Real affection, it seems, he could not have for me; it had only been fitful passion…

The truth finally comes out, and it’s heartbreaking on so many levels.

I saw a robed and veiled figure, so unlike my usual self that it seemed almost the image of a stranger. “Jane!” called a voice, and I hastened down. I was received at the foot of the stairs by Mr. Rochester.
“Lingerer,” he said, “my brain is on fire with impatience; and you tarry so long!”

I mean, he’s aiming for the wedding be at 8 o’ clock in the morning; if it was anybody but Jane, there’d be much protestation, but seeing as it’s just the two of them, Mr. Rochester opted not to have ANY wedding guests…which might ring a few alarms bells, but again, Jane doesn’t question it. She does, however, find his haste rather uncomfortable.

At the churchyard wicket he stopped: he discovered I was quite out of breath.
“Am I cruel in my love?” he said. “Delay an instant: lean on me, Jane.”

She notices two uninvited guests enter the church, but evidently Mr. Rochester doesn’t…

“I require and charge you both (as ye will answer at the dreadful day of judgment, when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed), that if either of you know any impediment why ye may not lawfully be joined together in matrimony, ye do now confess it; for ye be well assured that so many are coupled together otherwise than God’s word doth allow, are not joined together by God, neither is their matrimony lawful.”
He paused, as the custom is. When is the pause after that sentence ever broken by reply? Not, perhaps, once in a hundred years. And the clergyman, who had not lifted his eyes from his book and had held his breath but for a moment was proceeding: his hand was already stretched towards Mr. Rochester, as his lips unclosed to ask, “Wilt thou have this woman for thy wedded wife?” – when a distinct and near voice said: -“The marriage cannot go on” I declare the existence of an impediment.”

Mr. Rochester tries to get the priest to ignore the interruption, but of course he needs to investigate the claims.

“The ceremony is quite broken off,” subjoined the voice behind us. “I am in a condition to prove my allegation: an insuperable impediment to this marriage exists.”
Mr. Rochester heard, but heeded not: he stood stubborn and rigid: making no movement, but to possess himself of my hand. What a hot and strong grasp he had! – and how like quarried marble was his pale, firm, massive front at this moment! How his eye shone, still, watchful and yet wild beneath!
Mr. Wood seemed at a loss. “What is the nature of the impediment?” he asked. “Perhaps it may be got over – explained away?”
“Hardly,” was the answer: “I have called it insuperable, and I speak advisedly.”
The speaker came forwards, and leaned on the rails. He continued, uttering each word distinctly, calmly, steadily, but not loudly.
“It simply consists in the existence of a previous marriage. Mr. Rochester has a wife now living.”

This turns out to be a lawyer, and when Mr. Rochester tries to deny it, he’s armed with proof.

“Favour me with an account of her – with her name, her parentage, her place of abode.”
“Certainly.” Mr. Briggs calmly took a paper from his pocket and read out in a sort of official, nasal voice: –
“‘I affirm and can prove that on the 20th of October, A.D. — (a date of fifteen years back), Edward Fairfax Rochester, of Thornfield Hall, in the county of –, and of Ferndean Manor, in –shire, England, was married to my sister, Bertha Antoinette Mason, daughter of Jonas Mason, merchant, and of Antoinette his wife, a Creole – at — church, Spanish Town, Jamaica. The record of the marriage will be found in the register of that church – a copy of it is now in my possession. Signed, Richard Mason.'”

and of course this why mr. rochester was so concerned about mason

And naturally, this is when the lawyer produces Mason in the flesh, who is very frightened of angering Mr. Rochester.

“Courage,” urged the lawyer, – “speak out.”
“She is now living at Thornfield Hall,” said Mason, in more articulate tones: “I saw her last April. I am her brother.”
“At Thornfield Hall!” [exclaimed] the clergyman. “Impossible! I am an old resident in this neighborhood, sir, and I never heard of a Mrs. Rochester at Thornfield Hall.”
I saw a grim smile contort Mr. Rochester’s lip, and he uttered: – “No – by God! I took care that none should hear of it – or her under that name.” He mused – for ten minutes he held counsel with himself: he formed his resolve, and announced it: – “Enough – all shall bolt out at once, like a bullet from the barrel. – Wood, close your book, and take off your surplice; John Green (to the clerk) leave the church: there will be no wedding to-day:” the man obeyed.

Thus, they make their way out of the chapel, Mr. Rochester still leading Jane by the hand.

Mr. Rochester continued, hardily and recklessly: “Bigamy is an ugly word! – I meant, however, to be a bigamist; but fate has outmaneuvred me; or Providence has checked me, – perhaps the last. I am little better than a devil at this moment; and, as my pastor there would tell me, deserve no doubt the sternest judgments of God, – even to the quenchless fire and deathless worm. Gentlemen, my plan is broken up! – what this lawyer and his client say is true: I have been married; and the woman to whom I was married lives! You say you never heard of a Mrs. Rochester at the house up yonder, Wood: but I dare say you have many a time inclined your ear to gossip about the mysterious lunatic kept there under watch and ward. Some have whispered to you that she is my bastard half-sister: some, my cast-off mistress; I now inform you that she is my wife, whom I married fifteen years ago – Bertha Mason by name; sister of this resolute personage, who is now, with his quivering limbs and white cheeks, showing you what a stout heart men may bear. Cheer up, Dick! – never fear me! – I’d almost as soon strike a woman as you. Bertha Mason is mad; and she came of a mad family; – idiots and maniacs through three generations! Her mother, the Creole, was both a mad woman and a drunkard! – as I found out after I had wed the daughter: they were silent on family secrets before. Bertha, like a dutiful child, copied her parent in both points. I had a charming partner – pure, wise, modest: you can fancy I was a happy man. – I went through rich scenes! Oh! my experience has been heavenly, if you only knew it! But I owe you no further explanation. Briggs, Wood, Mason, – 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 espousing, and judge whether or not I had a right break the compact, and seek sympathy with something at least human. This girl,” he continued, looking at me, “knew no more than you, Wood, of this disgusting secret: she thought all was fair and legal; and never dreamt she was going to be entrapped into a feigned union with a defrauded wretch, already bound to a bad, mad, and embruted partner! Come, all of you, follow.”

All the household seems shocked and surprised by this turn of events, as Mr. Rochester takes his guests up to the third story.

“Good-morrow, Mrs. Poole!” said Mr. Rochester. “How are you? and how is your charge to-day?”
“We’re tolerable, sir, I thank you,” replied Grace, lifting the boiling mess carefully on to the hob: “rather snappish, but not ‘rageous.”
A fierce cry seemed to give the lie to her favourable report: the clothed hyena rose up, and stood tall on its hind feet.
“Ah, sir, she sees you! exclaimed Grace: “you’d better not stay.”
“Only a few moments, Grace: you must allow me a few moments.”
“Take care then, sir! – for God’s sake, take care!”
The maniac bellowed: she parted her shaggy locks from her visage, and gazed wildly at her visitors. I recognised well that purple face – those bloated features. Mrs. Poole advanced.
“Keep out of the way,” said Mr. Rochester, thrusting her aside: “she has no knife now, I suppose? and I’m on my guard.”
“One never knows what she has, sir: she is so cunning: it is not in mortal discretion to fathom her craft.”

And thus we discover that Bertha was the one responsible for all the incidents at Thornfield, and Mrs. Poole was only her caretaker.

“‘Ware!” cried Grace. The three gentlemen retreated simultaneously. Mr. Rochester flung me behind him: the lunatic sprang and grappled his throat viciously, and laid her teeth to his cheek: they struggled. She was a big woman, in stature almost equaling her husband, and corpulent besides: she showed virile force in the contest – more than once she almost throttled him, athletic as he was. He could have settled her with a well-planted blow; but he would not strike: he would only wrestle. At last he mastered her arms; Grace Poole gave him a cord, and he pinioned them behind her: with more rope, which was at hand, he bound her to a chair. The operation was performed amidst the fiercest yells and the most convulsive plunges. Mr. Rochester then turned to the spectators: he looked at them with a smile both acrid and desolate.
“That is my wife,” said he. “Such is the sole conjugal embrace I am ever to know – such are the endearments which are to solace my leisure hours! and this is what I wished to have” (laying his hand on my shoulder): “this young girl, who stands so grave and quiet at the mouth of hell, looking collectedly at the gambols of a demon. I wanted her just as a change after that fierce ragout. Wood and Briggs, look at the difference! Compare these clear eyes and the red balls yonder – this face with that mask – this form with that bulk; then judge me, priest of the gospel and man of the law, and remember, with what judgment ye judge ye shall be judged! Off with you now. I must shut up my prize.”

This isn’t quite as bad as it looks – a place in a stable home is probably much better than a place at an asylum in those days, but that doesn’t make Bertha’s situation any less tragic. She was married off to a man she barely knew (and it’s unclear if she even knows English – she’s nonverbal at this point!), then he took her across the ocean to a strange climate and LOCKED HER IN THE ATTIC. Judging by the comment about her weight, they probably gave her endless doses of the “rest cure”, wherein a mentally unwell woman is locked up in a room with nothing to do but eat and sleep (as hauntingly depicted in “The Yellow Wallpaper”), and what else could a person do but go insane after over a DECADE of that? Again, this is probably the best that Mr. Rochester knew, but that doesn’t make it any less horrific…not at all helped by Bertha being constantly compared to animals and demons. Because this is all about how it affects MR. ROCHESTER!

Anyhow, after the priest acknowledges her innocence, Jane talks to the lawyer, who informs her that SHE was the one who set all this into motion, because her uncle that she wrote about her marriage to was actually acquainted with Mr. Mason, so he was sent to break it up because her uncle was ill.

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 it by my stuff gown I had worn yesterday, as I thought for the last time. Then I 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.

Yeah, she’s got a lot to process…

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?
Jane Eyre, who had been an ardent, expectant woman – almost a bride – was a cold, solitary girl again: her life was pale: her prospects were desolate. […] I looked on my cherished wishes, yesterday so blooming and glowing: they lay stark, chill. livid corpses that could never revive. I looked on my love: that feeling which was my master’s – which he had created; it shivered in my heart, like a suffering child in a cold cradle; sickness and anguish seized it; it could not seek Mr. Rochester’s arms – it could not derive warmth from his breast. Oh, never more could it turn to him; for faith was blighted – confidence destroyed! Mr. Rochester was not to me what he had been; for he was not what I thought him; I would not ascribe vice to him; I would not say he betrayed me: but the attribute of stainless truth was gone from his idea; and from his presence I must go; that I perceived well. When – how – whither, I could not yet discern; but he himself, I doubted not, would hurry me from Thornfield. Real affection, it seems, he could not have for me; it had only been fitful passion: that was balked; he would want me no more.

Yeah, that’s what you get for LYING TO HER ALL THIS TIME: She doesn’t trust you anymore!

Self-abandoned, relaxed, and effortless, I seemed to have laid me down in the dried-up bed of a great river; I heard the 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 death-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.”

Until next time…