“My uncle?  What of him?  Do you know him?”

“Mr. Mason does; Mr. Eyre has been the Funchal correspondent of his house for some years.  When your uncle received your letter intimating the contemplated union between yourself and Mr. Rochester, Mr. Mason, who was staying at Madeira to recruit his health, on his way back to Jamaica happened to be with him.  Mr. Eyre mentioned the intelligence; for he knew that my client here was acquainted with a gentleman of the name of Rochester.  Mr. Mason, astonished and distressed, as you may suppose, revealed the real state of matters.  Your uncle, I am sorry to say, is now on a sick-bed; from which, considering the nature of his disease—­decline—­and the stage it has reached, it is unlikely he will ever rise.  He could not then hasten to England himself, to extricate you from the snare into which you had fallen, but he implored Mr. Mason to lose no time in taking steps to prevent the false marriage.  He referred him to me for assistance, I used all dispatch, and am thankful I was not too late:  as you, doubtless, must be also.  Were I not morally certain that your uncle will be dead ere you reach Madeira, I would advise you to accompany Mr. Mason back; but as it is, I think you had better remain in England till you can hear further, either from or of Mr. Eyre.  Have we anything else to stay for?” he inquired of Mr. Mason.

“No, no; let us be gone,” was the anxious reply; and without waiting to take leave of Mr. Rochester, they made their exit at the hall door.  The clergyman stayed to exchange a few sentences, either of admonition or reproof, with his haughty parishioner:  this duty done, he too departed.

I heard him go as I stood at the half-open door of my own room, to which I had now withdrawn.  The house cleared, I shut myself in, fastened the bolt that none might intrude, and proceeded—­not to weep, not to mourn, I was yet too calm for that, but—­mechanically to take off the wedding-dress, and replace if by the stuff gown I had worn yesterday, as I thought for the last time.  I then sat down:  I felt weak and tired.  I leaned my arms on a table, and my head dropped on them.  And now I thought:  till now I had only heard, seen, moved—­followed up and down where I was led or dragged—­watched event rush on event, disclosure open beyond disclosure; but now I thought.

The morning had been a quiet morning enough—­all except the brief scene with the lunatic.  The transaction in the church had not been noisy; there was no explosion of passion, no loud altercation, no dispute, no defiance or challenge, no tears, no sobs:  a few words had been spoken, a calmly pronounced objection to the marriage made; some stern, short questions put by Mr. Rochester; answers, explanations given, evidence adduced; an open admission of the truth had been uttered by my master:  then the living proof had been seen; the intruders were gone, and all was over.

I was in my own room as usual—­just myself, without obvious change; nothing had smitten me, or scathed me, or maimed me.  And yet where was the Jane Eyre of yesterday? where was her life? where were her prospects?