“Well,” he said, after some minutes’ silence, “it is strange; but that sentence has penetrated my breast painfully.
Why?
I think because you said it with such an earnest, religious energy, and because your upward gaze at me now is the very sublime of faith, truth, and devotion: it is too much as if some spirit were near me.
Look wicked, Jane: as you know well how to look: coin one of your wild, shy, provoking smiles; tell me you hate me—tease me, vex me; do anything but move me: I would rather be incensed than saddened.”
“I will tease you and vex you to your heart’s content, when I have finished my tale: but hear me to the end.”
“I thought, Jane, you had told me all.
I thought I had found the source of your melancholy in a dream.”
I shook my head.
“What! is there more?
But I will not believe it to be anything important.
I warn you of incredulity beforehand.
Go on.”
The disquietude of his air, the somewhat apprehensive impatience of his manner, surprised me: but I proceeded.
“I dreamt another dream, sir: that Thornfield Hall was a dreary ruin, the retreat of bats and owls.
I thought that of all the stately front nothing remained but a shell-like wall, very high and very fragile-looking.
I wandered, on a moonlight night, through the grass-grown enclosure within: here I stumbled over a marble hearth, and there over a fallen fragment of cornice.
Wrapped up in a shawl, I still carried the unknown little child: I might not lay it down anywhere, however tired were my arms—however much its weight impeded my progress, I must retain it.
I heard the gallop of a horse at a distance on the road; I was sure it was you; and you were departing for many years and for a distant country.
I climbed the thin wall with frantic perilous haste, eager to catch one glimpse of you from the top: the stones rolled from under my feet, the ivy branches I grasped gave way, the child clung round my neck in terror, and almost strangled me; at last I gained the summit.
I saw you like a speck on a white track, lessening every moment.
The blast blew so strong I could not stand.
I sat down on the narrow ledge; I hushed the scared infant in my lap: you turned an angle of the road: I bent forward to take a last look; the wall crumbled; I was shaken; the child rolled from my knee, I lost my balance, fell, and woke.”
“Now, Jane, that is all.”
“All the preface, sir; the tale is yet to come.
On waking, a gleam dazzled my eyes; I thought—Oh, it is daylight!
But I was mistaken; it was only candlelight.
Sophie, I supposed, had come in.
There was a light in the dressing-table, and the door of the closet, where, before going to bed, I had hung my wedding-dress and veil, stood open; I heard a rustling there.
I asked,
‘Sophie, what are you doing?’
No one answered; but a form emerged from the closet; it took the light, held it aloft, and surveyed the garments pendent from the portmanteau.
‘Sophie!
Sophie!’
I again cried: and still it was silent.
I had risen up in bed, I bent forward: first surprise, then bewilderment, came over me; and then my blood crept cold through my veins.
Mr. Rochester, this was not Sophie, it was not Leah, it was not Mrs. Fairfax: it was not—no, I was sure of it, and am still—it was not even that strange woman, Grace Poole.”
“It must have been one of them,” interrupted my master.
“No, sir, I solemnly assure you to the contrary.
The shape 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.”