As the clergyman’s lips unclosed to ask, “Wilt thou have this woman for thy wedded wife?” a distinct and near voice said:  “The marriage cannot go on.  I declare the existence of an impediment.”

“What is the nature of the impediment?” asked the clergyman.

“It simply consists in the existence of a previous marriage,” said the speaker.  “Mr. Rochester has a wife now living.”

My nerves vibrated to those low-spoken words as they had never vibrated to thunder.  I looked at Mr. Rochester; I made him look at me.  His face was colourless rock; his eye both spark and flint; he seemed as if he would defy all things.

“Mr. Mason, have the goodness to step forward,” said the stranger.

“Are you aware, sir, whether or not this gentleman’s wife is still living?” inquired the clergyman.

“She is now living at Thornfield Hall,” said Mason, with white lips.  “I saw her there last April.  I am her brother.”

I saw a grim smile contract Mr. Rochester’s lip.

“Enough,” said he.  “Wood”—­to the clergyman—­“close your book; John Green”—­to the clerk—­“leave the church; there will be no wedding to-day.”

“Bigamy is an ugly word,” he continued, “but I meant to be a bigamist.  This girl thought all was fair and legal, and never dreamt she was going to be entrapped into a feigned union with a defrauded wretch already bound to a bad, mad, and embruted partner.  Follow me.  I invite you all to visit Grace Poole’s patient and my wife!”

We passed up to the third storey, and there, in the deep shade of the inner room beyond the room where I had watched over the wounded Mason, ran backward and forward, seemingly on all fours, a figure, whether beast or human one could not at first sight tell.  It snatched and growled like some wild animal.  It was covered with clothing; but a quantity of dark, grizzled hair, wild as a mane, hid its head and face.

“That is my wife,” said Mr. Rochester, “whom I was cheated into marrying fifteen years ago—­a mad woman and a drunkard, of a family of idiots and maniacs for three generations.  And this is what I wished to have”—­laying his hand on my shoulder—­“this young girl who stands so grave and quiet, at the mouth of hell.  Jane,” he continued, in an agonised tone, “I never meant to wound you thus.”

Reader!  I forgave him at the moment, and on the spot.  I forgave him all; yet not in words, not outwardly; only at my heart’s core.

That night I never thought to sleep, but a slumber fell on me as soon as I lay down in bed, and in my sleep a vision spoke to my spirit:  “Daughter, flee temptation!” I rose with the dim dawn.  One word comprised my intolerable duty—­Depart!

After three days wandering and starvation on the north-midland moors, for hastily and secretly I had travelled by coach as far from Thornfield as my money would carry me, I found a temporary home at the vicarage of Morton, until the clergyman of that moorland parish, Mr. St. John Rivers, secured for me—­under the assumed name of Jane Elliott—­the mistresship of the village school.