25 Jane Eyre Read And Abridged By Stephanie Poppins

Hello.

Welcome to Sleep Stories with Steph,

Your go-to romantic podcast that guarantees you a calm and entertaining transition into a great night's sleep.

Come with me as we immerse ourselves in a romantic journey to a time long since forgotten.

But before we begin,

Let's take a moment to focus on where we are now.

Take a deep breath in through your nose and let it out with a long sigh.

That's it.

Now close your eyes and feel yourself sink deeper into the support beneath you.

It is time to relax and fully let go.

There is nothing you need to be doing now and nowhere you need to go.

Happy listening.

This is S.

D.

Hudson Magic.

Jane Eyre Chapter 25 The month of courtship had wasted.

It's time for a new beginning.

Its very last hours were being numbered.

There was no putting off the day that advanced,

The bridal day,

And all preparations for its arrival were complete.

I,

At least,

Had nothing more to do.

There were my trunks,

Packed,

Locked,

Corded,

Ranged in a row along the wall of my little chamber.

Tomorrow,

At this time,

They would be far on their road to London,

And so should I.

The cards of address alone remained to nail on.

They lay four little squares on the drawer.

Mr.

Rochester had himself written the direction.

Mrs.

Rochester.

A hotel to be named London on each.

I could not persuade myself to affix them or to have them affixed.

Mrs.

Rochester.

She did not exist.

She would not be born until tomorrow.

Sometime after eight o'clock.

And I would wait to be assured she had come into the world alive before I assigned her to that property.

It was enough that in yonder closet opposite my dressing table,

Garments said to be hers had already displaced my black low-wood frock and straw bonnet.

For not to me appertained that suit of wedding raiment,

The pearl-coloured robe,

The vapoury veil,

Pendant from the unsurpt portmanteau.

I shut the closet to conceal the strange,

Wrath-like apparel it contained,

Which at this evening hour,

Nine o'clock,

Gave out certainly a most ghostly shimmer through the shadow of my apartment.

I will leave you by yourself,

White dream,

Said I.

I am feverish.

I hear the wind blowing.

I will go out of doors and feel it.

It was not only the hurry of preparation that made me feverish,

Not only the anticipation of the great change,

The new life which was to commence tomorrow.

Both these circumstances had their share,

Doubtless,

In producing that restless,

Excited mood which hurried me forth at this late hour into the darkening grounds,

But a third cause influenced my mind more than they.

I had at heart a strange and anxious thought.

Something had happened which I could not comprehend,

No one knew of,

Or had seen the event but myself.

It had taken place the preceding night.

Mr.

Rochester had been absent from home,

Nor yet was he returned.

Business had called him to a small estate of two or three farms he possessed.

I waited now his return,

Eager to disburden my mind and to seek of him the solution of the enigma that perplexed me.

Stay till he comes,

Reader,

And when I disclose my secret to him you shall share the confidence.

I sought the orchard,

Driven to its shelter by the wind which all day had blown strong and full from the south,

Without,

However,

Bringing a speck of rain.

Instead of subsiding,

Its night grew on.

It seemed to augment its rush and deepen its roar.

The trees blew steadfastly one way,

Ever writhing round and scarcely tossing back their boughs once in an hour,

So continuous was the strain bending their branchy heads.

It was not without a certain wild pleasure I ran before the wind,

Delivering my trouble of mind to the measureless air-torrent thundering through space.

Descending the laurel walk,

I faced the wreck of the chestnut tree.

It stood up,

Black,

The trunk split down the centre.

The cloven halves were not broken from each other,

For the firm base and strong roots kept them unsundered below.

Though community of vitality was destroyed,

The sap could flow no more.

Their great boughs on each side were dead,

And next winter's tempest would be sure to fell one or both to earth.

You did right to hold fast to each other,

I said,

As if the monster splinters were living things and could hear me.

I think,

Scathed as you look,

There must be a little sense of life in you yet,

Rising out of that adhesion at the faithful,

Honest roots.

You will never have green leaves more.

Nevermore will see birds making nests and singing idols in your boughs.

The time of pleasure and love is over with you,

But you are not desolate.

Each of you has a comrade to sympathise with in his decay.

As I looked up at them,

The moon appeared momentarily in that part of the sky,

Her disk was blood-red and half overcast.

She seemed to throw on me one bewildered dreary glance and buried herself again instantly in the deep drift of cloud.

The wind fell for a second,

But far away over wooden water poured a wild melancholy wail.

It was sad to listen to,

And I ran off again.

Here and there I strayed through the orchard,

Gathered up the apples with which the grass round the tree roots was thickly strewn.

Then I employed myself in dividing the ripe from the unripe.

I carried them to the house and put them away in the storeroom.

Then I repaired to the library to ascertain whether the fire was lit.

I knew on such a gloomy evening Mr.

Rochester would like to see a cheerful hearth when he came in.

Yes,

The fire had been kindled some time and burnt well.

I placed his armchair by the chimney corner,

Wheeled the table near it and let down the curtain.

More restless than ever,

When I had completed these arrangements,

I could not sit still nor even remain in the house.

A little timepiece in the room and the old clock in the hall simultaneously struck ten.

How late it grows,

I said.

I will run down to the gates.

It's moonlight at intervals.

I can see a good way on the road.

He must be coming now.

The wind roared high in the great trees which empowered the gates,

But the road,

As far as I could see,

Was still and solitary.

A puerile tear dimmed my eye while I looked,

A tear of disappointment and impatience.

Ashamed of it,

I wiped it away.

I wish he would come,

I wish he would come,

I exclaimed,

Seized with hypochondriac foreboding.

I had expected his arrival before tea and now it was dark.

What could keep him,

Had an accident happened?

Well,

I cannot return to the house,

I thought.

I cannot sit by the fireside while he is abroad in inclement weather.

Better tire my limbs than strain my heart.

I will go forward and meet him.

I set out walking fast,

But not far.

I had measured a quarter of a mile and heard the tramp of hooves.

A horseman came on full gallop,

A dog by his side.

It was he.

Here he was.

He saw me,

For the moon had opened a blue field in the sky and rode in it,

Watery bright.

He took his hat off and waved it round his head and I ran to meet him.

There,

He exclaimed as he stretched out his hand and bent from the saddle.

You cannot do without me,

That is evident.

Step on my boot toe,

Give me both hands and mount.

I obeyed.

Joy made me agile and I sprang before him.

A hearty kissing I got for a welcome and some boastful triumph which I swallowed as well as I could.

He checked himself in his exultation to demand.

But is there anything the matter,

Janet,

That you come to meet me at such an hour?

Is anything wrong?

No,

But I thought you'd never come.

I could not bear to wait in the house for you,

Especially with this rain and wind.

Rain and wind indeed!

You're dripping like a mermaid.

Pull my cloak around you.

But I think you're feverish,

Jane.

Both your cheek and hand are burning hot.

I ask again,

Is anything the matter?

Nothing now.

I'm neither afraid nor unhappy.

Then you have been both?

Rather,

But I'll tell you all about it by and by,

Sir,

And I dare say you'll only laugh at me for my pains.

I'll laugh at you heartily when tomorrow is past.

Till then,

I dare not.

My prize is not certain.

This is you who have been as slippery as an eel this last month and as thorny as a briar rose.

I could not lay a finger anywhere,

But I was pricked and now I seem to have gathered a stray lamb in my arms.

You wandered out of the fold to seek your shepherd,

Did you not,

Jane?

I wanted you,

But don't boast.

Here we are at Thornfield.

Now let me get down.

He landed me on the pavement.

As John took his horse and he followed me into the hall,

He told me to make haste and put something dry on,

Then return to him in the library.

He stopped me as I made for the staircase to extort a promise that I would not be long.

Nor was I long.

In five minutes I rejoined him and found him at supper.

Take a seat and bear me company,

Jane.

Please,

God,

It is the last meal but one you will eat at Thornfield Hall for a long time.

I sat down near him but told him I could not eat.

Is it because you have the prospect of a journey before you,

He said?

Is it the thought of going to London that takes away your appetite?

I cannot see my prospects clearly tonight,

Sir,

And I hardly know what thoughts I have in my head.

Everything in life seems unreal.

Except me,

I am substantial enough,

Aren't I?

Touch me.

Touch me.

You,

Sir,

Are the most phantom-like of all.

You are like a mere dream.

He held out his hand,

Laughing.

Is that a dream?

Said he,

Placing it close to my eyes.

He had a rounded,

Muscular and vigorous hand,

As well as a long,

Strong arm.

Yes,

Though I touch it,

It is a dream,

Said I.

Sir,

Have you finished supper?

Yes,

Jane.

I rang the bell and ordered away the tray.

When we were again alone,

I stirred the fire and took a low seat at my master's knee.

It is mere midnight,

I said.

Yes,

But remember,

Jane,

You promised to wake with me the next night before my wedding.

I did,

And I will keep my promise.

For an hour or two at least.

I have no wish to go to bed.

Are all your arrangements complete?

All,

Sir.

And on my part likewise,

He returned.

I have settled everything,

And we shall leave Thornfield tomorrow,

Within half an hour after our return from church.

Very well,

Sir.

With what an extraordinary smile you uttered that word.

Very well,

Jane.

What a bright spot of colour you have on each cheek,

And how strangely your eyes glitter.

Are you well?

I believe I am.

Believe?

What is the matter?

Tell me what you feel.

I could not,

Sir.

No words could tell you what I feel.

I wish this present hour would never end.

Who knows what fate the next day may come charged?

This is hypochondria,

Jane.

You've been overexcited or overfatigued.

Do you,

Sir,

Feel calm and happy?

Calm?

No,

But happy to the heart's core.

I looked up at him to read the signs of bliss in his face.

It was ardent and flushed.

Give me your confidence,

Jane,

Said he.

Relieve your mind of any weight that oppresses it by imparting it to me.

What do you fear,

That I should not prove a good husband?

It is the idea furthest from my thoughts.

Are you apprehensive of the new sphere you are about to enter?

Of the new life into which you're passing?

No?

You puzzle me,

Jane.

Your look and tone of sorrowful audacity perplex and pain me.

I want an explanation.

Then,

Sir,

Listen.

You were from home last night.

I was.

And you hinted a while ago at something which had happened in my absence.

Nothing probably of consequence,

But it has disturbed you.

Let me hear it.

Mrs.

Fairfax said something,

Perhaps.

Or have you overheard the servant talk?

Your sensitive self-respect has been wounded?

No,

Sir.

It struck twelve,

And I waited till the time-piecer concluded its silver chime,

And the clock its hall's vibrating stroke.

Then I proceeded.

All day yesterday I was very busy and very happy in my ceaseless bustle,

For I'm not,

As you seem to think,

Troubled by haunting fears about the new sphere,

Etc.

I think it's a glorious thing to have the hope of living with you,

Because I love you.

No,

Sir,

Don't caress me now.

Let me talk undisturbed.

Yesterday I trusted in Providence,

And believed events were working together for your good and mine.

It was a fine day,

If you recollect.

The calmness of the air and sky forbade apprehensions respecting your safety or comfort of your journey.

I walked a little while on the pavement after tea thinking of you,

And I beheld you in imagination so near me,

I scarcely missed your actual presence.

I thought of the life that lay before me,

Your life,

Sir,

An existence more expansive and stirring than my own,

As much more so the depths of the sea to which the brook runs are the shallows of its own straight channel.

I wondered why moralists call this world a dreary wilderness,

For me it blossomed like a rose.

Just at sunset,

I thought of you,

And I thought of you,

And I thought of you,

The air turned cold and the sky cloudy,

So I went in.

Sophie called me upstairs to look at my wedding dress which they'd just bought,

And under it in the box I found your present,

The veil which in your princely extravagance you sent for from London,

Resolved I suppose since I would not have jewels to cheat me into accepting something as costly.

I smiled as I unfolded it and devised how I would tease you about your aristocratic tastes and your efforts to mask your plebeian pride in the attributes of a peeress.

I thought how I would carry down to you the square of unembroidered blonde I had as a covering for my low-born head,

And ask if that was not good enough for a woman who could bring her husband neither fortune,

Beauty,

Nor connections.

I saw plainly how you would look,

And heard your impetuous republican answers and your haughty disavowal of any necessity on your part to augment your wealth or elevate your standing by marrying either a purse or a coronet.

How well you read me,

You witch,

Interposed Mr.

Rochester.

But what did you find in the veil besides its embroidery?

Did you find poison or a dagger that you look so mournful now?

No,

Sir,

Besides the delicacy and richness of the fabric I found nothing save Fairfax Watcher's pride,

And that did not scare me because I'm used to the sight of the demon.

But,

Sir,

As it grew dark,

The wind rose.

It blew yesterday evening not as it blows now,

Wild and high,

But with a sullen moaning sound,

Far more eerie.

I wish you were at home.

I came into this room,

And the sight of the empty chair and fireless hearth chilled me.

For some time after I went to bed I could not sleep.

A sense of anxious excitement distressed me.

The gale still rising seemed to my ear to muffle a mournful undersound,

Whether in the house or abroad I could not at first tell.

But it recurred,

Doubtful yet doleful,

At every lull.

At last I made out it must be some dog howling at a distance.

I was glad when it ceased.

On sleeping I continued in dreams the idea of a dark and gusty night.

I continued also to wish to be with you,

And experienced a strange regretful consciousness of some barrier dividing us.

During all my first sleep I was following the windings of an unknown road.

Total obscurity environed me,

Rain pelted me.

I was burdened with the charge of a little child,

A very small creature too young and feeble to walk,

And which shivered in my cold arms and wailed piteously in my ear.

I thought,

Sir,

That you were on the road a long way before me,

And I strained every nerve to overtake you.

And these dreams weigh on your spirits now,

Jane,

When I am close to you.

Little nervous subject,

Forget visionary woe and think only of real happiness.

You say you love me,

Janet,

Yes,

And I will not forget that,

And you cannot deny it.

Those words did not die inarticulate on your lips.

I heard them clear and soft,

A thought too solemn perhaps,

But sweet as music.

I think it is a glorious thing to have the hope of living with you,

Edward,

Because I love you.

Do you love me,

Jane?

Repeat it.

I do,

Sir.

I do with my whole heart.

Well,

He said,

After some minutes' silence.

Is it strange,

But that sentence has penetrated my breast painfully?

Why?

I think because you said it with such an earnest,

Religious energy,

And because your upward gaze at me now is the very sublime of faith,

Truth,

And devotion.

It is too much as if some spirit were near me.

Look wicked,

Jane,

As you know very well how to look.

Coin in one of your wild,

Shy,

Provoking smiles.

Tell me you hate me.

Tease me,

Vex me,

Do anything but move me.

I would rather be incensed than saddened.

I will tease you and vex you to your heart's content when I finish my tale,

But please hear me to the end.

I thought,

Jane,

You had told me all.

I thought I'd found the source of your melancholy in a dream.

I shook my head.

What,

Is there more?

I will not believe it to be anything important.

Now,

Go on.

Then I proceeded to tell him about my next dream.

The tale is yet to come.

That was the preface,

Sir,

I added.

On waking,

A gleam dazzled my eyes,

And I thought it is daylight,

But I was mistaken.

It was only candlelight.

Sophie,

I supposed,

Had come in.

There was a light on the dressing table and the door of the closet,

Where before going to bed,

I'd hung my wedding dress in the closet.

Sophie,

What are you doing?

I asked,

But nobody answered.

Then a form emerged from the closet.

It took the light,

Held it aloft,

And surveyed the garments.

Sophie,

Sophie,

I again cried,

And still it was silent.

I'd risen up in bed by this time.

But it was not Sophie,

It was not Leah,

It was not Mrs.

Fairfax.

I was sure of it,

And I'm still sure it was not even that strange woman,

Grace Poole.

Did you see her face?

Mr.

Rochester asked.

I said,

Yes,

I saw her face,

And she said,

No,

I didn't see her face.

Did you see her face?

Mr.

Rochester asked.

Not at first,

But presently,

She took my veil from its place,

Held it up,

Gazed at it long,

Then threw it over her own head and turned to the mirror.

At that moment,

I saw the reflection of the visage and features quite distinctly in the dark oblong glass.

And how were they?

Fearful and ghastly,

Sir,

I never saw a face like it.

It was a savage face.

I wish I could forget the roll of the red eyes and the fearful blackened inflation of the liniments.

Ghosts are usually pale,

Jay.

This was purple.

The lips were swelled and dark,

I continued.

Then it removed my veil from its gaunt head,

Rented in two parts,

And flinging both on the floor,

Trampled on them.

And afterwards,

It drew aside the window curtain and looked out.

Perhaps it saw dawn approaching for taking the Perhaps it saw dawn approaching for taking the candle,

It retreated to the door.

Who was with you when you revived?

No one,

Sir,

But the broad daylight.

I rose,

Bathed my head and face in water,

Drank a long draught,

And determined that to no one but you I would impart this vision.

Tell me who and what that woman was,

Sir.

The creature of an overstimulated brain,

Said Mr.

Rochester,

Of that I am certain.

Sir,

Depend upon it,

My nerves were not at fault.

The thing was real,

The transaction actually took place.

And when I said to myself on rising this morning,

And looked around the room to gather courage,

There on the carpet,

I saw what gave the distinct light to my hypothesis.

It was the veil,

Torn from top to bottom,

In two halves.