Jane Eyre

cloak that covered his tall figure all white as a glacier. I was almost in consternation; so little had I expected any guest from the blocked-up vale that night.
    »Any ill news?« I demanded. »Has anything happened?«
    »No. How very easily alarmed you are!« he answered, removing his cloak and hanging it up against the door, towards which he again coolly pushed the mat which his entrance had deranged. He stamped the snow from his boots.
    »I shall sully the purity of your floor,« said he, »but you must excuse me for once.« Then he approached the fire: »I have had hard work to get here, I assure you,« he observed, as he warmed his hands over the flame. »One drift took me up to the waist; happily the snow is quite soft yet.«
    »But why are you come?« I could not forbear saying.
    »Rather an inhospitable question to put to a visitor; but since you ask it, I answer, simply to have a little talk with you; I got tired of my mute books and empty rooms. Besides, since yesterday, I have experienced the excitement of a person to whom a tale has been half-told, and who is impatient to hear the sequel.«
    He sat down. I recalled his singular conduct of yesterday, and really I began to fear his wits were touched. If he were insane, however, his was a very cool and collected insanity: I had never seen that handsome-featured face of his look more like chiselled marble than it did just now, as he put aside his snow-wet hair from his forehead and let the firelight shine free on his pale brow and cheek as pale, where it grieved me to discover the hollow trace of care or sorrow now so plainly graved. I waited, expecting he would say something I could at least comprehend; but his hand was now at his chin, his finger on his lip: he was thinking. It struck me that his hand looked wasted like his face. A perhaps uncalled-for gush of pity came over my heart: I was moved to say: –
    »I wish Diana or Mary would come and live with you: it is too bad that you should be quite alone; and you are recklessly rash about your own health.«
    »Not at all,« said he: »I care for myself when necessary: I am well now. What do you see amiss in me?«
    This was said with a careless, abstracted indifference, which showed that my solicitude was, at least in his opinion, wholly superfluous. I was silenced.
    He still slowly moved his finger over his upper lip, and still his eye dwelt dreamily on the glowing grate; thinking it urgent to say something, I asked him presently if he felt any cold draught from the door, which was behind him.
    »No, no;« he responded, shortly and somewhat testily.
    »Well,« I reflected, »if you won't talk, you may be still; I'll let you alone now, and return to my book.«
    So I snuffed the candle, and resumed the perusal of Marmion. He soon stirred; my eye was instantly drawn to his movements; he only took out a morocco pocket-book, thence produced a letter, which he read in silence, folded it, put it back, relapsed into meditation. It was vain to try to read with such an inscrutable fixture before me; nor could I, in my impatience, consent to be dumb; he might rebuff me if he liked, but talk I would.
    »Have you heard from Diana and Mary lately?«
    »Not since the letter I showed you a week ago.«
    »There has not been any change made about your own arrangements? You will not be summoned to leave England sooner than you expected?«
    »I fear not, indeed: such chance is too good to befall me.« Baffled so far I changed my ground – I bethought myself to talk about the school and my scholars.
    »Mary Garrett's mother is better, and Mary came back to the school this morning, and I shall have four new girls next week from the Foundry Close – they would have come to-day but for the snow.«
    »Indeed!«
    »Mr. Oliver pays for two.«
    »Does he?«
    »He means to give the whole school a treat at Christmas.«
    »I know.«
    »Was it your suggestion?«
    »No.«
    »Whose then?«
    »His daughter's, I think.«
    »It is like her: she is so good-natured.«
    »Yes.«
    Again came the blank of a pause: the clock struck eight strokes. It aroused him; he uncrossed his legs, sat erect, turned to me.
    »Leave your book a moment, and come a little nearer the fire,« he said.
    Wondering, and of my wonder finding no end, I complied.
    »Half an hour ago,« he pursued, »I spoke of my impatience to hear the sequel of a tale: on reflection, I find the matter will be better managed by my assuming the narrator's part, and converting you into a