely.

I did wrong.

I would have solely my innocent flower breathed guilt on its purity.

The omnipotent snatched it from me.

I, in my stiff necked rebellion, almost cursed the dispensation.

Instead of bending to the decree, I defied it.

Divine justice pursued its course.

Disasters came thick on me.

I was forced to pass through the Valley of the shadow of death.

His chastisements are mighty, and one smote me which has humbled me forever.

You know.

I was proud of my strength.

But what is it now when I must give it over to foreign guidance as a child does its weakness of late, Jane?

Only only of late.

I began to see and acknowledge the hand of God in my doom.

I began to experience remorse repentance the wish for reconcilement to my Maker.

I began sometimes to pray.

Very brief prayers.

They were but very sincere some days since.

Nay, I can number them four.

It was last Monday night.

A singular mood came over me, one in which grief replaced frenzy, sorrow sullenness.

I had long had the impression that since I could nowhere find you, you must be dead late that night.

Perhaps it might be between eleven and 12:00.

Ere I retired to my dreary rest.

I supplicated God that if it seemed good to him, I might soon be taken from this life and admitted to that world to come where there was still hope of rejoining.

Jane, I was in my own room and sitting by the window which was open.

It soothed me to feel the balmy night air, though I could see no stars, and only by a vague, luminous haze knew the presence of a moon.

I longed for thee, Janet.

Oh, I longed for thee both with soul and flesh.

I asked of God at once in anguish and humility, if I had not been long enough desolate, afflicted, tormented, and might not soon taste bliss and peace once more that I merited all I endured.

I acknowledged that I could scarcely endure more.

I pleaded, and the Alpha and Omega of my heart's wishes broke involuntarily from my lips in the words.

Jane.

Jane, Jane.

Did you speak these words aloud?

I did, Jane.

If any listener had heard me, he would have thought me mad.

I pronounced them with such frantic energy.

And it was last Monday night, somewhere near midnight.

Yes, but the time is of no consequence.

What followed is the strange point.

You will think me superstitious, some superstition I have in my blood and always had.

Nevertheless, this is true.

True.

At least it is that I heard what I now relate.

As I exclaimed, Jane, Jane, Jane, a voice.

I cannot tell whence the voice came, but I know whose voice it was, replied, I am coming.

Wait for me.

And a moment after went whispering on the wind the words, Where are you?

I'll tell you if I can.

The idea, the pictures, these words open to my mind.

Yet it is difficult to express what I want to express.

Ferndine is buried, as you see in heavy wood, where sound falls dull and eyes unreverberating.

Where are you?

Seemed spoken amongst mountains, for I heard a Hill send Echo repeat the words cooler and fresher.

At the moment the Gale seemed to visit my brow.

I could have deemed that in some wild lone scene I and Jane were meeting in spirit.

I believed we must have met.

You no doubt were at that hour in unconscious sleep.

Jane, perhaps your soul wandered from itself to comfort mine, for those were your accents.

As certain as I live they were yours, reader.

It was on Monday night, near midnight, that I too had received the mysterious summons.

Those were the very words by which I replied to it.

I listened to Mr.

Rochester's narrative, but made no disclosure in return.

The coincidence struck me as too awful and inexplicable to be communicated or discussed.

If I told anything, my tale would be such as must necessarily make a profound impression on the mind of my hero.

And that mind, yet from its sufferings, too prone to gloom, needed not the deeper shade of the supernatural.

I kept these things then and pondered them in my heart.

You cannot now wonder, continued my master, that when you rose upon me so unexpectedly last night, I had difficulty in believing you any other than a mere voice and vision, something that would melt to silence and annihilation as the midnight whisper and mountain Echo had melted before.

Now I thank God.

I know it to be otherwise.

Yes, I thank God.

He put me off his knee, rose and reverently.

Lifting his hat from his brow and bending his sightless eyes to the Earth, he stood in mute devotion.

Only the last words of the worship were audible.

I thank my Maker that in the midst of judgment he has remembered mercy.

I humbly entreat my Redeemer to give me strength to lead henceforth a purer life than I have done hitherto.

Then he stretched his hand out to be led.

I took that dear hand, held it a moment to my lips, then let it pass around my shoulder.

Being so much lower of stature than he.

I served both for his prop and guide.

We entered the wood and winded homeward.

Thank you for joining Bite At a Time books today while we read a bite of one of your favorite classics.

If you enjoy our show, be sure to follow us so you get all the new episodes.

If you want to see exclusive behind the scenes of our show, join our Patreon.

We would also love for you to drop us a rating on your favorite podcast platform and share our show with your friends.

You can catch us on all the social medias at Bite At A Time Books.

Also be sure to check us on our website, www.btetitimebooks.com.

We are now part of the Byte At A Time Books Productions Network.

If you ever wondered what inspired your favorite classic novelist to write their stories, what was happening in their lives or the world at the time, check out Bite At a Time books behind the story Tuesdays.