‘And your will shall decide your destiny,’ he said: ‘I offer you my hand, my heart, and a share of all my possessions.’
‘You play a farce, which I merely laugh at.’
‘I ask you to pass through life at my side—to be my second self, and best earthly companion.’
‘For that fate you have already made your choice, and must abide by it.’
‘Jane, be still a few moments: you are over-excited: I will be still too.’
A waft of wind came sweeping down the laurel-walk, and trembled through the boughs of the chestnut: it wandered away—away—to an indefinite distance—it died. The nightingale’s song was then the only voice of the hour: in listening to it, I again wept. Mr. Rochester sat quiet, looking at me gently and seriously. Some time passed before he spoke; he at last said—
‘Come to my side, Jane, and let us explain and understand one another.’
‘I will never again come to your side: I am torn away now, and cannot return.’
‘But, Jane, I summon you as my wife: it is you only I intend to marry.’
I was silent: I thought he mocked me.
‘Come, Jane—come hither.’
‘Your bride stands between us.’
He rose, and with a stride reached me.
‘My bride is here,’ he said, again drawing me to him, ‘because my equal is here, and my likeness. Jane, will you marry me?’
Still I did not answer, and still I writhed myself from his grasp: for I was still incredulous.
Do you doubt me, Jane?’
‘Entirely.’
‘You have no faith in me?’
‘Not a whit.’
‘Am I a liar in your eyes?’ he asked passionately. ‘Little sceptic, you SHALL be convinced. What love have I for Miss Ingram? None: and that you know. What love has she for me? None: as I have taken pains to prove: I caused a rumour to reach her that my fortune was not a third of what was supposed, and after that I presented myself to see the result; it was coldness both from her and her mother. I would not—I could not—marry Miss Ingram. You— you strange, you almost unearthly thing!—I love as my own flesh. You— poor and obscure, and small and plain as you are—I entreat to accept me as a husband.’
‘What, me!’ I ejaculated, beginning in his earnestness— and especially in his incivility—to credit his sincerity: ‘me who have not a friend in the world but you- if you are my friend: not a shilling but what you have given me?’
‘You, Jane, I must have you for my own—entirely my own. Will you be mine? Say yes, quickly.’
‘Mr. Rochester, let me look at your face: turn to the moonlight.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I want to read your countenance—turn!’
‘There! you will find it scarcely more legible than a crumpled, scratched page. Read on: only make haste, for I suffer.’
