I mounted the stairs slowly and turned toward Jane’s room. At the door, I paused: I cannot disturb her, I thought; it is not my right. I can do nothing but wait for her to enter the world again, and forgive me. Silently, I pressed my hand—and then my forehead—against the wood of the door panel. I don’t know how long I stood there, feeling a flood of remorse and exhaustion wash over me as the waters came into my soul. Eventually, I went to the nearest room and brought out a chair and quietly set it down in front of Jane’s door.
I had betrayed her, just as my father had betrayed me, and I knew, better than anyone, that a trust once broken is never again the same. I sat there for hours—replaying times we had spent together, happier times; surely they had meant as much to her as they had to me. After a time I began to worry that something could have happened to her—that the recent events had made her ill—but just then I heard soft sounds of movement, and then the bolt was withdrawn, and a pale, rumpled Jane collapsed into my arms.
I gathered her close and held her. “You come out at last!” I said. “I have been waiting for you long, and listening; yet not one movement have I heard, nor one sob: five minutes more of that deathlike hush, and I should have forced the lock like a burglar.” She moved slightly in my arms, as if trying to escape, but I held her to me, waiting for her to scream at me and pound my chest, to release the anger that meant she still cared. But she was silent while I blundered on: “Jane, I never meant to wound you thus. Will you ever forgive me?”
Still, she said nothing. Would she never speak to me again? “You know I am a scoundrel, Jane?” I said. Even rage would have been better than this stubborn, gruesome silence.
“Yes, sir,” she said, her first words to me.
“Then tell me so roundly and sharply—don’t spare me.”
But she could not: she was too weak to do more than lie in my arms, and I realized she had had nothing to eat since the night before. I carried her down to the library and plied her with water and wine and sent for nourishment for the both of us, for I had not eaten, either. Slowly she revived, regaining color in her face and limbs, and regaining as well her willpower. I was sure she felt comfort in my arms, as I did in hers, yet she would not allow a kiss or even an endearing touch.
“Why, Jane?—because I have a wife already? You think me a low rake?” I asked her, but I knew the answer before she could give it. And I could have repeated her other arguments before she gave them as well. Nothing I could say would move her. I challenged her to consider my dilemma: the husband of a mad wife, the necessity of keeping my secret in order to hire and keep servants, and even a governess!—but she chastised me, saying it was not Bertha’s fault she was mad.
I tried reason; I challenged that she didn’t truly love me; I told her my entire story, from childhood to my ill-considered, disastrous marriage and my realization of what Bertha really was, and my decadent, wastrel life in Europe, all of it up until I met her that dark January evening, hoping that she would see me anew, sure that she would admit I had done the best that could be asked of any man in the same place. I brought her and myself near to tears more than once.
But as she grew stronger, the power of her will increased all the more. I went through every weapon in my armory—patience, love, forgiveness, anger, reason—but nothing could pierce the steel of her will, nothing could break down the walls of what I had most admired in her: her resolute independence, her moral compass. I was powerless against her.
This was not like the previous times in which we had enjoyed parrying with each other, challenging each other, the wordplay that had once so amused me. But this was not a game: this was my life, for without Jane, I had nothing; I was nothing. And yet I saw her slipping away from me, and, try as I might, nothing I could say would move her.
Still, I was convinced there must be some way to bring her back to me. It tore my heart when she announced at last—so sternly it made me weep—“I am going, sir,” and made to return to her room.
Devastated, I could not bear to watch her go.
In the morning, I told myself, in the morning I will find a way to persuade her.
Chapter 24
Dawn came in a bleak July sky. I had paced all night. As I watched the light strengthen, I told myself Jane would be mine again before the sun set. I clung to that thought, for surely moral laws were not so immutable that Providence would have brought her to me and then denied me her love. I rose and dressed and hurried to the door of her chamber, not to wake her but to assure myself of her presence. I touched it softly with my fingertips, and then I slipped away and down the stairs.
I went into my library and looked out, watching an early-morning haze rise from the meadow. What else could I tell her to show her that we belonged together? How to make her understand that our love broke no law of God? I wandered down into the kitchen, where I had often felt most comfortable. Mary was already shaping the day’s bread, and she bobbed a curtsy at me and kept on with her work. She, at least, did not appear changed by yesterday’s calamity. I picked up a piece of ham—a remnant of what was meant to be yesterday’s supper—and popped it into my mouth, and as its cool, salt taste lingered on my tongue, I realized what I’d left missing. Fool that I was! I needed to tell her the rest—tell her about Gerald, about Bertha’s suffering at the hands of my selfish brother, tell her that I had been willing to give up Thornfield for her, and still would, if I could be sure Bertha would be cared for and the estates were in safe, stable hands. Surely Jane, sweet Jane of all people, would understand this! My spirits soaring, I turned to go and wait by her door for her to awake, when Mary spoke: “Something odd, sir,” she said.
“What’s that?”
“The side-passage door was already unlocked when I went out to get the eggs this morning.” She shook her head in confusion. “I was sure I had locked it last night.”
My mind refused to consider the worst. “John had not already gone out, perhaps?” I asked.
“No, sir.”
Oh God, I thought, turning, but her next words stopped me. “And there was bread missing, I’m sure of it.” Then she shrugged. “Probably an unfortunate wanderer passing by. I’ll make sure the house is better secured—”
Those last words came to me from behind; I was already running. Up the steps from the kitchen, across the hall, up the grand stairs, turning to Jane’s room, and stopping abruptly. Dare I risk waking her? I hardly gave it a second thought. I did knock, but immediately opened the door, envisioning her in bed, turning sleepily in surprise at the intrusion.