Chapter VI: Act V

SCENE I.—_Plain chamber_—JANE _discovered_.

_Jane._ Twelve months have passed since that fearful day. Oh, too faithful memory, why didst thou call up the loathsome picture in its terrible reality. I see it now before my eyes, as vividly as when stricken by the bolt of destiny, even at the very threshold of my joy: now almost a bride, and in an instant alone—alone; the Christmas frost had come at midsummer, and the smiling way of life that seemed to blush so full of flowers, became in a moment pathless with untrodden snow; and yet it was not for myself this bitterness of anguish—it was for him—that I dare not deem him worthy; that the pure and bright ideal that I had thought was found in him, should be so blurred and blackened. I have worshipped a false image, and I must tear it from the altar I myself have raised. Alas! alas! ’tis not a vapour sunshine can disperse—’tis not a sand traced effigy storms can wash away; it is a name engraved upon a tablet, which must last as long as the marble upon which it is inscribed. Oh! for some friendly hand to point my proper road. I fear myself there is a sweet, strange, dreamy spell pervades this solemn eventime my failing sense cannot resist. I’m powerless beneath its influence. Oh, if in dreams, good angels e’er suggest the better course, may such welcome visitors be mine.

(_Sleeps—Music. The scene becomes luminous, and Rochester is
seen stretching his hand towards her—he exclaims_—“Jane! Jane!
where art thou?”—_vision vanishes—Jane starts up_.)

I am here, Rochester, my still beloved: this is no deception of the mind—no witchcraft: I heard him distinctly—the music of his words yet rings in my ears. Again he speaks—he calls me, in tones of suffering. He may be dying, and I am not near to look at my last of love and life. Rochester, wait for me—I come, I come!

[_Exit._

SCENE II.—_Interior of a Cottage._

_Enter_ JOHN, R. H.

_John._ Well, I never did see any one take on for any body in such an outrageous way as my poor master does for that there governess. One would naturally suppose that the whole race of soft sexes was abolished from the face of the inhabitable globe, which everybody knows, and we in perticular, they are not.

_Enter_ MRS. JOHN, _late Grace_, L. H.

_Mrs. D._ Now, turnip skull, what are you wasting your time there for?

_John._ None of your vegetable allusions if you please, or else I might insinuate something respecting _carrots_, Mrs. Downey.

_Mrs. D._ Alluding to my hair, I presume, Mr. D.

_John._ Precisely, Mrs. D.

_Mrs. D._ Before we were married you used to call it auburn.

_John._ That’s the poetical for red, you know; only an allowable ante-nuptial fiction, as my old master, the lawyers, used to say.

_Mrs. D._ I’ll fiction your thick head with the broom-handle if you don’t mind.

_John._ Ah, you let the devil’s hoof peep out now. I suppose we’ll have the horns soon. You were a different sort of an individual when you went sneaking about Thornfield with your bit of bread and cheese, awaiting on that she-devil as was shut up there; you couldn’t say boo to a goose then.

_Mrs. D._ I’ve often had a chance since.

_John._ Mrs. D., respect the head of your family.

_Mrs. D._ There’s nothing in it.

_John._ Honour the provider of your wittles. Oh, why did I ever marry?

_Mrs. D._ That’s a question that always comes too late; and moreover is never asked except by a good-for-nothing husband; see, who is that lady beckoning to you. Stupid, go and see what she wants—while I get master’s dinner on the do.

[_Exit into house._

_Enter_ JANE, _slightly concealing her face_, L. H.

_Jane._ Is this Ferndean Farm?

_John._ It is, marm.

_Jane._ Your name is John Downey.

_John._ I never had no other as I knows on, marm. (_Aside._) Exceptin’ now and then, turnip skull and such like.

_Jane._ They told me at the inn that you could give me the information that I require. You know Thornfield Hall?

_John._ Yes, marm; I lived there once; I was the late Mr. Rochester’s own man.

_Jane._ The late—I——

_John._ Dear me, marm, anything the matter?

_Jane._ A spasm—’twill soon be over. Have I then lived and hoped for this? With one simple word to be for ever crushed, destroyed.

_Jane._ When did Mr. Rochester die?

_John._ I don’t mean the present gentleman.

_Jane._ Present? _he_ is alive then.

_John._ Oh, yes, marm, he’s _alive_!

_Jane._ Thank Heaven! I can bear anything now! the light of hope and joy rekindled! Does he live at Thornfield Hall now?

_John._ No marm; no one is living there. You must be a stranger here or you would have known that the Hall was burnt down last harvest time.

_Jane._ Burnt? the hall?

_John._ Yes, marm. The fire broke out at dead of night. It was a terrible sight. It nearly caught fire once before, at a strange time—there was a wedding about to take place.

_Jane._ But the last fire; how did it originate?

_John._ The same way. A raving lunatic, that tuned out to be Mr. Rochester’s wife, after having made several attempts, succeeded at last.

_Jane._ And was _he_! was Mr. Rochester in the house?

_John._ Oh, yes, marm, and never left it until everybody else was safe. Then he tried to get his mad wife out of the place, but she fled to the roof, where she yelled and gave a spring and in the next moment she lay upon the pavement.

_Jane._ Great Heaven! Dead?

_John._ Yes, marm, as dead as the very stones she lay on.

_Jane._ One question more. My labouring heart throbs painfully at each pulsation. I scarcely dare to ask him from fear. While there’s delay there still is hope, and yet, suspense is anguish. What of the master of the Hall—is he in the country?

_John._ Yes, marm. He can’t get out of it well, now. He’s a fixture.

_Jane._ There is an awful meaning in your words.

_John._ He’s blind, marm, stone blind.

_Jane._ Thank heaven! I had feared a worse calamity; the loss of reason—but where? do you know where he now is?

_John._ He ain’t far off, marm; he’s in the garden yonder.

_Jane._ So near. I was not prepared for this, John. Do you not know me?

_John._ Dear heart—why it’s the governess. Oh, but this will be a happy meeting for us all.

_Jane._ Let us retire from observation.

_John._ You forget, miss, he can’t see a mite.

_Jane._ Oh, terrible affliction—and I to be so long estranged from him, when words of solace were so needed. My very soul yearns to bring him comfort; it is not now a crime—it is a duty.

_John._ You’ll see him, miss, won’t you?

_Jane._ See him, John! his very shadow in the sun shall not be nearer or more constant than I, while life remains.

_John._ This is indeed a joyful return. I shouldn’t wonder but it will even smooth Mrs. D’s wrinkles. I’m married, miss; don’t you recollect Grace Pool, she’s what folks call a good woman in the _main_; I wish she _was_ in it, just to try the experiment.

_Jane._ Quick! let me see her; I must consult with her the means of introducing myself to Rochester. [_Exit John._] Be firm, be firm, my heart—no shrinking now; this is thy duty; perform it well; even though neglect and coldness be the recompense.

_Re-enter_ JOHN, _with water_.

_John._ He has just called for a glass of water.

_Jane._ His kind fate points out a means for me to see him without danger of too sudden a recognition. Give me the water, John; I’ll take it to him. Now, courage, courage.

[_Exit_, R. H.

SCENE III.—_Exterior of Farm House_—ROCHESTER _discovered—his arms stretched out—he is blind—his hair streaming in the breeze.—The picture as before in the vision._

_Roch._ Jane! Jane! ah, if you but knew that sky and mountain, field and flower, are shut out from me for ever, you would not desert the proud, strong man in the day of his affliction. In the wickedness of my heart I spurned all control, and would have done thee wrong, angel of brightness and purity; but I am punished, sorely punished. In vain for me the day dawns and breaks, the sun rises and the seasons change. All is to me a blank; my existence shrouded in unending night. Twelve months—twelve long, leaden, fearful months have passed since that bright earthly vision fled from me—even as the pure and good will ever flee from the assassin of the soul; yet how often has the cruel delusion seized me that she was in my very presence, though unseen; just as I feel this fire’s genial glow, but cannot see the flames which causes it.

_Enter_ JANE, L. H., _with tray, tumbler of water on it_.

Even now my mocking sense would almost persuade me that I heard her breathe; out upon this heart-consuming deception—it almost drives me to despair. (_Sits._)

_Jane._ Ah, what a sight—what a sight! (_Very quietly._)

_Roch._ There is some one near me. Grace, have you brought the water. (_Jane hands it to him—he drinks._) Thanks. No news, I suppose; silent—ah, I knew it! I knew it. Thus for ever must I stretch the chord of expectation and of life until they snap together. Hush! did you not hear something—a small quiet murmuring sound like hers, so like Jane’s. I heard it but a short time since; it said, “_Rochester, I come! I come!_” as distinctly as ever sound reached my ear. Ah! malicious spirits that sport with human hearts, this is the cruelest pastime. I hear nothing. Oh! for one week’s eyesight. I would find her or a grave. (_Jane sighs._) Who is that? that wasn’t you, Grace? Is there anyone with you? answer me. Is that you, Grace?

_Jane._ Grace is in the kitchen, sir.

_Roch._ (_Starts up in violent agitation._) I know that voice, if the cheating demon is not practising on my sense once more. Who is this? What is it? Speak again, whoever you are.

_Jane._ Will you have a little more water, sir?

_Roch._ Again—great Heaven! this is distraction. Why don’t you tell me whether you are a living thing or another of those tantalizing fiends that worry me to the verge of madness? Who or what are you?

_Jane._ I come to wait on you.

_Roch._ Delusion, nothing but delusion! What sweet madness has seised me?

_Jane._ No delusion, sir, no madness; your mind is too strong for delusion, your health too sound for frenzy.

_Roch._ And where is this speaker? Is it only a voice? Oh! I cannot see, but I must touch you, or my heart will stop and my brain burst. (_Jane approaches him—He takes her hand._) Her very fingers—her small slight fingers; if so, there must be more. (_Touches, and finally clasps her in his arms._) Is it Jane? What is it? it has her shape and feature.

_Jane._ Yes, Rochester, and her voice and heart. Jane is here—here with you.

_Roch._ In truth and in flesh! my living Jane!

_Jane._ You hold me in your arms. I am not vacant like the air.

_Roch._ But if I let you go, will you not fade away, vanish as all the rest have done?

_Jame._ Never! never! from this day.

_Roch._ Never, says the vision; but don’t you know, unearthly thing, that bright as are these delicious moments, they must have an end. I know that in a moment this hand, which I foolishly deem real, will elude my grasp, and that voice which sounded to my enraptured sense like heavenly music, will die away upon the echoes and be heard no more. Gentle, soft dream, you will fly me like those who came before, many, oh, many a time.

_Jane._ Is it a dream to grasp your kind hand with the warm truthfulness of love; to tell you that I am here—I, Jane, your own Jane; to avow that love and glory in that avowal; to say that my life, hitherto dark and hopeless, is once more bathed in the brilliancy of an enduring joy; that my heart, which famished for your presence, is sated from the very fulness of its banquet?

_Roch._ It _is_ you, Jane—my living, breathing, loving, constant. Jane. Come near me, and let me fancy that I see you with these rayless orbs. I cannot! I cannot! but I feel your presence like a shower of sunlight on my heart; and you’ve come back to me again, and will you stay with me?

_Jane._ Unless you object! I will be your neighbour, your nurse, your housekeeper, your companion; to read to you, to walk with you, to sit with you, to be eyes and hands to you—that is, if you wish it, not otherwise. (_Disengaging herself a little._)

_Roch._ No, no, Jane. You must not go. I have touched you, heard you, felt the comfort of your presence, the sweetness of your consolation, and I cannot give up those joys; my very soul demands you, Jane. There are other thoughts within my brain which I dare not utter. What right has such a ruin as I to bid a budding woodbine cover its decay with freshness?

_Jane._ You are not a ruin, sir. Friends, troops of friends will cluster around you.

_Roch._ Friend! I want a nearer tie, Jane, my Jane; do you not comprehend me? You do, and I may speak the wish of my soul. Jane, will you be my wife?

_Jane._ I will.

_Roch._ What! wife to the poor blind man, whom you will have to lead by the hand?

_Jane._ Yes!

_Roch._ Truly, Jane?

_Jane._ Most truly, sir!

_Roch._ Oh, my darling! Heaven will bless and reward you for the sacrifice.

_Jane._ Sacrifice? 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 sacred wish, I am rewarded now. To be your wife is to be as happy as I can be on earth.

(_Shout outside._)

_Roch._ What is that? John?

_Enter_ JOHN.

_Roch._ What means that shout?

_John._ Have you forgotten, sir, that this is your birthday?

_Roch._ Truly, I had, John. But now I accept the omen as a good one, for my life is again renewed through the heaven-gift of thy pure and true love, my earth-angel.

_John._ Your tenants, who love and respect you, sir, have brought their poor but honest gifts; it would make them and all of us so happy, sir, if you would accept them.

_Roch._ Let them approach. My wife, John, that is to be shortly, will accept them for me.

_John._ Hurrah! there will be another shout for that. Come, friends!

_Roch._ I cannot see their merriment, my love; but what will the sum of all their joy be, compared with mine?

_Enter_ PEASANTS.—_Jane and Rochester advance._

_John._ Don’t spare your lungs. A cheer for our kind master and his intended bride.

(_Hurrah all. Present bouquets to Jane._)

_Roch._ My good fellows—I—speak to them for me, Jane, the fulness of my joy chokes my very utterance.

_Jane._ I am myself too happy for many words. My friends, he whose ambition is to be the kind landlord, and the good adviser, cannot, alas! behold your kindly glances, but he thanks you for your generous sympathy, as I do from my heart.

(_Jane leads Rochester to seat, a device is fixed by the
Peasants, having printed thereon in flowers, “The Farmer’s
Friend.” Garlands depend from the centre, which are held up by
Peasants, forming a canopy for Jane and Rochester—Music._)

_Curtain._

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60 Fisher Maiden (Song)
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63 Woman’s Inconstancy (Song)
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