Pilot pricked up his ears when I came in: then he jumped up with a yelp and a whine, and bounded towards me: he almost knocked the tray from my hands.
I set it on the table; then patted him, and said softly,
“Lie down!”
Mr. Rochester turned mechanically to see what the commotion was: but as he saw nothing, he returned and sighed.
“Give me the water, Mary,” he said.
I approached him with the now only half-filled glass; Pilot followed me, still excited.
“What is the matter?” he inquired.
“Down, Pilot!”
I again said. He checked the water on its way to his lips, and seemed to listen: he drank, and put the glass down.
“This is you, Mary, is it not?”
“Mary is in the kitchen,” I answered.
He put out his hand with a quick gesture, but not seeing where I stood, he did not touch me.
“Who is this?
Who is this?” he demanded, trying, as it seemed, to see with those sightless eyes—unavailing and distressing attempt!
“Answer me—speak again!” he ordered, imperiously and aloud.
“Will you have a little more water, sir?
I spilt half of what was in the glass,” I said.
“Who is it?
What is it?
Who speaks?”
“Pilot knows me, and John and Mary know I am here.
I came only this evening,” I answered.
“Great God!—what delusion has come over me?
What sweet madness has seized me?”
“No delusion—no madness: your mind, sir, is too strong for delusion, your health too sound for frenzy.”
“And where is the speaker?
Is it only a voice?
Oh!
I cannot see, but I must feel, or my heart will stop and my brain burst.
Whatever—whoever you are—be perceptible to the touch or I cannot live!”
He groped; I arrested his wandering hand, and prisoned it in both mine.
“Her very fingers!” he cried; “her small, slight fingers!
If so there must be more of her.”
The muscular hand broke from my custody; my arm was seized, my shoulder—neck—waist—I was entwined and gathered to him.
“Is it Jane?
What is it?
This is her shape—this is her size—”
“And this her voice,” I added.
“She is all here: her heart, too.
God bless you, sir!
I am glad to be so near you again.”
“Jane Eyre!—Jane Eyre,” was all he said.
“My dear master,” I answered,
“I am Jane Eyre: I have found you out—I am come back to you.”
“In truth?—in the flesh?
My living Jane?”
“You touch me, sir,—you hold me, and fast enough: I am not cold like a corpse, nor vacant like air, am I?”
“My living darling!
These are certainly her limbs, and these her features; but I cannot be so blest, after all my misery.
It is a dream; such dreams as I have had at night when I have clasped her once more to my heart, as I do now; and kissed her, as thus—and felt that she loved me, and trusted that she would not leave me.”