“The eagerness of a listener quickens the tongue of a narrator.” I said this rather to myself than to the gipsy, whose strange talk, voice, manner,had by this time wrapped me in a kind of dream.One unexpected sentence came from her lips after another,till I got involved in a web of mystification;and wondered what unseen spirit had been sitting for weeks by my heart watching its workings and taking record of every pulse.
“Eagerness of a listener!” repeated she: “yes; Mr. Rochester has sat by the hour,his ear inclined to the fascinating lips that took such delight in their task of communicating;and Mr. Rochester was so willing to receive and looked so grateful for the pastime given him; you have noticed this?”
“Grateful!I cannot remember detecting gratitude in his face.”
“Detecting!You have analysed, then. And what did you detect, if not gratitude?”
I said nothing.
“You have seen love: have you not?—and, looking forward, you have seen him married, and beheld his bride happy?”
“Humph!Not exactly. Your witch’s skill is rather at fault sometimes.”
“What the devil have you seen, then?”
“Never mind: I came here to inquire, not to confess. Is it known that Mr. Rochester is to be married?”
“Yes; and to the beautiful Miss Ingram.”
“Shortly?”
“Appearances would warrant that conclusion: and, no doubt (though,with an audacity that wants chastising out of you, you seem to question it),they will be a superlatively happy pair. He must love such a handsome, noble, witty,accomplished lady; and probably she loves him, or, if not his person, at least his purse.I know she considers the Rochester estate eligible to the last degree; though (God pardon me!) I told her something on that point about an hour ago which made her look wondrous grave:the corners of her mouth fell half an inch. I would advise her blackaviced suitor to look out:if another comes, with a longer or clearer rent-roll,—he’s dished—”
“But, mother, I did not come to hear Mr. Rochester’s fortune: I came to hear my own; and you have told me nothing of it.”
“Your fortune is yet doubtful: when I examined your face, one trait contradicted another.Chance has meted you a measure of happiness: that I know.I knew it before I came here this evening. She has laid it carefully on one side for you.I saw her do it. It depends on yourself to stretch out your hand, and take it up:but whether you will do so, is the problem I study. Kneel again on the rug.”
“Don’t keep me long; the fire scorches me.”
She did not stoop towards me, but only gazed, leaning back in her chair
I knelt. She did not stoop towards me, but only gazed, leaning back in her chair. She began muttering,—
“The flame flickers in the eye; the eye shines like dew; it looks soft and full of feeling;it smiles at my jargon: it is susceptible; impression follows impression through its clear sphere;where it ceases to smile, it is sad; an unconscious lassitude weighs on the lid:that signifies melancholy resulting from loneliness. It turns from me;it will not suffer further scrutiny; it seems to deny, by a mocking glance,the truth of the discoveries I have already made,—to disown the charge both of sensibility and chagrin:its pride and reserve only confirm me in my opinion. The eye is favourable.
“As to the mouth, it delights at times in laughter;it is disposed to impart all that the brain conceives;though I daresay it would be silent on much the heart experiences. Mobile and flexible,it was never intended to be compressed in the eternal silence of solitude:it is a mouth which should speak much and smile often,and have human affection for its interlocutor. That feature too is propitious.
“I see no enemy to a fortunate issue but in the brow; and that brow professes to say,—‘I can live alone, if self-respect, and circumstances require me so to do.I need not sell my soul to buy bliss. I have an inward treasure born with me,which can keep me alive if all extraneous delights should be withheld,or offered only at a price I cannot afford to give.’ The forehead declares,‘Reason sits firm and holds the reins, and she will not let the feelings burst away and hurry her to wild chasms.The passions may rage furiously, like true heathens, as they are;and the desires may imagine all sorts of vain things:but judgment shall still have the last word in every argument,and the casting vote in every decision. Strong wind, earthquake-shock, and fire may pass by:but I shall follow the guiding of that still small voice which interprets the dictates of conscience. ’
“Well said, forehead; your declaration shall be respected.I have formed my plans—right plans I deem them—and in them I have attended to the claims of conscience,the counsels of reason. I know how soon youth would fade and bloom perish, if,in the cup of bliss offered, but one dreg of shame, or one flavour of remorse were detected;and I do not want sacrifice, sorrow, dissolution—such is not my taste. I wish to foster,not to blight—to earn gratitude, not to wring tears of blood—no, nor of brine:my harvest must be in smiles, in endearments, in sweet—That will do.I think I rave in a kind of exquisite delirium.I should wish now to protract this moment _ad infinitum_; but I dare not.So far I have governed myself thoroughly. I have acted as I inwardly swore I would act;but further might try me beyond my strength. Rise, Miss Eyre: leave me; ‘the play is played out.’”
Where was I?Did I wake or sleep?Had I been dreaming?Did I dream still?The old woman’s voice had changed: her accent, her gesture,and all were familiar to me as my own face in a glass—as the speech of my own tongue. I got up,but did not go. I looked; I stirred the fire, and I looked again:but she drew her bonnet and her bandage closer about her face, and again beckoned me to depart.The flame illuminated her hand stretched out: roused now, and on the alert for discoveries,I at once noticed that hand. It was no more the withered limb of eld than my own;it was a rounded supple member, with smooth fingers, symmetrically turned;a broad ring flashed on the little finger, and stooping forward, I looked at it,and saw a gem I had seen a hundred times before. Again I looked at the face;which was no longer turned from me—on the contrary, the bonnet was doffed, the bandage displaced, the head advanced.
“Well, Jane, do you know me?” asked the familiar voice.
“Only take off the red cloak, sir, and then—”
“But the string is in a knot—help me.”
“Break it, sir.”
“There, then—‘Off, ye lendings!’” And Mr. Rochester stepped out of his disguise.
“Now, sir, what a strange idea!”
“But well carried out, eh?Don’t you think so?”
“With the ladies you must have managed well.”
“But not with you?”
“You did not act the character of a gipsy with me.”
“What character did I act?My own?”
“No; some unaccountable one. In short, I believe you have been trying to draw me out—or in;you have been talking nonsense to make me talk nonsense. It is scarcely fair, sir.”
“Do you forgive me, Jane?”
“I cannot tell till I have thought it all over. 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!Rochester!for God’s sake, come!”
A chamber-door opened: some one ran, or rushed, along the gallery.Another step stamped on the flooring above and something fell; and there was silence.
I had put on some clothes, though horror shook all my limbs; I issued from my apartment.The sleepers were all aroused: ejaculations, terrified murmurs sounded in every room;door after door unclosed; one looked out and another looked out; the gallery filled.Gentlemen and ladies alike had quitted their beds; and “Oh!what is it?”—“Who is hurt?”—“What has happened?”—“Fetch a light!”—“Is it fire?”—“Are there robbers?”—“Where shall we run?” was demanded confusedly on all hands. But for the moonlight they would have been in complete darkness.They ran to and fro; they crowded together: some sobbed, some stumbled: the confusion was inextricable.
“Where the devil is Rochester?” cried Colonel Dent. “I cannot find him in his bed.”
“Here!here!” was shouted in return. “Be composed, all of you: I’m coming.”
And the door at the end of the gallery opened, and Mr. Rochester advanced with a candle:he had just descended from the upper storey. One of the ladies ran to him directly; she seized his arm: it was Miss Ingram.
“What awful event has taken place?” said she. “Speak!let us know the worst at once!”
“But don’t pull me down or strangle me,” he replied:for the Misses Eshton were clinging about him now; and the two dowagers, in vast white wrappers,were bearing down on him like ships in full sail.
“All’s right!—all’s right!” he cried. “It’s a mere rehearsal of Much Ado about Nothing. Ladies, keep off, or I shall wax dangerous.”
And dangerous he looked: his black eyes darted sparks. Calming himself by an effort, he added—
“A servant has had the nightmare; that is all. She’s an excitable, nervous person:she construed her dream into an apparition, or something of that sort, no doubt;and has taken a fit with fright. Now, then, I must see you all back into your rooms; for,till the house is settled, she cannot be looked after. Gentlemen,have the goodness to set the ladies the example. Miss Ingram,I am sure you will not fail in evincing superiority to idle terrors. Amy and Louisa,return to your nests like a pair of doves, as you are. Mesdames” (to the dowagers),“you will take cold to a dead certainty, if you stay in this chill gallery any longer.”
And so, by dint of alternate coaxing and commanding,he contrived to get them all once more enclosed in their separate dormitories.I did not wait to be ordered back to mine, but retreated unnoticed, as unnoticed I had left it.
Not, however, to go to bed: on the contrary, I began and dressed myself carefully.The sounds I had heard after the scream, and the words that had been uttered,had probably been heard only by me; for they had proceeded from the room above mine:but they assured me that it was not a servant’s dream which had thus struck horror through the house;and that the explanation Mr. Rochester had given was merely an invention framed to pacify his guests.I dressed, then, to be ready for emergencies. When dressed,I sat a long time by the window looking out over the silent grounds and silvered fields and waiting for I knew not what.It seemed to me that some event must follow the strange cry, struggle, and call.
No: stillness returned: each murmur and movement ceased gradually,and in about an hour Thornfield Hall was again as hushed as a desert.It seemed that sleep and night had resumed their empire. Meantime the moon declined:she was about to set. Not liking to sit in the cold and darkness,I thought I would lie down on my bed, dressed as I was. I left the window,and moved with little noise across the carpet; as I stooped to take off my shoes, a cautious hand tapped low at the door.
“Am I wanted?” I asked.
“Are you up?” asked the voice I expected to hear, viz., my master’s.
“Yes, sir.”
“And dressed?”
“Yes.”
“Come out, then, quietly.”
I obeyed. Mr. Rochester stood in the gallery holding a light.
“I want you,” he said: “come this way: take your time, and make no noise.”
My slippers were thin: I could walk the matted floor as softly as a cat.He glided up the gallery and up the stairs, and stopped in the dark,low corridor of the fateful third storey: I had followed and stood at his side.
“Have you a sponge in your room?” he asked in a whisper.
“Yes, sir.”
“Have you any salts—volatile salts?”
“Yes.”
“Go back and fetch both.”
I returned, sought the sponge on the washstand, the salts in my drawer,and once more retraced my steps. He still waited; he held a key in his hand:approaching one of the small, black doors, he put it in the lock; he paused, and addressed me again.
“You don’t turn sick at the sight of blood?”
“I think I shall not: I have never been tried yet.”
I felt a thrill while I answered him; but no coldness, and no faintness.
“Just give me your hand,” he said: “it will not do to risk a fainting fit.”
I put my fingers into his. “Warm and steady,” was his remark: he turned the key and opened the door.
I saw a room I remembered to have seen before, the day Mrs. Fairfax showed me over the house:it was hung with tapestry; but the tapestry was now looped up in one part,and there was a door apparent, which had then been concealed. This door was open;a light shone out of the room within: I heard thence a snarling, snatching sound,almost like a dog quarrelling. Mr. Rochester, putting down his candle, said to me, “Wait a minute,” and he went forward to the inner apartment. A shout of laughter greeted his entrance;noisy at first, and terminating in Grace Poole’s own goblin ha!ha!_She_ then was there. He made some sort of arrangement without speaking,though I heard a low voice address him: he came out and closed the door behind him.
“Here, Jane!” he said; and I walked round to the other side of a large bed,which with its drawn curtains concealed a considerable portion of the chamber.An easy-chair was near the bed-head: a man sat in it, dressed with the exception of his coat;he was still; his head leant back; his eyes were closed. Mr. Rochester held the candle over him;I recognised in his pale and seemingly lifeless face—the stranger, Mason:I saw too that his linen on one side, and one arm, was almost soaked in blood.
“Hold the candle,” said Mr. Rochester, and I took it:he fetched a basin of water from the washstand: “Hold that,” said he. I obeyed. He took the sponge,dipped it in, and moistened the corpse-like face; he asked for my smelling-bottle,and applied it to the nostrils. Mr. Mason shortly unclosed his eyes; he groaned. Mr.Rochester opened the shirt of the wounded man, whose arm and shoulder were bandaged:he sponged away blood, trickling fast down.
“Is there immediate danger?” murmured Mr. Mason.
“Pooh!No—a mere scratch. Don’t be so overcome, man: bear up!I’ll fetch a surgeon for you now, myself: you’ll be able to be removed by morning, I hope. Jane, ” he continued.
“Sir?”
“I shall have to leave you in this room with this gentleman, for an hour, or perhaps two hours:you will sponge the blood as I do when it returns: if he feels faint,you will put the glass of water on that stand to his lips, and your salts to his nose.You will not speak to him on any pretext—and—Richard,it will be at the peril of your life if you speak to her:open your lips—agitate yourself—and I’ll not answer for the consequences.”
Again the poor man groaned; he looked as if he dared not move; fear,either of death or of something else, appeared almost to paralyse him. Mr.Rochester put the now bloody sponge into my hand, and I proceeded to use it as he had done.He watched me a second, then saying, “Remember!—No conversation,” he left the room. I experienced a strange feeling as the key grated in the lock,and the sound of his retreating step ceased to be heard.
Here then I was in the third storey, fastened into one of its mystic cells; night around me;a pale and bloody spectacle under my eyes and hands;a murderess hardly separated from me by a single door:yes—that was appalling—the rest I could bear;but I shuddered at the thought of Grace Poole bursting out upon me.
I must keep to my post, however. I must watch this ghastly countenance—these blue,still lips forbidden to unclose—these eyes now shut, now opening, now wandering through the room,now fixing on me, and ever glazed with the dulness of horror.I must dip my hand again and again in the basin of blood and water,and wipe away the trickling gore. I must see the light of the unsnuffed candle wane on my employment;the shadows darken on the wrought, antique tapestry round me,and grow black under the hangings of the vast old bed,and quiver strangely over the doors of a great cabinet opposite—whose front,divided into twelve panels, bore, in grim design, the heads of the twelve apostles,each enclosed in its separate panel as in a frame;while above them at the top rose an ebon crucifix and a dying Christ.
According as the shifting obscurity and flickering gleam hovered here or glanced there,it was now the bearded physician, Luke, that bent his brow; now St. John’s long hair that waved;and anon the devilish face of Judas, that grew out of the panel,and seemed gathering life and threatening a revelation of the arch-traitor—of Satan himself—in his subordinate’s form.
Amidst all this, I had to listen as well as watch:to listen for the movements of the wild beast or the fiend in yonder side den. But since Mr.Rochester’s visit it seemed spellbound:all the night I heard but three sounds at three long intervals,—a step creak,a momentary renewal of the snarling, canine noise, and a deep human groan.
Then my own thoughts worried me. What crime was this,that lived incarnate in this sequestered mansion,and could neither be expelled nor subdued by the owner?—what mystery, that broke out now in fire and now in blood, at the deadest hours of night?What creature was it, that, masked in an ordinary woman’s face and shape, uttered the voice,now of a mocking demon, and anon of a carrion-seeking bird of prey?
And this man I bent over—this commonplace,quiet stranger—how had he become involved in the web of horror?and why had the Fury flown at him?What made him seek this quarter of the house at an untimely season, when he should have been asleep in bed?I had heard Mr. Rochester assign him an apartment below—what brought him here!And why, now, was he so tame under the violence or treachery done him?Why did he so quietly submit to the concealment Mr. Rochester enforced?Why _did_ Mr. Rochester enforce this concealment?His guest had been outraged, his own life on a former occasion had been hideously plotted against;and both attempts he smothered in secrecy and sank in oblivion!Lastly, I saw Mr. Mason was submissive to Mr. Rochester;that the impetuous will of the latter held complete sway over the inertness of the former:the few words which had passed between them assured me of this.It was evident that in their former intercourse,the passive disposition of the one had been habitually influenced by the active energy of the other:whence then had arisen Mr. Rochester’s dismay when he heard of Mr. Mason’s arrival?Why had the mere name of this unresisting individual—whom his word now sufficed to control like a child—fallen on him,a few hours since, as a thunderbolt might fall on an oak?
Oh!I could not forget his look and his paleness when he whispered: “Jane,I have got a blow—I have got a blow, Jane.” I could not forget how the arm had trembled which he rested on my shoulder:and it was no light matter which could thus bow the resolute spirit and thrill the vigorous frame of Fairfax Rochester.
“When will he come?When will he come?” I cried inwardly, as the night lingered and lingered—as my bleeding patient drooped, moaned,sickened: and neither day nor aid arrived. I had, again and again,held the water to Mason’s white lips; again and again offered him the stimulating salts:my efforts seemed ineffectual: either bodily or mental suffering, or loss of blood,or all three combined, were fast prostrating his strength. He moaned so, and looked so weak, wild,and lost, I feared he was dying; and I might not even speak to him.
The candle, wasted at last, went out; as it expired,I perceived streaks of grey light edging the window curtains: dawn was then approaching.Presently I heard Pilot bark far below, out of his distant kennel in the courtyard: hope revived.Nor was it unwarranted: in five minutes more the grating key, the yielding lock,warned me my watch was relieved. It could not have lasted more than two hours: many a week has seemed shorter.
Mr. Rochester entered, and with him the surgeon he had been to fetch.
“Now, Carter, be on the alert,” he said to this last:“I give you but half-an-hour for dressing the wound, fastening the bandages,getting the patient downstairs and all.”
“But is he fit to move, sir?”
“No doubt of it; it is nothing serious; he is nervous, his spirits must be kept up. Come, set to work.”
Mr. Rochester drew back the thick curtain, drew up the holland blind,let in all the daylight he could; and I was surprised and cheered to see how far dawn was advanced:what rosy streaks were beginning to brighten the east. Then he approached Mason, whom the surgeon was already handling.
“Now, my good fellow, how are you?” he asked.
“She’s done for me, I fear,” was the faint reply.
“Not a whit!—courage!This day fortnight you’ll hardly be a pin the worse of it: you’ve lost a little blood; that’s all. Carter, assure him there’s no danger.”
“I can do that conscientiously,” said Carter, who had now undone the bandages;“only I wish I could have got here sooner: he would not have bled so much—but how is this?The flesh on the shoulder is torn as well as cut. This wound was not done with a knife: there have been teeth here!”
“She bit me,” he murmured. “She worried me like a tigress, when Rochester got the knife from her.”
“You should not have yielded: you should have grappled with her at once,” said Mr. Rochester.
“But under such circumstances, what could one do?” returned Mason. “Oh, it was frightful!” he added, shuddering. “And I did not expect it: she looked so quiet at first.”
“I warned you,” was his friend’s answer; “I said—be on your guard when you go near her. Besides,you might have waited till to-morrow, and had me with you:it was mere folly to attempt the interview to-night, and alone.”
“I thought I could have done some good.”
“You thought!you thought!Yes, it makes me impatient to hear you: but, however, you have suffered,and are likely to suffer enough for not taking my advice; so I’ll say no more. Carter—hurry!—hurry!The sun will soon rise, and I must have him off.”
“Directly, sir; the shoulder is just bandaged. I must look to this other wound in the arm:she has had her teeth here too, I think.”
“She sucked the blood: she said she’d drain my heart,” said Mason.
I saw Mr. Rochester shudder: a singularly marked expression of disgust, horror, hatred,warped his countenance almost to distortion; but he only said—
“Come, be silent, Richard, and never mind her gibberish: don’t repeat it.”
“I wish I could forget it,” was the answer.
“You will when you are out of the country: when you get back to Spanish Town,you may think of her as dead and buried—or rather, you need not think of her at all.”
“Impossible to forget this night!”