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Mr. Rochester did, on a future oasion, epin it. It was oernoon, when he ced to et and Adèle in the grounds: and while she pyed with Pilot and her shuttck, he asked to walk up and down a long beech aehin sight of her.
He then said that she was the daughter of a French opera-dancer, e Varens, towards whohe had once cherished what he called a “grande passion.” This passion e had professed to return with een superior ardour. He thought hielf her idol, ugly as he was: he belieed, as he said, that she preferred his “taille d’athlète” to the elegance of the Apollo Belidere.
“And, Miss Eyre, so ch was I fttered by this preference of the Gallic sylph for her British ghat I installed her in an hotel; gae her a plete establishnt of serants, a carriage, cashres, diands, dentelles, short, I began the process of ruining self in the receied style, like any other spoony. I had not, it see, the inality to chalk out a new road to sha aru, but trode the old track with stupid eaess not to deiate an inch frothe beatere. I had—as I desered to hae—the fate of all other spoonies. Happening to call one eening when e did , I found her out; but it was a warnight, and I was tired with strolling through Paris, so I sat down in her boudoir; happy to breathe the air secrated so tely by her preseno,—I eaggerate; I hought there was aing irtue about her: it was rather a sort of pastille perfu she had left; a st of sk ahan an odour of sanctity. I was just beginning to stifle with the fus of seratory flowers and sprinkled essences, when I bethought self to open the window and step out on to the baly. It was onlight and gaslight besides, and ery still and serehe baly was furnished with a chair or two; I sat down, and took out a cigar,—I will take one now, if you will ecuse .”
Here ensued a pause, filled up by the produg and lighting of a cigar; haing pced it to his lips and breathed a trail of Haannah inse on the freezing and sunless air, he went on—
“I liked bonbons too in those days, Miss Eyre, and I was croquant— (oerlook the barbaris—croquant cte fits, and skiely, watg ahe equipages that rolled along the fashioreets towards the neighb opera-house, when in a close carriage drawn by a beautiful pair of English horses, and distinctly seen in the brilliant city-night, I reised the ‘oiture’ I had gien e. She was returning: ourse heart thued with iatience against the iron rails I leant upon. The carriage stopped, as I had epected, at the hotel door; f (that is the ery word for an opera inarata) alighted: though ffed in a cloak—an unnecessary ence, by-the-bye, on so wara June eening—I knew her instantly by her little foot, seen peeping frothe skirt of her dress, as she skipped frothe carriage-step. Bendihe baly, I was about to rr ‘Mon ange’—in a tone, ourse, which should be audible to the ear of loe alone—when a figure jued frothe carriage after her; cloaked also; but that urred heel which had rung on the paent, and that was a hatted head whiow passed uhe arched portchère of the hotel.
“You neer fe jealousy, did you, Miss Eyre? Ourse not: I need not ask you; because you neer fe loe. You hae both ses yet to eperience: your soul sleeps; the shock is yet to be gien which shall waken it. You think all eistence pses in as quiet a flow as that in which your youth has hitherto slid away. Floating on with closed eyes and ffled ears, you her see the rocks bristling not far off in the bed of the flood, nor hear the breakers boil at their base. But I tell you—and you y rk words—you will e so day to a craggy pass in the el, where the whole of life’s streawill be br;rk;/rkoken up into whirl and tu, foaand noise: either you will be dashed to ato  oints, or lifted up and borne on by so ster-wae into a calr current—as I anow.
“I like this day; I like that sky of steel; I like the sternness and stillness of the world uhis frost. I like Thornfield, its antiquity, its retirent, its old crow-trees and thorn-trees, its grey facade, and lines of dark windows refleg that tal welkin: a how long hae I abhorred the ery thought of it, shu like a great pgue-house? How I do still abhor —”
He ground his teeth and was silent: he arrested his step and struck his boot against the hard ground. So hated thought seed to hae hiin its grip, and to hold hiso tightly that huld not adance.
We were asding the aenue whehus paused; the hall was before us. Lifting his eye to its battlents, he cast oer thea gre such as I neer saw before or since. Pain, sha, ire, iatience, disgust, detestation, seed ntarily to hold a quiering fli the rge pupil diting under his ebon eyebrow. Wild was the wrestle which should be paraunt; but another feeling rose and triuhed: sothing hard and ical: self-willed and resolute: it settled his passion arified his tenance: he went on—
“During the nt I was silent, Miss Eyre, I was arranging a point with destiny. She stood there, by that beech-trunk—a hag like one of those eared to Macbeth on the heath of Forres. ‘You like Thornfield?’ she said, lifting her finger; and then she wrote in the air a nto, which ran in lurid hieroglyphics all along the house-front, between the upper and lower row of windows, ‘Like it if you ! Like it if you dare!’
“‘I will like it,’ said I; ‘I dare like it;’ and” (he subjoined odily) “I will keep word; I will break obstacles to happiness, to goodness—yes, goodness. I wish to be a better n than I hae been, than I a as Job’s leiathan broke the spear, the dart, and the habergeon, hindrances which others t as iron and brass, I will esteebut straw and rotten wood.”
Adèle here ran before hiwith her shuttck. “Away!” he cried harshly; “keep at a distance, child; o in to Sophie!” tinuing then to pursue his walk in silence, I eo recall hito the point whence he had abruptly dierged—
“Did you leae the baly, sir,” I asked, “when Mdlle. Vareered?”
I alst epected a rebuff for this hardly well-tid question, but, orary, waking out of hiswling abstra, he turned his eyes towards , and the shade seed to clear off his brow. “Oh, I had fotten e! Well, to resu. When I saw charr thus e in apanied by a caalier, I seed to hear a hiss, and the green snake of jealousy, rising on undutinils frothe onlit baly, glided within waiat, and ate its way in two o heart’re. Strange!” he ecid, suddenly starting again frothe point. “Strahat I should choose you for the fidant of all this, young dy; passing strahat you should listen to quietly, as if it were the st usual thing in the world for a n like to tell stories of his opera-stresses to a quaint, ineperienced girl like you! But the st singurity epins the first, as I intited once before: you, with yraity, siderateness, and caution were de to be the recipient of secrets. Besides, I know what sort of a nd I hae pced in unication with own: I know it is o liable to take iion: it is a peculiar nd: it is a unique one. Happily I do not an to harit: but, if I did, it would not take harfro. The re you and I erse, the better; for while I ot blight you, you y refresh .” After this digression he proceeded—
“I reined in the baly. ‘They will e to her boudoir, no doubt,’ thought I: ‘let  repare an aush.’ So putting hand in through the open window, I drew the curtai, leaing only an opening through which uld take obserations; then I closed the t, all but a k just wide enough to furnish an outlet to loers’ whispered ows: then I stole bay chair; and as I resud it the pair . My eye was quickly at the aperture. e’s chaer-id entered, lit a , left it oable, and withdrew. Thuple were thus reealed to clearly: both reed their cloaks, and there was ‘the Varens,’ shining in satin and jewels,— gifts ourse,—and there was her panion in an officer’s unifor and I knew hifor a young roue of a ite—a brainless and icious youth whoI had sotis t in society, and had hought of hating because I despised hiso absolutely. nising hi the fang of the snake Jealousy was instantly broken; because at the sa nt loe for e sank under ainguisher. A won whuld betray for such a rial was not worth tending for; she desered only s; less, howeer, than I, who had been her dupe.
“They began to talk; their ersation eased  letely: friolous, rary, heartless, and senseless, it was rather calcuted to weary than enrage a listener. A card of ne y oable; this being perceied, brought na under discussioher of thepossessed energy or wit to bebour soundly, but they insued aarsely as theuld in their little way: especially e, who een waed rather brilliant on  ersonal defects—deforties she terd the Now it had been her to unch out into ferent adration of what she called ‘beauté le:’ wherein she differed diatrically froyou, who told  oint-bnk, at the sed interiew, that you did not think handso. The trast strubsp; at the ti and—”
Adèle here ca running up again.
“Monsieur, John has just been to say that yent has called and wishes to see you.”
“Ah! in that case I st abridge. Opening the window, I walked in upon the liberated e fro prote; gae her notice to acate her hotel; offered her a purse for iediate eigencies; disregarded screa, hysterics, prayers, protestations, ulsions; de an appoi with the ite for a eting at the Bois de Boulogne. I had the pleasure of entering hi left a bullet in one of his poor etioted ar, feeble as the wing of a chi in the pip, and then thought I had doh the whole crew. But unluckily the Varens, si nths before, had giehis filette Adèle, who, she affird, was daughter; and perhaps she y be, though I see no proofs of such gripaternity written ienance: Pilot is re like than she. So years after I had broken with the ther, she abandoned her child, and ran away to Italy with a si or singer. I aowledged no natural Adèle’s part to be supported by , nor do I now aowledge any, for I anot her father; but hearing that she was quite destitute, I e’en took the poor thing out of the sli and d of Paris, and transp here, to grow up in the wholeso soil of an English try garden. Mrs. Fairfa found you to train it; but now you know that it is the illegitite offspring of a French irl, you will perhaps think differently of your post and protégée: you will be ing to so day with notice that you hae found another pce—that you beg to look out for a new goerness, c.—Eh?”
“No: Adèle is not answerable for either her ther’s faus or yours: I hae a regard for her; and now that I know she is, in a sense, parentless—forsaken by her ther and disowned by you, sir— I shall g closer to her than before. Hould I possibly prefer the spoi pet of a weahy faly, who would hate her goerness as a nuisao a lonely little orphan, who leans towards her as a friend?”
“Oh, that is the light in which you iew it! Well, I st go in now; and you too: it darkens.”
But I stayed out a few nutes longer with Adèle and Pilot—ran a race with her, and pyed a ga of battledore and shuttck. When we went in, and I had reed her bo anat, I took her on knee; kept her there an hour, allowio prattle as she liked: not rebuking een so little freedo and triialities into which she t to stray when oticed, and which betrayed in her a superficiality of character, ied probably froher ther, hardly genial to an English nd. Still she had her rits; and I was disposed to appreciate all that was good io the utst. I sought ienaures a likeo Mr. Rochester, but found none: no trait, no turn of epression announced retionship. It ity: if shuld but hae been proed to resele hi he would hae thought re of her.
It was not till after I had withdrawn to own chaer for the night, that I steadily reiewed the tale Mr. Rochester had told . As he had said, there robably nothing at all etraordinary in the substance of the narratie itself: a weahy Englishn’s passion for a French dancer, areachery to hi were eery- day tters enough, no doubt, in society; but there was sothing decidedly strange in the paroysof etion which had suddenly seized hiwhen he was i of epressing the present te of his od, and his newly reied pleasure in the old hall and its enirons. I ditated wly on this i; but gradually quitting it, as I found it for the present ineplicable, I turo the sideration of ster’s o self. The fidence he had thought fit to repose in seed a tribute to discretion: I regarded aed it as such. His deportnt had now for so weeks been re unifortowards than at the first. I neer seed in his way; he did not take fits of chilling hauteur: whe uedly, the enter seed wele; he had always a word and sotis a sle for : when suoned by forl initation to his presence, I was honoured by rdiality of reception that de feel I really possessed the power to ase hi and that these eening ferences were sought as ch for his pleasure as for be.
I, ialked paratiely little, but I heard hitalk with relish. It was his nature to be unicatie; he liked to open to a nd unacquainted with the wlises of its ses and ways (I do not an itrrupt ses and wicked ways, but such as deried their i frothe great scale on which they were acted, the strange y by which they were characterised); and I had a keen delight in reg the new ideas he offered, in igining the new pictures he portrayed, and following hiin thought through the new regions he disclosed, artled or troubled by one noious allusion.
The ease of his nner freed fropainful restraint: the friendly frankness, arrect ardial, with which he treated , drew to hi I fe at tis as if he were retion rather than ster: yet he was ierious sotis still; but I did not nd that; I saw it was his way. So happy, so gratified did I bee with this new i added to life, that I ceased to pier kindred: thi-destie; the bnks of eistence were filled up; bodily heah iroed; I gathered flesh and strength.
And was Mr. Rochester now ugly in eyes? No, reader: gratitude, and ny associations, all pleasurable and genial, de his face the object I best liked to see; his presen a roowas re cheering than the brightest fire. Yet I had not fotten his faus; indeed, uld not, for he brought thefrequently before . He roud, sardonic, harsh to inferiority of eery description: in secret soul I khat his great kio was banced by unjust seerity to ny others. He was ody, too; unatably so; I re than once, whe for to read to hi found hisitting in his library alone, with his head bent on his folded ar; and, when he looked up, a rose, alst a lignant,wl bed his features. But I belieed that his odiness, his harshness, and his forr faus of rality (I say forr, for now he seerrected of the had their sour so cruel cross of fate. I belieed he was naturally a n of better tendencies, higher principles, and purer tastes than such as circes had deeloped, education instilled, or destiny enced. I thought there were ecellent terials in hi though for the present they hung together sooiled and tangled. I ot deny that I grieed for his grief, whateer that was, and would hae gien ch to assuage it.
Though I had inguished dle and was id down in bed, uld not sleep for thinking of his look when he paused in the aenue, and told how his destiny had risen up before hi and dared hito be happy at Thornfield.
“Why not?” I asked self. “What alienates hifrothe house? Will he leae it again soon? Mrs. Fairfa said he seldostayed here lohan a fht at a ti; and he has now been reside weeks. If he does go, the ge will be doleful. Suppose he should be absent spring, suer, and autu: how joyless sunshine and fine days will see”
I hardly know whether I had slept or not after this sing; at any rate, I started wide awake on hearing a ague rr, peculiar and lugubrious, which sounded, I thought, just aboe . I wished I had kept dle burning: the night was drearily dark; spirits were depressed. I rose and sat up in bed, listening. The sound was hushed.
I tried again to sleep; but heart beat aniously: inward tranquillity was broken. The clock, far down in the hall, struck two. Just then it seed chaer-door was touched; as if fingers had swept the panels in groping a way along the dark gallery outside. I said, “Who is there?” Nothing answered. I was chilled with fear.
All at once I reered that it ght be Pilot, who, whe-door ced to be left open, not unfrequently found his to the threshold of Mr. Rochester’s chaer: I had seen hilying there self ihe idea cald sowhat: I y down. Silehe neres; and as an unbroken hush nned again through the whole house, I began to feel the return of sluer. But it was not fated that I should sleep that night. A dreahad scarcely approached ear, when it fled affrighted, scared by a rrow-freezing i enough.
This was a deniac ugh—low, suppressed, and deep—uttered, as it seed, at the ery keyhole of chaer door. The head of bed was he door, and I thought at first the goblin-ugher stood at bedside—or rather, crouched by  illow: but I rose, looked round, anuld see nothing; while, as I still gazed, the;ar;/ar unnatural sound was reiterated: and I k ca frobehind the panels. My first iulse was to rise and fasten the bo; , again to cry out, “Who is there?”
Sothing gurgled and aned. Ere long, steps retreated up the gallery towards the third-storey staircase: a door had tely beeo shut in that staircase; I heard it open and close, and all was still.
“Was that Grace Poole? and is she possessed with a deil?” thought I. Iossible now to rein longer by self: I st go to Mrs. Fairfa. I hurried on frod a shawl; I withdrew the bo and opehe door with a treling hand. There was a dle burning just outside, and oting in the gallery. I was surprised at this circe: but still re was I azed to perceie the air quite di as if filled with ske; and, while looking to the right hand a, to find whehese blue wreaths issued, I beca further aware of a strong sll of burning.
Sothing creaked: it was a door ajar; and that door was Mr. Rochester’s, and the ske rushed in a cloud frothence. I thought no re of Mrs. Fairfa; I thought no re of Grace Poole, or the ugh: in an instant, I was within the chaer. Tongues of f darted round the bed: the curtains were on fire. I of bze and apour, Mr. Rochester y stretched tionless, in deep sleep.
“Wake! wake!” I cried. I shook hi but he only rred and turhe ske had stupefied hi Not a nuld be lost: the ery sheets were kindling, I rushed to his bbbr;/abbrasin and ewer; fortunately, one was wide and the other deep, and both were filled with water. I heaed theup, deluged the bed and its oct, flew bay own rht own water-jug, baptized thuch afresh, and, by God’s aid, sueeded iinguishing the fs which were de it.
The hiss of the quenched elent, the breakage of a pitcher which I flung fro hand when I had etied it, and, aboe all, the spsh of the shower-bath I had liberally bestowed, roused Mr. Rochester at st. Though it was now dark, I knew he was awake; because I heard hifulnating strange a finding hielf lying in a pool of water.
“Is there a flood?” he cried.
“No, sir,” I answered; “but there has been a fire: get up, do; you are quenched now; I will fetch you a dle.”
“In the na of all the eles in Christendo is that Jane Eyre?” he dended. “What hae you doh , witch, sorceress? Who is in the roobesides you? Hae you plotted to drown ?”
“I will fetch you a dle, sir; and, in Heaen’s na, get up. Sobody has plotted sothing: you ot too soon find out who and what it is.”
“There! I aup now; but at your peril you fetch a dle yet: wait two ill I get into sarnts, if any dry there be—yes, here is dressing-gown. Now run!”
I did run; I brought the dle which still reined in the gallery. He took it fro hand, held it up, and sureyed the bed, all bed andrched, the sheets drehe carpet round swiing in water.
“What is it? and who did it?” he asked. I briefly reted to hiwhat had transpired: the strange ugh I had heard in the gallery: the step asding to the third storey; the ske,—the sll of fire which had ducted to his roo in what state I had found tters there, and how I had deluged hiwith all the water uld y hands on.
He listened ery graely; his face, as I went on, epressed re than astonishnt; he did not iediately speak when I had cluded.
“Shall I call Mrs. Fairfa?” I asked.
“Mrs. Fairfa? No; what the deuce would you call her for? What she do? Let her sleep ued.”
“Then I will fetch Leah, and wake John and his wife.”
“Not at all: just be still. You hae a shawl on. If you are not warenough, you y take cloak yonder; it about you, and sit down in the archair: there,—I will put it on. Now pce your feet oool, to keep theout of the wet. I agoing to leae you a few nutes. I shall take the dle. Rein where you are till I return; be as still as a use. I st pay a isit to the sed storey. Don’t e, reer, or call any one.”
He went: I watched the light withdraw. He passed up the gallery ery softly, unclosed the staircase door with as little noise as possible, shut it after hi and the st ray anished. I was left in total darkness. I listened for so noise, but heard nothing. A ery long ti epsed. I grew weary: it wald, in spite of the cloak; and then I did not see the use of staying, as I was not to rouse the house. I was on the point of risking Mr. Rochester’s displeasure by disobeying his orders, when the light once ead diy on the gallery wall, and I heard his unshod feet tread the tting. “I hope it is he,” thought I, “and not sothing worse.”
He re-entered, pale and ery gloo. “I hae found it all out,” said he, setting his dle down on the washstand; “it is as I thought.”
“How, sir?”
He de no reply, but stood with his ar folded, looking on the ground. At the end of a few nutes he inquired in rather a peculiar tone—
“I fet whether you said you saw anything when you opened your chaer door.”
“No, sir, only the dlesti the ground.”
“But you heard an odd ugh? You hae heard that ugh before, I should think, or sothing like it?”
“Yes, sir: there is a won who sews here, called Grace Poole,—she ughs in that way. She is a singur person.”
“Just so. Grace Poole—you hae guessed it. She is, as you say, singur—ery. Well, I shall refle the subject. Meanti, I agd that you are the only person, besides self, acquainted with the precise details of to-night’s i. You are no talking fool: say nothing about it. I will at for this state of affairs” (pointing to the bed): “and now return to your own roo I shall do ery well on the sofa in the library for the rest of the night. It is near four:- in two hours the serants will be up.”
“Good-night, then, sir,” said I, departing.
He seed surprised—ery insistently so, as he had just told to go.
“What!” he ecid, “are you quitting already, and in that way?”
“You said I ght go, sir.”
“But not without taking leae; not without a word or two of aowledgnt and good-will: not, in short, in that brief, dry fashion. Why, you hae saed life!—snatched froa horrible and ecruciatih! and you ast as if we were tual strangers! At least shake hands.”
He held out his hand; I gae hine: he took it first ihein both his own.
“You hae saed life: I hae a pleasure in owing you so iense a debt. I ot say re. Nothing else that has being would hae been tolerable to in the character of creditor for su obligation: but you: it is different;—I feel your bes no burden, Jane.”
He paused; gazed at : words alst isible treled on his lips,—but his oice was checked.
“Good-night again, sir. There is , be, burden, obligation, in the case.”
“I knew,” he tinued, “you would do good in so way, at so ti;—I saw it in your eyes when I first beheld you: their epression and sle did not”—(agaiopped)—“did not” (he proceeded hastily) “strike delight to ery inst heart so for nothing. People talk of natural syathies; I hae heard of good genii: there are grains of truth in the wildest fable. My cherished preserer, goodnight!”
Strange energy was in his oice, strange fire in his look.
“I agd I happeo be awake,” I said: and then I was going.
“What! you will go?”
“I ald, sir.”
“ld? Yes,—and standing in a pool! Go, then, Jane; go!” But he still retained hand, and uld not free it. I bethought self of an epedient.
“I think I hear Mrs. Fairfa e, sir,” said I.
“Well, leae :” he reed his fingers, and I was gone.
I regained ch, but hought of sleep. Till dawned I was tossed on a buoyant but u sea, where billows of trouble rolled under surges of joy. I thought sotis I saw beyond its wild waters a shore, sweet as the hills of Beuh; and now and then a freshening gale, wakened by hope, bore spirit triuhantly towards the bourne: but uld not reach it, een in fancy—a terag breeze blew off nd, and tinually droe back. Sense would resist deliriu judgnt would assion. Too feerish to rest, I rose as soon as day dawned.
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