We continued down the laurel walk toward the old horse chestnut, and, cautiously, I broached the subject that had been much on my mind. “Thornfield is a pleasant place in summer, is it not?”
“Yes, sir.” The abominable yes, sir, when I yearned for something more intimate.
“You must have become in some degree attached to the house,—you, who have an eye for natural beauties, and a good deal of the organ of Adhesiveness?”
“I am attached to it, indeed.” As am I, I thought, but I have chosen you.
Instead of falling into sentiment, though, I teased her, putting the fortitude of both our hearts to the test. She had made it seem easy for her to say farewell to me—I would call her bluff. She had said, had she not, that I was her home? She freely admitted how sorry she would be to part with Thornfield, and Adèle and Mrs. Fairfax, but neither of us spoke of her parting with me.
“Pity!” I said with an evident sigh. “It is always the way of events in this life: no sooner have you got settled in a pleasant resting place, than a voice calls out to you to rise and move on, for the hour of repose is expired.”
“Must I move on, sir? Must I leave Thornfield?”
“I believe you must, Jane. I am sorry, Janet, but I believe indeed you must.”
“Then you are going to be married, sir?”
I nearly laughed. Yes, I hoped I was! “Exactly—precisely: with your usual actueness, you have hit the nail straight on the head.”
Remembering that of course, poor Jane had no reason to know how things had fallen out between myself and the Ingram ladies, I launched into a comical rendition of Blanche Ingram’s supposed blessings, expecting Jane to interrupt me at any moment, but somehow it appeared she believed me still. Sweet, honest Jane! I was touched to see how it affected her, how she turned away to hide a tear. I should have stopped, it’s true, but knowing that I had the power to make us both exquisitely happy, I could not help but prolong the pain a moment or two, to make sweeter the relief.
“In about a month I hope to be a bridegroom, and in the interim I shall myself look out for employment and an asylum for you. Indeed I have already, through my future mother-in-law, heard of a place that I think will suit: it is to undertake the education of the five daughters of Mrs. Dionysius O’Gall of Bitternutt Lodge, Connaught, Ireland.”
“It is a long way off, sir,” she said, struggling with her emotions.
“From what, Jane?” I pressed her.
“From England and from Thornfield: and—”
“Well?”
“From you, sir.”
The sweetest phrase I knew.
My blood surged at the words, but like an addict I needed more. “It is a long way, to be sure; and when you get to Bitternutt Lodge”—the name so idiotic it was a wonder she believed it—“Connaught, Ireland, I shall never see you again.” I could see she was near tears, but I craved a declaration from her that was stronger still, a commitment that would carry us through the years together, in our exile from Thornfield. I threw her own word back at her again: “We have been good friends, Jane; have we not?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And when friends are on the eve of separation, they like to spend the little time that remains to them close to each other.” I walked her over to the chestnut tree, an old thing I had known since childhood and that soon would be gone from my life forever, and sat her down beneath it. “Come, we will sit there in peace tonight, though we should nevermore be destined to sit there together.” Not at Thornfield, at least. I confess I rattled on for a time, extending the sweet agony of the moment, heaven forgive me. Finally, I asked, “Are you anything akin to me, do you think, Jane? Because I sometimes have a queer feeling with regard to you—especially when you are near me, as now: it is as if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly and inextricably knotted to a similar string situated in the corresponding quarter of your little frame. And if that boisterous channel, and two hundred miles or so of land come broad between us, I am afraid that cord of communion will be snapped; and then I’ve a nervous notion I should take to bleeding inwardly. As for you,—you’d forget me.”
“That I never should, sir: you know—” Between her tears, she told how she would grieve mightily to leave Thornfield. My heart skipped for a moment, worrying that she would not stay if Thornfield were no longer mine, until I realized she loved it for the same reason I did, for the happiness it offered, not for the walls themselves. She went on, “It strikes me with terror and anguish to feel I absolutely must be torn from you for ever. I see the necessity of departure; and it is like looking on the necessity of death.”