Джейн Эйр / Jane Eyre

“Really,” she said, “is this a good idea? You are not of the same class, and you are certainly not the same age. Mr. Rochester is old enough to be your father.”

“He is nothing like a father to me,” I objected. “He is more youthful than many a man of twenty-five!”

“And he is really marrying you for love, is he?”

This hurt me so much, my eyes filled with tears.

“I’m sorry to upset you, dear, but I must warn you to be careful. Things are not always what they seem.”

At that moment, Adèle ran in, begging to be allowed to come to Millcote with us. I persuaded Mr. Rochester to let her, and the three of us set off together.

I found shopping hard work. I was not used to spending hours choosing from bright silks and satins, ribbons, trims and bonnets, and it embarrassed me. In the end I chose only two new dresses, instead of the six Mr. Rochester wanted me to have, and even then, I was glad to climb back into the carriage.

As I sat there, hot and tired, I suddenly recalled my uncle’s letter. The incredible events of the last day had banished it from my mind. I must write to him as soon as I could. He was a relative, and should be told of my marriage. Furthermore, the thought of perhaps inheriting some money one day made me feel better about being showered with gifts by Mr. Rochester. If I was an independent woman, with my own wealth, I would feel more his equal.

As soon as we were back home, I sent a long letter to my uncle, explaining everything. Then I went to Mr. Rochester, and told him that I wanted to go on teaching Adèle and earning my living. I was not born to be a lady of leisure. I was not a doll, to be dressed up. I was not Celine Varens. I was Jane Eyre, a plain, hardworking governess, and I would not change.

My future husband was becoming to me my whole world, and more than the world: almost my hope of heaven. He was now my idol, and still I resolved to be as true to myself as I possibly could in the month before the wedding, so that Mr. Rochester would have no illusions about who he was marrying. Then, if he wanted to change his mind, he could.

Chapter 25

Mr. Rochester did not change his mind after a month of courtship.

The night before my wedding day I was in my room, all packed and ready for my honeymoon. Mr. Rochester had given me little cards to attach to my cases, with “Mrs. Rochester” written on them, and the name of a hotel in London – but I could bring myself to tie them on until tomorrow. Mrs. Rochester did not yet exist: she would not be born till tomorrow, some time after eight o’clock a.m. I decided to wait to be assured she had come into the world alive before I assigned to her all that property.

Hanging in my open closet was my wedding dress – a pearl-white gown. Beside it was a beautifully embroidered veil. But looking at it didn’t make me happy. It made me feel afraid and upset, because of something that had happened the night before.

Mr. Rochester had been away on business for the night, and that evening my dress had arrived. All the servants gathered to watch me open the box. Underneath the dress itself, I found the beautiful veil – a surprise from Mr. Rochester. I knew he had ordered it because I had said no to the jewels. He still wanted me to have something special and expensive to wear on my wedding day.

I hung the outfit in my closet, and went to dinner. As the evening wore on, it grew dark, rainy and windy, not like summer at all. I went to bed, and as the storm battered my window, I fell into a strange and frightening dream. I dreamed that I came to Thornfield on my own, and found it was a ruin, a hollow, empty shell. I wandered through the rooms, all overgrown with weeds. Nothing of their beauty remained but old fragments of marble and plaster.

I woke up with a start. Someone had left a lighted candle standing on my dresser. It must be Sophie or Leah; but why?

Then I heard a noise from the closet, and saw a tall female figure walk out of it. She picked up the candle, and stood staring at my wedding gown.

My blood ran cold with horror as I realized it was not Sophie, or Leah, or Mrs. Fairfax. It was not even Grace Poole, nor anyone else I knew. This woman was tall and strong, and wore a ragged white nightdress. Long, dark, matted hair hung down her back.

I saw her put the candle down, then she reached up, took down the veil, and put it on her own head. Then she turned to the mirror, and that was when I saw, reflected back at me, her face – a terrifying face such as I had never seen before. I shrank back against my pillow as I stared at her insane, rolling eyes, scowling features, and purplish lips, twisted into a dreadful grimace. Then, as I watched, she took the veil off, lifted it up, and tore it into two pieces.