|
Support the Monkey! Tell All your Friends and Teachers |
||||
 |
||||
|
Support the Monkey! Tell All your Friends and Teachers |
||||
|
|
||||
|
247 ‘All, sir.’ ‘And on my part likewise,’ he returned, ‘I have settled everything; and we shall leave Thornfield to-morrow, within half an hour after our return from church.’ ‘Very well, sir.’ ‘With what an extraordinary smile you uttered that word-“very well,” Jane! What a bright spot of colour you have on each cheek! and how strangely your eyes glitter! Are you well?’ ‘I believe I am.’ ‘Believe! What is the matter? Tell me what you feel.’ ‘I could not, sir: no words could tell you what I feel. I wish this present hour would never end: who knows with what fate the next day may come charged?’ ‘This is hypochondria, Jane. You have been over-excited, or over-fatigued.’ ‘Do you, sir, feel calm and happy?’ ‘Calm?- no: but happy-to the heart’s core.’ I looked up at him to read the signs of bliss in his face: it was ardent and flushed. ‘Give me your confidence, Jane,’ he said: ‘relieve your mind of any weight that oppresses it, by imparting it to me. What do you fear?- that I shall not prove a good husband?’ ‘It is the idea farthest from my thoughts.’ ‘Are you apprehensive of the new sphere you are about to enter?- of the new life into which you are passing?’ ‘No.’ ‘You puzzle me, Jane: your look and tone of sorrowful audacity perplex and pain me. I want an explanation.’ ‘Then, sir, listen. You were from home last night?’ ‘I was: I know that; and you hinted a while ago at something which had happened in my absence:- nothing, probably, of consequence; but, in short, it has disturbed you. Let me hear it. Mrs. Fairfax has said something, perhaps? or you have overheard the servants talk?- your sensitive self-respect has been wounded?’ ‘No, sir.’ It struck twelve-I waited till the timepiece had concluded its silver chime, and the clock its hoarse, vibrating stroke, and then I proceeded. ‘All day yesterday I was very busy, and very happy in my ceaseless bustle; for I am not, as you seem to think, troubled by any haunting fears about the new sphere, et cetera: I think it a glorious thing to have the hope of living with you, because I love you. No, sir, don’t caress me now-let me talk undisturbed. Yesterday I trusted well in Providence, and believed that events were working together for your good and mine: it was a fine day, if you recollect- the calmness of the air and sky forbade apprehensions respecting your safety or comfort on your journey. I walked a little while on the pavement after tea, thinking of you; and I beheld you in imagination so near me, I scarcely missed your actual presence. I thought of the life that lay before me-your life, sir-an existence more expansive and stirring than my own: as much more so as the depths of the sea to which the brook runs are than the shallows of its own strait channel. I wondered why moralists call this world a dreary wilderness: for me it blossomed like a rose. Just at sunset, |
