Jane Eyre

pronounced them.«
    »
May
it be right then,« I said, as I rose; deeming it useless to continue a discourse which was all darkness to me; and, besides, sensible that the character of my interlocutor was beyond my penetration: at least, beyond its present reach; and feeling the uncertainty, the vague sense of insecurity, which accompanies a conviction of ignorance.
    »Where are you going?«
    »To put Adèle to bed: it is past her bedtime.«
    »You are afraid of me, because I talk like a Sphynx.«
    »Your language is enigmatical, sir: but though I am bewildered, I am certainly not afraid.«
    »You
are
afraid – your self-love dreads a blunder.«
    »In that sense I do feel apprehensive – I have no wish to talk nonsense.«
    »If you did, it would be in such a grave, quiet manner, I should mistake it for sense. Do you never laugh, Miss Eyre? Don't trouble yourself to answer – I see, you laugh rarely; but you can laugh very merrily; believe me, you are not naturally austere, any more than I am naturally vicious. The Lowood constraint still clings to you somewhat; controlling your features, muffling your voice, and restricting your limbs; and you fear in the presence of a man and a brother – or father, or master, or what you will – to smile too gaily, speak too freely, or move too quickly: but in time, I think you will learn to be natural with me, as I find it impossible to be conventional with you; and then your looks and movements will have more vivacity and variety than they dare offer now. I see, at intervals, the glance of a curious sort of bird through the close-set bars of a cage; a vivid, restless, resolute captive is there; were it but free, it would soar cloud-high. You are still bent on going?«
    »It has struck nine, sir.«
    »Never mind, – wait a minute: Adèle is not ready to go to bed yet. My position. Miss Eyre, with my back to the fire, and my face to the room, favours observation. While talking to you, I have also occasionally watched Adèle; (I have my own reasons for thinking her a curious study,- reasons that I may, nay that I shall impart to you some day); she pulled out of her box, about ten minutes ago, a little pink silk frock; rapture lit her face as she unfolded it: coquetry runs in her blood, blends with her brains, and seasons the marrow of her bones. ›Il faut que je l'essaie!‹ cried she; ›et à l'instant même!‹ and she rushed out of the room. She is now with Sophie, undergoing a robing process: in a few minutes she will re-enter; and I know what I shall see, – a miniature of Céline Varens, as she used to appear on the boards at the rising of ––: but never mind that. However, my tenderest feelings are about to receive a shock: such is my presentiment; stay now, to see whether it will be realized.«
    Ere long, Adèle's little foot was heard tripping across the hall. She entered, transformed as her guardian had predicted. A dress of rose-coloured satin, very short, and as full in the skirt as it could be gathered, replaced the brown frock she had previously worn; a wreath of rosebuds circled her forehead; her feet were dressed in silk stockings and small white satin sandals.
    »Est-ce que ma robe va bien?« cried she, bounding forwards; »et mes souliers? et mes bas? Tenez, je crois que je vais danser!«
    And spreading out her dress, she chasséed across the room; till having reached Mr. Rochester, she wheeled lightly round before him on tip-toe, then dropped on one knee at his feet, exclaiming: –
    »Monsieur, je vous remercie mille fois de votre bonté;« then rising, she added, »C'est comme cela que maman faisait, n'est-ce pas, monsieur?«
    »Pre-cise-ly!« was the answer; »and ›comme cela,‹ she charmed my English gold out of my British breeches' pocket. I have been green, too, Miss Eyre, – ay, grass green: not a more vernal tint freshens you now than once freshened me. My Spring is gone, however: but it has left me that French floweret on my hands; which, in some moods, I would fain be rid of. Not valuing now the root whence it sprang; having found that it was of a sort which nothing but gold dust could manure, I have but half a liking to the blossom: especially when it looks so artificial, as just now. I keep it and rear it rather on the Roman Catholic principle of expiating numerous sins, great or small, by one good work. I'll explain all this some day. Good-night.«
     

 
Chapter XV
    Mr. Rochester did, on a future occasion, explain it.
    It was one