Jane Eyre - Page 279/412

"'This life,' said I at last, 'is hell: this is the air--those are

the sounds of the bottomless pit! I have a right to deliver myself

from it if I can. The sufferings of this mortal state will leave me

with the heavy flesh that now cumbers my soul. Of the fanatic's

burning eternity I have no fear: there is not a future state worse

than this present one--let me break away, and go home to God!' "I said this whilst I knelt down at, and unlocked a trunk which

contained a brace of loaded pistols: I mean to shoot myself. I

only entertained the intention for a moment; for, not being insane,

the crisis of exquisite and unalloyed despair, which had originated

the wish and design of self-destruction, was past in a second.

"A wind fresh from Europe blew over the ocean and rushed through the

open casement: the storm broke, streamed, thundered, blazed, and

the air grew pure. I then framed and fixed a resolution. While I

walked under the dripping orange-trees of my wet garden, and amongst

its drenched pomegranates and pine-apples, and while the refulgent

dawn of the tropics kindled round me--I reasoned thus, Jane--and now

listen; for it was true Wisdom that consoled me in that hour, and

showed me the right path to follow.

"The sweet wind from Europe was still whispering in the refreshed

leaves, and the Atlantic was thundering in glorious liberty; my

heart, dried up and scorched for a long time, swelled to the tone,

and filled with living blood--my being longed for renewal--my soul

thirsted for a pure draught. I saw hope revive--and felt

regeneration possible. From a flowery arch at the bottom of my

garden I gazed over the sea--bluer than the sky: the old world was

beyond; clear prospects opened thus:"'Go,' said Hope, 'and live again in Europe: there it is not known

what a sullied name you bear, nor what a filthy burden is bound to

you. You may take the maniac with you to England; confine her with

due attendance and precautions at Thornfield: then travel yourself

to what clime you will, and form what new tie you like. That woman,

who has so abused your long-suffering, so sullied your name, so

outraged your honour, so blighted your youth, is not your wife, nor

are you her husband. See that she is cared for as her condition

demands, and you have done all that God and humanity require of you.

Let her identity, her connection with yourself, be buried in

oblivion: you are bound to impart them to no living being. Place

her in safety and comfort: shelter her degradation with secrecy,

and leave her.' "I acted precisely on this suggestion. My father and brother had

not made my marriage known to their acquaintance; because, in the

very first letter I wrote to apprise them of the union--having

already begun to experience extreme disgust of its consequences,

and, from the family character and constitution, seeing a hideous

future opening to me--I added an urgent charge to keep it secret:

and very soon the infamous conduct of the wife my father had

selected for me was such as to make him blush to own her as his

daughter-in-law. Far from desiring to publish the connection, he

became as anxious to conceal it as myself.