As I waited for news from Everson, and waited as well for news from Jane, I confess a sour mood overtook me. It felt as if she had been gone for years. She will not return, I thought. She is gone. And worse: I do not deserve her. I wanted to banish those thoughts from my mind, but they would not leave. I loved her—I knew that—and I wanted her; I could not see how I could live without her at my side. But for me to insist that she, unknowing, ally herself with me, a man married already to a madwoman, was beyond all bounds. She was young, innocent, pure. I myself had been that once, but I had crumbled to an ugliness that could lay no claim on one such as Jane; and, now, if I lost Thornfield, I would have nothing left to offer her.
But Adèle would not let me wallow in such dreary thoughts; once I returned from London and Gateshead, the lonely child had insistently become my daily companion. One morning I ordered Sophie to dress Adèle in her oldest clothes, for I had something in mind. I had been watching the haymakers, the rhythm of their work, as steady and insistent as a heartbeat, and although my help was not needed, an unexpected urge came upon me to become a part of that tableau.
Searching for old clothes for Adèle was like hoping to locate an oak tree growing in the drawing room, for the child carelessly discarded clothing long before it was outgrown. But finally something suitable was found, and, with Adèle’s hand in mine, I led her down the lane and into the fields. There I took a spare rake and set myself to work with the laborers. I could see the stifled smiles at my ineptness, but never mind, it was good for me to be out in the sun and the open air. The work cleared my mind, and the sun on my back, the unfamiliar aches, blotted out nearly every other care.
Adèle, meanwhile, scampered here and there, gathering hay in her arms and ferrying it to stacks we laborers were forming. She delighted in the activity for a time but soon grew bored and begged me for a ride in the pony cart, not relenting until I gave up and walked with her back to the Hall, where we harnessed up the pony cart and took ourselves to the village and back.
But that was only one day out of so many. I missed Jane more than I could have imagined—that staunch little friend, as pert as a wren, as steady as a rock: how had I let her go so easily? Why had I not accompanied her? I would have made sure she was not treated badly, not insulted as she once had been at that house. And I would have ensured she did not find another position elsewhere. I would have brought her home to Thornfield-Hall, where she belonged.
On some afternoons, while the sunlight lingered, I took a book and sat on the narrow steps of a stile on a small knoll. It afforded me a view at once vast and pleasant, and, more important, an opportunity to see the road, to see if a coach came, to watch Jane alight with her small box, home at last. I tried to write but could not focus my thoughts, imagining my dear one patiently suffering through her time with her cousin Reeds, insulted and demeaned beyond all reason.
But in the end, Jane fooled me. She did not come by coach as I had expected, but walked the way from Millcote on her own, across the fields and meadows. I saw her at a distance, and she seemed to me again like the woodland sprite she had appeared at our first meeting. I did not at first quite believe the vision, watching her coming toward me as evening fell. Here she was, my familiar Jane, sound in body and, I hoped, in spirit—not gone forever, but returning home to me, and I would never let her leave again.
I thought she did not see me until she was nearly upon me, and then she seemed a bit confused when I called out to her: “There you are! Come on, if you please.”
And she did come on, nearly as if in a trance, so astonished, I supposed, to find me there. “And this is Jane Eyre?” I said to her, nearly giddy simply to be in her presence. “Coming from Millcote, and on foot? Yes—just one of your tricks: not to send for a carriage, and come clattering over street and road like a common mortal, but to steal into the vicinage of your home”—yes, Jane, yes, I thought, this shall be your home forever—“along with twilight, just as if you were a dream or a shade. What the deuce have you done with yourself this last month?” She looked pale in the evening light, and I feared for her well-being.
“I have been with my aunt, sir, who is dead.”
“A true Janian reply! Good angels be my guard! She comes from the other world—from the abode of people who are dead; and tells me so when she meets me alone here in the gloaming! If I dared, I’d touch you, to see if you are substance or shadow, you elf!” As I longed to do, to gather her to me and never let her go. Instead, I continued my playful banter. “Truant! Absent from me a whole month: and forgetting me quite, I’ll be sworn!”
She did not contest this last, as I had wished, but instead she gazed about her, as if quite overcome, and I supposed she was. I had greeted her more effusively than I had ever done, but I could not help it: I, too, was overcome in the moment. She seemed so pure, so perfect and separate from all mortal flaws as to be inhuman—better than human—not susceptible to sin or worry. As I had those thoughts, she turned the conversation to my London trip; I was relieved that she knew—from Mrs. Fairfax—only of the carriage purchase, nothing more.
“You must see the carriage, Jane, and tell me if you don’t think it will suit Mrs. Rochester exactly; and whether she won’t look like Queen Boadicea, leaning back against those purple cushions. I wish, Jane, I were a trifle better adapted to match with her externally. Tell me now, fairy as you are,—can’t you give me a charm, or a philter, or something of that sort, to make me a handsome man?” I could not help but grin at her, for of course the Mrs. Rochester I was hoping for was Jane herself. She did not believe herself beautiful, I knew, and she did not seem to understand that a loving eye is all the charm needed for beauty.
“It would be past the power of magic, sir,” was all she said, and despite the insult I found my heart soaring at my little friend’s familiar serious honesty, her refusal to flatter. Now that Jane was back to me, I had only to try to convince her that she was my destiny, and I hers.
I sent her on her way and she began to obey, but she turned back, suddenly, and I saw emotion storm across her face as she uttered the words that would change my life: “Wherever you are is my home,” she said, “my only home.” Before I could speak, she was gone.
There it was. She knew she belonged to me as completely as I to her. I could not contain my heart: now I felt sure she would choose to be with me, as soon as I was free to make her the offer.
*