LITMIR.BIZ

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If, on reflection, I find I have fallen into no great absurdity, I shall try to forgive you; but it was not right.”

      “Oh, you have been very correct – very careful, very sensible.”

      I reflected, and thought, on the whole, I had. It was a comfort; but, indeed, I had been on my guard almost from the beginning of the interview. Something of masquerade I suspected. I knew gipsies and fortune-tellers did not express themselves as this seeming old woman had expressed herself; besides I had noted her feigned voice, her anxiety to conceal her features. But my mind had been running on Grace Poole – that living enigma, that mystery of mysteries, as I considered her. I had never thought of Mr. Rochester.

      “Well,” said he, “what are you musing about? What does that grave smile signify?”

      “Wonder and self-congratulation, sir. I have your permission to retire now, I suppose?”

      “No; stay a moment; and tell me what the people in the drawing-room yonder are doing.”

      “Discussing the gipsy, I daresay.”

      “Sit down! – Let me hear what they said about me.”

      “I had better not stay long, sir; it must be near eleven o’clock. Oh, are you aware, Mr. Rochester, that a stranger has arrived here since you left this morning?”

      “A stranger! – no; who can it be? I expected no one; is he gone?”

      “No; he said he had known you long, and that he could take the liberty of installing himself here till you returned.”

      “The devil he did! Did he give his name?”

      “His name is Mason, sir; and he comes from the West Indies; from Spanish Town, in Jamaica, I think.”

      Mr. Rochester was standing near me; he had taken my hand, as if to lead me to a chair. As I spoke he gave my wrist a convulsive grip; the smile on his lips froze: apparently a spasm caught his breath.

      “Mason! – the West Indies!” he said, in the tone one might fancy a speaking automaton to enounce its single words; “Mason! – the West Indies!” he reiterated; and he went over the syllables three times, growing, in the intervals of speaking, whiter than ashes: he hardly seemed to know what he was doing.

      “Do you feel ill, sir?” I inquired.

      “Jane, I’ve got a blow; I’ve got a blow, Jane!” He staggered.

      “Oh, lean on me, sir.”

      “Jane, you offered me your shoulder once before; let me have it now.”

      “Yes, sir, yes; and my arm.”

      He sat down, and made me sit beside him. Holding my hand in both his own, he chafed it; gazing on me, at the same time, with the most troubled and dreary look.

      “My little friend!” said he, “I wish I were in a quiet island with only you; and trouble, and danger, and hideous recollections removed from me.”

      “Can I help you, sir? – I’d give my life to serve you.”

      “Jane, if aid is wanted, I’ll seek it at your hands; I promise you that.”

      “Thank you, sir. Tell me what to do, – I’ll try, at least, to do it.”

      “Fetch me now, Jane, a glass of wine from the dining-room: they will be at supper there; and tell me if Mason is with them, and what he is doing.”

      I went. I found all the party in the dining-room at supper, as Mr. Rochester had said; they were not seated at table, – the supper was arranged on the sideboard; each had taken what he chose, and they stood about here and there in groups, their plates and glasses in their hands. Every one seemed in high glee; laughter and conversation were general and animated. Mr. Mason stood near the fire, talking to Colonel and Mrs. Dent, and appeared as merry as any of them. I filled a wine-glass (I saw Miss Ingram watch me frowningly as I did so: she thought I was taking a liberty, I daresay), and I returned to the library.

      Mr. Rochester’s extreme pallor had disappeared, and he looked once more firm and stern. He took the glass from my hand.

      “Here is to your health, ministrant spirit!” he said. He swallowed the contents and returned it to me. “What are they doing, Jane?”

      “Laughing and talking, sir.”

      “They don’t look grave and mysterious, as if they had heard something strange?”

      “Not at all: they are full of jests and gaiety.”

      “And Mason?”

      “He was laughing too.”

      “If all these people came in a body and spat at me, what would you do, Jane?”

      “Turn them out of the room, sir, if I could.”

      He half smiled. “But if I were to go to them, and they only looked at me coldly, and whispered sneeringly amongst each other, and then dropped off and left me one by one, what then? Would you go with them?”

      “I rather think not, sir: I should have more pleasure in staying with you.”

      “To comfort me?”

      “Yes, sir, to comfort you, as well as I could.”

      “And if they laid you under a ban for adhering to me?”

      “I, probably, should know nothing about their ban; and if I did, I should care nothing about it.”

      “Then, you could dare censure for my sake?”

      “I could dare it for the sake of any friend who deserved my adherence; as you, I am sure, do.”

      “Go back now into the room; step quietly up to Mason, and whisper in his ear that Mr. Rochester is come and wishes to see him: show him in here and then leave me.”

      “Yes, sir.”

      I did his behest. The company all stared at me as I passed straight among them. I sought Mr. Mason, delivered the message, and preceded him from the room: I ushered him into the library, and then I went upstairs.

      At a late hour, after I had been in bed some time, I heard the visitors repair to their chambers: I distinguished Mr. Rochester’s voice, and heard him say, “This way, Mason; this is your room.”

      He spoke cheerfully: the gay tones set my heart at ease. I was soon asleep.

      Chapter XX

      I had forgotten to draw my curtain, which I usually did, and also to let down my window-blind. The consequence was, that when the moon, which was full and bright (for the night was fine), came in her course to that space in the sky opposite my casement, and looked in at me through the unveiled panes, her glorious gaze roused me. Awaking in the dead of night, I opened my eyes on her disk – silver-white and crystal clear. It was beautiful, but too solemn; I half rose, and stretched my arm to draw the curtain.

      Good God! What a cry!

      The night – its silence – its rest, was rent in twain by a savage, a sharp, a shrilly sound that ran from end to end of Thornfield Hall.

      My pulse stopped: my heart stood still; my stretched arm was paralysed. The cry died, and was not renewed. Indeed, whatever being uttered that fearful shriek could not soon repeat it: not the widest-winged condor on the Andes could, twice in succession, send out such a yell from the cloud shrouding his eyrie. The thing delivering such utterance must rest ere it could repeat the effort.

      It came out of the third storey; for it passed overhead. And overhead – yes, in the room just above my chamber-ceiling – I now heard a struggle: a deadly one it seemed from the noise; and a half-smothered voice shouted –

      “Help! help! help!” three times rapidly.

      “Will no one come?” it cried; and then, while the staggering and stamping went on wildly, I distinguished through plank and plaster: –

      “Rochester!

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