Jane Eyre - Page 129/412

"You never felt jealousy, did you, Miss Eyre? Of course not: I

need not ask you; because you never felt love. You have both

sentiments yet to experience: your soul sleeps; the shock is yet to

be given which shall waken it. You think all existence lapses in as

quiet a flow as that in which your youth has hitherto slid away.

Floating on with closed eyes and muffled ears, you neither see the

rocks bristling not far off in the bed of the flood, nor hear the

breakers boil at their base. But I tell you--and you may mark my

words--you will come some day to a craggy pass in the channel, where

the whole of life's stream will be broken up into whirl and tumult,

foam and noise: either you will be dashed to atoms on crag points,

or lifted up and borne on by some master-wave into a calmer current-

-as I am now.

"I like this day; I like that sky of steel; I like the sternness and

stillness of the world under this frost. I like Thornfield, its

antiquity, its retirement, its old crow-trees and thorn-trees, its

grey facade, and lines of dark windows reflecting that metal welkin:

and yet how long have I abhorred the very thought of it, shunned it

like a great plague-house? How I do still abhor -"

He ground his teeth and was silent: he arrested his step and struck

his boot against the hard ground. Some hated thought seemed to have

him in its grip, and to hold him so tightly that he could not

advance.

We were ascending the avenue when he thus paused; the hall was

before us. Lifting his eye to its battlements, he cast over them a

glare such as I never saw before or since. Pain, shame, ire,

impatience, disgust, detestation, seemed momentarily to hold a

quivering conflict in the large pupil dilating under his ebon

eyebrow. Wild was the wrestle which should be paramount; but

another feeling rose and triumphed: something hard and cynical:

self-willed and resolute: it settled his passion and petrified his

countenance: he went on "During the moment I was silent, Miss Eyre, I was arranging a point

with my destiny. She stood there, by that beech-trunk--a hag like

one of those who appeared to Macbeth on the heath of Forres. 'You

like Thornfield?' she said, lifting her finger; and then she wrote

in the air a memento, which ran in lurid hieroglyphics all along the

house-front, between the upper and lower row of windows, 'Like it if

you can! Like it if you dare!' "'I will like it,' said I; 'I dare like it;' and" (he subjoined

moodily) "I will keep my word; I will break obstacles to happiness,

to goodness--yes, goodness. I wish to be a better man than I have

been, than I am; as Job's leviathan broke the spear, the dart, and

the habergeon, hindrances which others count as iron and brass, I

will esteem but straw and rotten wood."