Jane Eyre

The world is fast. The world is spinning. Its insanity knows no bounds. At moments, the world chooses to throw time out the window, simply so others are forced to see it fly much more briskly than desired. Those are the pleasant times which leave the soonest. During other days, the world is just as cruel, deciding to stretch out the most excruciating hours into years. Joy on earth is short lived, and pain seems everlasting. Such is the burden of time, chained to our ankles the moment Eve longed for the fruit. Therefore, why should my situation be any different?

Yet it was. Not all of it, in fact the majority stayed on the steady, harsh path of grueling time, but in the end, my joy lasted. After walking, crawling, and eventually failing to some end on the road chosen for me once I left Rochester, I was rescued by a band of glorious and heartfelt siblings. They became my kin, nurturing me and restoring me from my malnourishment. I gradually recovered, and was prepared to move on.

But late one night… I heard his voice calling.

Deeply, the familiar voice stirred me. I was senseless from then on, part of my mind on a version of sleep, the other of undaunting focus. Of course, I could still see, still feel, still listen, still comprehend, but all the while of gathering information, every occurrence of my feet reaching and rising from the ground below me, his wondrous voice echoed in my head like a great call bouncing of the walls of a cave, a desperate noise trapped in a prism of solitude. I thought I no longer loved him. Did I not slam my fist down upon the oaken table of my chamber, saying, verbally, “He shall leave my thoughts hence on!” the night I gathered up my soaking skirts with salty sobs, the night I was redeemed from that pit of hell and despair, destined to perish on the good women’s porch? Had I not ripped his memory from my heart, for I knew I could not, nor would I love him, for he was unlovable? For he was chained to another, no matter how unstable and pitiful and deviant the lead weight he chose may be? Yes, this is true. Yes… he was gone. Or so I thought. So I believed I left him, so heartily so.

Yet how my heart raced when the voice chimed. No, not chimed, when it groaned. When it reached out as if by some unseen supernatural force permitted only by the God above. When its tender fingers nearly simulated the tender touch of my dear Rochester, my dear Rochester, as they gracefully warmed and tweaked my ears, as he did long ago. The disembodied voice used its invisible bodied hand to guide me, guide me, guide me to where I stand now. And now I stand at Ferndean. Now I stand in front of him. With him.

His face. Oh, his face. This face I had not relished for months, and for me, decades. The lines of his aging complexion I memorized now sank deeper than I remember, and a desperate frown was sculpted as his expression. Why was this so?

He reached out his hand and felt the air. Was he testing for rain? Could he not just see? Could he not just… oh. Oh. That’s right. What! Reality! Oh my, reality! My feelings made me forget for a moment!

He was blind. He lost a hand. But why? Why is that so again? I try to remember and think back to why I even stood here. It was not just the voice; I would not blindly go to a location without reason.

Bertha! The fire! Oh, that is why. Of course. He was crippled in saving his wife. But he failed… and she was gone from her own accord, and from her own discord.

Is this true, then? Does this mean… his lead weight is unchained? Is he unshackled?

Can… can I go to him?

Before I even got the chance to answer this question, Rochester stepped back inside the old house. The door shut heavily behind him. I approached the solid door, and gave it a light rap. A kindly old woman (whom I assume to be Mary, his female servant) bade the door ajar, and bade me hello. She granted me entrance, and told me she was about to take a tray with candles and glass of water to Master Rochester. I asked if she would be so kind as to let me take it to him, since I wish to see him in person. This she allowed.

As I strolled over to his chamber, the dim light of the candle magnified Rochester’s paintings on the wall leading to my destination. He hung up multiple humble pieces of art, most of which were of flowers, forests, and even some angelic figures. My head ran cold as I realized these paintings closely resembled mine. The man could not even see, yet he still demanded something of myself be remnant in his home! Oh, the poor man! Searching for echoes, as I ended up doing!

Once I reached his room, his enthusiastic, bounding hound came to greet me. He nearly knocked the contents of the tray to the floor, thus causing me to yelp in surprise. After Pilot quit his rambunctious behavior, Rochester raised his gaze towards my direction.

“Is everything alright? Did something fall?” He asked nervously.

“No, sir,” I replied, the ever slightest quiver in my voice at the sound of his, “Everything is quite alright. The dog nearly knocked me over, but all is well.”

Rochester froze. He did not say a word or move at all for the longest time. He stared deeply at me with his white, blind eyes.

“That is you, Mary?” He spoke at last, his face as pale as the moon.

“No, sir.”

“Then who may it be? It cannot be…” He trailed off.

“Tis I, sir. Tis Jane.”

Tears welled up in his snowy eyes. His face remained ghostly white, and his point of vision unwavering. His mouth was agape with shock.

“My God,” he whispered, “I’ve gone mad.”

A cold dread grasped my spine. He mustn’t think this. He must know it is me.

“No, sir,” I repeated, my knuckles white as I held the tray firm in my fists, “Tis Jane. Truly.”

Silence.

“Can’t be,” he quietly cried at last, “My Jane is gone. You must be a ghost.”

Why?! Why will he not believe me? He may not be able to see me, but his hearing is not impaired! He is not mad!

“No, sir,” I repeated again, my voice shivering and shaking, fighting back tears, getting angry to keep from falling apart, “Look.”

I took some steps to him, and had him grasp my arm. His tender fingers slid up and down my skin softly at first, but once he understood that I was here, that I really was with him at last, he used all his strength to tug me into his embrace. He clasped his limbs around my back, and I pressed my tear-soaked nose against his. We smiled, we grinned, we laughed from the overwhelming relief of it all. Together! At last!

“My darling Janet,” he wept, his voice cracking but his smile a mile wide, “It truly is you.”

But just as I expected the joy to flow endlessly, he snapped his head up and moved his face from mine. Why did he pull away?

“No,” he sobbed angrily, “Do not tease me. You plan to leave. You do not love me anymore. That is why you left.”

I attempted to take his face into my hands and kiss him but he shoved away my efforts. The only way to convince him now was with my words.

“Rochester,” I whispered, “I never stopped loving you. Ever. The only, the only, reason I left was because of the choices in your past marriage. I felt forced to do what was lawful in the sight of God, not in the sight of man. And God rewarded me by giving me not only a new family, but placing me back into the arms of the only man I love (that is you), which is where I plan to stay for the rest of my existence, and if possible, beyond that time. So do not give me this tomfoolery about me leaving, because no force in nature can make my heart do so. Do you understand?”

He did not reply. He only leaned in, and pressed his lips against mine. There he held me for the rest of the night, and with him I stayed the rest of my days. And this, dear reader, is the time of all joy I mentioned earlier. This, dear reader, was the exception. And I thank God for this.