“Now I am sure you can get on your feet,” he said —­ “try.”

The patient rose.

“Carter, take him under the other shoulder.  Be of good cheer, Richard; step out —­ that’s it!”

“I do feel better,” remarked Mr. Mason.

“I am sure you do.  Now, Jane, trip on before us away to the backstairs; unbolt the side-passage door, and tell the driver of the post-chaise you will see in the yard —­ or just outside, for I told him not to drive his rattling wheels over the pavement —­ to be ready; we are coming:  and, Jane, if any one is about, come to the foot of the stairs and hem.”

It was by this time half-past five, and the sun was on the point of rising; but I found the kitchen still dark and silent.  The side-passage door was fastened; I opened it with as little noise as possible:  all the yard was quiet; but the gates stood wide open, and there was a post-chaise, with horses ready harnessed, and driver seated on the box, stationed outside.  I approached him, and said the gentlemen were coming; he nodded:  then I looked carefully round and listened.  The stillness of early morning slumbered everywhere; the curtains were yet drawn over the servants’ chamber windows; little birds were just twittering in the blossom-blanched orchard trees, whose boughs drooped like white garlands over the wall enclosing one side of the yard; the carriage horses stamped from time to time in their closed stables:  all else was still.

The gentlemen now appeared.  Mason, supported by Mr. Rochester and the surgeon, seemed to walk with tolerable ease:  they assisted him into the chaise; Carter followed.

“Take care of him,” said Mr. Rochester to the latter, “and keep him at your house till he is quite well:  I shall ride over in a day or two to see how he gets on.  Richard, how is it with you?”

“The fresh air revives me, Fairfax.”

“Leave the window open on his side, Carter; there is no wind —­ good- bye, Dick.”

“Fairfax —­ "

“Well what is it?”

“Let her be taken care of; let her be treated as tenderly as may be:  let her —­ " he stopped and burst into tears.

“I do my best; and have done it, and will do it,” was the answer:  he shut up the chaise door, and the vehicle drove away.

“Yet would to God there was an end of all this!” added Mr. Rochester, as he closed and barred the heavy yard-gates.

This done, he moved with slow step and abstracted air towards a door in the wall bordering the orchard.  I, supposing he had done with me, prepared to return to the house; again, however, I heard him call “Jane!” He had opened feel portal and stood at it, waiting for me.

“Come where there is some freshness, for a few moments,” he said; “that house is a mere dungeon:  don’t you feel it so?”

“It seems to me a splendid mansion, sir.”

“The glamour of inexperience is over your eyes,” he answered; “and you see it through a charmed medium:  you cannot discern that the gilding is slime and the silk draperies cobwebs; that the marble is sordid slate, and the polished woods mere refuse chips and scaly bark.  Now here” (he pointed to the leafy enclosure we had entered) “all is real, sweet, and pure.”