Sophie came at seven to dress me and she was very long indeed in accomplishing her task; so long that Mr. Rochester, grown impatient of my delay, sent up to ask why I did not come. She was just fastening my veil (the plain square of blond after all) to my hair with a brooch when I hurried from under her hands as soon as I could.
“Stop!” she cried in French. “Look at yourself in the mirror, you have not taken one peep.”
So I turned at the door and I saw a robed and veiled figure, so unlike my usual self that it seemed almost the image of a stranger.
“Jane!” called a voice, and I hastened down.
I was received at the foot of the stairs by Mr. Rochester.
“Jane, are you ready?”
“Yes, sir,” I replied breathlessly.
There were no groomsmen, no bridesmaids, and no relatives to wait for or marshal. None but Mr. Rochester and I and together we went.
Mrs. Fairfax stood in the hall as we passed. I would have spoken to her, but my hand was held by a grasp of iron and I was hurried along by a stride I could hardly follow; I did not know why we rushed so but to look at Mr. Rochester’s face was to feel that not a second of delay would be tolerated for any purpose.
I know not whether the day was fair or foul in descending the drive, I gazed neither on sky nor earth for my heart was with my eyes and both seemed migrated into Mr. Rochester’s frame.
At the churchyard wicket he stopped and discovered I was quite out of breath. “Am I cruel in my love?” he said. “Delay an instant and lean on me, Jane.”
He earnestly looked at my face from which the blood had, I daresay, momentarily fled and felt my forehead. But I rallied and he walked gently with me up the path to the porch of the grey, steepled church.
We entered the quiet and humble temple where the priest waited in his white surplice at the lowly altar, a clerk beside him. All was still. We took our places at the communion rail and I happened to hear a step behind me. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw a gentleman advancing up the chancel, but the service began so I turned back. The explanation of the intent of matrimony was gone through and then the clergyman came a step further forward, and bending slightly towards Mr. Rochester, went on.
“I require and charge you both that if either of you know any impediment why ye may not lawfully be joined together in matrimony, ye do now confess it; for be ye well assured that so many as are coupled together otherwise than God’s Word doth allow, are not joined together by God, neither is their matrimony lawful.”
He paused, as the custom is. When is the pause after that sentence ever broken by reply? Not perhaps, once in a hundred years. And the clergyman, who had not lifted his eyes from his book and had held his breath but for a moment, was proceeding with his hand already stretched towards Mr. Rochester when a distinct and near voice said, “The marriage cannot go on! I declare the existence of an impediment.”
The clergyman looked up at the speaker and stood mute, while the clerk did the same. Mr. Rochester moved slightly, as if an earthquake had rolled under his feet and taking a firmer footing and not turning his head or eyes, he said, “Proceed.”
A profound silence fell.
Presently Mr. Wood said, “I cannot proceed without some investigation into what has been asserted and evidence of its truth or falsehood.”
“The ceremony is quite broken off,” subjoined the voice behind us. “I am in a condition to prove my allegation. An insuperable impediment to this marriage exists.”
Mr. Rochester heard but heeded not, he stood stubborn and rigid making no movement but to possess himself of my hand. What a hot and strong grasp he had! How his eye shone still watchful and yet wild beneath!
Mr. Wood seemed at a loss. “What is the nature of the impediment?” he asked. “Perhaps it may be got over-explained away?”
“Hardly,” was the answer. “I have called it insuperable, and I speak advisedly.”
The speaker came forward and leaned on the rails. He continued, uttering each word distinctly, calmly, steadily, but not loudly, “It simply consists in the existence of a previous marriage. Mr. Rochester has a wife now living.”
My nerves vibrated to those low-spoken words as they had never vibrated to thunder and my blood ran cold, but I was collected and in no danger of swooning. I looked at Mr. Rochester and I made him look at me. His whole face was a colourless rock and his eye was both spark and flint.
“Who are you?” he asked of the intruder.
“My name is Briggs, I am a solicitor.”
“And you would thrust on me a wife?”
“I would remind you of your lady’s existence, sir, which the law recognises, if you do not.”
“Favour me with an account of her—with her name, her parentage and her place of abode.”
“Certainly.” Mr. Briggs calmly took a paper from his pocket, and read out in a sort of official, nasal voice, “‘I affirm and can prove that on the 20th of October A.D.— (a date of fifteen years back), Edward Fairfax Rochester, of Thornfield Hall, in the county of—, and of Ferndean Manor, in -shire, England, was married to my sister, Bertha Antoinetta Mason, daughter of Jonas Mason, merchant, and of Antoinetta his wife, a Creole, at -church, Spanish Town, Jamaica. The record of the marriage will be found in the register of that church—a copy of it is now in my possession. Signed, Richard Mason.’“
“That—if a genuine document—may prove I have been married, but it does not prove that the woman mentioned therein as my wife is still living.”
“She was living three months ago,” returned the lawyer.
“How do you know?”
“I have a witness to the fact, whose testimony even you, sir, will scarcely controvert.”
“Produce him—or go to hell.”
“I will produce him first—he is on the spot. Mr. Mason, have the goodness to step forward.”
Mr. Rochester, on hearing the name, set his teeth and experienced a sort of strong convulsive quiver of fury and despair. A man who had hitherto lingered in the background now drew near and a pale face looked over the solicitor’s shoulder. It was Mason himself.
Mr. Rochester turned and glared at him. Contempt palpable in his eyes. “What have you to say?” he demanded.
An inaudible reply escaped Mason’s white lips.
“I again demand, what have you to say?”
“Sir—sir,” interrupted the clergyman, seeing his mad anger, “do not forget you are in a sacred place.” Then addressing Mason, he inquired gently, “Are you aware, sir, whether or not this gentleman’s wife is still living?”
“Courage,” urged the lawyer beside him, “speak out.”
“She is now living at Thornfield Hall,” said Mason, in more articulate tones. “I saw her there last April. I am her brother.”
“At Thornfield Hall!” ejaculated the clergyman. “Impossible! I am an old resident in this neighbourhood, sir, and I never heard of a Mrs. Rochester at Thornfield Hall.”
I saw a grim smile contort Mr. Rochester’s lips, and he muttered, “No, by God! I took care that none should hear of it.” For ten minutes he held counsel with himself and forming his resolve, he announced, “Enough! Leave the church for there will be no wedding to-day.”
I could not speak or swoon, I merely listened as my love went on.
“Bigamy is an ugly word! I meant, however, to be a bigamist, but fate has out-manoeuvered me. Gentlemen, my plan is broken up—what this lawyer and his client say is true. I have been married and the woman to whom I was married lives! You say you never heard of a Mrs. Rochester at Thornfield, but I daresay you have many a time inclined your ear to gossip about the mysterious lunatic kept there under watch and ward. Some have whispered to you that she is my bastard half-sister, some my cast-off mistress. I now inform you that she is my wife whom I married fifteen years ago—Bertha Mason by name and sister of this resolute personage who quivers before me. Bertha Mason is mad and she came of a mad family as I found out after I had wed the daughter, for they were silent on family secrets before. But I invite you all to come up to the house and visit my wife, Mrs. Poole’s patient. You shall see what sort of a being I was cheated into espousing and judge whether or not I had a right to seek sympathy with something at least human. This girl,” he continued, looking at me, “knew no more than you of the disgusting secret and she thought all was fair. But come all of you and follow!” Still holding me fast, he left the church and the three gentlemen came after. At our entrance to Thornfield, Mrs. Fairfax, Adele, Sophie and Leah advanced to meet and greet us.
“Away with your congratulations!” cried the master. “They are fifteen years too late!”
He passed on and ascended the stairs, still holding my hand and still beckoning the gentlemen to follow him, which they did. We mounted the first staircase, passed up the gallery and proceeded to the third storey. Mr. Rochester opened a low black door and admitted us to a tapestried room.
“You know this place, Mason,” said our guide, “she bit and stabbed you here.”
He lifted the hangings from the wall, uncovering the second door and this he also opened. A room without a window revealed itself and inside there burnt a fire guarded by a high and strong fender and a lamp suspended from the ceiling by a chain. Grace Poole bent over the fire, apparently cooking something in a saucepan. In the deep shade at the farther end of the room, a figure ran backwards and forwards. What it was, whether beast or human being, one could not, at first sight, tell. It grovelled seemingly on all fours and snatched and growled like some strange wild animal, but it was covered with clothing and a quantity of dark, grizzled hair, wild as a mane, hid its head and face.
“Good-morrow, Mrs. Poole!” said Mr. Rochester. “How are you? And how is your charge to-day?”
“We’re tolerable, sir, I thank you,” replied Grace, lifting the boiling mess carefully on to the hob. “Rather snappish, but not ‘rageous.”
A fierce cry seemed to give the lie to her favourable report and the clothed hyena rose up, and stood tall on its hind-feet.
“Ah! Sir, she sees you!” exclaimed Grace, “you’d better not stay.”
“Only a few moments, Grace. You must allow me a few moments.”
“Take care then, sir! For God’s sake, take care!” The maniac bellowed and parted her shaggy locks from her visage to gaze wildly at her visitors. I recognised well that purple face and those bloated features. Mrs. Poole advanced.
“Keep out of the way,” said Mr. Rochester, thrusting her aside. “She has no knife now, I suppose, and I’m on my guard.”
“One never knows what she has, sir, she is so cunning. It is not in mortal discretion to fathom her craft.”
“We had better leave her,” whispered Mason.
“Go to the devil!” was his brother-in-law’s recommendation.
“Beware!” cried Grace.
The three gentlemen retreated simultaneously and Mr. Rochester flung me behind him. The lunatic sprang and grappled his throat viciously, laid her teeth to his cheek and they struggled. She was a big woman, in stature almost equalling her husband and corpulent besides and more than once she almost throttled him, athletic as he was. He could have settled her with a well-planted blow, but he would not strike, he would only wrestle. At last he mastered her arms and Grace Poole gave him a cord, which he used to bound her to a chair. The operation was performed amidst the fiercest yells and the most convulsive plunges. Mr. Rochester then turned to the spectators and looked at them with a smile both acrid and desolate.
“That is my wife,” said he. “And this is what I wished to have,” he added, laying his hand on my shoulder. “This young girl who stands so grave and quiet at the mouth of hell. Compare these clear eyes with the red balls yonder and this form with that bulk, then judge me! Off with you now. I must shut up my prize.” We all withdrew silently and Mr. Rochester stayed a moment behind us to give some further order to Grace Poole. The solicitor addressed me as he descended the stair.
“You, madam,” said he, “are cleared from all blame and your uncle will be glad to hear it if, indeed, he should be still living when Mr. Mason returns to Madeira.”
“My uncle! What of him? Do you know him?”
“Mr. Mason does. Mr. Eyre has been the Funchal correspondent of his house for some years. When your uncle received your letter intimating the contemplated union between yourself and Mr. Rochester, Mr. Mason, who was staying at Madeira to recruit his health on his way back to Jamaica, happened to be with him. Mr. Eyre mentioned the intelligence for he knew that my client here was acquainted with a gentleman of the name of Rochester. Mr. Mason, astonished and distressed as you may suppose, revealed the real state of matters. Your uncle, I am sorry to say, is now on a sick bed from which, considering the nature of his disease, he is unlikely ever to rise. He could not then hasten to England himself to extricate you from the snare into which you had fallen, but he implored Mr. Mason to lose no time in taking steps to prevent the false marriage. He referred him to me for assistance and I am thankful I was not too late as you doubtless must be also. Were I not morally certain that your uncle will be dead ere you reach Madeira, I would advise you to accompany Mr. Mason back, but as it is, I think you had better remain in England till you can hear further, either from or of Mr. Eyre. Have we anything else to stay for?” he inquired of Mr. Mason.
“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 and 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. I shut myself in, fastened the bolt that none might intrude and proceeded to weep mournfully.