Jane Eyre

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 made effort on effort to utter your name and entreat you to stop – but my movements were fettered; and my voice still died away inarticulate; while you, I felt, withdrew farther and farther every moment.«
    »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 – 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, »it is 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 well how to look; coin 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 have finished my tale: but hear me to the end.«
    »I thought, Jane, you had told me all. I thought I had found the source of your melancholy in a dream!«
    I shook my head. »What! is there more? But I will not believe it to be anything important. I warn you of incredulity beforehand. Go on.«
    The disquietude of his air, the somewhat apprehensive impatience of his manner, surprised me: but I proceeded.
    »I dreamt another dream, sir: that Thornfield-Hall was a dreary ruin, the retreat of bats and owls. I thought that of all the stately front nothing remained but a shell-like wall, very high, and very fragile-looking. I wandered, on a moonlight night, through the grass-grown enclosure within: here I stumbled over a marble hearth, and there over a fallen fragment of cornice. Wrapped up in a shawl, I still carried the unknown little child: I might not lay it down anywhere, however tired were my arms – however much its weight impeded my progress, I must retain it. I heard the gallop of a horse at a distance on the road: I was sure it was you; and you were departing for many years, and for a distant country. I climbed the thin wall with frantic perilous haste, eager to catch one glimpse of you from the top: the stones rolled from under my feet, the ivy branches I grasped gave way, the child clung round my neck in terror, and almost strangled me: at last I gained the summit. I saw you like a speck on a white track, lessening every moment. The blast blew so strong I could not stand. I sat down on the narrow ledge; I hushed the scared infant in my lap: you turned an angle of the road; I bent forward to take a last look; the wall crumbled; I was shaken; the child rolled from my knee; I lost my balance, fell, and woke.«
    »Now, Jane, that is all.«
    »All the preface, sir; the tale is yet to come. On waking, a gleam dazzled my eyes: I thought – oh, it is daylight! But I was mistaken: it was only candle-light. 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 had hung my wedding-dress and veil, stood open: I heard a rustling there. I asked, ›Sophie, what are you doing?‹ No one answered; but a form emerged from the closet: it took the light, held it aloft and surveyed the garments pendent from the portmanteau. ›Sophie! Sophie!‹ I again cried: and still it was silent. I had risen up in bed, I bent forward: first, surprise, then bewilderment, came over me; and then my blood crept cold through my veins. Mr. Rochester, this was not Sophie, it was not Leah, it was not Mrs. Fairfax: it was not – no, I was sure of it, and am still – it was not even that strange woman, Grace Poole.«
    »It must have been one of them,« interrupted my master.
    »No, sir, I solemnly assure you to the contrary. The shape