That morning Sophie helped me dress, but she took so long that Mr. Rochester grew impatient and sent up a note asking why I was delayed. I hurried away from Sophie as soon as she finished attaching my veil—the plain lace one that I had originally intended to wear.
"Lingerer!" said Mr. Rochester, meeting me at the foot of the stairs. "My brain is on fire with impatience, and you tarry so long."
He took me into the dining room, where he looked me up and down, pronounced me "fair as a lily," and told me I had only ten minutes to eat breakfast. When I had finished, I rose from the table. There were no groomsmen, no bridesmaids, no relatives to gather, no one but Mr. Rochester and I.
Mrs. Fairfax stood in the hall as we passed. I would gladly have spoken to her, but Mr. Rochester held my hand in an iron grip. I was hurried along by a stride that I could hardly match. I wondered what other bridegroom had ever looked so grimly resolute.
The old gray church was just beyond the gates of Thornfield. At the churchyard Mr. Rochester realized I was out of breath, so we paused. I noticed two strangers walking among the headstones, but Mr. Rochester, who was staring earnestly at my face, did not see the men. When I felt rested, he gently walked me into the church and down the aisle. The two strangers loitered at the back of the church while the minister, Mr. Wood, and his clerk waited for us at the front.
The wedding service began, and we reached the point where the clergyman asks the bride and groom if they know of any reason why they may not be lawfully joined in matrimony.
Mr. Wood paused, as is the custom. When is that pause ever broken by a reply?
Mr. Wood opened his mouth to continue, but he was interrupted.
"The marriage cannot go on! I declare the existence of an impediment."
The clergyman and his clerk looked at the speaker. Mr. Rochester rocked slightly, as if an earthquake had rolled under his feet, and said "Proceed" without turning his head or eyes.
"I cannot proceed without some investigation into what has been asserted," said Mr. Wood. "What is the nature of this impediment?"
Mr. Rochester made no motion except to take my hand. What a hot, strong grasp he had!
The speaker approached the altar rail and said slowly in a low voice, "Mr. Rochester has a wife who is still living."
My nerves vibrated to these soft-spoken words as they had never vibrated to thunder. I looked at Mr. Rochester and made him look at me. His whole face was a colorless rock; he seemed defiant. Without speaking, he wrapped his arm around my waist and pulled me to his side.
"Who are you?" he asked the intruder. "And who is this wife you would thrust upon me?"
"My name is Briggs, and I'm a London solicitor." He removed a paper from his pocket and began reading.
I affirm that fifteen years ago Edward Fairfax Rochester married my sister, Bertha Mason, in Jamaica. A copy of the church record of that marriage is in my possession. Signed, Richard Mason.
"That only proves that I've been married, not that my wife is still living," said Mr. Rochester. The second stranger stepped out of the shadows. It was Richard Mason. "She is living at Thornfield. I saw her there in April."
"Impossible!" said the minister. "I'm a long-time resident here, and I've never heard of a Mrs. Rochester at Thornfield."
I saw a grim smile contort Mr. Rochester's lips as he muttered, "No, I took care that none should hear of her under that name."
He mused for a few minutes and then suddenly announced that there would be no wedding.
"You say, Mr. Wood, that you've never heard of a Mrs. Rochester at Thornfield," he went on recklessly. "But I daresay you've heard gossip about a mysterious lunatic kept there. She is my wife, Bertha Mason, whom I married fifteen years ago. Bertha is insane, and she comes from an insane family, which I only discovered after I married her."
He looked at me as he continued with his tale. "Jane knew nothing of this disgusting secret. She thought everything was fair and legal. Now I invite you all to come up to the house and visit Mrs. Poole's patient and my wife! You shall see what sort of being I was cheated into marrying."
Still holding me tightly, he left the church with the other men following. I was too shocked to feel anything. As we entered the house, Mrs. Fairfax, Adele, and Sophie advanced to greet us, but Mr. Rochester swept past them and up to the third floor. He led us into the room where I had nursed Mr. Mason and lifted a tapestry there to reveal the other door, which he unlocked.
Grace Poole bent over the fire, apparently cooking something, while a figure ran back and forth in the shadows at the far end of the room.
"Good morning. How is your charge today?" asked Mr. Rochester.
"Rather snappish, but not outrageous," replied Grace.
At this the strange figure bellowed and brushed the hair away from her face, and I recognized the mysterious woman who had torn my veil.
"We should leave her," Mason whispered.
"Beware!" shouted Grace.
Suddenly the woman rushed at Mr. Rochester, and they struggled as she tried to strangle and bite him.
At last he managed to grab her arms, and with Grace's assistance, he tied her to a chair.
"This is my wife," Mr. Rochester said breathlessly. "Off with you now. I must shut up my prize."
As we descended the stairs, Mr. Briggs, the solicitor, addressed me. "You are clear of all blame, miss. Your uncle will be glad to hear that this marriage has been prevented."
"My uncle?" I said in surprise. "Do you know him?"
"Mr. Mason does. He happened to be staying with John Eyre in Madeira before returning to Jamaica. When your letter arrived announcing your marriage, Mason explained the true state of affairs. I'm sorry to say your uncle is now on his deathbed, so he urged Mason to hurry back to England."
By this time we had reached my room. I shut myself in and fastened the lock. Still too stunned to weep or mourn, I mechanically removed the wedding dress and replaced it with my plain dress. My hopes were dead. Jane Eyre—who had almost been a bride—was a cold, solitary girl again.