“I grieve to leave Thornfield.  I love Thornfield, because I have lived in it a full and delightful life.  I have not been trampled on; I have not been petrified.  I have talked face to face with what I delight in—­an original, a vigorous and expanded mind.  I have known you, Mr. Rochester.  I see the necessity of departure, but it is like looking on the necessity of death.”

“Where do you see the necessity?” he asked suddenly.

“Do you think I can stay to become nothing to you?” I retorted, roused to something like passion.  “Do you think, because I am poor, obscure, plain, and little, I am soulless and heartless?  You think wrong!  I have as much soul as you—­and full as much heart!  I am not talking to you now through the medium of custom, conventionalities, nor even mortal flesh.  It is my spirit that addresses your spirit, just as if both had passed through the grave, and we stood at God’s feet, equal—­as we are!”

“As we are!” repeated Mr. Rochester, gathering me to his heart and pressing his lips on my lips.  “So, Jane!”

“Yes, so, sir!” I replied.  “I have spoken my mind, and can go anywhere now.  Let me go!”

“Jane, be still; don’t struggle so, like a wild, frantic bird, rending its own plumage in its desperation.”

“I am no bird, and no net ensnares me.  I am a free human being, with an independent will, which I now exert to leave you.”

Another effort set me at liberty, and I stood erect before him.

“And your will shall decide your destiny,” he said.  “I offer you my hand, my heart, and a share in all my possessions.”

A waft of wind came sweeping down the laurel walk and trembled through the boughs of the chestnut; it wandered away—­away to an infinite distance—­it died.  The nightingale’s song was then the only voice of the hour; in listening to it again, I wept.

Mr. Rochester sat looking at me gently, and at last said, drawing me to him again:  “My bride is here, because my equal is here, and my likeness.  Jane, will you marry me?  Give me my name—­Edward.  Say, ’I will marry you.’”

“Are you in earnest?  Do you love me?  Do you sincerely wish me to be your wife?”

“I do.  I swear it!”

“Then, sir, I will marry you.”

“God pardon me, and man meddle not with me.  I have her, and will hold her!”

But what had befallen the night?  And what ailed the chestnut-tree?  It writhed and groaned, while the wind roared in the laurel walk.

“We must go in,” said Mr. Rochester; “the weather changes.”

He hurried me up the walk, but we were wet before we could pass the threshold.

IV.—­The Mystery Explained

There were no groomsmen, no bridesmaids, no relatives to wait for or marshal; none but Mr. Rochester and I. I wonder what other bridegroom looked as he did—­so bent up to a purpose, so resolutely grim.  Our place was taken at the communion rails.  All was still; two shadows only moved in a remote corner of the church.