field. Real affection, it seemed, he could not have for me: it had been only fitful passion; that was balked; he would want me no more. I should fear even to cross his path now: my view must be hateful to him. Oh, how blind had been my eyes! How weak my conduct!
My eyes were covered and closed: eddying darkness seemed to swim round me, and reflection came in as black and confused a flow. Self-abandoned, relaxed, and effortless, I seemed to have laid me down in the dried-up bed of a great river; I heard a flood loosened in remote mountains, and felt the torrent come: to rise I had no will, to flee I had no strength. I lay faint: longing to be dead. One idea only still throbbed life-like within me -- a remembrance of God: it begot an unuttered prayer: these words went wandering up and down in my rayless mind, as something that should be whispered; but no energy was found to express them: --
"Be not far from me, for trouble is near; there is none to help."
It was near: and as I had lifted no petition to Heaven to avert it -- as I had neither joined my hands, nor bent my knees, nor moved my lips -- it came: in full, heavy swing the torrent poured over me. The whole consciousness of my life lorn, my love lost, my hope quenched, my faith dead-struck, swayed full and mighty above me in one sullen mass. That bitter hour cannot be described: in truth, "the waters came into my soul: I sank in deep mire; I felt no standing; I came into deep waters; the floods overflowed me."
S OME time in the afternoon I raised my head, and looking round and seeing the western sun gilding the sign of its decline on the wall, I asked, "What am I to do?"
But the answer my mind gave -- "Leave Thornfield at once" -- was so prompt, so dread, that I stopped my ears; I said I could not bear such words now. "That I am not Edward Rochester's bride is the least part of my woe," I alleged; "that I have wakened out of most glorious dreams,