Jane Eyre

standing before me had never crossed my eyes within the precincts of Thornfield-Hall before; the height, the contour were new to me.«
    »Describe it, Jane.«
    »It seemed, sir, a woman, tall and large, with thick and dark hair hanging long down her back. I know not what dress she had on: it was white and straight; but whether gown, sheet, or shroud, I cannot tell.«
    »Did you see her face?«
    »Not at first. But presently she took my veil from its place; she held it up, gazed at it long, and then she 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 to me – oh, sir, I never saw a face like it! It was a discoloured face – it was a savage face. I wish I could forget the roll of the red eyes and the fearful blackened inflation of the lineaments!«
    »Ghosts are usually pale, Jane.«
    »This, sir, was purple: the lips were swelled and dark; the brow furrowed; the black eyebrows widely raised over the blood-shot eyes. Shall I tell you of what it reminded me?«
    »You may.«
    »Of the foul German spectre – the Vampyre.«
    »Ah! – what did it do?«
    »Sir, it removed my veil from its gaunt head, rent it in two parts, and flinging both on the floor, trampled on them.«
    »Afterwards?«
    »It drew aside the window-curtain and looked out: perhaps it saw dawn approaching, for, taking the candle, it retreated to the door. Just at my bedside, the figure stopped: the fiery eye glared upon me – she thrust up her candle close to my face, and extinguished it under my eyes. I was aware her lurid visage flamed over mine, and I lost consciousness: for the second time in my life – only the second time – I became insensible from terror.«
    »Who was with you when you revived?«
    »No one, sir; but the broad day. I rose, bathed my head and face in water, drank a long draught; felt that though enfeebled I was not ill, and determined that to none but you would I impart this vision. Now, sir, tell me who and what that woman was?«
    »The creature of an over-stimulated brain; that is certain. I must be careful of you, my treasure: nerves like yours were not made for rough handling.«
    »Sir, depend on it, my nerves were not in fault; the thing was real: the transaction actually took place.«
    »And your previous dreams: were they real too? Is Thornfield-Hall a ruin? Am I severed from you by insuperable obstacles? Am I leaving you without a tear – without a kiss – without a word?«
    »Not yet.«
    »Am I about to do it? – Why the day is already commenced which is to bind us indissolubly; and when we are once united, there shall be no recurrence of these mental terrors: I guarantee that.«
    »Mental terrors, sir! I wish I could believe them to be only such: I wish it more now than ever; since even you cannot explain to me the mystery of that awful visitant.«
    »And since I cannot do it, Jane, it must have been unreal.«
    »But, sir, when I said so to myself on rising this morning, and when I looked round the room to gather courage and comfort from the cheerful aspect of each familiar object in full daylight, there – on the carpet – I saw what gave the distinct lie to my hypothesis, – the veil, torn from top to bottom in two halves!«
    I felt Mr. Rochester start and shudder; he hastily flung his arms round me: »Thank God!« he exclaimed, »that if anything malignant did come near you last night, it was only the veil that was harmed. – Oh, to think what might have happened!«
    He drew his breath short, and strained me so close to him, I could scarcely pant. After some minutes' silence, he continued, cheerily: –
    »Now, Janet, I'll explain to you all about it. It was half dream, half reality: a woman did, I doubt not, enter your room: and that woman was – must have been – Grace Poole. You call her a strange being yourself: from all you know, you have reason so to call her – what did she do to me? what to Mason? In a state between sleeping and waking, you noticed her entrance and her actions; but feverish, almost delirious as you were, you ascribed to her a goblin appearance different from her own: the long dishevelled hair, the swelled black face, the exaggerated stature, were figments of imagination; results of nightmare: the spiteful tearing of the veil was real: and it is like her. I see you would ask why I keep such a woman in my house: when we have