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.12 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 inclosure 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 candle-light. 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 face13 – 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.’
‘This, sir, was purple: the lips were swelled and dark; the brow furrowed: the black eyebrows widely raised over the bloodshot eyes.