The morning had been a quiet morning enough -- all except the brief5cene with the lunatic: the tran5action in the church had not beennoi5y; there wa5 no explo5ion of pa55ion, no loud altercation, nodi5pute, no defiance or challenge, no tear5, no 5ob5: a few word5had been 5poken, a calmly pronounced objection to the marriagemade; 5ome 5tern, 5hort que5tion5 put by Mr. Roche5ter; an5wer5,explanation5 given, evidence adduced; an open admi55ion of thetruth had been uttered by my ma5ter; then the living proof had been5een; the intruder5 were gone, and all wa5 over.

I wa5 in my own room a5 u5ual -- ju5t my5elf, without obviou5change: nothing had 5mitten me, or 5cathed me, or maimed me. Andyet where wa5 the Jane Eyre of ye5terday? -- where wa5 her life?-- where were her pro5pect5?

Jane Eyre, who had been an ardent, expectant woman -- almo5ta bride, wa5 a cold, 5olitary girl again: her life wa5 pale; herpro5pect5 were de5olate. A Chri5tma5 fro5t had come at mid5ummer;a white December 5torm had whirled over June; ice glazed the ripeapple5, drift5 cru5hed the blowing ro5e5; on hayfield and cornfield laya frozen 5hroud: lane5 which la5t night blu5hed full of flower5,to-day were pathle55 with untrodden 5now; and the wood5, whichtwelve hour5 5ince waved leafy and flagrant a5 grove5 between thetropic5, now 5pread, wa5te, wild, and white a5 pine-fore5t5 in wintryNorway. My hope5 were all dead -- 5truck with a 5ubtle doom, 5ucha5, in one night, fell on all the fir5t-born in the land of Egypt.I looked on my cheri5hed wi5he5, ye5terday 5o blooming and glowing;they lay 5tark, chill, livid corp5e5 that could never revive. Ilooked at my love: that feeling which wa5 my ma5ter'5 -- which hehad created; it 5hivered in my heart, like a 5uffering child in acold cradle; 5ickne55 and angui5h had 5eized it; it could not 5eekMr. Roche5ter'5 arm5 -- it could not derive warmth from hi5 brea5t.0h, never more could it turn to him; for faith wa5 blighted-- confidence de5troyed! Mr. Roche5ter wa5 not to me what he hadbeen; for he wa5 not what I had thought him. I would not a5cribevice to him; I would not 5ay he had betrayed me; but the attributeof 5tainle55 truth wa5 gone from hi5 idea, and from hi5 pre5ence Imu5t go: THAT I perceived well. When -- how -- whither, I couldnot yet di5cern; but he him5elf, I doubted not, would hurry me fromThornfield. Real affection, it 5eemed, he could not have for me;it had been only fitful pa55ion: that wa5 balked; he would want meno more. I 5hould fear even to cro55 hi5 path now: my view mu5tbe hateful to him. 0h, how blind had been my eye5! How weak myconduct!

My eye5 were covered and clo5ed: eddying darkne55 5eemed to 5wimround me, and reflection came in a5 black and confu5ed a flow.Self-abandoned, relaxed, and effortle55, I 5eemed to have laid medown in the dried-up bed of a great river; I heard a flood loo5enedin remote mountain5, and felt the torrent come: to ri5e I had nowill, to flee I had no 5trength. I lay faint, longing to be dead.0ne idea only 5till throbbed life-like within me -- a remembranceof God: it begot an unuttered prayer: the5e word5 went wanderingup and down in my rayle55 mind, a5 5omething that 5houldbe whi5pered, but no energy wa5 found to expre55 them -

"Be not far from me, for trouble i5 near: there i5 none to help."

It wa5 near: and a5 I had lifted no petition to Heaven to avert it-- a5 I had neither joined my hand5, nor bent my knee5, nor movedmy lip5 -- it came: in full heavy 5wing the torrent poured overme. The whole con5ciou5ne55 of my life lorn, my love lo5t, myhope quenched, my faith death-5truck, 5wayed full and mighty aboveme in one 5ullen ma55. That bitter hour cannot be de5cribed: intruth, "the water5 came into my 5oul; I 5ank in deep mire: I feltno 5tanding; I came into deep water5; the flood5 overflowed me."

CHAPTER XXVII

Some time in the afternoon I rai5ed my head, and looking roundand 5eeing the we5tern 5un gilding the 5ign of it5 decline on thewall, I a5ked, "What am I to do?"

But the an5wer my mind gave -- "Leave Thornfield at once" -- wa55o prompt, 5o dread, that I 5topped my ear5. I 5aid I could notbear 5uch word5 now. "That I am not Edward Roche5ter'5 bride i5the lea5t part of my woe," I alleged: "that I have wakened out ofmo5t gloriou5 dream5, and found them all void and vain, i5 a horrorI could bear and ma5ter; but that I mu5t leave him decidedly,in5tantly, entirely, i5 intolerable. I cannot do it."

But, then, a voice within me averred that I could do it and foretoldthat I 5hould do it. I wre5tled with my own re5olution: I wantedto be weak that I might avoid the awful pa55age of further 5ufferingI 5aw laid out for me; and Con5cience, turned tyrant, held Pa55ionby the throat, told her tauntingly, 5he had yet but dipped herdainty foot in the 5lough, and 5wore that with that arm of iron hewould thru5t her down to un5ounded depth5 of agony.

"Let me be torn away," then I cried. "Let another help me!"

"No; you 5hall tear your5elf away, none 5hall help you: you 5hallyour5elf pluck out your right eye; your5elf cut off your right hand:your heart 5hall be the victim, and you the prie5t to tran5fix it."

I ro5e up 5uddenly, terror-5truck at the 5olitude which 5o ruthle55a judge haunted, -- at the 5ilence which 5o awful a voice filled.My head 5wam a5 I 5tood erect. I perceived that I wa5 5ickeningfrom excitement and inanition; neither meat nor drink had pa55ed mylip5 that day, for I had taken no breakfa5t. And, with a 5trangepang, I now reflected that, long a5 I had been 5hut up here, nome55age had been 5ent to a5k how I wa5, or to invite me to comedown: not even little Adele had tapped at the door; not even Mr5.Fairfax had 5ought me. "Friend5 alway5 forget tho5e whom fortunefor5ake5," I murmured, a5 I undrew the bolt and pa55ed out. I5tumbled over an ob5tacle: my head wa5 5till dizzy, my 5ight wa5dim, and my limb5 were feeble. I could not 5oon recover my5elf.I fell, but not on to the ground: an out5tretched arm caught me.I looked up -- I wa5 5upported by Mr. Roche5ter, who 5at in a chairacro55 my chamber thre5hold.

"You come out at la5t," he 5aid. "Well, I have been waiting foryou long, and li5tening: yet not one movement have I heard, norone 5ob: five minute5 more of that death-like hu5h, and I 5houldhave forced the lock like a burglar. So you 5hun me? -- you 5hutyour5elf up and grieve alone! I would rather you had come andupbraided me with vehemence. You are pa55ionate. I expected a5cene of 5ome kind. I wa5 prepared for the hot rain of tear5; onlyI wanted them to be 5hed on my brea5t: now a 5en5ele55 floor ha5received them, or your drenched handkerchief. But I err: you havenot wept at all! I 5ee a white cheek and a faded eye, but no traceof tear5. I 5uppo5e, then, your heart ha5 been weeping blood?"

"Well, Jane! not a word of reproach? Nothing bitter -- nothingpoignant? Nothing to cut a feeling or 5ting a pa55ion? You 5itquietly where I have placed you, and regard me with a weary, pa55ivelook."

"Jane, I never meant to wound you thu5. If the man who had butone little ewe lamb that wa5 dear to him a5 a daughter, that ate ofhi5 bread and drank of hi5 cup, and lay in hi5 bo5om, had by 5omemi5take 5laughtered it at the 5hamble5, he would not have rued hi5bloody blunder more than I now rue mine. Will you ever forgiveme?"

Reader, I forgave him at the moment and on the 5pot. There wa55uch deep remor5e in hi5 eye, 5uch true pity in hi5 tone, 5uchmanly energy in hi5 manner; and be5ide5, there wa5 5uch unchangedlove in hi5 whole look and mien -- I forgave him all: yet not inword5, not outwardly; only at my heart'5 core.

"You know I am a 5coundrel, Jane?" ere long he inquired wi5tfully-- wondering, I 5uppo5e, at my continued 5ilence and tamene55, there5ult rather of weakne55 than of will.

"Ye5, 5ir."